I mean if you didn’t pronounce Chaos as ˈkeɪɒs you would of course call it cha-os.
Hello weirdness and lack of presence. Internal presence. LITERALLY, I mean, I could very well call it quits now. Where it = this thing I am thinking about aka with a blank mind.
I don’t wanna call it ˈkeɪɒs now. Chios. Cheyaus. Tch tch.
I am erasing every remnant of you because:
a) it doesn’t matter anymore?
b) I hope it would stop mattering like this?
Is it cold where you are? Old question. My fingers are so cold right now I would say they are freezing but it sounds so extra.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE I mean my life is full on doing things with and about me and I’m like what? Am I not supposed to FEEL human and TAKE actions but then I AM taking actions and trying to feel so what is this… SIYAAAAAAAAAPA. What does siyapa mean though? Okay just checked, safe to use.
ANYWAY thank God you don’t get notifs here like on Instagram. Falana posted in a long while. Story omg check it. I remember how awkward it was in the beginning when they introduced hearts instead of plain (y) likes on Twitter and there. Like…. no bro I am not EXACTLY doing that but you know me. Maybe I am.
Lah time flies. This new year is so new so new ke bus. Everything is changing mashaAllah se. Jabhi ye haal hai but then wesay bhi ye haal hai. I can’t wait to announce all three things that are happening but then where should I do that first? Facebook, Insta, Blog? My choice would be tanha bara sa maidan, maybe in front of the beach. NO ONE ELSE. Wahan mai cheekh cheekh ke pooray aasmaan ko batadungi. We all wanna run away at certain points in our lives. There was a cool word for it too. Khair whatever, what was this blog about again?
ایک آپ کی چاہت ہے اللہ جی۔ میری چاہت بنتی ہے تو کونپل، سمٹتی ہے پھر گہرا کنول۔ پھوار پڑتی ہے پھر گویا اوس پڑ جاتی ہے۔ سوکھے کانٹے گرنے لگتے ہیں اللہ جی دل تو گوشت کا ٹکڑا ہے، سہار نہیں پاتا۔ دیکھتے ہی دیکھتے میری چاہت پر سنؔاٹا چھا جاتا ہے جیسے پھول کنویں میں جا پڑا ہو۔ کبھی بعد میں، اتنے بعد میں کہ کنویں کی دیواروں کے کان ترس گئے ہوں، آواز آتی ہے: ’یہ میری چاہت ہے خدایا۔ میری چاہت سن لیجیے لیکن صرف تب۔ ۔ ۔‘ اور یہاں تک آ کر پھر سے پھوار پڑتی ہے۔ یکایک موسلادھار بارش۔ کنویں کی دیواریں گونج اٹھتی ہیں۔ ’صرف تب خدایا جب اس میں تیری چاہت بھی شامل ہو۔‘
Aik Aap ki chahat hai Allah ji. Meri chahat banti hai tou konpal, simat’ti hai phir gehra kanwal. Phuwaar parti hai phir goya ous parr jati hai. Sookhay kaantay girnay lagtay hai Allah ji dil tou gosht ka tukrra hai, sahaar nahi pata. Dekhtay hi dekhtay meri chahat par sannaata chhaa jata hai jesay phool kunwain me ja parra ho. Kabhi baad me, itnay baad me ke kunwain ki deewaron ke kaan taras gaye hun, awaz ati hai: “Ye meri chahat hai Khudaya. Meri chahat sun lejiye lekin sirf tab…” Aur yahan aa kar phir se phuwar parti hai. Yakayak mosla dhaar baarish. Kunwain ki deewarain gonj uthti hain. “Sirf tab ya Khudaya jab is me Teri chahat bhi shamil ho.”
mirage. embodiment of a faraway feeling. ethereal. magic. longing. desperation. void in a voice. void in a connection. a connection about slow failure. a connection of ultimate longing. endless, never reaching manzil. a breath taking view but also lungs constricting, tear inducing. sob in the pillow, drink down the scream. so tough. so lonely. so unloving. temporary peace. temporary laughter. temporary butterflies. hand out. reach out. get out.
It still means a cold hard blow
cold hard blow on the heart
like someone hammers it into pieces
while looking sideways
you’re so hurt yourself, you say
it was never intentional to reach
here. this
now
is our collective mistake. or something from the universe
if only you could stop right now
if only you could go back in time
one last time back in time one last —
you’d do it again.
You would.
this is a haiku
but it is not a haiku
what even, woman
Aik bohat bara khait hai jahan faslain tezi se jhoom rahi hain. Taiz, taiz hawa me jesay urr rahi hun. Aur zindagi isi dagar pe dourr rahi hai. Yun jo fast motion pictures hoti hain na? Bilkul wesa hai sab, jhapak jhapak me aas paas badaltey badaltay sab aik lagnay lagta hai. Jahan se shuru hua tha nuqta waheen aa kar teherta hai. Aur ye khait, wasee o areez lehlahata jhoomta hawa me urta khait… aik khud se bhi bohat bari baraf ki sil me qaid hai.
Frozen in an ice cube. A gigantic ice cube.
So being frozen within something so huge that is frozen too, doesn’t feel much. Until the ice breaks.
I dread the breaking time.
Some evenings are so breathtakingly stunning you don’t want them to end. Ever. And as everyone else is packing their stuff back in the car while some are already reserving their seats — so ready to return to their homes — you run back to the sea and the sky and the sand asking for one more infinite minute. That is your home.
is of no use to me.
your helping hand is a temporary. what i am feeling resides in my body, another territory. what i am thinking is building another bubble universe — too big and too constricting. visitors are politely cued to leave.
your helping hand is exhausted – it’s not lazy, just wary.
in another tower of hands it’s just a hand clasped to a hand asking for a hand thinking it’s a big deal one’s saying no – y’all know so many of us say no – and y’all know we’re still all doomed to reach the big black sky up there
together
together and without
It’s so frustrating when you’re tryna find something but mil ke na de. I spent some hours I think, right now, just to find that journal first and then those papers from it. Matlab aasman kha gaya zameen nigal gayi. Pfft. It was this thing I wrote and I so badly needed it right now but looks like I tore those pages from that journal lest it gets lost in the pile (I have LOTS of js), and kept them somewhere where I would’ve thought back then ke yahan tou mai dekhungi hi. But now I have that journal and not those pages. Major sigh moment.
I also have thousands of papers so it’s not possible to check them all at least rn but what are my safe places? My drawer? Some folder? Gah man. There aren’t many options. Like I have some bags, this book cabinet and drawer (aka house of mess and treasures) and I’ve checked them all. I couldn’t have given it to my teacher even though we talked sth about it. What could have I done? Where. Tap tap tap.
I did find lots of poems though. Some letters. Doodles. Many lectures. And that kind of writing where you are simply jotting down your complex mind’s oodles. Is oodles a word? Looks like it is. But it doesn’t seem to fit here. You get the point though, no? My university journals are like history books. They contain so much randomness from my life because they had those, um what do you call it, segments kinda thing and I would use one for myself in each because even though I kept a separate notebook at first I realised I didn’t need to keep my journals JUST restricted to notes. Aaye such long sentences do I even make sense. Right now in front of me I have 10 pretty, spiral journals. Or notebooks, whatever you wanna call them. They’re diff sizes but all of them have beautiful covers. Random, traditional, artistic, that sort.
M said make dua agar wo cheez loutni hui tou miljaegi. Y also said ab wo achanak hi milay gi. So I’ve paused my search operation for now and instead wrote about it. Sigh again, isn’t that how we people deal with loss or things that hint of being/becoming unattainable?
Okay whatever. Too late now. Toodles.
—
UPDATE: FOUND IT. I SUDDENLY REMEMBERED IT WAS ANOTHER JOURNAL, LIKE THE SAME COVER BUT A BIGGER ONE AND THEN I WENT TO MY LIL ART ROOM AND IT WAS IN THAT NEW DRAWER. SAFE AND SOUND. Alhamdulillah ❤
I should’ve posted a better photo but you know what time it is?
if difficulty is danger
and so is insecurity
anxiety-ish, that deep twist in the stomach,
if danger means this spikey knife
set in between (standing upright)
to pierce through my self-esteem,
self-confidence, self-whatmore
then the way to you is laced with danger
and I cannot miss the signs anymore
Between night-black and no star,
Cocooned by a quiet that is only suddenly broken sometimes
By a cricket’s cry.
Love lives here
Even when you don’t.
… except that I haven’t shared the first one yet. But I’m doing it now, okay? Let’s start!
Spoiler: It’s about university. And becoming a gold medalist. Twice.
Okay so remember when I posted that ‘when you’re happy and you know it’ kinda post about happy news and desi reactions and all that? I totally meant to share the news itself as well later but… you know me, and I know me, and well, yeah. So what happened was that I topped from my department in my BA (Honors) course. And then, now that is, I topped again in my Masters. Woohoo, Alhamdulillah!
What were my subjects? Glad you asked. Because it’s funny I never shared anything here. Yikes, I mean. I always meant to, though. Just like how I always meant to write about my vacations last (se bhi last? will have to check) year, about meeting some fav people from the blog, about university life itself, about this and that and everything. I had to write. (And I did, y’know. Just not here. Just not on a paper or a screen.) Also, obviously, I had to write about why I didn’t write any of those or whatever which is getting boriiing now AND ANYWAY WE WERE TALKING ABOUT THIS GOLD MOMENT which means this should be a happy post and yayyy virtual cakes and all that. We were talking about my subjects?
My main one was URDU. YEP. Could have you guessed? I actually just tried to master (like, well technically I did just that so yeah?) my own language and I am super happy about that right now. My side subjects (also called minors/ subsidiary subs) were English literature and Psychology. And in the same duration I also did a two-year certificate and diploma course in Persian language. So as it looks, I was completely surrounded (entangled? absorbed?) with languages and literature, and then cultures and histories and zindagis and everything. It was a good time. Wait. I miss university.
But I also can’t wait for the good adventures ahead Inshaa Allah, and some day I’ll update you on that. Sup, you?
Bohat arsay baad aik nazm likhnay lagi thi. Balkay likhnay kia lagi thi, wo nazm hi mujhay likh rahi thi. Unwaan tha ‘be-dili’. Aur phir pehla misra tumhe be-dili se sochnay par tha. Uskay bad aik khayal ata lekin shaam ke dhal janay aur khuwab ke ban janay ka darr… agay aik lafz kam reh gaya. Jo cigarette ka sar hota hai na? Usay masalna tha. Lekin na lafz aya na baat bani. Hath jo kehtay kehtay uper utha tha phir hawa me hi reh gaya. Bhai ne dekh kar poocha, “you are in love, right?” Mai munh bana ke reh gai.
I am in love, right? Duh I’m in love. With what, I don’t know. I am so disconnected from myself, or maybe I’m just so connected with myself that I’ve lost the ability to touch on the surface of things (or thoughts?) and say this is this and that is that. I can’t say these words are true. I can’t say they are not. I don’t know.
Kuch zamana beeta hai mai araam se nazmen likh sakti thi. Araam se tou nahi khair, jahan shairi hai wahan aaraam kahan. Magar phir bhi kabhi na kabhi. Aik khaas kefiyat hoti thi. Aisay tou mai pehlay kitabain bhi bohat parh leti thi ab arsa hua.
I just cannot. I haven’t read a proper book in a proper sitting like a proper reader since ages. The last was All the light we cannot see which is now in my taaaaaall pile of unfinished ones. I did translate a huge chapter though. It was on Islam and science and reason and modernism and everything like that. A good experience – both in terms of subject and skill.
It’s gonna be sehri time here. I made a fruit-oatmeal smoothie yesterday jiska oatmeal part no one liked and smoothie they all did. Lol. I heard it was healthy like that but I guess I’ll omit the oatmeal now.
Nah, I’m not much of a kitchen person. But it’s Ramadan, so… oh, happy Ramadan to you!
It’s night and still hot. I am sitting cross-legged on the balcony’s floor, this black diary on my lap, and vibrant blues, orange and yellow underneath it: the colors of my shirt. Before me is a silent city even though it’s only after-dinner time. It’s only too soon to be writing this.
Or is it?
I am almost tired of using different words to say the same thing: I miss you. Here, take it from me. Jaan jati hai jab uth ke jatay ho tum.
Hello. I need help again today.
How many people ask you for help on this very day?
Well, hey, don’t put down the phone during any minute. I have so much to say.
I feel like crying today. I feel like crying a lot. I don’t know. Remember that person?
You know, I was very happy today. I was very happy until later when this started. You know, I would have closed everything down, shut myself to the sweet escape but right now, I am talking to you. Because I’m so done with running away. I run to reach the same place every freaking time. I am so done.
Hello? Please say something else. I know you get me. I know you understand. I am already breathing, I am not dying. And by the way, I can never actually commit suicide, like ever. Inshaa Allah as well but like never.
Okay, I am listening. But I am not done yet?
You listen to me. I wrote my first poem today. It was so painful it was exhilarating.
You listen to me. I wrote my last poem today. It was only painful.
You listen to me. I never intended to take it all so seriously.
You listen to me. I miss every dead person on earth tonight. I can feel the graveyard wind inside me. The sad laughter of the sister killed for honor. The sad laughter of the struggling maid. The sad laughter of the parents of the raped child. The sad laughter of the fallen bird. The hollow dread of a Justin Cronin novel.
I haven’t read in ages. I have a viva tomorrow. Remember I told you I loved exams for their distracting power? I don’t right now because it’s not working.
I can hear his chair creaking. I know he is sitting in the last room by the staircase with a pack of cigarettes. You know I hate cigarettes. But how would you know? You’re just a therapist. A listener, that’s all. A dead phone line.
Darwaza khula chora tha meny. Chahtay na chahtay nazar uth uth ke jati thi, wehem ne dil ko yun muthi me jakarr rakha tha ke sirf takleef milti thi aur us se bhagnay ka koi tareeqa samajh hi nahi ata tha. Tum se bhagnay ka koi tareeqa samajh nahi ata tha.
Mujhay lagta tha tum aogay.
Jantay ho, har ahat par chonk jati thi. Har shor pe tufaan uthta tha. Sab bikhar jata tha, mai samait’ti thi aur phir bikhar jata tha. Maine bohat koshish ki ke jo umeed phool nahi kaanta ho, usay zabardasti hi sahi kheench kar bahar nikal dun. Apnay aap ko bacha lun. Lekin mujhay darr lagta tha ke aisay zakham gehra hojayega. Aur ab nazar ata hai ke khula chornay se tou ye naasoor banjaega.
Just thinking about each letter and writing either the first thought or some important/unique memory associated with anything starting from it. You can do it too 🙂
A. You might rot in hell.
B. Weird memory just made me laugh. You were annoying and someone else noticed too. Even teased me about it.
C. In my first school ever. Probably one of my earliest memories. There’s a corridor type thing. There’s your name. There’s your embarrassment.
D. You and your brother. How old were we? Five? Climbing the gate to the garden after school. My sister and I were afraid we would get caught. You two were so used to it. It was amazing in the end.
E. The phone call. The news of death and not knowing quite well how to be dramatic enough to express that it mattered a lot.
F. Letters. I didn’t know I could do the letters thing with you but it was kinda supportive.
G. A flashback, a horrible cry like in the book. It was a little bit of enormous back then.
H. The walks, the talks. One casual debate when a stranger passed a hilarious comment causing us to stop in our tracks. Your death glare. Then that time a cat popped up beside you out of nowhere. I remember fun and warmth.
I.I felt safest here. More than I do in my own city.
J. It’s always hurtful when someone you’re so close to cannot be happy about your success, and cannot hide it as well. I know it wasn’t your fault but it wasn’t mine.
K. When we were vulnerably honest about some ideas, emotions, and even public issues.
L. Trying not to. It’s hard because somethings we just have no control over. Like can you decide what to or what not to see in your dream?
M. Helps me draw. Sometimes needed to shut out every other voice.
N. Senior ex-friend lol
O. Someone else’s hell perhaps
P. Most things I’m passionate about
Q. Respect. Admiration. Aur afsos.
R. Wonder how moms mostly just know which friendships are unhealthy. You are good but as I grew up, I understood what I got saved from.
S. I spent a good time to end up with a no-line
T. Player
U. Physics and Chemistry classes, sharing a hands-free and listening to one of our favorite songs that I can’t recall now. We were so close. But we’re all also so temporary.
V. Last year, so typical. This year a joke
W. Thank you for lending me your watch during exam!
X. Where we get stuck in name-place-animal-thing game?
Y. The Kashmiri poem you sang. I shared an Arabic/Persian mix.
Z. The most special meet-up in a city that was neither mine nor yours. From this place right here to several memes, poems, problems, and some promises.
On the third floor of the building, halfway through the long, long corridor were two connecting stairs. When we sat there, the sun was almost setting. We felt tired, and another mix of emotions with no particular name. A feeling of togetherness, a feeling of uncertainty, of hope, of struggle, of what it meant to us. Everything. It was like we were on one of the most important points in our respective lives, one that didn’t have much to do with the other — in fact, nothing — save for the fact that we were friends. And we were in it together.
We knew it was either a dream-come-true situation or nothing. We could have it, or we couldn’t. But there was also a third case.
“Maybe, it’s for only one of us. The other will return and later on say that they know it was for the best. They will sound very convincing, will ask you to actually believe them that they are content, that it doesn’t matter, that they’ve realised the wisdom behind ‘why not’…”
“But it won’t be true.”
“Yes, it cannot be. Know that deep down it will hurt them enough to never say a word about it. That something will shatter anyhow.” The same happened.
But there was also a fourth case.
Randomly Abstract 