Bandagi supardagi~

Insaan khuda banna chahta hae. Isay apnay wujood ki takmeel samajhta hae yani ke wo khudai hasil karay. Us ki paristish ki jaye din raat. Jism mandir, rooh zindagi! Subah kay sitaray ke chamaknay se raat ka chaand madham honay tak, shor se sannatay aur sannatay se shor tak, takleef me aur rahat me, har qadam sirf “ehsaas”. Aik aiteraaf. Aik naam. Koi kahay, aap aali maqaam! Inayat ho!

Kuch loug beharhaal ibadat nahi kar patay. Bandagi pe poora nahi utartay aur phir zamana unhain thokron pe chor deta hay. Aam mazahib ki tarah yahan bhi itaab nazil hota hay, aur sach maanye tou khudai ka dawa karnay walay inn lakhon khudaon me rehmaniat ki phir aik ramaq bhi baqi nahi rehti!


A silent death.

Traditions bind sometimes. You don’t follow them, they follow you.

Passion dies. Will to live dies. Silently accepting that, kills.

Self-doubt kills. Self-hate kills. Numbing oneself from observing such death kills, too!

 Fear holds, characters choke. Writers die. // Escape (27.3)
(Created Feb 9, 2015. )

Escape (27.3.14)


My colors cross yours

but our paths never meet.

Maybe we can finally run away

to some place far

and be free



Too often, the only escape is sleep art.

What To Write?


A collaborative heartspill on words and wordsnot.

Originally posted on Life Confusions:

This poem is as a result of collaboration between Maria And I. We were chatting and she suggested we should write something together but then we couldn’t decide what we should write about. So it just went from there and we came up with this. It was a pleasure writing this with her. Here is the final piece:

We can write about betrayal.
Or we can write about snow and fairies
We can write about a deep pit of sorrow
or we can write about rains that fall like mercies.

You are right, We can write about anything,
We can write about how life throws curve balls at you,
And then leaves you around to wallow in your misery
Or we can write about how beautiful it is,
The very small things,
Sunsets and the sunrises,
Flowers and the trees,
Birds and the bees,
Shooting stars, moon and the sea

View original 211 more words

The Unending Game


This… ♥

Originally posted on Random Thoughts:


As I stand on the sea-shore
With waves washing my feet
I drown into my pensive lanes
As I see them retreat

Million forms of the formless
And yet they are the same
Million colours of the colourless
Playing the same old game

Thousand waves that strike a day
Trying hard to gain some land
Endless efforts go in vain
Invincible stands the rule of sand

And then to roaring seas I ask
“What do you boast of all day
There is no song of glory to sing
You try in vain, the world does say”

Smiling at me the giant said
I seek no songs, no glories, no praise
All those are transient, they come and go
It is the joy that forever stays

Where is the joy you talk about
In this never ending game?
Never shall you gain an inch
The land shall forever be same


View original 83 more words

Black well


[50-word challenge. word prompts: luck, stone. Image: blackwell deception void via]

Of letters and dreams.

To you,

I had a dream today. It was beautiful. It was about you.

I wanted to tell you this when I woke up but I could not. So I am writing this down here.

Dreams are mostly formed for us to see what we desire. To satisfy us for a bit, and leave us staring at a void after that. Sometimes, like unfinished stories, they make us feel incomplete too. But this one was different.

It ended before it should have had, yes, but in a way that didn’t cause distress. I am hoping to see it complete in real life, just as smoothly, in a world where souls meet and not just ideas of them. I wish some angel clips it into a file and takes it to the Almighty over the seventh cloud and say: “Your person woke up happy after seeing this. She praises you for sending it, and prays you to bring it true. What say?” And He would say, yes. Kun.

I wanted to tell you this when I woke up but I could not. I don’t know if you dream of me too.

لقمہ، لقمہ اجل۔

تم نے اس کے منہ سے نوالہ کیوں چھینا؟ وہ کب سے بھوکی بیٹھی ہے تم نے اپنی بھوک میں اسکا حق مار ڈالا! ندیدی نہ ہو تو!۔

ماں نے بڑی بیٹی کو ڈانٹا۔ بڑی بیٹی جو چھہ سال کی تھی، اپنی سی چھوٹی دو سالہ بہن کو دیکھ کر زبان چڑانے لگی۔ جواب کچھ نہ دیا، البتہ آنکھیں کہتیں تھیں کہ امّاں! بھوک تو میری بھی نہیں مٹی۔۔۔


کچھ دیر بعد دونوں لڑکیاں سڑک کے کنارے کھیلنے میں مصروف ہوگئیں۔ بچپن کے انمول رنگوں کو اپنے مٹی میں اٹے، پھٹے کپڑوں کے دامن میں سمیٹتے ہوئے بھوک پیاس سب بھول کر اٹھکیلیاں کرنے لگیں۔ میں تمہیں پکڑوں گی نہیں تم مجھے نہیں پکڑ سکتیں، یہی شور ان کے ہنسنے کی آوازوں کے ساتھ چہار سو پھیل گیا گویا زندگی حسیں ہوگئی۔ ماں بھی سکون سے فٹ پاتھ پر ٹیک لگائے آنکھیں موند کر بیٹھ گئی۔

سچ ہے کوئی کب تک خالی کنویں میں جھانک جھانک کر روتا ہے؟ زندگی کا کام تو چلنا ہےسو وہ چلتی رہتی ہے۔۔۔

۔۔۔۔۔ـ ـ۔۔۔۔۔ ـ۔ ۔۔۔۔۔۔

تقریبا دس منٹ بعد اچانک ایک کالے رنگ کی بڑی پجارو فاصلہ پر آکر رکتی ہے۔ چھوٹی بچی کھیلنے میں مگن رہتی ہے جبکہ بڑی پورے انہماک سے گاڑی کی طرف تکنے لگتی ہے۔ پھر کسی سوچ کے تحت ادھر بڑھ جاتی ہے اور کھڑکی کھٹکا کر آواز دیتی ہے۔ صاب! اماری ماں بوت بیمار اے! وہ فٹ پاتھ پر آرام کرتی ماں کی طرف اشارہ کرتے ہوئے بولتی ہے۔ کچھ مدد کردو صاب! امیں کجھ روپیہ دے دو!۔۔

اپنی معصومانہ آواز میں منمناتے ہوئے اسے ایک دم خیال آتا ہے کہ کہیں صاب نے دو منٹ پہلے اسے بہن کے ساتھ کھیلتے ہوئے نہ دیکھ لیا ہوـ یا پھر کہیں امّاں نے ادھر دیکھ کر آواز لگادی توسارا جھوٹ پکڑا جائے گا اور بھیک بھی نہیں ملیگی۔ وہ جھٹ سے اللہ جی سے دعا کرتی ہے کہ ایسا نہ ہو اور پوری امید سے صاب کی طرف دیکھنے لگتی ہے۔

صاب جو پہلے سے اس جانب متوجہ ہوتے ہیں اسے پاس دیکھ کر خوشی سے مسکراتے ہیں۔ اور دروازہ کھول کر باہر نکل آتے ہیں۔

منّی! تمہیں پیسے چاہئے ہیں؟ آو میرے ساتھ چلو میں تمہیں جھولوں پر بھی لے جاونگا اور ایک پیاری سی فراک بھی دلواونگا! ادھر آو گاڑی میں۔۔۔ وہ اپنا ہاتھ آگے بڑھاتے ہیں۔ بڑی بیٹی جو انہیں حیرت سے دیکھ رہی ہوتی ہے، فورا ایک قدم پیچھے ہٹ جاتی ہے۔ اس نے تو اماں کی بیماری کا بہانہ بنایا تھا۔۔ انہیں کیسے پتہ چلا فراک کے بارے میں؟

ڈرو نہیں میں تمہیں ابھی واپس لے آونگا۔۔۔ آو میرے ساتھ! یہ کہتے ہوئے وہ اسے اپنے قریب کھینچھتے ہیں اور وہ جو اب تک ڈری رہی تھی، امّاں کو پکار اٹھتی ہے۔ امّاں بھی فورا ہی آنکھ کھول لیتی ہیں مگر اس سے پہلے کو وہ معاملہ سمجھ سکیں، صاحب بڑی بیٹی کو گاڑی میں دھکیل کر دروازہ بند کر چکے ہوتے ہیں۔ امّاں ہائے بچاوٗ بچاوٗ میری لڑکی کو کہاں لئے جا رہا ہے کہتے ہوئے اس جانب لپکتی ہیں اور گاڑی کے پیچھے پیدل بھاگنے لگتی ہیں۔ گاڑی والا تیزی سے فرار ہوجاتا ہے اور امّاں دل پکڑ کر رہ جاتی ہیں۔

آج ان کے سامنے سے ان کی بیٹی کسی وحشی کی بھوک کی نظر ہونے لگی ہے اور وہ بے بسی سے صرف خالی کنواں دیکھے جا تی ہیں۔

ــ ــ ـــ ـ ـــ ــ ـ ــ

13/03/15. ماریہ عمران

Foolish is he who what?

Hullo, butterfly!

I see you have planned to fly, and that too to no ordinary place but Cigám! But are you sure you want to do that? I mean, yes it looks green and pretty but you see, all which shines is not grass.

You want to leave behind your family, your own red flower and friends, but have you even considered the consequences of this journey? What if something damages your wings? What if it’s a journey towards doom?

Okay, I understand you obviously don’t care and would happily sacrifice a hundred more lives instead– or wings– had you been blessed with ‘em (which is honestly unrealistic and highly sentimental a statement). But what you don’t see is how nobody ever comes out of there once they get in! Monsters live there, my fly! Maaunsters.

So, erm, are you sure you want to take this  huge lil’ step? [n]

Sonnet: Twenty days.

Twenty days you said it will take, twenty days for you to return
Twenty days of strife and wait, but never again, you swore
Twenty days and more have passed, since months I do now yearn
Flowers on the table set, I keep ajar my door.

It will get better, I tell myself, though future haunts me like a ghost,
Like a ghost does future haunt me now as I struggle to make past here.
No tiding came, no key, no hint; could you send a letter at most?
It is not just painful, devastating it is— to see a loved one disappear.

Practiced I have all words to say, prepared I am to forgive,
When you come you will find in spirits good, me offering all I may.
But it’s not a matter as simple as that, for I worry now where you live…
It’s a dark dark world of gloomy nights– sun brings forth a woeful day.

I hope you come and I hope you are well, hoping I fear I will die
For twenty days and more have passed, and I see no sign nigh.


P/N: Today is the last day of the writing 201 poetry challenge and I have really, really enjoyed doing this course.

That thing above is my first try at a sonnet and it follows the ABAB CDCD EFEF GG rhyme format, consists of 14 verses, an example of Chiasmus and well, some emotions. The prompt we were given to use was “future” and yes, I’d love to know what you think of it. :)

(Image via

You haunt me.


Writing challenge day 9: “Found poetry”, enumeratio, landscape.


To pencils,
who have always stayed by man’s side
enabling expression of emotions
and their extermination.

The pencils which,
whine not whence you need them at two
in the morning or say four, sleep not without you
safely tucked in bed.

Pencils that die inch by inch,
tending an artist’s turmoil or a writer’s ruckus
with a smoke of grey or graphite crushed,
and designs– oh such!

Pencils. Do you see not how they aid
an ailing heart, a studious kid, a busy clerk?
Out on paper, they run until you’re tired
resting only in your nearest drawer after work.


Written in response to today’s poetry challenge which asked us to write an ode to something in our “drawer”.

Those with wings…

Like her, the park is lonely and the air is sick. It smells of stale roses and untreated promises; and the swing on which she sits squeaks a song so pathetically sad it almost makes time stop– and time, like some humans, knows less when it’s better to instead tread quickly.

The grass below is wet with dew, as are her fingers which she continually bring to her face to wipe away the watery signs of fragility and brokenness. From somewhere far, a beautiful sparrow descends and stops right where she is, to fly to and fro. Distracted by the sudden chirrup, she looks at her new companion and smiles.

“Will you stay, birdie?” she asks– only to remember that wings always fly…


Written in response to today’s prose-poetry prompt: “fingers” (also goes for “cut off“)


it happened slow. the stars like lamps flickered out and their shine was faded off. non-white as they were– now black– you couldn’t locate them anywhere, except that in a while the one farthest from the satellite started to collect red from god knows where and in some more time it was blazing and hysterical, spinning to keep sane. full of secrets it couldn’t hold, light started to shoot uncontrolled, in all directions left and right and soon, each one of the million stars was bursting fires bright.

The Centipede Effect.


The centipede effect, or the centipede dilemma, is a psychological effect which occurs when “a normally automatic or unconscious activity is disrupted by consciousness of it or reflection on it.”

Here, I have arranged the story of a philosopher frog and the centipede in 100 (and 15) letters to denote  the 100-footed’s effect. The form I have tried to follow is that of concrete/visual poetry which was today’s task under the theme of ‘Animal’.

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