The Outsiders –

January 9, 2014. Midnight, clock out-of-reach.

It isn’t really that late, but almost everyone here is asleep. Covered under tonight’s blanket, they’re all searching inside their dreams. And I’m sitting here, scribbling outside.. my dreams.

A few cars still rush by, but the traffic isn’t noisy. The night is calm, and serene. It’s winter, so yes, very cold. But I like it. They all like it! Why, it was yesterday only that those four to five men sat by a fire on the roadside, the sky being their only roof, chatting happily. Happily, well, I hope. Maybe they were discussing life’s cruelties, or generally how busy they were during the day’s work, anything at all. I don’t know, I could only see them afar and wish they’d get themselves some hot cups of tea to feel better. Outsiders they were. Outsiders they’re.

Ammi‘s pink, pashmina shawl is what I’ve got wrapped around, to warm myself with. It gives me a cozy feeling, but the wind somehow still manages to seep through. And I like how they play- those chills- it makes me want to write, it makes me want to live.

Some crazy man shouted something down there. I don’t know what, or to whom, he just went away after that. A rickshaw honks somewhere, that too disturbing the night’s calm. Outsiders, how they leave momentary impacts.

Karachi is the city of lights, so it never really sleeps. But it’s probably too late now, because those lights that shone since hours on that tall building opposite from where I sit, have now been turned off. They were some tiny, colorful bulbs that decorated the entire building’s face, they do this every RabiUlAwwal.

Life is nothing without colors, colors are what bring life to life. But how we associate them for particular definitions! White is for enmity, but it also denotes peace. Such amazing antonyms they’ve grouped together…
He had once said, “Mout zindagi ki sab se barri muhafiz hy.” I didn’t know then what it meant, but it really puzzled me. Death is what ends life, how could it be a savior or protector, or anything that kind? He’s an old teacher, a strange mentor, Allah-walah. Outsider.

The sky is starless, the road’s almost empty. I must quit.

–

~ Previous night’s journal entry, because today’s prompt said so.

STOP
stop with the pretending,
stop with the writing,
stop playing.

Stop everything, kay?

Pause your life. Pause it to this very moment. Pause. Live. Let live. LET LIVE!

You need fresh air, you know that? Skip the knowing me, knowing you part. Skip the knowing God part too. Skip everything in between you and you. Just be. You need to BE and that’s what will change things. No, you’re not allowed to expect miracles. You aren’t allowed to lose hope either. You’re supposed to stop debating if miracles exist or not. Why you exist isn’t as important to know as what you’re doing NOW is. Or maybe it does. But don’t judge words. Just s.t.o.p until you know why you should play again.

And then resume if you may.

Awards 2013

Aee, hello lovelies.

This is your favorite Miss Randomly on her fourth award ceremony on RandAbstract. ^_^

The reason for the post delay is simple: I needed to feel cranky to post something as crank, and yester was my day and I was feeling very high. Uh, euphoric. That’s the right word.

Anyway, the first award that we have here is the Versatile Blogger Award from LifeConfusion’s blog. Handed to me on October 22, this award requires me to tell seven things about myself. Thank you sheen, or Zed, for this award. Much love. ❤

The next award is the same versatile award, this time by Pamela from the Resonner’s blog. Thank you! ❤

Now. Seven things about myself? Um. I’ll do this later.

The third nomination is for “I am part of the WordPress family” award! 🙂 This one’s by Yasmeen Baloch from kushiywa. Thank youuu Yasmeen(:

There’s one more from her, the “xxtraordinary BLOGGER award“. The rules are to answer the following:
1)Write what you think about me.

That you’re one sweet, amazing soul and one lovely person that I’ve come across, thanks to WordPress. =)
2)What is your favorite book?

Favorite book? Mus’haf by Nimra Ahmed. I loved reading it.

3)If you got a chance to be the president of your country so what changes will you bring?

Haee. If I get to be my country’s president, I’ll make sure to.. um, I will make sure to? Change our system of education, kill a few people, save another lot, and write an essay about all possible things I’ll be able to do.
4)Tell about your nature.

My nature.. That’s a tough one, Yasmeen. 🙂 I think they all already know pretty much. But if I’m to say about myself, I’m weird. Baqi ask my friends and they’ll provide you a list. ^_^

Thank you again! 🙂

The next one is (yes, I’ve quite a many piled up. Laziness could be a part of my nature) Reader Appreciation Award by Pamela again. 🙂 This one also requires me to tell seven things about myself which makes it a total of 7+7+7=? Ai, I had my maths paper recently. 21. I’ll do the answers later some day. ^_^

Another ‘versatile blogger award‘ by Dr. Kiran Acharya from the ‘Sea and Me‘! Thanks a million, Kiran. 🙂 Seven facts again. Oh em gee.

Last but not the least, here’s this ‘Super Star Blogger Award’ from Syeda Maham at the Radical blog! You know how pleased I am? 🙂 Thank you<3

Her interrogation segment:

• Pray tell us….why do you write?

I’ve a whole page dedicated to this answer, but I wrote that when I started my blog and never updated later. So well. I write because I need to write. It’s an outlet, a passion, and a hobby. Writing is a method of preserving moments, and expressing emotions. When I don’t write, I draw.

• what is life to you?

Life, um. I don’t know. It’s a blessing I’m living, of course. But lately that I realized how typically predictable life itself is, sorrow after ease and laughter after tears, it doesn’t seem all that exciting to me.

• Do you forgive easily?

Yes. Usually. But it depends person to person, feelings to feelings. I can’t stay angry for long, but I find ‘forgetting’ difficult.

• Beauty.Your definition.?

The art of living in the moment and making the most of it.

• Fiction or hardcore fact?

…real facts wrapped in fiction will do too.

• A fictitious character that resembles yourself (in any respect)

Mae tou btadungi, but do try answering your own questions later. 😀
Um, okay. A friend said Emily from Emily of New moon resembles in some ways, but I haven’t read it so far so can’t say. I wonder why I’ve Elizabeth Bennet in my mind. 😛 Or someone from classic literature might do, for I imagine quite a lot. Or. What about my own written stories? There’s a novel I wrote, like a few chapters. It totally resembles me. *Top Secret* =p

• Something you’ll never forget

These questions. And a whole lot of other things like when Abdur Rahman was born, when I won the Spelling bee thingy, my last-last academic results jab I got in top twenties in Khi, when dadi died, a poetry I read somewhere, sister’s wedding, interior Sindh tour, itna kuch. I’ll never forget anything, until unless.. of course.

• Did you ever hate..?

Yup.

• Your brand of utopia consists of…..

Happy beginnings, middle paragraphs, last sentences.

• Your comments on the Radical blog

Okay first of all, these questions are ACTUALLY tough. Yes you’re grinning, but bhuiii. Anyway, your blog is amazing Maham! I love that shair you once shared:

Ab socha hai k pather k sanam poojunga….
Takey uktaun to takra b sakun,mar b sakun

I love your poetry, your writings, and your way of thinking. I love false sense.

Phew. I’m done with these. Oh there was one from Fahaad, the Autumn-Liebster award, but since he deleted his previous blog the award went away too. 😛

Now the nominations.
THIS is what I actually run from, because I’m just so sure I’ll miss somebody very important. The last time I did the award-post, I didn’t mention names. But then – alright.

• Khanumsays Because she’s got a point. 😉
• ParasYaseen
  Health Wizard. And a wonderful friend. 🙂
• foodpeopleloveandstuff
  Because Lala ❤
• alisohani
  For his amazing writing skills and response poems. Ghazal translations, and ‘heavenly’.
• whenintrovertspeaksYou were supposed to teach me your language, no? =p
• Shadesofsunrise
  So creative, MashaAllah<3
• theonlymartian
  A wonderful writer, amazing poetess!
• onelastwordb4igo
  For his poetry in general, or that specifically ‘randomlyabstract’, and for everything else.
• neurodrooling
  For his poetry, his comments, sarcastic remarks, wise talks, everything.
• radical
  Because if you’re a total weirdo, then we have this in common. :3
• khaulanazir
  One of the first bloggers I met here, and one of the very best writers that I do know.
• vinodhiniharish
  For her amazing love definitions. 🙂
• amom’sblog
  For sharing her interesting experiences and being the wonderful person she is.
• rabiajaved
  What rj is to me, you asked. I bet you already know. A wonderful friend, someone I can share myself with, and the only being who has read all my stupid shaairi.
• nawabimusings
  Miss M is one of THE best people I’ve ever come across to. Thank you for handling me the way you do, and Pakistan khappay. =p
• resonner’sblog
  Favorite<3
• yarnwusseleien
  Amazing photography! And for the ‘masterpiece challenge’ we took together. 🙂
• VelaneDeBeaute
  If you haven’t already, do read her tumblr blog posts and wordpress. Totally amazing stuff!
• Thisandthat
  Beckarooney! For being such a sweet friend that she is. 🙂
• wnbajwa
  I’m a HUGE fan of your stories.
• colorsinrainbow
  I seriously, totally LOVE ‘raat ke us pehar’ and your blog line. 🙂
  
• majhuka  for his post on Ishq-e-haqiqi and his unique way of saying things.
• ordinarygirl’speculiarblog
  Being my first reader, best cousin, someone I can discuss both real and fictional characters with. And for your amazing poetry.
• portfoliospassionsandpurple
  Terrific writer. Write a book someday, kay?
• utopia
  For dareechay. 🙂
• rexie Inspiring, lovely soul out there.
• yasmeenbaloch
  Peaceful mind blog. you know how amazing that is?
• kiranacharya
  Sea and me! Says it all. 🙂
• creatigentt
  For her humor that I love.
• thefrontfoot
  His intro says it all. =D
• stalkingdawn
  Definitely in my best-poets list.
• amira
  A lovely soul from Maldives. ❤
• Bulbulay
  Hiba! I.love.your.blog.
• thenomadicsoliloquist
  Still in his self-imposed exile.
• AllResource Keep blogging awesome as you do!
• BeWithUs
  for being with me. 🙂
• JustBliss With all respect. (:
• WildInnocence ❤
• AinRiz  For keeping a wonderful diary and letting me be a reader.

That’s already 35+ and one I missed on purpose, two that I know I’ll realize later, and somehow a total of forty. Thank YOU for being there.

You get the versatile blogger award, the reader appreciation award, and this:

None of you who plans to accept the awards is forced to follow any rules, but those who like may answer Radical’s questions with due credit to her blog (yes I couldn’t think of any better revenge) and nominate their own favorite blogs. Kay, thank you, bye.

Killing the Immortal

Caged bird
I will cut your feathers
And let you free, forever.
Old prisoner
I will slay your throat
And let you escape from here.
Little kid
Hand me your kite
And play with rifles instead.
Solitary girl
Sing me songs of mourn
For I will kill your mother now.
White teddy
Close your eyes tight
As I rip off your cotton bod.
Brave sailor
Laugh and rejoice
Until I draw a hole in your boat.
Wounded warrior
Count your last breaths
As I finally shoot this arrow.
Sweet baby
Smile once more, and last
As I snatch you away and throw.

Cut my feathers and I shall bleed
I won’t fly but the blood shall flow
And sow the seeds of a resilience new.

Slay my throat and I shall cry
I won’t say but I shall be heard
And a voice of courage shall rise.

Give me the rifle and I shall fire
I won’t aim but I shall shoot
And the bullet shall hit you instead.

Kill my mother and I shall weep
I won’t sing but tears shall flow
And rocks shall melt, and so shall you.

Rip me off and I shall wait
I won’t see but the cotton shall be free
And be woven again to form your shroud.

Draw a hole and the boat shall sink
I won’t cry but million would do
And tears of blood shall flood your dreams.

Shoot the arrow and I shall die
I won’t count but breath shall be gone
And another shall point to you.

Throw me away and I shall sleep
I won’t smile but doomsday would
And haunt till the end of your life.

Response poetry by Arindam Saha for bizarre.beep.sleep. Thank you, introvert, for killing ‘vice‘ in your own amazing way.

Title credits: Introvert. 🙂

Bizarre. Beep. Sleep.

Caged bird
I will cut your feathers
And let you free, forever.

Old prisoner
I will slay your throat
And let you escape from here.

Little kid
Hand me your kite
And play with rifles instead.

Solitary girl
Sing me songs of mourn
For I will kill your mother now.

White teddy
Close your eyes tight
As I rip off your cotton bod.

Brave sailor
Laugh and rejoice
Until I draw a hole in your boat.

Wounded warrior
Count your last breaths
As I finally shoot this arrow.

Sweet baby
Smile once more, and last
As I snatch you away and throw.

–
– RandomlyAbstract.

dəˈzī(ə)r/

DESIRE
like flames burning
Petals withering
Stormy silence
Wind gusting

Desire; like insatiable thirst, a traveler lost in a desert, clueless clues. Desire; like incomplete puzzle pieces, locked doors, rusting hinges, rotten fruits. Rotten fruits?
Desire; like uncomfortable ambiance, waves struggling to reach shore. Desire; like heated situations, discordant harmony, unsettling wonders. Desire! Like haunting memories, hanging questions, unachievable glances. Desire like tears on verge, riddles unanswered, complications unheard.

.
Are you real?
Because if you are
I will make you mine!

If you are not
Well then,
I will paint you mine!
.

The Kaleem of Tur Sina witnessed but one Effulgence
For the discerning eye you are an embodiment of Effulgence

Desire: La shae’e mislak. Desire: Lam ya’ati Nazeeruk.

Desire: like a toy out of reach.
What is it for you?

– Maria I.

Soulrain

Water trails
Drop
Slow
Tiny. little. drop
Drops
Slow. tiny drop drops low, slow
Footprints in sand

Image credit: foto.cr : Solson

Because December ♥

Let us make a poem
Let us weave some dreams
Let us start it all anew
Let us be ‘me’, Supreme!
Let us live together
Let us breathe in here
Let us be like ‘I’ wish
Let us paint some streams
Let us mount hills and vales
Let us cross some seas
Let us laugh and rejoice
Let us cry and scream!
Let us be like ‘I’ like
Let us be extreme.

Third Side Of The Coin

It’s cold here.. quite cold actually. The road is busy, very. No one is willing to stop, they’re all busy running. Passing by too quickly, without wasting a ‘precious’ moment, as if they’ll lose a race. Race, yes. They’re all trying to run and win. But not all can win, do they know not? There have to be just one. Just One!

One – Two – Three – GO! And off they start, to end. They run with the whistle and keep running, for a million reasons. Perhaps the best of them, those reasons, is to shut those voices within. Voices inside, outside, shouts. Good way! Temporary, but good. Good for them if they like it.

——-x

All eyes glued on her, they were all spellbound by her magnificent beauty as she entered in the main hall. And she deserved it, she was worth all praise. A delicate model dressed in red, designer jora on her big day, that elegant look those make-up men had given her from the parlor, and her looks! The bride stunned them all.

“Just perfect!”, she heard someone call. Someone, she knew. Someone, whose voice was easily recognizable among all chaos, all audience. She lifted her head and looked around, but failed to spot the carrier, the source of that wonderful voice. He was nowhere among the crowd, then where had he spoken from?
‘Oh, heart!’, she whispered as she realized where.

——-x

“It is glass, fragile. But it ain’t in any way ordinary! What it holds inside is very, very precious. I’m handing it over to you because I know that it belongs there. Just make sure you keep it safely. I also understand your way back down is tough, but you’ll make it there, won’t you? The road is dark, but if you act smart, you will do it.”

——-x

The hall shrieked as she screamed, most of them covered their faces with their hands. She fell on the ground, shouting for help, yet no one dared to touch her.
The bride’s face had burnt, and was burning still. His acid spray had caused cracks, burns, wounds. Cracks.

They began to laugh, all of them. They danced, drank, played, circled her. She cried silently as she felt herself being dragged into that dark, horrible abyss.

——–x

He kept running and running until he finally reached his ‘destination’. He had attained whatever he had wanted, faster than those who were still running. They hadn’t won the race, he had. Maybe because they were so busy running that they forgot what they were running after.

Just one wins. He had won ‘nothing’, and yet everything was now in his hands.

——–x

‘Marvelous! Just splendid!’, he praised his skills. ‘Master, you’ve carved the pot wonderfully, and those paint streaks make it look all the more charming! How do you do this? Carve pots out of mud, add such colors, make it look so real? So real, so magical, just wonderful!’

‘I am willing to pay you whatever you ask for, please tell me what you’d like?’

——-x

She stumbled as a stone hit her on her way on that dark, concrete road but she managed to keep walking. She determined not to let her bottle fall, but fate had decided otherwise. Many stones were pelted on her, in a continuous manner, until she finally fell and dropped the glass bottle of mercury.

The liquid turned into soft, small, solid balls and scattered everywhere on the black road. She looked at them, devastated. They ran everywhere, like beads from a broken necklace, and finally spread themselves all over the dark road. They glistened and shined, playing with the pebbles, as she saw them again with awe.

Finally, she stood up and wiped her forehead where it had begun to bleed. Another short sequence of beads dropped on the ground, and mixed somewhere in the concrete, with pebbles, and maybe some mercury.

Now she knew why the bottle had belonged to her.

——x

He wasn’t sure what was to be done, was he to keep his ‘masterpiece’ to himself or hand it over to him? Memories from the past flashed in front of him, and he found himself back in his childhood.

He adored his little, colorful bird. But he couldn’t cage her, because she said so. And he couldn’t trust her either, what if she flew away? She said she would never leave him, but he was too insecure because she was after all one of the most precious, loveliest birds ever created. So he held her carefully and cut her red and yellow wings with a scissor, most lovingly.

He smiled at his idea, at ‘God’s help’ and his instinct, and picked up his carved pot. Then he threw it far away with all his might and looked as it shattered into a million, unmendable pieces.

——-x

The End. [wtt]

تتلی

پیاری تتلی۔۔ تم اڑتی کیوں نہیں ہو؟ یہ درندوں کی دنیا ہے۔۔ یہاں بھلا تمھارا کیا کام؟

تم اڑ جاؤ ۔۔ ایسا کرو ھمیشہ کے لئے اڑ جاؤ۔۔

یہ دنیا تمھارے لئے نہیں ہے۔۔ تم اپنے باغ میں جا کر گھومو، پھرو، میں کچھ نہیں کہوں گا۔

ہاں اگر یہیں بیٹھی رھیں تو میں تمھیں مَسل دونگا۔

 

مگر میں جاؤں کہاں پیارے؟ میرے پَر تو تم کاٹ چکے ہو؟

اس رنگین دنیا میں بےشک میرا کوئی کام نہیں۔ مگر تم خدارا مجھے یہیں رہنے دو۔۔ درندوں کی دنیا میں۔۔

ذات کے پرندے بہرحال ‘خودی’ کے درندوں سے بہتر ہوتے ہیں۔۔

 اکیلی اس دنیا کی طرف گئی تو واپسی ناممکن ہوجائےگی۔ تم سمجھتے کیوں نھیں ہو؟

Pen paints!

There are words that are said, and there are words that are felt. But there always is a way to express!

life provides two traveling companions –
love and pain.
and who can tell between the two?
love and pain, one and the same,
for each are and always will be:
ugly as beautiful,
attractive as horrifying,
dangerous as safe,
irresistible as intolerable,
hopeless as promising,
invaluable as worthless.
love and pain, companions and foes.
both serve identical functions:
to remind you that you are alive,
and make you wish you were dead.
rjl 2013
———————————————

For long I try in vain to create
A picture, a sketch of the feeling great
A feeling too subtle to be described
A feeling too immense to be inscribed
I tried so hard and tried so long
Only to realize that I was all wrong
Love is a feeling that can’t be drawn
It can just be felt and touched upon

I was so stupid to capture the formless
The mighty, immense; vast and endless
How could I capture the one containing all
The happy, the sad, the big and the small?
If hatred is a sketch, then love is the page
If hatred is a play, then love is the stage
If hatred is knife, then love is the sheath
Love is the sky with all emotions beneath

Love is the canvas on which you drew hatred
But it is all too large, unaltered and sacred
On this are drawn joys, smiles and fears
On this chuckles the child, on this flows tears

Love is the ocean, formless and immense
Containing feelings: jolly, dark, deep and intense…
–Arindam Saha.
———————————————

Above-mentioned are two wonderful poems by two truly amazing poets: RJL and Arindam, which they wrote in response to ‘Can You Draw Hatred?’

Many thanks for drawing it along, and teaching things through your poetry. And for staying around and painting your words for me! (=

10 reasons why I hate you!

I hate you because:
you were never there when and where
I wanted you to be.

I hate you because:
you never spoke a single lie,
but left me craving to hear.

I hate you because:
you never showed you cared
though you were aware of it all.

I hate you because:
you never told me about you
and never heard about me.

I hate you because:
you left me to live in that dark alley
and never turned back to see.

I hate you because:
you knew my music by heart
yet you never played those notes.

I hate you because:
you were the only torchbearer
yet you never showed it this path.

I hate you because:
you could have been my savior
yet you chose to teach the hard way.

I hate you because:
I can never hate you
No matter how hard I try to.

RAINBOW

YOU will be there, and WE together

Some place in paradise; a lovely weather

PRESENT to be present, and present rejoiced

FUTURE to be discovered not now, later.

 

Life be lived with hopes and DREAMS

No pain stays FOREVER, however it seems

 

RAINBOW follows dark clouds, at both extremes!

Inspired by The Daily Prompt: SEVEN WONDERS.

Khalil Gibran once said that people will never understand one another unless language is reduced to seven words. What would your seven words be?

Photographers, artists, poets: show us SEVEN.

About my rainbow:

The poem consists of seven lines. Each line consists of seven words. The seven words highlighted in the text are the seven words that I chose, and it’s a rainbow because a rainbow denotes ‘seven’.
YOU. WE. PRESENT. FUTURE. DREAMS. FOREVER. RAINBOW

Note that there is no I .

Seven related posts:

1. I see on this Earth: | The Visionary Hollow
2. 7 | Hope* the happy hugger
3. Super Seven | thinkerscap
4. You got me | dawnyhosking
5. Touched by Seven. | Blue Loft
6. SEVEN WORDS, SEVEN MYSTERIES | SERENDIPITY
7. The Only Seven Words Left In The World | sayanything

Show: Seven colors- Roy G BiV.

Express what?

EXPRESS YOURSELF
says the daily prompt
That’s totally impossible!
Cried the girl and stomped

Tell us about it
They repeat again
What am i to say?
her protests go in vain

tell us about a time
you had no words to say
Well that happens a lot!
with my senses do they play

Tell us, tell us, do they call
Tell us about it, tell us all

Fine then I shall, so said her
and unveil here some moments blur
But listen to me with heart brave
Cautions she with a sound grave

I’ll tell you about that time last..
her eyes surveying parts of past
I’ll open to you each hint, imprint..
Her mind throbbing, as she squint

I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you
suddenly she screams
Rubbing her clenched fist
In emotions extreme

I’ll explain to you such happenings
of haunting nights and mornings

I’ll tell you, I’ll tell each and all
shouts she, before she stumbles and falls
Her pattering heart skips fast a beat
thud and thump as she dropped on feet

Whimpering, limping, she strives to stand
a hand advanced, she couldn’t withstand
You never came forward, you never helped out
she looked blankly, eyes filled with doubt

Weren’t you the same to ask her speak?
where are you now as she dies, weak?
Didn’t you ask her to express, to try?
but you’re nowhere close to stop her cry

You’ve gone because you had come to go
It will take time yes, I’ll get this though
just make sure you never ask another to ‘express’
for it’s harder than you know, to speak or confess.

In response to the Daily Prompt: Express Yourself

“Tell us about a time you couldn’t quite get your words or images to express what you wanted to express. What do you think the barrier was? For bonus points, try again.

Photographers, artists, poets: show us EXPRESSION.”

کشکول

میں خاموشی سےکہانی بْنتی ہوں۔ تم کہاں مصروف ھو ؟’

میرے خیالات توسیلاب کی مانند ھیں۔ تم بند کیوں لگوانا چاھتے ھو؟

آجاؤ  مل بیٹھ کے ھم کردار سنبھال لیتے ھیں۔ تم مجنوں بنو گے یا رام پری؟

تم غصّہ کیوں ھوتے ھو؟ میں تو مذاق کر رھی تھی۔

ہاں ہاں میں واقعی مذاق کر رھی تھی۔ لو ہنس لو اب تم۔۔’ـ’

وہ کیا جانے۔ کیسے جانے کیوں کر جانے آخر۔

کہتا ھے اپنی ذات کے حصّے پنہاں رکھے ھیں میں نے۔ اب زرا بتلاؤ! ذات بھی کبھی چھپ سکی ھے پیارے؟

ہاں البتّہ اگر کوئی جاننا ھی نہ چاھتا ھو۔

ذات تو چھپا دی جاتی ھے۔ بند کردی جاتی ھے۔ گم کردی جاتی ھے۔حالات کی بھینٹ چڑھا دی جاتی ھے۔

ذات تو خون ھے! بہتا رہتا ھے، رستا رہتا ھے۔ گرچہ اگر تم چاہو تو دیکھو۔ مگر تم چاہو گے کیوں؟

!سنو دیکھو تو ذرا یہاں پر زخم ھے کوئی۔ خون رستا رہتا ھے۔۔یہ کیسی تکلیف ھے؟

!مگر تم تو سمجھتے ھو میں ھنستی ھوں، مسکراتی ھوں، بات کرتی ھوں تو میں خوش ھوں

!خوشی گر اس کو کہتے ھیں تو خدایا! خوشی نہ دینا کسی کو

رگِ جاں سے جو لپٹ جائے، روح تک کو جو نگل جائے وہ خوشی کیا ھے؟

‘تم کہتے ھو خامشی کی زباں پہ کمال حاصل ھے تمھیں۔

مجھے ذرا بتلاؤ میری ذات کے دریچے وا کیوں نہ کئے اب تک؟

میرے در و دیوار تو پگھلنے لگے ھیں، زنگ آلود ھونے لگے ھیں۔۔

تو کیا تم یہی چاھتے تھے؟ میرے مندر کی گھنٹی ھمیشہ یوں ھی بجا کر بھاگ جاؤ گے؟

یہ زنجیریں سڑنے لگی ھیں پیارے۔ مجھے ڈر ھے یہ ٹوٹ نہ جائیں۔۔

کیونکہ اگر یہ ٹوٹ گئیں تو میں بھی بکھر جاوں گی۔

تو یوں کرو کہ تم چلے جاو۔ ھاں ھمیشہ کے لئے۔

میں روز روز ایک ھی سزا نہیں جی سکتی پیارے۔ مجھے ایک ھی دفعہ میں توڑ پھوڑ دو؟’

میں تم سے خوشیاں تو نھیں مانگ رھی ہوں جو تم اس قدر حقارت سے دیکھتے ھو۔

میں تو صرف اپنی وفاؤں کی جزا مانگ رہی ھوں۔۔

!یہ دیکھو کشکول لئے آج تمھارے مزار پہ حاضر ھوں، بھکاری بنی بیٹھی ھوں۔۔

یوں کرو کہ اپنی خاک سے مجھے معطر ھونے دو۔۔۔یوں کرو کہ مجھے امر کر دو۔۔۔

ماریہ عمران۔ٍٍ

Peace.

Sitting by the window, eyes busy wandering from here to there and
there to here; and thoughts running wildly between fields and hills and
mountains. A deep dive into that ocean and another swim into that other.
All wet.
Soaked outside, yet torn, parched, unmoist lips show no signs to reflect.
Tears! Tears fill up those sea-blue eyes and obscure vision, lumps gather
in throat, yet none of the divine drop falls, not a single sound escapes.
Nothing happens, and ‘nothingness’ is attained. In those split seconds of grief,
of utmost grief, and of those supreme painful moments does God appears.
And when God appears, peace takes charge. Or when ‘nothingness’ seeps,
Nothing Else Remains.

BELOW is what a friend Yamna Farrukh responded with, after she read A Rotten Rose. She says she felt the same way:

Sometimes..
He really surprises me.
I know I’ve been bad..
I am even afraid to read His book!
Wondering If He’ll tell me about
The kuffaar!
About the Munafiqeen..
About hell..
I’m afraid to read it.
But then,
He surprises me!
He knows my weaknesses..
How I always fall for it..
He knows I’m scared, ashamed..
Yet still he wants to guide me..
He tells me, ‘You can always repent’
He says He knows I’m just a human.
I make sins, I repent.
And sin, and repent.
He tells me, that He loves me.
That He can forgive me.
He is Al-Wadood, Al-Ghafoor
Al-Rehmaan, Al-Raheem..
He finally says that every rose counts!
Even a wilting rose can blossom again!

That’s for you!

Demented in Diaries.

Diaries were her favorite possessions. Especially that mauve colored, thick, velvety diary. It was more special to her than anything else in the world, as she once told me.

Beginning to write in a brand new diary appears to be one of the most difficult tasks in the world, and we both agreed to that. Because one must seriously consider what use that lovable creature could bring, they after all were divine things. After a considerable amount of time she had finally decided what her object would collect; she will write her daily musings and personal rants into it. She will call it her ‘personal journal’, her ‘dear diary’.

All these years I had never seen her open herself into anybody else but her dd, she trusted only it. Nobody could ever believe it if they were told, that it were only a simple set of pages that she adorn too much. But I could, for I knew what significance those pages held for her. I was a diary-lover myself.

I was. I am no more. Because I shudder when I reminisce her dreadful demise.

It was one windy winter night, a December night to be exact, when the ‘dementor’ in her destroyed it cruelly. A strong jab from a sharp knife pierced the velvety mauve cover from the middle; and the dark purple ribbon that was tied in a bow with a tiny purple sequin was torn. But that single stab wasn’t enough. Her wild self called her to selfishly avenge each page, for having stored her prettiest of memories. Like a hypnotized victim did she obey, and individually tore every single page, scratched harshly some lines on her favorite poems and cut stupidly each name that she once wrote lovingly. What couldn’t be destroyed with knife or pen was rubbed by hand, for she was destined to erase it all and not leave a single sign.

It was after some long minutes struggle, or perhaps some hours time that she finally recovered and her demented soul crashed – And for the next more hours she sobbed silently in a corner of her room. Her thunderous screams had by now converted themselves into soft, muffled sobs and her spirited energy had collapsed into a helpless, clueless person.

She had called me that day, and yet she never spoke. I kept on asking what the matter was but all my efforts had gone in vain. She had promised not to speak and she kept to it, and she kept to it such that she didn’t even allow herself to ask her anything else. What, when, or how it had happened, she knew not. And her silence only murdered what ever part of her was left, for the next day I witnessed her death.

It won’t be wrong to say that she was obsessed with ‘diaries’ because there was nobody else that she could care for. The pure soul she was deserved not a single gift of heartache. When I entered into her room the other day I could see what had happened there. Others can not even imagine what that night must have been, but I had a chance to actually sense it because that is what she left there for me to feel, herself.

Beneath her crumpled, torn-apart pages lied fragments of her unhappy life; from her ugly days to her poignant nights and all those unbearably torturous moments that came between the phases of day and night, all laid there but now dead. Dead as she was.

Tears blocked my vision as I saw her coffined body in the spacious lawn outside, how peacefully did she imitate herself to be. Her nonliving body rested uncomfortably for sure, but she had postured it such to pretend calmness, calm that she never was. A bright smile decorated her white face, and made them all praise how peacefully she had gone! Oh how peacefully, please ask me.

They lifted her away in no time, some faked hysterical cries and some really did weep. But it wasn’t long after she had gone that they all prepared to leave too, oh how they loved her.

I was left alone there, and so I entered into her room again. But all those pieces had disappeared, those pages were all gone! However it didn’t shock me, for I knew that had to happen. Dementors of self are the dementors of worst kinds.

Her purple bow-ribbon was surprisingly still there, perhaps they had forgotten to hide it. While I quickly turned to pick it up, what astonished me was an untouched, whole page from her diary close by! Mixed emotions of fear and fulfillment ran down my spine but alas! I failed to move an inch towards it for my feet had stuck to the floor.

I wasn’t asked what I wanted to do, and it was made clear that I could only return if I never dared to touch it. So I took my steps backward and left the room with a heavy heart, forever.

© 2013 Maria Imran *Randomly Abstract*.

Strangely Strangers!

Your pride
is so much more powerful
than is my ego.
Because my ego
has failed again.
but your pride
seems to have no end.

I don’t mind crumpling
Standing bare foot on,
Or Hurting
My own ego.
But do you promise me
To unveil your kindness then?

Your care, your compassion
My ‘care’ and my passion
Are both separated
By attitudes stronger
than any other emotion.

Because after all,
We are only strangers!

Or on me, you know. 

I will submit before your pride
My ego will become your slave
But assure me, your indifference
Will cease before I end in grave.

It’s Mae-Mae Time!

‘Look, there’s such a rush! What are those so many people doing over there? That huge group circling that van, what’s all the hip hop for? Or has the vehicle suffered from a serious accident? WHAT ARE THEY ALL UP TO? Oh move aside, I have GOT TO LOOK!’

And lo! A royal cow has arrived in our locality, for tomorrow’s Baqra Eid!!! And oh, not just one, there are four of them!

Its Eid-ul-Adha, or Baqra Eid as we call, the second Eid that Muslims around the globe celebrate (this one after the holy Pilgrimage), in the remembrance of Prophet Ibrahim and Ismail (A.S)’s exemplary sacrifice.

This event brings a lot of happy (and yummy) moments together, that start even before the day comes, and lasts long after Eid is finally over.

After a long wait when the cattle finally arrives, (not to mention the mandi process since oops, I’ve NEVER been there) that excitement to play and feed and taking them for a walk and then finally having them slaughtered *tears* and then feasting with those DELICIOUS steaks and seekh-kababs and this and that, and that, and that, it’s SCRUMPTIOUS!!

From Shahzeb Hussain Art. Click on image to visit his fan page.

This Eid also brings a lot of cherish-able moments with it, the best of which include those MEGA-RUNS when one of the bechari goats (or in some cases, a wild buffalo) runs away and a crazy crowd start running after it, leaving rest of the world (or women) laughing behind!

Or the other way round.

Anyways, I wish you all a very happy Eid! Party hard and don’t forget to care for those deprived.

Eid Mubarak 😀

Sweet Dreams!

This is an updated version of this post.

Perhaps it was a pretty nasty day when my ink bled thus. Never wanted to post this but a recent death of a complete stranger reminded me of how it chases and follows anywhere and everywhere.

Got published on: LoversOfDarkness.com.

Blank page.

She stared at the blank page, unable to write a single word, even though she knew exactly what needed to be said.

She wanted to write. She wanted to pour out all her wild feelings in some manners harsh, because a paper was after all a paper; it won’t complain, it won’t tell anyone. It will keep what is given, it will forever keep it embossed in it like something precious.

She wanted to write utterly random words, senseless, stupid words. She wanted to mark darkest of lines, in the cruelest of ways. She wanted to define herself on that worthless piece.
Also did she long to write about those people, those that had harmed her. Those that had hurt her. Those that had crumpled her ego, her self-respect, and those for whom she had forgotten that she had a life of her own.
Life doesn’t offer good endings to everyone, dreams never come true every time, and destinies do not simply change by efforts or prayers; she wanted to tell that.

The clock kept ticking and no marks were to be seen; no lines, no words, no nothing. She kept staring hard. How must she begin? With the ending perhaps?

And what if her pen gives life to that object we call paper? What if her painful memories mold into persons? Her words into figures? She could already sense some ill-dressed, ghostly figures surrounding her.

They circled her, and looked at her blankly. They kept on staring her, and then their lips curled into some evil smiles. Then they began to laugh. Their laughter echoed everywhere. They were haunting her. She couldn’t take that much. ‘GO AWAY!’, she screamed.

Nobody heard her. She started to run towards the door so that she could escape. But alas! All exit doors had jammed. She was stuck there with those horrible faces – those names that her ink had not yet dared to speak – for the night, or for her entire life.

Rotten Rose.

In the darkest of times
And deepest of miseries
There is always someone
Who makes me smile.
That someone is someone
Who rubs away my tears
In manners such that I fail to realize
That someone brings me flash-backs
And joyful thoughts
Whenever,
Wherever,
May I hide and cry
He is sure to come
And support
And listen
And not listen
And advice
And not advice
And make me feel better
Always.

He is Allah.
He is God.
He is Divine.
But He’s a friend.
A friend doesn’t mind stupid things
A friend cares
A friend hears
So He does too
And more than you could
For all my deepest darkest secrets
‘My guilty pleasures’
My short and sweet sins
My bigger sins
My not-really-sins
My good deeds
My hidden
My exposed
My thoughts
My evil side
And angelic
And kinder
And crueller
Is all visible to Him.

So I hide.
I hide in a corner
And don’t pray.
And don’t talk.
And don’t ask.
I forget to be ‘good’
Then
Well, He lets me be it
I tend to turn
Into a monster
Or a killer
Or sinner
And He doesn’t stop me.
Not even once.
He does direct
But I like to ignore.
He lets me do it.
He doesn’t punish.
Just leaves me there
And I fail to mind
I ‘fail to feel’
Who’s leaving me
I fail to realize
If I am hurting none but self.
He doesn’t force anything
At all.
Then the world kicks me
Spits on me
‘Pelts stones’
And throws me away
Like garbage
In a dust can
And sometimes,
Not even in a dust can,
They think I don’t deserve it.
They leave me
Somewhere filthy
Themselves!
And call me disgusting
Can you imagine?
They do.
They just do.
They are weird.
Cruel.
Very cruel.

So then
You know
Nobody comes
Not even those whose
Tongues never used to tire
From my ‘appreciations’
And their ‘well wishes’
Nobody
Picks the fallen rose.
They let me dry
And stink
Just as a ‘rotten rose’ does?
So yes,
There I find
Allah.

He comes
Wipes my tears
Clears my fears
Holds me
Doesn’t scold
Even when I do deserve
His Scoldings.
He makes me forget my past
And tells me how I could make
My future brighter.
I bow.
He smiles.
I then make some promises
Of ‘never disobeying’
He still smiles
Though He knows
What a liar
A coward
A ‘rotten rose’ I am.

– RandomlyAbstract