ہنگامہ اے دل

ہمیشہ خاموش کر دیتا ہے تمہارا اچانک سے چلے آنا

مجھے لگتا ہے کہ یہ تمہارے نہ آنے سے زیادہ تکلیف دہ ہے۔ کیونکہ دیکھو جب تم نہیں آتے تو بس ایک جنگ ہوتی ہے۔ اندر ہی اندر سب ٹوٹتا ہے اور ٹوٹ کر بکھر جاتا ہے۔ لیکن جب تم آتے ہو۔۔۔

جب تم آتے ہو تو طوفان تھم جاتا ہے۔ یہ کرچی کرچی روح یکایک سمٹ جاتی ہے۔ مگر تم تو پھر سے چلے جانے کے لئے آتے ہو ناں۔ مجھے حصہ حصہ توڑنے کے لئے آتے ہو۔۔۔

مجھے لگتا ہے جیسے ساری دنیا مل کر میرا مذاق اڑا رہی ہو۔ سب میرے ٹوٹے جسم کو دیکھ کر ہنس رہے ہوں۔ ان کے قہقہوں کی گونج میری کھال کو نوچتی ہے۔ مجھے گاہ گاہ زخمی کرتی ہے۔ میں نہیں چاہتی خود سے مزید لڑنا۔ مجھے نہیں کسی بھی جنگ میں جیتنا۔ مجھے بس معاف کردو اب۔

مجھے ہمیشہ کے لئے چھوڑ دو اب۔

Your name here

I saw you in a dream today. It was so unexpected. I think I am more shocked right now because I just now remembered it. It’s 12:33 PM as I write this sentence.

It was very real, ______. It was so real it’s a shocking REALISATION now that it was only a dream.

Dreams complete me because you don’t.

Dreams comfort me because you don’t.

It’s not a big deal. Of course it’s not a big deal. Damn me if I ever return to a non-returnee.

University and some

Looking out of my department’s window

University has been one of my favorite experiences. Both studying there and teaching there. It has a special place in my heart.

We friends loved the landscape there. Before I got admission, I remember my cousin telling me on the phone that there was nothing “stunning” about UOK but that the nature of that place, the walls and the jungle, will get to the poet in me. That there was no perfect infrastructure but there was something I would be able to relate to, and I did fall in love with it so her words were cent percent true.

I remember writing in the weirdest spaces, solitary and among crowds. Exploring trees, languages, verses, people, art and spirituality.

Without trying, I also return to thinking about a specific room in the university and a specific person who has impacted me in a way – I guess I just cherish it all but wish I could do more.

A lot of things happened in those years. Things I wish I could pull down from my memory and put in words, like how Dumbledore caught a streak in his wand and placed in the Pensieve. Alas, such memories are so elusive. But also, I am not even trying yet. They are where they are.

And that’s how I deal with memories. Revisiting, but not entirely.

dream, soul, what

I saw you in a dream. Again. How many times I think about taking your name but dust it off, it’s not possible. It’s not good. It’s not useful either.

I saw you in a dream again and it was so real. Like our two separate lives. Manind e Khushfehmi. I ask him “haal e shuma chitoray” and he takes his time. I imagine him opening a new tab. He searches for it and replies: “theek Alhamdulillah.”

I am already 4 languages down but it doesn’t create a mess in me anymore. The loudest is the language of art only. And some day I will tell you it was the soul’s.

in and out, death

I read this again today. Because of course, it’s the day. Three years to Taye Abba. Just three!!! It feels like forever. I am feeling a mix of things right now esp. because of going through that old one.

I got featured on TV for something recently so Tayi ammi called me to congratulate about that. She said your taye abba would have been so proud of you. Like he always was. And in that moment I said thank you, tayi ammi, it feels special to me that you would say that.

It’s like everyone in the khaandaan finds moments to think and talk of him randomly. He is still very much there in that sense but DEATH does this THING. Death tears everything apart and it’s not true. Nothing after it is true so there’s that.

Anyway, another Ramadan is here. I don’t even have anything else to add right now.

Graves are for dead, dead are for graves

“You are keeping him from forgiveness because you don’t want to let go of him. This is your excuse for keeping his memory intact – the wound doesn’t even exist anymore!”

“What rubbish! No. The wound does exist, how can it not? I can fill all my heart but that tiny void. His grave. And he must pay for it. If not here then there. But I…” she paused for a moment: “I must keep him answerable until then.”

“Dead use graves. Let him die for once.”

Bless you, wild/torn heart

I never told you and never heard it. But when morning sun rises its especially assigned metaphor does too. Bless hope. Burn hope.

I never told you but I wonder if you kind of knew. You know, kind of. And wonder is the keyword. Because what else are we capable of? Oh existential dread.

I want to write something poetic. If I thought of you long enough, maybe I could. But who has the energy? I mean, even you would know that. Neither of us.

This place, this 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.

Diary of a 3:12 AM-er

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!

#490

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. 

ache

 

You know the sea and the desert. The strong and the still, the deep and the numb. You know the spaces between a set jigsaw puzzle, and say you created it with a lot of love. But it was only a part of your drawing, and hell emanates from each of those spaces, and the distance is too much to bear. For everyone. And for me.

out in the cold

What a stubborn child. Still sitting in the middle of nowhere, heart in hand. Hearts don’t mend like that – only sell. And you can’t afford that, can you?

What a stubborn, stubborn child.

Spots of No light

Everything is fine. Outwardly. Where out is the edge of earth I’m standing on; inside me is a lava. It’s ready to erupt but wouldn’t—you’d think my body is brave enough to hold it but really, it’s the sight of uncountable blisters already on my skin that quiet it.

Before me lie fields and fields of night.

I can’t make sense of it, but sometimes I run, telling myself it’s still some direction even if I don’t know it. Alas, I find myself back where I started, my struggle wasted on dark space, and my already tired limbs.

of invisible second chances

I could have given a better answer,  I thought to myself just a while  (longer than a moment,  shorter than minutes)  after having exited his room.  I could have given a better answer.  How many times we find ourselves thinking, feeling, living this — I could have given a better answer. Could – but didn’t.  And to learn to live with this little regret – one that amounts to literally NOTHING in the Grand Scheme of Things;  to painfully watch how it unfurls inside of you,  then finds a way out,  crawls on your skin until you are covered,  completely,  in its inglorious cobweb-y silver thread. You are itching. Continually.  I could have given a better answer, and I must stop thinking about it.

soliloquy

123

I could still show the pieces of your then-polluting, now-rotten heart, and prove to the world it was not I who was mistaken. I can also present myself as an evidence — a heap of mess, covering blisters caused by the burst of these emotions that never wait too long to spill. Ah, your name still holds magic.

130

تمہاری یاد آج بھی زخموں پر نمک کا کام کرتی ہے۔۔۔ چاہے یہ الفاظ استعمال کے ساتھ اپنی وقعت کھو ہی کیوں نہ چکے ہوں۔ ہاں، جلتے پر تیل، زخموں پر نمک۔  اچھا خاصا تمہیں بھول چکی تھی کہ آج ڈرائیور نے کہا کوئی دروازے پر پھول چھوڑ گیا ہے۔  پھول تو تمہاری طرف سے نہ تھے مگر ایسا تم کتنا کیا کرتے تھے!  صدیاں تو بیت گئی ہونگی؟۔۔۔  اب کون سے پھول، کہاں کی خوشبو!  ہاں مگر پھول تو آئے تھے۔  میں نے ڈرائیورسے پوچھا ان پر کوئی کارڈ لگا ہے کیا؟  جواب ملا، ہاں شاید۔  تو میں نے اس سے گذارش کی کہ خود ہی پڑھ کے بتا دے۔  مجھے تو ان سے وحشت آتی ہے!  بیچارا حیرت سے دیکھ ریا تھا، پڑھ بھی دیا۔  کسی اور نے بھجوائے تھے اور بھجوائے بھی کسی اور کے نام تھے!  میں تو سن کر ہنسنے لگی۔  ڈرائیور کو کہا ساتھ والے بنگلے میں جو سارہ بی بی رہتی ہیں انہیں کو دے آوٗ۔  ان کے لئے آیا ہے اور دیکھو یہاں پہنچ گیا!  کوریر والے سے غلطی ہوگئی ہوگی۔  غلطیاں تو خیر سب ہی سے ہوتی ہیں۔  مجھ سے بھی ہوئی تھی۔

میں لاوٗنج سے اٹھ کر اپنے کمرے میں آگئی۔

145

Just Another Night – not.

I close my eyes and consciously direct my mind to rest. Settle, nerves. Breathe. It’s okay. And while they are closed, I let them see just black. Black that is absence but black that is peaceful right now. Breathe. There’s nothing to worry about, you know that. You are used to this.

The air is actually fresh and not bitter. There’s no weight on my chest, or maybe just a bit. Isn’t it funny how you have started to visualise him when he’s not actually here? Is it? However, this is just a phase and phases change. Like people change and well, they don’t come back like that. You will learn it with time. It’s been a lot but just some more.

Sigh.

Open now.

 

“You—you stayed?”

loss

She held his little shirt in her hands for hours. Sometimes she would put it to her eyes, as if its warmth could soothe those burning coals. Then she would rub it across her face, inhaling its scent again and again, even though it was now stale red:  of dried blood. Most of the time she would just hug it, in grave silence or passionate tears, so she could maybe feel him there. And only if she could feel him again, hold his body, swear to God she would never leave! —God knows this. But he still called him up.

♫heart·strings

Another cobalt blue sky lit by innumerable stars. Tiny, bright pockets of fairy-light. We sit just by the river, taking in the fresh scent of dewy grass, soft wind, and the feeling of our togetherness.

My feet are crossed and my heart is full. We don’t have enemies anymore – neither Time, nor the World. We are doing fine.

I stand up and step into the blue river. Your hand is in the water and you are splashing at it gently. As my feet touch its cool, smooth surface, we hear a strange music start. It’s coming from a distance but it feels so very near, so very soothing. Or was it from our hearts? I imagine stars coming closer – those tiny pockets of fairy-light falling to dance with me, and I look at you. You are smiling too.

—

Similar posts: Skin, Wings, Sea calls, Soulburst.

The sea calls

The waves were full of voice unlike the world around them. Everywhere was silent, and the only other sounds were so soft you wouldn’t mind them. Like: the stars’ gentle sparkle, off on, off on, creating silver splashes in the vast water; the moon’s direct beams falling on its rubber surface like a spear cutting right through; my own breathing in harmony with each swift move of the said sea. It was only a matter of present, the moments synced to the space, emitting the same power: of might, of being the only thing that mattered.

Life is not a bed of roses. You say that like it’s a good thing. If I am not happy slash I feel really bad about something, there must be a way to make it right. You can’t shirk that responsibility and simply put it on those look-good quotes. Because first of all, I never asked for a bed of roses. And if that’s what you want to bring up, tell me why it becomes important only when I most need a rose? Life’s not fair, life’s a test, life’s a this, life’s crap. I don’t care about that, I care about now.

I walk further into the benevolent stretch and find the waves welcoming me. Singing more joyfully, as if meeting friends was a custom for them too. I look down and smile, and then half sit. My hand meets water and a shiver runs through me.

Why am I still scared? How could someone be aware of something and still be unable to get out of it? How can you not be your own magician, tricking life to set on the right zone again?

There’s no direction when you are standing between waves. There is just immensity. A compass self-connects to the tick tock of the heart, and there the music stays, for as long as the heart lives…

My dark man. (3)

We sat there at a distance, both missing each other. We could’ve just turned to face one another and talk. We could’ve just talked.

It’s that same place again, and that same part of nighttime where everything feels stitched to something deeper and more calm. We are sitting together: he on the log, and I on a rock. Spread wide above us are the skies, innumerable stars glistening on their soft sheets. The air is cool. I can’t describe how it smells or feels, but I know. It’s the kind of moment one wants to seize, literally freeze. It’s not when you want to think about how time is passing. Because time is not passing. It shouldn’t, now, should it?

I tell myself that you won’t leave. But I know it means nothing. And it is with this thought that the weight of our silence starts becoming torturous. It feels as though someone placed a spiky wire on my bare skin, trailing it down. As it touches my chest, I draw in a quick breath: it has a connection with the void within me. I look at you and you are staring ahead somewhere, aloof, in a world that your eyes see and I cannot reach. And then I realize how you have no idea about my world either. We are equally separated.

We: You and I, the stories yet to complete. I think we are ever-living because of what we have in us. Even though we each carry Words from contrasting entities, we are still what we are for us.

“Tell me one last time, will the sun come?”

“It will,” you say. I think I will then stay for a moment. Until the sun arrives, at least. The log is empty at your side now. I will walk to it and sit there. To feel that warmth again and not shiver. I have wrapped my shoulders around myself. Perhaps the wire will forget to hurt, too. Maybe it will turn into a spring of soothing water if it hits my heart enough times.
Voids are colorless but they are vulnerable to scars that birthed them. I can still hear your footsteps from ten minutes ago. Was it ten minutes ago that you left, or has a century passed already? Oh but the sun, yes, it will come.

Our goodbye was wordless. I think we will meet again.

---

2014

“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.  Read more

2015

“You don’t know how it’s like to be what you are not.”

“I sure do. I have known you for so long and never uttered a word about you. That is the same thing in a way, if you see.”

He turned his head. I stood at a distance from his seat: a log placed in the middle of the road. An empty road– our secret place.

“No,” he whispered. “You cannot see the sea in me. You can only see the waves.”

“I can see the sea,” said I. Then taking his name, I continued: “And I can also sense a storm. Please confide in me now, let it crash me down if it so must. Break me because I need you.”  Read more

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(Like the previous two times, this had to be the way it is, too. The first time I wrote it, I was having a problem putting words properly but hoped it would make sense.  It’s of course the same now.)

 

Relief

You close your eyes and your thoughts bubble up. Spread out from all corners. Wear the fabric of varying vibrant words. Very soon, they are carrying meanings and colors. A dance happens. A beautiful, rhythmical dance. You like it because it has all your soul. You see parts of yourself you had been waiting to see. And you realize you can hold it lightly from the tip of your wand and place it down on paper. There, it can live forever as a poem.

But you don’t do that. You force it away. You shove it powerfully with your hands– all those thoughts and words– and you push the splendid dancer in a grey, dark cell. She falls and she quietens, and she holds her bruised arm. You can’t see the colors anymore and you sigh with relief.

 

If they find you.

“There is more and more I tell no one…”
~Jane Hirshfield

There is more and more I tell no one. It kills me how I’m dying.

You came to see me two months ago and I have been missing you ever since. Every morning, as soon as I wake up, I make a prayer for you to be there and then I open my eyes. Slowly. Expectantly. But then you’re never here. Nobody is. And you know, that always makes me smile. Because hope never tires, does it?
(It’s embarrassing too, to think what I have become, but I cannot just help it. I am waiting for you to show up.)

The doctors told me yesterday I haven’t got much time remaining on my hands. I said to them, thank you. I thought they did this so I could develop an understanding of my case and accept what was going to happen to me. One of them sighed and came closer to my bed, put his hand on my forehead and gently asked me if there was someone I would like to call. Oh, now I get it, I remember thinking. They want to know if I’m truly that lonely or if there might be just someone out there who would take care of my funerary customs and claim their relation maybe. Could someone like me be just that alone? All alone?

Yes, I wanted to say. I would very much like to see him. I am yearning to see him. If his image could be my last image and his scent my last scent, I wouldn’t want anything else in the world to say I died happy. But I cannot die happy. You are not here and you won’t come even if I ask them to tell you everything; that I’m dying in a few days, that I’m sorry, terribly sorry; because that is what I deserve. I deserve this, I do. I have damaged a lot of lives. I cannot change things back. I am learning everything here in this room–this hospital room– but I think I’ve gotten too late for lessons this time. It’s of no use.

If they somehow still find you please be kind enough to bury me with your forgiveness.

–