Khaamoshi Toofan

Tumhe phool torna pasand hai na? Tumhe sukoon milta hai. Aik aik kar ke saray pattay kheench daalti ho. Tum unhe masalti ho tou samajhti ho sari dunya ko round dal rahi ho. Hansi ati hai tum pe kyunke tumharay hi haathon me unki khushbu reh jati hai. Tum un se chutkaara tou nahee pa sakti jinhe khatam kartay kartay khud kaheen door nikalti ja rahi ho.

Mai unhe kahan khatam karney ja rahi hun. Mujhay tou maaloom hai wo in gulaabon ki tarha ke loug hain. Gulaab aur kaantay. Mujhay pehlay unki khushbu mili aur qareeb gayi tou kanton me ulajh gayi. Mujhay unse kia shikayat – aur na khud se.

Tumhe kisi se shikayat nahee na? Jabhi yun deewanaypan pe utar rahi ho. Khud ko in lehron me utaarti ja rahi ho jahan shor hi shor hai. Shor me khona chahti ho mujhay na banao mai tumhari rag rag se waqif hun.

Aap ko kahan bana sakti hun aap se hi tou sab maangna hai ab. Mujhay shor acha lagta hai us me rehnay dain. Mujhay isi shor me apni khamoshi chahye hai. Mai in lehron me itna door nikalna chahti hun ke agar in gulaabon ki thori bhi khushboo meri lams me rehti ho tou nikal jaye. Kaanton se rasta khoon ab tham jaye. Mai qabar nahi ban sakti in madfan phool kabaar ki. Mujhay in sab se bohat door apni dunya banani hai.

Dekha, wuhi baat. Tum bhaag rahi ho faraar chahti ho aur wuhi kar rahi ho jo har darpok insaan karta hai. Mujhay tum pagal lag rahi ho is waqt.

Miss Rizwana

I am not sure where to start from or if I should even try. Today? Maybe later? But will words even speak? I met you last about one month ago at Binaat – our school reunion. It wasn’t easy coming there this time but I am so grateful that I did. I was so late, the hall was so full, every face was a stranger…. until I spotted you at the reception. Ah, Miss rizwana. You hugged me.

It was also the same day that you told me about your beautiful future aspirations. How impressed we were, how close in that moment. I told you that you are my favorite teacher.

There has been no one like you. You were what they call teachers second mothers for. I used to come and cry in front of you for the issues that were big for the sensitive little me at that time. You were the best listener. Always there. Always kind. Always beautiful.

I saw your funeral but i didnt see your face. But i can imagine it: angelic, peaceful. Inshaa Allah you are in a better place. May Allah fill your grave with noor like you showed light to us. May Allah bless you the highest ranks of Jannah and help us all become sadqa e jaariya for you. You will forever live in the hearts of so many people that love you. Your loss is so sudden but Allah loves you so much more than all of us.

likhna band karo

This guy with a cool book says talking is procrastinating. Silence is the power of doers. Talking is stalling action. Ye wo. So I shouldn’t be talking about you.

If I say things that somehow poetically disguise just this that I miss you, it would take away all this energy and probably (actually) go to waste. Ye kia baat hui na. I’ve already wasted enough. You don’t deserve more.

Now ideally this inner self would say so? Wo deserve na karay, you deserve you. Take your time into healing ya. Go easy. Hey, you.

But then this inner self is pretty lazy. Sadness makes you lazy. Outer mind is chillest and brutally honest. It’s telling you that. Beta, act. Stop with this nonsense siyapa. And now you feel better enough to go do something productive. See ya! x

Memory hoarder (2)

Aqal sawaal uthati hai ishq amal pe dorata hai.

By now I have thrown away more things and (almost-)neatly packed the things I am saving back in the drawer. Can’t say it’s done but sure feels lighter.

Besides that [literally] grey old diary that I didn’t bother reading, there are all these papers – mostly poems that I wrote (even those sad Urdu ones), and then other handwritten accounts of things like our regional Spelling Bee contest that we won, my ninth grade result, an essay on “My most memorable day of life” where there is McFlurry by the sea, last school exam and a really fun night ending with dramatic sentences like ‘I bid farewell to my family and the full moon.’ Not just mine but I also used to give my brothers topics to write on, then I would check them and sometimes reward them. That was a whole system. Look at this part from Ibad’s story about a ‘mejician’s whose spell was ORAME SIM SIM where O is for Omnivorous animal, R is ramp, A is and, M is maar do, and E is eel. The omnivorous animal walk on ramp and eel eat the omnivorous animal. And magic were not worked the people laughed. He did spell 3, 4 times but his magic did not work. Moral:- We dont want to be a mejician.

There’s also a super adorable sorry card. Lined paper and pencil, a highly decorative spelling of my name, a bag of 5o rs drawn as a gift. You will accept such apologies with a kiss.

I used to write essays and speeches. There is this one I won a competition for. Starts with a stanza I learned from Sam and very much adored. I had read it with a lot of energy.

Then I am looking at these goals I had, and it’s neither saddening nor surprising but there but there’s still a hole – and you wish it was big enough – that we don’t think like that anymore. There are more screens and more individual chaos than deeper thinking, or better yet, practical anything.

And I think you feel it too
What I no longer try to hide
It’s buried beneath the scars
Truth behind the lies.

7 July 2019. My most recent material in that drawer is a bag of gifts and Eidi. The space that wasn’t there before reeks of maturity.

Memory hoarder (1)

Of course. What else would you expect from a December-born, all-feels Maria who is still writing on randomlyabstract, her blog of 8 years plus.

I remember the time we got these drawers made when we shifted to this house. It felt SO special, having a personal space. SO wow, you know. And then we got locks on them. I told the locksmith to do his best work on mine. I found it all so stunning that I kept sitting there, talking, looking, checking if mine was the best. (My lock got faulty before anyone else’s btw. Such luck!)

Khair. I used to be obsessed about that drawer and the stuff in it. I couldn’t throw things. Even today my family asks me before throwing away kachra that they think could be ‘useful’ for the crafter. But friends’ chit-chats, over-emotional letters of that time, Urdu poetry so sad I find it worrisome now, my personal personal personal diary that I would probably treat as a treasure then (because – let’s face it – I’ve been a sensitive kid. Also the middle daughter. I was convinced that I was hated by EVERYONE mashaAllah. And then I liked to write. Imagine having ALL of that still present despite the diary wanting to very much rest in peace now.) And then other things.

A lot of things, I imagine now, want to rest in peace. So I have brought out my drawer, one I had stopped caring for long long time ago, and started cleaning it. There’s stuff I put up on my insta stories as a last tribute, and for the other personal bunch, I know I cannot leave it so easily unless I’ve at least preserved them in writing. Which is why I am here.