Awards 2014 –

HELLO, I HAVE GOT SO MANY AWARDS PILED UP AND I DON’T THINK I KNOW HOW TO DO THIS POST.

*Sigh*

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!

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.

In 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)

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Mɛss.

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.

نحوست۔

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:

• Turn a blind eye.
• Tadbeer Taqdeer.

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(Over)Shadow[ing].

 

Other: You are everywhere.
/Archives.

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.

Soulburst

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 her—in 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!

Eid – to sacrifice

تقبل الله منا ومنكم 

~

Eid Mubarak!

Nephew turns One!

So this is my favorite guy:

His name is AbdurRehman and I am head over heels in love with him. <3_<3

AND IT’S HIS FIRST BIRTHDAY TODAY!

Here’s to celebrate this one year of aani-hood (khala/aunt/aala wtevr) which has been full of joys and love, Alhamdulillah.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY HABEEBEEEE ❤

[Blessings]

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 breaking—even 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…

 

Pakistaniyat.

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, free—could 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.

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…

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

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.

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

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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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]

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 faster—as 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. ..

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.

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?

Moon(less)light-

~

My futile efforts
to carry home your fragrance
limitless, boundless.

عشق پیچے کی طرح۔۔۔

درخت کی دونوں شاخیں پتوں کے غلاف میں ڈھکی ہونے کے باوجود بھی جھلکتی تھیں۔ ان کے مختلف وجود یوں یکجا تھے کہ معلوم ہوتا تھا ایک ہی ہیں۔

مضبوط شاخ جھکی ہوئی شاخ کو اپنے سے لپیٹ کر زندگی عطا کرتی ہے۔ اسکی نشونما میں سارا کمال مضبوط شاخ کا ہے، ورنہ وہ تو کب کی ختم ہوجاتی۔

درخت سے ٹیک کئے دو اور سائے ہیں۔۔ یکجا. ایک — سایہ ہونہی ہوتا ہے۔۔ خود سے اتنا قریب کے قدرت بھی نہ چھین سکے۔۔ اور خود سے اتنا دور کے روشنی پڑتے ہی رنگ کھودے۔ اپنا اصل مٹانے میں اسے دیر ہی کتنی لگتی ہے؟ سایہ پگھل جاتا ہے جب سورج کی کرنیں پڑتی ہیں۔ سایہ تپش برداشت ہی نہیں کرتا۔ سایہ جھوٹ بولتا ہے، وہ کبھی سائیبان بن نہیں سکتا۔

ایک آنکھ نم تھی آنسو بہتے چلے جاتے تھے، دوسری یوں چپ تھی گویا احساس سے عاری ہو۔ حالانکہ جو چپ ہوتا ہے، بعض اوقات صرف وہی محسوس کرسکتا ہے۔ احساس کا معراج اظہار کی کیفیت سے ماورا ہونا ہے۔  ۔

خدا بھی شاید ایک احساس ہے۔ سب سے سچا احساس۔۔

ماریہ عمران۔

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poiz(ə)nəs.

heal me
with that love
of yours

kill me
(not) with your
promises