2014, My Writings

Diva-

“Yours

I was
still am
always will be.”

His eyes were red. They emitted fire. His hair was all messed up. Like his life. He would pull his hair, kick his bed, his door, and cry. Tears wouldn’t stop for even a minute – nor would he make any effort of that kind. He was too weak, so helpless, that any effort to push back the inevitable seemed useless.

He kept pacing around the small room with a mind too full or blank. I am not sure he knew what he was doing or what he could, because he didn’t seem to show that in his ways.

Between his wails a name unknowingly escaped his lips. Her name. His secret. He sat down suddenly on the floor and began staring his palms. Her name was his object, and how he worshiped it. It was his everything. She was his everything!

But nothing was same anymore. His secret was the talk of the town then. Everybody was curious about her; how she had died. How she had been killed. How anyone like her so young, pretty, freecould be killed?!

She was free, as they knew, but there are always things which you think you know though you don’t, no? She was enslaved too. He was her master. Like she was his mistress, his diva.

He got up weakly and went towards the small table on his bedside. A crumpled ball of yellow sheet laid there on the floor;  rejected, thrown. He picked it up and unfolded the creases carefully to not bring any more damage. It was his last hope. He began reading…

“Yours

I was
still am
always will be.”

It were just those four lines, those few words that brought him to tears again. He started to scream violently, repeating her name again and again as if it were his medicine. As if she would return if he would call her now. But some things just don’t return to normal once you hurt them, do they?

He had killed her. He was his master, and his murderer. And he thought he loved her…

Startled by a bell, he looked at the door. A man in uniform stood there. He asked him a few unnecessary questions, stole a quick inspective glance at his room, and patted his shoulder. Told him he understood his pain, his own wife had died not too long ago. Asked him to please hold on, to not give up. To God we belong and to Him shall we return.

He sat down on his bed, alone again, and rubbed his eyes. A sudden throbbing pain in his head started all of a sudden, forcing him to shriek. He clenched his fist and hit his forehead multiple times the pain didn’t leave, of course.

“Yours – I was”
yes, she was his.
Since ever. She had always lived for him. He was her first prayer. Her first and only sawaal, minnat, dua. And last.

“Yours – I still am”
“Are you? Are you still?” he asked. “Come back! Will you come back?” he cried. The memories of her falling on his feet flashed back that instant, and he could see again how he had done it. How he had killed a begging diva...

Shouts. Cries. Clarifications. Slowly his mind began to lose its power to comprehend each voice and with each next note added a different melody. He touched her side of the bed rather helplessly as tears rolled down his eyes when he shut them close. It was then that a silver figure walked gracefully to his side and placed her hand gently on his head, to put him to sleep.

Yours I always will be, she whispered.

Maria Imran.

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2014

LOVE. Lost and found.

I love it to bits, Pamela.

Some connections are just meant to be. And no borders, orders, or fences can help separate those. This is one such and I am EXTREMELY grateful!
Thanks a million, and another million! YOUR EIDI MADE MY DAY. ❤

Resonner's Blog

A Hindu married a Muslim,
And two sisters grew in the womb,
Little then did they know,
They will build each others tomb…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ● ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ● ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ● ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ● ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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Borders are like birds,
They will fly wherever they want to.
Nations are like clouds,
They will drift wherever they like to.

But people are the skies,
They will have to stay back,
To witness all birds and clouds,
Good-bad, light and dark.

Soldiers, wars, battles, gun fights,
Matters trivial, wrongs and rights…
One after the other, shot after shot,
The opportunity for love- lost.
523490_498831756811724_1173220727_n
Mountains, rivers, valleys and snow.
What do we fight for,
Do we really know?

We are warring over the Indus,
So much blood, so much loss!
Diplomacy…

View original post 489 more words

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2014, Passages

Invisible-

TemptationI tried looking for you.

I won’t say I traveled far and wide or climbed those hills and things. No, but I met people and studied them to study you. I stopped to look at your personal things, and I tried sketching out your details.I wanted you back.

But I guess I am tired now.

And I guess I no longer understand you.

You are too grand, too far, too complex. I am too vain.

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2014

Young death

He had returned home after playing with his friends in the locality, and now his body rested before them in a still, lifeless state. How his mother would have cried on undressing his young dead son and how they would have put on a kafann… how the strong smell of kaafoor would have filled up the entire hall and his birth day would have played vividly like a film in his mother’s mind. How his first smile, first cry, the way he had so strongly clasped her finger, his first step, first sound, first meal, first everything would haunt their dreams from now onwards.

Dreams. He must’ve weaved a lot of them. Now that he had completed his second year at college, he might have planned the wildest and most unique of dreams. Things he would have blurted out energetically to gain encouragement but would’ve been told were impossible, and how we would have then promised himself to prove the world nothing was ever far from a man who tries…

And how his siblings would have begged his motionless body to please return; to tease, to play, to fight, to laugh, to stay.

How his father would have put on a strong yet imperfect cover on his feelings to look at his son, and to attend his guests and relatives. How he would have hugged his other children and tried unsuccessfully to console his wife, and how his lips would have trembled on the words of Imaam: Inna lillahi wa Inna Ilaihee Rajiiyuun.

 

It is not true when they say some people die before their time. Nobody dies before time. Death has no time, no time at all.

[Rest in peace Hammad.]

 

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2014, Passages

façade

‘I was worried for you.’

“You needn’t be. I am okay by myself.”

“I know you are not. Nobody with red, swollen eyes is.”

“Oh, stop. That’s called sleep deprivation.”

“It’s called a hopeless-struggle-to-put-on-a-mask, silly!”

“Not even a term”, I replied.

 

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2014, By the roaring waves!, Poems and poetry

The mad man.

The traffic is high
the night is dark
but the mad man
doesn’t care.

He runs madly
and carelessly
by the roadside;
his feet bare.

A bottle in his hand
and tears in his eyes
he drinks as he runs,
amidst anyone’s stare.

He is mad, so he is free
and no one questions
his authority.

He can kill- if he likes
he may not, if he mustn’t
No chains bind him at all;
of reason nor responsibility.

Tears block his vision,
so for a moment he stumbles
but this doesn’t make him stop
or go against his decision.

The mad man keeps running
and the world begins to fade
the traffic soon dissolves
in a hazy, unknown shade.

No one knows where he ended
what his quest was, what he wanted
but they say in a planet of madness
only he had life comprehended.

Maria Imran.

Related post: (In)sanity.

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2014, Poems and poetry

I am.

You will see me everywhere,
floating gracefully on the clouds
swimming fearlessly in the seas
I need no pillars to cling on to,
no rooftops, no floors to set my feet on.
I am a mermaid!

A ghost, an angel
a shooting star I am
the wish you count on it,
the desire you keep unheard-
I am the golden sand in time’s hand
the purple glow in a river’s flow
the secret in a book divine
the prisoner in a castle fine
I am everything-
I am everywhere
I am now, I am never
I am infinite forever.

You think you can get hold?
Like the sailors before you planned
they all died in my seas

swallowed by the deep.
Thirsty in my deserts
injured by my cacti
illusioned by my oases

begging for my mercies.

I am the shapeless cloud,
free to make my move

Noah’s faithful ark
a light in the dark
Musashi’s sword
a legend adored

I am the minaret, the temple bell
the prayer bead, salvational deed
I am your pastunreachable
your destinyunattainable
I am anything but your present.

– Maria Imran.

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2014, Poems and poetry

Punctuated-

You were a colon
and semicolons you detested
I tried putting a comma there
like grammar lady suggested.
but our life, it seems, is an underscore
or an inverted question mark blotted
because whenever I ask for space
or try putting us back within a parenthesis,
you usually slash me―
This is not, however, how I had imagined
us to be. I always wanted a life smooth as tilde
a prime time together, never fearing bad weather
I wanted us to fight against negations,
but like a dagger kills relations
or a bullet, we died inside too…
It is a broken bar now, and it hurts
at the highest degree of pain.
Can we still back into space though,
or is it about time we put a full stop?

Maria Imran.
 [relationships with punctuation]
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2014, Pakistan

Snakes.

The night was dark and silent, and the citizens of the city of light slept soundly in their [un/]comfortable beds (which was considered unusual before dreams became their only salvation) when a gun shot was heard.

We had just entered that street then, in our car on way back home, when two men running madly came into sight. One of them had a pistol with him, the other was empty-handed. One of them ran to take life, another to save it.

He was running fast; as fast as one would if they saw their death coming at any second’s difference, and his enemy was running fasteras fast as one would when his thirst for blood had blinded all his other senses…

I was shocked: it was just like a hunter and deer’s game, except that both were unfortunately humans here.

Whether he killed him or not, I cannot say. It is actually useless to hope for the latter but…
Did they put his body in a grave when they found him the next morning? Does his family know yet? Of course they do. In a city where deaths become a statistic, it is so predictable where you lost your loved ones. But what of the police who were busy inspecting random passers a distance away? Did they notice how a car had reversed in panic at the sight of it when they were too, just an instant away from being targeted?

Death often comes like that. It becomes a tragedy for the killer, the final stop for the runner, and a lesson for the living. ..

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2014, Urdu musings

ماتم۔

سرخ گلاب کی پتیوں کو دھیرے دھیرے شاخ سے الگ کرتے ہوئے وہ اپنی ہی دنیا مین مگن تھی۔ دیوار سے ٹیک کئے، سفید سلک پشواس میں ملبوس وہ نہ جانے کتنی ہی دیر سے اپنی جگہ بیٹھی زمیں کو تک رہی تھی۔ آنکھیں دیکھو تو لگتا تھا برسوں کی جاگی ہو۔۔۔ چہرے سے بھی ایسی شدید تھکن عیان تھی کہ معلوم ہوتا صدیوں کا کوئی جوگ پالا ہو۔ یا پھر جس طرح کسی ملاح کو تمام کشتیان جلا کر اپنی آخری امانت سونپنے کی دیر ہو، وہ بھی اپنی زندگی کسی جھونکے میں کھو دینے کی منتظر ہو۔

تم یہاں بیٹھی کیا کر رہی ہو؟ میں کب سے دیکھتا ہوں تم اپنی جگہ سے نہیں ہلی۔۔ کس بات کا غم ہے تمہیں، کس مراد کو دل میں لئے پال رہی ہو؟

مجھے کیوں کوئی غم ہوگا بابا۔ خوشی غمی سے اپنے رشتے تو میں توڑ آئی ہوں۔ یہ بھی بھلا کوئی معنی رکھتے ہیں؟

بیٹے پھر تم یہاں قبرستان میں کیا لینے آتی ہو؟ مُردوں سے دل لگانے پرکونسا انہیں زندگی مل جاتی ہے؟ زندگی تو زندوں سے ملتی ہے۔ لین دین سے۔ تعلقات سے۔ جسم اور روح کو جوڑ لینے سے۔

بابا روح کو جوڑنا ہی تو چایتی ہوں۔ پر مجھے سکون نہیں ملتا۔ جسکا وجود بنجارہ ہو اسے کہیں پھول راس نہیں آتے۔۔۔

وجود زمین ہے بیٹے۔ زمین کبھی بانجھ نہیں ہوتی۔ دعا سب کچھ بدل دیتی ہے۔ ذات اور وجود میں دعا ہی پیاپبر بنی ہوتی ہے۔ کیا تمہیں زات کی تلاش نہیں؟

گلاب کا عرق اسکی انگلیوں کو لال کر ریا تھا۔ یا پھر شاید کوئی کانٹا چبھا تھا۔

ماریہ عمران۔

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2014

Fajar.

Some people are like morning stars. They stand alone and they stand bright; not for once faltering to let their demons succeed. A soft, pinkish hue meets the dark blue at Fajar, and Rabbi calls His little, lonely creatures to come and find refuge. He is like, you don’t need to worry pretty one, I’m always all ears. Come, say, cry all you like, and I’ll mend this tiny heart of yours so that no one can break it again. Come to me so I may heal you, and trust in me so I may clean your wounds. Your battle has now come to an end, and soon the scorching light will tear this veil of darkness between us. Let all your fears and tears be mine. Let you be mine!

A quail sings from distance, but I cannot locate where. The sky is just as empty as the streets are, except for one bright object that is illuminating the entire blanket of night.

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2014, Poems and poetry

To hate

I learnt to hate.
I never knew how it was
to hate someone so strongly
before
but now that I do
I think I know…
It’s like… sipping a bitter,
bitter coffee
so slowly
that the taste wraps around your tongue
and burns it.
It’s like… bringing a matchstick
closer to your chest
and letting it create a hole
a red, blazing hole.
It’s like… being the rose yourself
that the lover crushes in his hands
seeing the fragrance melt—
the petals wither
in your own existence.
It’s like… praying and not receiving
Dying… and not dying.
It’s like panting breathlessly for air—
and blocking all pumps out yourself
But is that hate?
Or did I just define
how it was
To miss you?

~ Maria Imran.

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2014, My Writings

Shapes~

Do you notice, even today, how the clouds take form of a monster outside your balcony? Do you see the evil man, smiling slyly between a cigar in his mouth; the old woman bent with a stick and bread; the large, gigantically large bird in a flight? Do you see two teddy bears cuddling? Does it amuse you? Do you see a girl writing in a pad, a lamp lit close by, and some crumpled letters in a dustbin? Does it worry you how the newborn’s cradle swings empty?

Do you hear the nightingale singing? Do you smell Jasmines, and the night queens in bloom? Do you write poems? Do you paint it? Do you preserve your moments in a photograph? Or do you, at least, just inhale it in a way it etches in your memory to never leave? Do you think of me?

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2014, My Writings

ärtistrē.

“Drawing something? What is it?”
It’s not something. It’s ‘nothing’
You’re drawing nothing?
“No, but I’m drawing something that is nothing.”

What exactly is this?
“What do you see?”, she paused and looked up.
I see… nothing.
“Exactly that!”, she bent her head, and continued with the drawing. Her fingers moved smoothly on the sheet in a calm manner; a distinct fashion which was so her-like.
It was always a moment’s work for her to get oblivious if she decides. She can forget what surrounds, numb herself, ignore everything and everyone without showing it. I have seen her disappear in crowds just like that not physically, but mentally. And honestly, I do despise this fact. Because working on complex jobs with a hundred people around seems impossible to me.
She, however, knows magic.

“So is this some kind of emotion you’re putting on paper? Is that how you’re feeling?”
“Mhm.”
“You’re printing emotions! Okay. And you’re tracing black over an already-sketched grey. Is that a whirling dervesh?”
She didn’t reply. She was too busy, again.


“Is black anger?”, I asked.
“No”, she lifted her head. “black is death.”

A beautiful image laid before my eyes when she put her pens down. I looked at it, and then at her, with awe.
“You like it?”, she asked.
“I adore it”, I replied.
She smiled and remained silent. After a while, she requested me to pass those few crayons from the side-table.
“Crayons? What will you do with them?”, I asked when I handed them uncertainly to her.
She smiled again.


In a few seconds time, the entire drawing in front of me was changing colors. It was so sudden, and so dramatic, that I couldn’t even stop her. She picked up red, and then orange, and yellow and then peach. And she crushed them all one after another. The sketched drawing and the flowers and figures, and lines, were all becoming a background. And her work of art was slowly destroying itself in itself.

“What are you doing? Why are you doing this?!” I shouted.
“I like it this way.”
“You’re practically damaging it in front of my very eyes!”
“Oh no. I like it this way”, she repeated.
“Don’t. It looks horrible”
“See, I don’t care.”
“You are selfish. You know that?”

“Whose work is this?”
“Yours.”
“Let me do it my way then.”

Finally, it was done. She put her stationary down, lovingly. I picked up the sheet and looked closely.
Orange covered most of it, red only lined somethings, and with peach she had written:

In your thoughts
do I find solace
Let me immerse in you.

The grey lines behind those colors had kind of brightened up more prominently, instead of blurring. And the effect was altogether different. I was surprised to find that it wasn’t ugly at all.
It was stunningly beautiful. I looked at it admiringly, and then turned to look at her but she had disappeared.

Oh, the magic she had!

~ RandomlyAbstract.

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2014

Magdalena!

Glimpse from history:
Hello, I am german and glad too, to hear from you 😉

Congratulation and Standing Ovation from Germany – magdalena 😉

I have heard about Happy Eid Mubarak first time yesterday I read this comment and in the evening I saw it in the news on TV. Happy Eid Mubarak is the same for you as our Christmas in december for christians. So Happy Eid Mubrak to you 🙂
cheers magdalena

It was a Weekly Photo Challenge Masterpiece, where we met. I was pretty confused about my entry for the DP, and Magdalena had then come to my rescue. She told me she had no clue either, and suggested that we could do it together.

So we did it.

Then we interacted further and commented on blogs; her brilliant photography and kindest comments on my poems, our not knowing each other’s languages and still conversing (sometimes with a google translator) and wishing each other on our joys (my nephew’s birth, and at Eid, and her at her friend being blessed with an angel) was what made this friendship grow and prosper.

And then today, when all of a sudden I visited her blog, I found this “goodbye” post from her friend Tina. I had no idea what the text in image meant in English, and every single comment was in German too. The only thing clear was that… something was terribly wrong.

And so it was.

Magdalena passed away of bone cancer.

‘She wasn’t much of a moaner’, said Marion. So her last posts aren’t about her falling health. They are, instead, about colors and smiles and LIFE.

I admired her photographs immensely. They were wild life, and still life, and basically covered natural beauties like spiders, plants, flowers, lizards. And locks, cities, children. I told her once how much I liked them and she told me that doing this helped her in forgetting the bad weather.

by yarnwuseleien~ magdelana.

This post is to say, Magdalena, that losing you today makes me realize how important you were. I miss you already.
May your soul rest in peace and may it blossom in another way… .

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