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.

2014, 2015, Paintings and Scribblings

Escape (27.3.14)

2014, Awards

Awards 2014 –



Okay, hi again. I still don’t know how to do this post.

This is my fifth award post by the way. And my fifth year blogging too. Like, I just celebrated my fourth blogversary with imaginary balloons on 6th September, two thousand and fourteen. YAY.

Blogging was once everything to me. I was so so addicted to it, mostly because it was my favorite best outlet and I feared no judgement. My earliest posts here are some of the most childish, simplest, and lamest you’ll find. I like keeping them, though, because they were parts of me that I now miss.

It’s not that anymore. I still do love this space more than nething but things changed, I changed, life changed… *insert emo quote* 😛

Coming to the awards, there is the 2013 Blog of the Year award from sister Aisha! She gave this to me in January *gulps* and here’s to tell her that I’m truly grateful for the nomination. 🙂

Aisha’s Oasis is a beautiful blog of her journey through Egypt! You’ll like the stories presented there. =] She has also given me the Wonderful team member readership award for which I’m truly grateful.

Then there is the Butterfly Light Award from the wonderful Beckarooney! She is one of the best people I’ve met here! Loves plants, takes photos, writes wonders.

She had also nominated me for a virtual blog tour which was supposed to be posted on 15th December, but *sigh* I couldn’t make it. Thank you though, I feel REALLY proud of this.

Besides other rules, this award requires me to explain in a paragraph how I am a positive influence or how I am spreading light. That is like. Um. I…

I don’t know how I am a positive influence but I know that I like people and I like living. Life can be very pathetic sometimes and we all know that. Friends leave, mishaps fall, things change, cross cross cross. One doesn’t get what they want, or maybe they do get it and then watch it slipping from their hands without having a say in that matter whatsoever. But Inna ma’al usri yusra [Verily, along with every hardship is relief] and Zindagi Megzara [Life moves on] so you know, one can just as well be okay about it. Why whine when you can shine~ [Lel]

Next is The Versatile Blog Award and The Sunshine Award from aak92! Thank you so much, awesome person! 🙂

Also, there’s a Very Inspiring Blog Award from the wonderful Tina. Thank you, and I apologize for the delay! Suyash has also nominated me for this award with a lovely note on his blog. I am truly humbled, and well, THANK YOU! You made my end-of-year better! 😀

There is also the Liebster Award from this person which was given to me this November. Thank you again, and again, for your friendship and awesomeness!

(I have also been asked 11 questions from him which are pretty interesting. I will write another post to answer them separately, later inshaAllah.) ^-^

Then there is the Dragon’s Loyalty Award from Reva given to me on September 16. ‘Strings of soulfulness‘ is what her blog is called, and trust me her musings are just as beautiful as this name! Continue reading

2014, My Writings

My dark man.

“It is not I who accepted the Dark Life. The Dark Life accepted me.”

He sat on a rock, his head bowed and hands resting on knees. “I did not want to be what I have become. But I like it now… It suits me. I feel I am where I belong. It is Real. It is Me.”

I was sitting before him on the road and there was no one else around. When he said these words, I looked at him. I wanted more answers, and I was searching for them in his eyes. They are windows to your soul, after all, but somehow his soul was a locked corridor now– the key to which was unknown to even himself, I suppose.

“Are you satisfied without having any friends?” I asked.

“You are my friend!” he replied with a smile. I will never forget that smile.

“I know that,” I said his name, “but I am not always there around you, right? I never know where you are, what you are doing, how you’ve been. I worry about you. Who takes care of you when you’re not here? No one. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you don’t give an inch importance to yourself either. Why?

“I don’t need to. I am happy and more contented with my life than you can imagine. I don’t need these things. Care, look-after, love; these aid other people… People who can’t live without people, who depend on other humans and emotions as a weakling depends on crutches. I have come far from that now. It makes no sense to me.”

How would he know what “weaklings” were truly like, I thought. People need people, they need these “crutches” to walk around this world. Why doesn’t he get it? Or more importantly, how did he overcome this necessity?

He was at ease with his lifestyle, and he meant his words more than any of us could. He could see beyond his time, and yet no future thought worried him. He could look in a glance at his past and go through his early details in a minute– yet he was one whom you’d never find regretting or complaining about his choices (or their causes), or taking pleasure in revisiting his memory lanes for that matter.

He was not normal. Yet he looked more saner than many, some times. That was perhaps because he had given himself to his goal: it could either be absolute good or absolute evil that would complete your life and give meaning to your otherwise worthless existence. He had found ‘It’ in evil.

“Would you come back to meet me again?” one asked.

“Yes. But it will take longer this time.” other replied.

We both smiled as he got up and held out his hand to me, which I gave without a moment’s pause. Standing face-to-face I tried yet again to search him in his eyes, as if their color would light my way too and I’d be able to find a clue. He stepped closer and put his hand softly on mine, slowly whispering a “no”. Maybe he thought I could really do that if I tried?

He turned around then, and started to move away. There was the famous S-shaped scar at the back of his neck which always looked fresh and red, and was so deeply cut a wound that it pained me to only look at it. I followed him with my gaze, thinking of what he was and what he could never be, until tears blocked my vision and I smiled to let go.

[Okay, hellooo. I was having a real hard time connecting words but I also badly wanted to write a story-sort so here goes. Let me know what you think of it!]

2014, Pakistan

Peshawar Attack- 16.12.14

This is to the kid who played dead, the friend who helped his friend, the teacher who refused to open the door so her kids could be kept from the inevitable, the father who buried his son in the soil and went back to fight for his native land, the mother who smiled– the mother who SMILED and with tears said that her son has sacrificed his life for Pakistan and that he isn’t dead but he is in fact, a martyr. Martyrdom is a strong virtue, people!

This is also to the nation who grieves, its neighbors and other communities who have expressed their condolences in this time of need. To the people who gathered under the flag of humanity and put forward the message of solidarity and peace: There is no peace. And even though there is no peace, there once will be.

It’s been a long, tough struggle. And a painful, very painful tragedy. It is also the greatest example of inhumanity and cruelty, barbarism and terrorism. It is it. But it is not the end.

The only problem is that. It is not the end. Pakistan, like always, wills to stand again.

This time, however, the country is weak and tired. Like a person who has had a terrible car crash, or worse (and more realistically),  who has been bit by a snake in her sleeves, the country weeps and endures. It sits and looks at its stitches, so many since its first fall, and looks at the patches in its torn clothes. There are always patches, thanks to people who can’t give up. [And how do you give up when your own survival depends upon it..?]

This patient still breathes. It will breathe till the end of time if God so wills. Right now, though, all it needs is extra intensive care, especially and mostly from its own people!

Related links:

The guy who played dead—— Smiles (watch video).
Blogs: Finish that jigsaw puzzle ; My Dream is dead now; The wind whispers.

2014, Pakistan

Dec 04, Urdu letters: “Searching beauty through Art and Literature– Sheikh Ayaz.”

Shaikh Ayaz was a twentieth century poet, born on 23rd March 1923 in Shikarpur, Sindh. He is considered one of the best poets in Pakistan, and his work has earned him respect from all over the literary world. Having complete hold over English, Urdu, Arabic, Persian and Hindi languages, his code of preference remained Sindhi, which gave him great fame in the province. He has also translated some of Shah Bithai’s poetry, and for him art and literature were ways of searching ‘beauty’. A very interesting article written by Nazeer Lughari in a local magazine published last Sunday talks about the poet’s personal life and includes scripts of his famous (and oh so poetic) Urdu letters and wise, soulful talks.

ShAyaz_raIn one of his letters, he writes about Sukkur; a city where he spent his early years. He begins it with a complaint about the hot and dry weather which the city is famous for, but soon we see him reminiscing old and better days which gives a nostalgic touch to his writing. He beautifully says:


“Aey rana, wapis lout aa, ab tou subah honay wali hay, teray baghair ye kaak mehal weerana hae.”

His letters show a glimpse of his own personality: poetry that runs in his veins like blood, a unique perception of life, and a wisdom that comes only with experience. While reading them today, I found myself in complete awe of the beauty they carry. Posted below are excerpts from my favorite letter, the complete of which can be found on next page:

  • Poora din zindagi ki tag-o-dau me guzaar kar aaya hun, ang ang toot raha hae. Maaloom nahi, poora din kon nigal gaya? Waqt, iss mahol me kisi azli diyo ki tarah lag raha hae. Abhi sham ne Neel-kanth ki tarah neelay neelay par phalaiye haen. Neel-kanth hamaray ilaqay ka mash’hoor parinda hae, aur is ke mutaa’liq riwayat ha eke wo hamesha kisi Paras ki talaash me rehta hae.
  • Mae jab bhi sham ko neel-kanth se tashbeeh deta hun, tou meray zehan me na sirf is ski tanhaai ka ehsaas hota hae, balkay is ki neelahatt bhi meray zehan me hoti hae, taham mae mehsoos karta hunk e meri har sham bhi kisi Paras ki talash me hoti hay. Kisi na-maloom narsa hasti ki justuju me, jo meri sanson ko mukammal sona bana sakay. Ye justuju mera mazhab hae.
  •  Wehmon aur tazabzub me uljha hua mazhab meray liye man-gharat aur khayalati kahaniyan haen. Firqabandiyan aur zahirdaariyan meray liye khud-faraibi aur khuda-faraibi se kam nahi. Khushk ikhlaqiat ki baat meray honton par aik shararat bhari muskurahat lati hae. Bahisht aur dozakh, gunaah, sawaab, haraam, halaal ki behas par mujhay hansi ati hae. Hansi jo muskurahat se namo pati hae, aur qehqahon me phalti pholti, sari kaainat par amarbail ki tarah phailti jati hae, aur kainaat aik kinaray se dusray kinaray tak gonjti rehti hae, meray qehqahay, zamaan aur makaan ki sarhadon tak ja pohanchtay haen aur meray azli sawaal aasmaan se bijlion ki tarah hanstay hoye poochtay haen. “Aey raaz-e-azal! Mae ne teri pur-asraar hasti ko rawaaN dawaaN mehssos kia hay. Mae ne tujhay kalyon ki khushbu me soongha hae, jang ki awaaz me suna hae, shafaq ke bheegay rangon me dekha hae. Maasoon haseenaoN ke rukhsaaron me dekha hae. Amrat mashroob ke har ghont me chak’ha hae. Aey raaz-e-azal! Tera ehsaas meray wujood ki haqeeqat hae. Aur tera wujood meray liye haqeeqat ka ehsaas hae. Ye meray ham zaat, ye insaan tujhay kiyun mehsoos nahi kartay? In ko kon behkata hae. In jhooti kahanion ke tanay banay kis ne bunay haen, jin me un ka zehan ulajh gaya hae? Ye na wafiq loug apnay irfan se waqif kara rahay haen. “Aey raaz-e-azal! Teri soorat hi husn aur haq ka maiyar hae.” Phir qehqahay, halkay aur phusphusay hojaty haen. Meray chehray par se muskurahat kam hojati hae aur mera sar jhuk jata hae, tapp tap kartay kartay aansoo meri ankhon se behnay lagtay haen, aur mae aik lamhay me sari insaan zaat ke liye sadyon ki ibadat karleta hun.
  • Meray is maslak ka koi autaaryaarshi nahee hae, iske mus’haf kitaab, pothiyan pastak nahi haen, ye faqat duzdida nazri do jhalkiyion par mabni hae.. Shayad tum samajh sako ke har duzdida nazar aur jhalak me kaainaat ka konsa raaz hae?

(Random post/ Urdu letters/ because December. Nazeer Lughari’s published article can be found online on the paper’s official site: http://magazine.jang.com.pk/detail_article.asp?id=25665)

2014, Poems and poetry


When poetry becomes a disease,
and people all too untrustworthy

When a million ideas begin to inspire,
but they all sound just so clichéd

When you are finally barefoot
but the land disappears from below

Or when you’re ready to take flight
but above you spans a sky no more.

Commas, slashes, colons, fullstops:
knives, daggers, tight knots, stones.

When promises lose their sanctity–
of forever, hope, “Forever, I hope.”

There is no use finding meaning, see
Life keeps pouring death into bones.

2014, Urdu musings


نحوست اس کو نہیں کہتے
جو تم کسی کے گھر جاؤ
اور یکے بعد دیگرے
کوئی آفت گرجائے
کہ برتنوں کا کھنکنا
یا جھولوں کا ٹوٹ جانا
تو اٹل ہے

البتہ ہاں
جب ایک ہی دیس میں رہتے
کبھی ہندو کبھی مسلم
کبھی ’کرسچن‘ کبھی سنّی
کبھی اہلِ تشیع
کبھی بت کے پوجنے والے کو
کبھی رب کی کھانے والے کو
کبھی بچے کو کبھی بوڑھے کو
کبھی عورت کو کبھی بیوی کو
مار دیا جائے

صرف یہ کہہ کرکہ
اسکا مذہب میرا نہیں
یا اسکا اٹھنا لکھنا پڑھنا
میرے اٹھنے لکھنے پڑھنے
سے مختلف ہے
اسکے بستہ میں جو قرآن ہے
اسکا ورق ورق الٹا ہے
یا اس کے گلے میں
مسیحائی کا جو ہار ہے
میں اسے پسند نہیں کرتا

سو میری پسند اور یہ میری زمیں
میرا ہے یہ گھر میں اس کا امیں
یہ منحوس یے‘۔’

ماریہ عمران۔

Dedicated to the Christian couple mercilessly killed, and others dying in ‘the land of pure’. Bloodlust is boundless; it surely doesn’t bother categorizing before bringing you to your coffin.

Similar posts:


One day

Sitting on your comfy armchair, one day, you will not find peace. You will have everything you ran after, everything that you thought completed you, everything you left the previous ‘every-things’ for… But what you won’t have will be peace. Comfort. Inner harmony, no.

It’s okay to be realistic and responsible rather than passionate or dreamy when it comes to making important life decisions. But “for what it is worth, let us attempt to cherish our human imperfection.” You failed there.

And one day, it will return to you. The pain one inflicts upon others always finds a way back to the giver. It just does; that’s how life is. And with that faith, I can rest in peace. I actually think I will find solace in this thought, and the courage to move on, because I know one day you will know. One day it will hurt you just like it hurt me today, and though I know what a better virtue forgiveness is, I don’t plan to forgive you. Not now. Peace is the last thing I’d want to give you. Prayers, I still might.

Inspired by Wildermann’s comment on a  random Facebook post.
Quote used from one of James A. Crosby’s writings.

2014, Proses


Doesn’t she look happy dancing in the rain with a heart so gay and young? With a face like that of an angel, and the floating gracefulness of a goddess, her own feet unaware of where she might put them next; she could perhaps be the luckiest in the world!

Like a wild flower in full bloom, oh, how she fills the air around her with the aroma and affect of her. How the stars sparkle in her presence and the earth stops to the rhythm of her steps! And how everything, in an unseen felt way, bows down to herin respect of her happiness!

See how she flutters her wings and holds out her arms to fill in the falling rain in the cups of her palms, and then brings it to her lips to drink from it; as if it were a divine goblet! Or an elixir, pouring which will quench her deep thirst, and free her of all that torments her soul…

But it scares me to see her so, and I can’t really explain what I find unfitting in this picture. Maybe it’s in her eyes… which are grayer than the sky above her, or her laughter which doesn’t quite seem real. There is something in her tone that hints betrayal, something about her shadow that keeps dissolving minute by minute.

‘She must be a carrier of love’ is what I thought of her before. But maybe, as I now realize, it’s an injury better than that. Maybe, as her façade weakens and reality takes over, we won’t find a trace of what we see now. And for all they will know, she would be a girl who died dancing!

2014, My Writings, Proses

White Roses.

Apparently fixed on the ceiling, those stone-like eyes kept staring into nothingness and the worlds beyond it. The fan whirred slowly, like the clock ticked short taps, and the heart pumped liquid in and out. Everything moved in its own circle of existence, performing the allotted functions steadily and uncomplainingly. But even then, it felt like the world had somehow turned upside-down, and the fan whirred only to mock in its own given voice, the time moved to show how invaluable every other being before it was, and the muscle pulsated to define how the gods-on-earth were only too frail and fragile; not being able to keep anything from working or breakingeven their hearts.

Once unleashed, the mind traveled speedily into the fields of green and gold where the spark in one another’s eyes had signed smilingly the invisible yet undeniably substantial contracts of always staying together. It wandered farther to the streams of crystal blue waters where hands were held and oaths were repeated before angels of the world, and names were carved on rocks as well as on every atom of each other’s being. Tracing back the swift walks made across sand lanes and muddy roads, it came to rest only as the image of stars dancing as they were that night appeared on the retinas, and the sharp smell of white roses made their way through nostrils to the insides, causing currents to run down one’s spine.

How does it happen that a seemingly small wave envelops an entire universe in itself? How does Destiny fail Desire every time, and dreams turn to dust before reaching the realms of fulfillment? Why do the once saintly carriers of love blaspheme the very sanctity of it – leaving souls insecure and shattered forever?

Soft rain began to pelt against the room’s window bringing back the detested realizations of reality, and with a single tear that rolled down mournfully, all wounds were washed away until next time…




Dead I: Carrion

Warm Nights and Cold Fires

The fact that I was dead was indubitable. I was stuck in a motionless body, the smell had surpassed unbearable some time ago and I had absolutely no sight; my eyes were far too gone for that luxury, I think. Or it could’ve been the dark. I try to shift myself to a more comfortable (albeit just as dead) position before I remembered I was, well, dead, and stuck in a motionless body.

I know that the beetles were at me now. The maggots had come and gone, and the worms and flies had had their turn too. It was time for the beetles to rip out little bits of damp, cold deadness and scrounge up what little was left of my flesh. I settled into nonchalant disregard as the insects did their work, tickling the remaining few threads of my consciousness that had managed to somehow still stay attached…

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2014, Poems and poetry

Mystical Embrace

With aching hands and tired feet
this traveler shuts her eyes to sleep
her thoughts she packs in mind’s backyard
but yours it seems she can’t conceal.

All night through she thinks of you
as the sky dresses in cobalt blue
and silver moonlight washes earth,
to another dream her heart gives birth!

Your name she whispers a hundred times;
flutters, her soul in those heavenly chimes
smiling she submits herself in space
as sleep takes her in its mystical embrace.

(14 Sept, 2014; 2:15 a.m. Maria Imran)

2014, Poems and poetry

You are everywhere

When I shut my eyes to sleep,
you appear like a tear
at the corners of my eyes.

I try to wrestle away your thoughts
by shoving aside our memories,
struggling in vain to distract myself
but I give up
and they stay.

Get out of my mind
come in front
because I’d rather that you
bother me where I can see you.

If I fall asleep, it’s you that I dream of.
If I don’t, then there’s no escape
from the haunting reality;
the shadow that is you.

Like a ghost you follow me
everywhere I go
and no amount of light
can scare you away.

Get out of my mind
come in front
because I’d rather that you
bother me where I can see you.

Like a parasite you cling onto me
or a perfume that doesn’t wear off.
You are Everywhere
and you are Everytime.

2014, Urdu musings


تم نے آبشاروں کو چپ ہوتے دیکھا ہے؟ کبھی کبھی اپنی تمام شان و شوکت میں بھی  پانی ساکت ہوجاتا ہے، آوازیں ماند پڑجاتی ہیں۔ پھر وہ بہتا نہیں گرتا ہے۔ ہلکے، ہلکےـ صرف کسی حکم کی تعمیل کرنے کوـ مگر سنو، پانی بےجان نہیں ہوتاـ یہی بوندیں جب پتھروں پہ پڑتی ہیں تو انہیں توڑ کررکھ دیتی ہیں۔۔۔ سوراخ کردیتی ہیں ان میں۔ پانی خاموش ہوتا ہے مگر اسکی بوند بوند بلا کا شور پالتی ہےـ ایسا کہ جاننے والے پر ہیبت طاری کردے۔
تم نے پتھروں کو ٹوٹتے دیکھا ہے؟

Tum ne aabsharon ko chup hotay dekha hae? Kabhi kabhi apni tamaam shaan-o-shokat mai bhi paani sak’t hojata hae, awaazain maand parjati haen. Phir wo behta nahi, girta hae. Halkay, halkay. Sirf kisi hukam ki taameel karny ko. Magar suno, paani be-jan nahi hota. Yehi boondain jab patharon pe parrti haen tou unhay torr ke rakh deti haen… Sorakh kardeti haen inn me. Paani khamosh hota hae magar iski boond boond bala ka shor palti hae. Aesa ke ‘jannay waly’ par haibat tari karday.
Tum ne patharon ko toot’ty dekha hae?