It’s suddenly so cold.
I’ll always miss you.
Will I always miss you?
It’s suddenly so cold.
I’ll always miss you.
Will I always miss you?
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.
Tum ho ke mai?
Ye batain saari jhoot hain ya sachh? Kia pata sachh keh kar dhoka hojaye. Kia pata jhoot hi sara sachha ho?
Tum samajhtay rahay tum maseeha ho
Kia pata kuch anokha ye qissa ho
Kia pata tum jis talaash per niklay, mai uskey dusray siray pe kharay jab tumhara intizar kartay thak jaun tou tum se kaheen agaay nikal jaun.
Tum samajhtay rahogay mai palat aungi kyunke tumhe lagta hai tum maseeha ho
Mera Maseeha mujhay tor kar jor deta hai. Lekin tumhe kia dikhata hai? Jhoot? Ya sachh?
Kia pata Uski Maseehai tumhe bhi lag jaye. Kia pata tumhe maafi mil jaye
Kia pata kabhi tum mujhay maseeha samjho.
Kia pata tum is uljhan se kabhi na niklo
All of the songs
All of the words
All of the art
All of the time
All of the dreams
You took away
All of the flaws now
What do I do
A part of my name was always in your name and this amazes me.
Tumhe phool torna pasand hai na? Tumhe sukoon milta hai. Aik aik kar ke saray pattay kheench daalti ho. Tum unhe masalti ho tou samajhti ho sari dunya ko round dal rahi ho. Hansi ati hai tum pe kyunke tumharay hi haathon me unki khushbu reh jati hai. Tum un se chutkaara tou nahee pa sakti jinhe khatam kartay kartay khud kaheen door nikalti ja rahi ho.
Mai unhe kahan khatam karney ja rahi hun. Mujhay tou maaloom hai wo in gulaabon ki tarha ke loug hain. Gulaab aur kaantay. Mujhay pehlay unki khushbu mili aur qareeb gayi tou kanton me ulajh gayi. Mujhay unse kia shikayat – aur na khud se.
Tumhe kisi se shikayat nahee na? Jabhi yun deewanaypan pe utar rahi ho. Khud ko in lehron me utaarti ja rahi ho jahan shor hi shor hai. Shor me khona chahti ho mujhay na banao mai tumhari rag rag se waqif hun.
Aap ko kahan bana sakti hun aap se hi tou sab maangna hai ab. Mujhay shor acha lagta hai us me rehnay dain. Mujhay isi shor me apni khamoshi chahye hai. Mai in lehron me itna door nikalna chahti hun ke agar in gulaabon ki thori bhi khushboo meri lams me rehti ho tou nikal jaye. Kaanton se rasta khoon ab tham jaye. Mai qabar nahi ban sakti in madfan phool kabaar ki. Mujhay in sab se bohat door apni dunya banani hai.
Dekha, wuhi baat. Tum bhaag rahi ho faraar chahti ho aur wuhi kar rahi ho jo har darpok insaan karta hai. Mujhay tum pagal lag rahi ho is waqt.
Some humans are your safe places. You confide in them and share your night and stars.
Some other humans are the reason you crave those safe places.
I am not sure where to start from or if I should even try. Today? Maybe later? But will words even speak? I met you last about one month ago at Binaat – our school reunion. It wasn’t easy coming there this time but I am so grateful that I did. I was so late, the hall was so full, every face was a stranger…. until I spotted you at the reception. Ah, Miss rizwana. You hugged me.
It was also the same day that you told me about your beautiful future aspirations. How impressed we were, how close in that moment. I told you that you are my favorite teacher.
There has been no one like you. You were what they call teachers second mothers for. I used to come and cry in front of you for the issues that were big for the sensitive little me at that time. You were the best listener. Always there. Always kind. Always beautiful.
I saw your funeral but i didnt see your face. But i can imagine it: angelic, peaceful. Inshaa Allah you are in a better place. May Allah fill your grave with noor like you showed light to us. May Allah bless you the highest ranks of Jannah and help us all become sadqa e jaariya for you. You will forever live in the hearts of so many people that love you. Your loss is so sudden but Allah loves you so much more than all of us.
This guy with a cool book says talking is procrastinating. Silence is the power of doers. Talking is stalling action. Ye wo. So I shouldn’t be talking about you.
If I say things that somehow poetically disguise just this that I miss you, it would take away all this energy and probably (actually) go to waste. Ye kia baat hui na. I’ve already wasted enough. You don’t deserve more.
Now ideally this inner self would say so? Wo deserve na karay, you deserve you. Take your time into healing ya. Go easy. Hey, you.
But then this inner self is pretty lazy. Sadness makes you lazy. Outer mind is chillest and brutally honest. It’s telling you that. Beta, act. Stop with this nonsense siyapa. And now you feel better enough to go do something productive. See ya! x
Aqal sawaal uthati hai ishq amal pe dorata hai.
By now I have thrown away more things and (almost-)neatly packed the things I am saving back in the drawer. Can’t say it’s done but sure feels lighter.
Besides that [literally] grey old diary that I didn’t bother reading, there are all these papers – mostly poems that I wrote (even those sad Urdu ones), and then other handwritten accounts of things like our regional Spelling Bee contest that we won, my ninth grade result, an essay on “My most memorable day of life” where there is McFlurry by the sea, last school exam and a really fun night ending with dramatic sentences like ‘I bid farewell to my family and the full moon.’ Not just mine but I also used to give my brothers topics to write on, then I would check them and sometimes reward them. That was a whole system. Look at this part from Ibad’s story about a ‘mejician’s whose spell was ORAME SIM SIM where O is for Omnivorous animal, R is ramp, A is and, M is maar do, and E is eel. The omnivorous animal walk on ramp and eel eat the omnivorous animal. And magic were not worked the people laughed. He did spell 3, 4 times but his magic did not work. Moral:- We dont want to be a mejician.
There’s also a super adorable sorry card. Lined paper and pencil, a highly decorative spelling of my name, a bag of 5o rs drawn as a gift. You will accept such apologies with a kiss.
I used to write essays and speeches. There is this one I won a competition for. Starts with a stanza I learned from Sam and very much adored. I had read it with a lot of energy.
Then I am looking at these goals I had, and it’s neither saddening nor surprising but there but there’s still a hole – and you wish it was big enough – that we don’t think like that anymore. There are more screens and more individual chaos than deeper thinking, or better yet, practical anything.
And I think you feel it too
What I no longer try to hide
It’s buried beneath the scars
Truth behind the lies.
7 July 2019. My most recent material in that drawer is a bag of gifts and Eidi. The space that wasn’t there before reeks of maturity.
Of course. What else would you expect from a December-born, all-feels Maria who is still writing on randomlyabstract, her blog of 8 years plus.
I remember the time we got these drawers made when we shifted to this house. It felt SO special, having a personal space. SO wow, you know. And then we got locks on them. I told the locksmith to do his best work on mine. I found it all so stunning that I kept sitting there, talking, looking, checking if mine was the best. (My lock got faulty before anyone else’s btw. Such luck!)
Khair. I used to be obsessed about that drawer and the stuff in it. I couldn’t throw things. Even today my family asks me before throwing away kachra that they think could be ‘useful’ for the crafter. But friends’ chit-chats, over-emotional letters of that time, Urdu poetry so sad I find it worrisome now, my personal personal personal diary that I would probably treat as a treasure then (because – let’s face it – I’ve been a sensitive kid. Also the middle daughter. I was convinced that I was hated by EVERYONE mashaAllah. And then I liked to write. Imagine having ALL of that still present despite the diary wanting to very much rest in peace now.) And then other things.
A lot of things, I imagine now, want to rest in peace. So I have brought out my drawer, one I had stopped caring for long long time ago, and started cleaning it. There’s stuff I put up on my insta stories as a last tribute, and for the other personal bunch, I know I cannot leave it so easily unless I’ve at least preserved them in writing. Which is why I am here.
What do you want love to look like? I want mine to be free of fears so it is strong in and out, and something that is calming and positive and artistically spiritual like this painting but better because that would be a gift by the Master Painter if He so wills. 💙
Could a poem cover it?
Nahee, no way. 26 letters in English and 52 or so in Urdu. Have you seen the black in abuse? IT’S A VAST SEA
IT’S NOT JUST A VAST SEA, oh please help me find a word greater than a sea. This is storm-in-a-sea, fast moving, all ending, utter utter utter blinding. Can you see the centre?
Oh fuxk. This is not a test. You don’t win if you tell the right metaphors.
Red blood, purple bruise, black eyes. We all know it. And your pitiful “bleeding” heart
Grow up. Grow out of this poem. Grow out of your “tearing” heart. No, not with more knife.
Abuse. Here, take this word. Will you lock yourself behind a washroom door or would you hold a blanket over your face so tight your knuckles would go white. Oh haha.
More colors. It smells of doom to me.
Shushhh. No more.
“Don’t run on the stairs, Maria”
“Miss, I am Moniba”
Or was it vice-versa? 😂 Even the memory is jumbled now but we know it was Miss Ismat who scolded one of us and smiled the very next moment because she had mixed us up. And it wasn’t the only time it happened. Oh, not at all!
We got asked in the lift as well. And then we would always measure if we actually looked that alike. Lekin kahaan se? Oh and your maami’s. 😁 and then “are you sisters?” even in university. Yes, yes we are.
But one of my favorite twinning memory has to be sharing our pair of shoes while going to Taye abba’s. A school shoe and a casual chappal wappal. Best. Feeling. Ever. 😆
Not even a day to your Nikkaah and here I am, far but there. May Allah always keep us close. 💜
Ily. So much so much so much.
MashaAllah, Alhamdulillah and everything good.
Three days to go, three things to show.
A heart pebble. You love pebbles so much there is an entire collection of it in a box on your table. Probably left it for your niece here. Of course you will find another in Dubai. Achi jaga hai.
But we won’t find people who would gift us PEBBLES. And flowers. Look at that cloud, sit on the grass, come let’s admire this abnormal looking very fascinating tree. SubhanAllah. Remember our walks from Sufi? VS. Leaves falling. Magic, magic, magic.
A key. It might not be the same but I think it is. Because I saved it in a very old piggy bank type of thing that I got at my aameen or something. It had these little memories packed aesthetically. And in there was this key. Of your “secret drawer” that you had hidden from me at your old house. So I sneaked it, all those years back, think pink maxi and Nayalish at your party, it’s that old a story. What did the drawer have? Your socks?
This poem. You are my quart. That’s an emotional one so I will say it without words. I love you.
I do wish I could tell you about this but I dont know you.
We three are in some transition modes. Or like, some major life points. All three. Very different, some you would call more important than the other and youd be right. But dil hai na. Dil feels enough all the time. Like how they say about pain. Ke you cant say one suffered more than the other. I mean you can actually. But if you drop the comparison thing altogether…. then we can come to our second point:
We are all pretty empathetic. We dont blame each other. At least thats what I think and believe. About them too. So we give each other the space even when we need it so much but in our own spheres this all-of-it is hurting and messing up.
So I would know that I am hurting. But I also know theirs can be bigger in magnitude because of course. I think the thing is that we can’t all be with each other this time. We know it will settle but letting it settle like this is a lesson itself.
( We are unaware of each others background stories this time. Ideally we should be with amd without in it but realistically things run not like that. I edited to add this bit as well as cut one word from above. Because shit )
How fake am I? If I was head to toe fake, I would become unreal. And that isnt possible. So I am being hard on myself.
But in this world in this time, fake and real are so mixed up. Ethereal matters. You think your head is one and your heart another. Yo soul what was your game?
Things have of course changed.
My phones battery is low and I have an alarm set on it. Pity. I couldn’t even write about the important things. Such drama. And here I choose the title of this post. Or not.
I am not even thinking. Or am I?
3:51. Department of Zoology. About 52 students sitting right in front of me writing their exams. And I, their almost-same-age teacher sitting with one henna-stained hand under her chin, writing words that are either coming or not coming at all. They are all so busy like I once was. I can see myself in that audience so clearly. And from here? It’s very different. I remember the tension of that time. The need to give it your all. But once I had done, I couldn’t wait to submit and end the drill. It would take all of my good stuff to recheck my exam once because important, can’t take risks right?! And now I wish they would finish theirs sooner.
The difference between dpt/o Zoology and dpt/o Psychology is that I have Z’s exams in envelopes and P’s roughly tied. Z’s office was actually so cooperative. They sent a volunteer who did a lot of work and were overall so respectful. P isn’t. One I thanked and meant it, the other I thanked but that’s it. Always goes both ways wesay, feelings are mutual you say.
A student from P met me after it was over. She said she wanted to personally thank me kyunke hamara bohat acha waqt guzra aap ke saath. I thanked her and told her the same, and instantly thought of Sir S who thanked US when we totally totally were indebted to him. It was a cycle.
Other things happened as well. But I am done writing for now. Happy whatever day it is!
I was already so overwhelmed with my own event yesterday that my bestfriendseventtodayhasleftmeinavery different kind of phase. I want to forget that both these things are happening but it is the realest shit ever mashaAllah. Keep her happy always always Allah tala.
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.
It gives me joy that you don’t exist without me.
But how these streaks enfold.
There is light!
It’s a heart of gold.
God, is this where you meet?