Miss Rizwana

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.

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.

Midnight call.

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.

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.

وکالت

‘میں جانے کے لئے تیار ہوں۔’

‘تم نے خود کو ہلکا کرلیا ہے ناں؟’

‘ہاں! اور میں نے خود بھی سب کو معاف کردیا یے۔۔۔ سب، سوائے ایک ’

‘ایسا مت کہو!۔۔۔ اسے عذاب ہوگا’

‘پہلی بات تو یہ کہ وہ عذاب سے نہیں ڈرتا! اور اسے صرف بدلہ ملے گا، عذاب نہیں’

‘تم پھر سوچ لو’

‘میں اللہ جی سے بات کر چکی ہوں۔ صرف اسے ہی نہیں کرسکتی۔ ایک بوجھ اٹھا لونگی’

‘لیکن’

‘آپ کو اللہ جی نے اسکی وکالت کے لئے بھیجا ہے ناں؟ مجھے سمجھ نہیں آتا وہ اس سے اتنی محبت کیسے کرسکتے ہیں جب وہ ہی نہیں کرتا؟’

‘وہ تم سے محبت کرتے ہیں!۔’

‘انہیں میں منا لونگی۔ یا پھر آپ انہیں کہیں وہ ہی مجھے منا لیں’

Of kairis, family and mixed-up memories.

We were sitting on the terrace; it was a cool, sweet night. Now when I say terrace, picture a large one. But it’s only on the right side that the takhat is placed, and several white chairs are set surrounding it, and there are a whole lot of plants lined at the other side by the wall. So we are all sitting together, talking, enjoying, and it’s ultimate family time.
There’s dadi. There’s taye abba. There’s tayi ammi, my mom, my dad, my siblings and I (we’ve come to visit). And I’m probably just, I don’t know how old, but a school-kid. Then they’re talking about aams (mangoes) and we’re probably eating them as well, when I remember this joke about kairis (unripe mangoes, them green ones) being hara-aams. And I tell them that. Dadi doesn’t quite hear it, she was very old. Taye abba asks me to relate it to her, he’s so adamant that I do. And so I go to her and tell. What do I get? A HEAVY (as heavy as it could be from her, the darling old one) SCOLDING!
Psst. How’s kairi haraam? What Allah has made halal, how can that be haram? We eat mangoes, don’t we? Are we eating haraam?
No, daadi, I don’t mean kairis are “haraam”. I just meant they’re “hara” “aams”! Dadi mock-slaps me. Taye abba is laughing. I am bewildered. And I look at them confused, pleading for help. They’re all enjoying it. Probably for a while they got scared too, because dadi had actually minded that. And ammi goes like, why did you have to start on this one? And taye abba encourages me again to explain it “better.”
Anyway, dadi didn’t quite get the joke. So it was on me. And taye abba, very mischievously, had done it. And right now I love him at this thought. I miss him.

Taya abba, baba, baray abbu and chacha. These brothers would all joke and tease around, and still they were those dignified sorts, utterly respectable and similarly lovable men MashaAllah. Taye abba passed away last month after staying for eight months in coma. He had had a brain hemorrhage and then he had disappeared like that for all this time. Like he was and he wasn’t. That’s another story though… For another time. Maybe. Or maybe not. I am not sure how much I am willing to say but you see, today I am going to write a bit. Until I am stopped.

Basically, it was around this time some seven years ago, that dadi died. It was Ramadan [Fifteenth]. And my parents weren’t here – they had gone for Umrah. (Like when taye abba got his attack, his son and son’s wife weren’t here – they had gone for Hajj.) So nana (my grandfather) and aani (my aunt) were staying here at our place. This was so long ago, man. And then I was sleeping and just the day before we had opened our fast at Taya’s where Dadi had been staying. Because like, when your parents aren’t there and it’s Ramadan, then your relatives kind of call you for Iftar parties and set your pick-and-drop and try to lift you up, etc. It’s a good practice, btw. And we (kids) had already been to Chacha’s and Phuppo’s and Baray Abbu’s, etc. Then we had gone to Taya’s. and that day, we had actually kind of freaked out because Dadi looked too unwell. Now, dadi was already half-paralyzed. It had been months since her stroke attack (it had first happened at ours, months-months ago), and she had those pipes attached and her hands and feet had swelled so much. When we saw her that evening, the weird sounds coming out of her throat had terrified us. They did. And my sister had asked Taye abba that maybe it was too serious and dadi should be taken to a hospital again. And Sara Appi (another cousin who had also been invited, because, well, her parents had gone abroad too) went towards her bed and sat there and held her blue, swollen hand and caressed her. and I stood there and called her again and again, coaxing her to see and respond somehow. And we were almost crying. And we stood near but I didn’t kiss her like Sara Appi was doing. And then we had come out of that room (and maybe Sara appi came out last, maybe) then we had Iftar. Then that night I was sleeping at my own home and my sister woke me up and she was crying loudly and I had just woken up, I couldn’t understand anything. Then I was like, tell me what happened. And she called my name then stopped and I pleaded her to go on and she only said “daadi” and I screamed “what happened to dadi?” but she won’t say anything because she couldn’t and then I ran out of my room and there Samar was crying too. I probably ran to Nana or maybe Aani and I know that I had never cried that much before.

The next morning the entire family, etc. had gathered at Taye abba’s and everyone was in the same state. I remember the day like nothing else. and baba had called and he was so impatient to return and he was told to offer an Umrah for her there instead… etc. and then in that room where dadi was laid and many women of our family had gathered to recite the Quran, samar had came with her phone turned on speaker and announced that baba would like to talk to dadi and then baba had talked. And I remember how almost everyone in the room had uncontrollably sobbed and I had heard baba break.

The next time I saw baba break was on taya abba’s situation. When he got severely ill. It was September 17th last year and the first nine days were so damn tough. We knew nothing because it was this moment or that. And the doctors had given up and we were hoping, praying and we wished for Faizan bhai to just make it here. He was his only son. And taye abba had even planned a grand party for their after-return as to celebrate… And it was so unexpected. So hard. So bad. So something, anything that you can put in words because I can’t?

Anyway. If you’re reading this right now it means I pulled the courage to post it which should be a great thing because I am not sure I will, as I write. So you know, excuse the mess.

there’s so much more about taye abba that I can say. About dadi, somewhat. I remember her love. I remember her talks. I remember scenes with khala begum, her younger sister who had died before her. I remember how dadi looked like on her funeral. I remember when she was here, when we heard this naat together… When I recited too. I remember combing her hair. I remember her Ensure milk supplements, and her packet of medicines from before her big sickness. And I also remember the flowers printed on her shirt, basically not their color but a glimpse, like how a memory is and isn’t? Her photo from after she got wheelchair-bound, and when Anna Phuppo was here and she had insisted on taking a family photo. that’s our only major family photo. There’s dadi in the center and her sons and daughters and their spouses and all of us so-many-cousins and even some cousins’ kids which is to say another generation MashaAllah and everyone’s happy and everyone’s smiling.

I think my dadyaal (dad’s side of the family) broke when Dadi died. Because before that we were connected like something else. And wherever dadi would stay (she would take turns, and I remember requesting that it’s our “baari” now and that she should come – we would all do that) the other family members would unite. It was gatherings after gatherings and always were really nice.

Taye abba was the next key-person, the ‘eldest’ they all relied on. Someone who had a reputation for being loved by all of us because he chose to be with a person according to their age and caliber. I remember him planning a family picnic some four years ago (when my sister was getting married) and it was on our request that he had called and made the preps then and there (from our place – he and tayi ammi had come to visit. He was sitting in the lounge on a cushion by the wall). We had (run to mama’s room and) jumped in glee.
Also the other time when he brought gajar ka halwa because I had topped in my exams. Then his favorite thing of all time: he used to be like, ye tou pharray rakhti hai. Maria, tum cheating karti ho na? And he used to do this every time. I used to say, of course taye abba, I hide my notes here and there and there. This was our thing. But one day I was like, no taye abba, I don’t cheat, and he had called me the other day and apologized because had I taken it to heart? But he was that one and only person in my extended family who most valued my academic accomplishments. I used to call dad at his office to tell my results since school and later taya would call me specially, and congratulate me, and make it beautiful, always. From there to university. Last Eid he gave me extra Eidi because I had done something and he was proud of me. Right now I am thinking of how proud I am to have had that kind of person in my life. He made it obvious every time that it mattered to him, what I did, what any other cousin did.

I have other things in mind too. The opposite-word-games that made our childhood, the conversations in the car, the times when we were kids and went to their office and ordered chicken tikkas for lunch.
When he renovated his house, there was this huge abstract art painting in his lounge. And he knew I was fond of abstract and he would say, this is your favorite, isn’t it? You get it?

We had a nice time.

I am not sure what to say now. I gotta stop.

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.

–

My dark man. (2)

December 29, 2014:

“It is not I who accepted the Dark Life. The Dark Life accepted me.”

He sat on a rock, his head bowed and hands resting on knees. “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.

“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 hint 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.”

For some time he said nothing. I walked closer to him and sat by his knees. Putting my hand on his lap, I asked him to look at me.

He did. His eyes were red.

He was crying!

I can’t say how it broke me into bits to see him unwrap himself out of that favorite strong shell of his, but I begged my eyes to not show. I was going to be brave, for once, for him.

“I got defeated, ¦_. They took away my child. You should have heard how he cried, how he wailed! I don’t know what to do. Can any man be as helpless as I am now?” Each sob pierced my heart as I heard him speak.

“My baby was snatched away. They ripped open his chest right there. He died among a crowd of brutes. His soul – it didn’t find a flower bed on exiting, but got trapped in a tube of viscous blood instead. It makes me cry. I could do nothing but watch, and watch I did as they pinched his little fingers away. My breath stops when I think of what I saw, but I saw and I am living. Why am I still living?”

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A silent death.

Traditions bind sometimes. You don’t follow them, they follow you.

Passion dies. Will to live dies. Silently accepting that, kills.

Self-doubt kills. Self-hate kills. Numbing oneself from observing such death kills, too!

 Fear holds, characters choke. Writers die. // Escape (27.3)
(Created Feb 9, 2015. )

Destined.

“Abba ki death ke baad ziada sukoon hae, nae?”
(This place looks calmer now that dad is gone, no?)

“You think so?”

“Yes.” she nodded.

They were older now. Older and distanced by a time so long and tough that it had practically torn apart every and any chances of reconciling. Standing by the giant glass window, she looked out at the world outside which had now accepted peace. The world which had decided to move on, as it always does. Where ever she looked there was peace, except in her home: her heart.

“Look here at me. You think life is better now? Show me if your eyes say that too.”

“No,” she silently whispered. She clutched the silver pane with both her hands so he won’t see they were trembling. Stupid fingers! Stupid eyes! How they reveal your weaknesses to wrong people at all the wrong times…

He stepped forward. “Aena! This is not good. You have to talk to me. I have come to take you. I am going to make things right like we want!”

“This is not what I want. Hessam, this isn’t it.” She shook her head.  “I have come out of it and you should too. It’s high time we start respecting each other’s independence and just let things be.”

“What do you mean by that? I am not stealing away your freedom or anything. All I want is you come and stay with me and Rebya now. I want you to be happy!”

“Why? Why live with you when I can live with myself on my own? First I had ma, then dad, and now you want to boss me? Please, NO! I am happy the way I am and I am glad our ways are already parted. We can be free and drive our lives the way we want!” she said.

The color of his eyes changed. Was he hurt? Perhaps. But he shouldn’t have been… After all this time, he deserved nothing to be hurt about. All pains were hers.

“See, I understand your want for freedom.” He said after a while. “And I am not going to be an obstacle between that. You can come with me and do what you want, live it your way. It’s just that I feel you should be with me, and not alone over here. How will you deal with everything? We have both lost something precious Aena. It’s a hard time for both of us.” Looking at her, he said with a voice laced with sincere emotion: “I want you to know I am with you!”

“Precious, Hessam. How precious it was for you!” she laughed in her heart while resisting her urge to laugh out loud too, crazily. She wanted to laugh until her insides hurt. But she would do that once he was gone, her mind decided.

“They are both gone but we need each other, Aena. We need to gather back the moments we have lost. Sometimes I miss you so much, God, Aena, you remember when I taught you how to ride a bicycle?”

Aena looked at him surprised. Why must he bring back the memories now? Now?

“Remember when you had finally learned it you would keep nagging me to let you ride us both to school on that big grey one I owned? We both sat together and I was so proud, and a little embarrassed, but mostly proud (he laughed) and then I bought you a pink one on our birthday so we would both ride on our own bikes.”

“Our birthday,” she breathed.

They had birthdays on the same day. Because God-the-good had decided to hand them out their fates on the exact day and instructed their souls to go down then into their mother’s womb… But Hessam will go half an hour before you, Aena. Okay? Just thirty minutes.
Hessam had gone half an hour before Aena. Aena had waited thirty minutes after Hessam. He had left her earlier because it was so destined. There was joy everywhere.

He was saying something. Probably about the bicycles or the school or their birthday. She wasn’t listening until he called out her name.

“Yes, yes. I remember. You don’t need to use this against me now, it won’t change my plans, alright? Don’t try! You shouldn’t try!” her voice raised despite her trying to stay calm.

“I am not changing your plans, Aena. I am just surprised how much YOU have changed! You are so cold, so different, Aena. Don’t you hold any compassion for relations as close as blood’s anymore?”

“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “I carry no compassion whatsoever. I have a heart of stone, if asking for a right to be free makes you think of me as that. I have cared enough for everyone and now I want to be my own responsibility. Go, and let me live!” her voice was strong and came from somewhere she didn’t belong to. It was indeed different, he thought, how his sister had grown up so much and become so… brave.

“I am my own responsibility now,” she repeated– softly this time– as if trying to coax him… Hoping deep inside her heart he won’t agree. Hoping he would somehow ask her to drop the facade and end this drama so they would both cry and tell how they’ve missed each other and how it was impossible to “let go” now that they had already let go of so much. She thought of the pens and chocolates he bought for her, when they were young, and how ma would make them both parathas before school. How dad would hand them out sikkas (coins) for their daily expenditures from which they’d both buy cones.

“Yes. You are right.” he said slowly. And moving towards her he put his hand on her head. “Time has changed, my lovely twin, and it’s not your fault. You have every right now to change time as per your command.” “I am proud of you, Aena. You are one brave woman. I shouldn’t be selfish to ask you what is against your will. And I am sure you will handle your life pretty well, inshaAllah. Just know that I am always there, always a call or email away. I will come to you whenever you want, and so would Rebya. We all love you and you can come to us, too, whenever you feel like it.”

He smiled. She managed one too.

“I know that bhaiyya. Thanks.”

He kissed on her forehead, erasing for a minute whatever these years had collected between them, and whatever hardships she had bore alone.

 

After that he was gone. Gone forever to his land where he lived with his wife a happy life. Aena had apparently given him permission to be the man he was; the satisfaction seeking which he had come back. Now he was free of the burden he was carrying before, and gone because Aena was free and happy, and very settled in her ancestral home! She had peace, he thought, and now he would too.

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.

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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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. ..

Bizarre. Beep. Sleep.

Caged bird
I will cut your feathers
And let you free, forever.

Old prisoner
I will slay your throat
And let you escape from here.

Little kid
Hand me your kite
And play with rifles instead.

Solitary girl
Sing me songs of mourn
For I will kill your mother now.

White teddy
Close your eyes tight
As I rip off your cotton bod.

Brave sailor
Laugh and rejoice
Until I draw a hole in your boat.

Wounded warrior
Count your last breaths
As I finally shoot this arrow.

Sweet baby
Smile once more, and last
As I snatch you away and throw.

–
– RandomlyAbstract.

Demented in Diaries.

Diaries were her favorite possessions. Especially that mauve colored, thick, velvety diary. It was more special to her than anything else in the world, as she once told me.

Beginning to write in a brand new diary appears to be one of the most difficult tasks in the world, and we both agreed to that. Because one must seriously consider what use that lovable creature could bring, they after all were divine things. After a considerable amount of time she had finally decided what her object would collect; she will write her daily musings and personal rants into it. She will call it her ‘personal journal’, her ‘dear diary’.

All these years I had never seen her open herself into anybody else but her dd, she trusted only it. Nobody could ever believe it if they were told, that it were only a simple set of pages that she adorn too much. But I could, for I knew what significance those pages held for her. I was a diary-lover myself.

I was. I am no more. Because I shudder when I reminisce her dreadful demise.

It was one windy winter night, a December night to be exact, when the ‘dementor’ in her destroyed it cruelly. A strong jab from a sharp knife pierced the velvety mauve cover from the middle; and the dark purple ribbon that was tied in a bow with a tiny purple sequin was torn. But that single stab wasn’t enough. Her wild self called her to selfishly avenge each page, for having stored her prettiest of memories. Like a hypnotized victim did she obey, and individually tore every single page, scratched harshly some lines on her favorite poems and cut stupidly each name that she once wrote lovingly. What couldn’t be destroyed with knife or pen was rubbed by hand, for she was destined to erase it all and not leave a single sign.

It was after some long minutes struggle, or perhaps some hours time that she finally recovered and her demented soul crashed – And for the next more hours she sobbed silently in a corner of her room. Her thunderous screams had by now converted themselves into soft, muffled sobs and her spirited energy had collapsed into a helpless, clueless person.

She had called me that day, and yet she never spoke. I kept on asking what the matter was but all my efforts had gone in vain. She had promised not to speak and she kept to it, and she kept to it such that she didn’t even allow herself to ask her anything else. What, when, or how it had happened, she knew not. And her silence only murdered what ever part of her was left, for the next day I witnessed her death.

It won’t be wrong to say that she was obsessed with ‘diaries’ because there was nobody else that she could care for. The pure soul she was deserved not a single gift of heartache. When I entered into her room the other day I could see what had happened there. Others can not even imagine what that night must have been, but I had a chance to actually sense it because that is what she left there for me to feel, herself.

Beneath her crumpled, torn-apart pages lied fragments of her unhappy life; from her ugly days to her poignant nights and all those unbearably torturous moments that came between the phases of day and night, all laid there but now dead. Dead as she was.

Tears blocked my vision as I saw her coffined body in the spacious lawn outside, how peacefully did she imitate herself to be. Her nonliving body rested uncomfortably for sure, but she had postured it such to pretend calmness, calm that she never was. A bright smile decorated her white face, and made them all praise how peacefully she had gone! Oh how peacefully, please ask me.

They lifted her away in no time, some faked hysterical cries and some really did weep. But it wasn’t long after she had gone that they all prepared to leave too, oh how they loved her.

I was left alone there, and so I entered into her room again. But all those pieces had disappeared, those pages were all gone! However it didn’t shock me, for I knew that had to happen. Dementors of self are the dementors of worst kinds.

Her purple bow-ribbon was surprisingly still there, perhaps they had forgotten to hide it. While I quickly turned to pick it up, what astonished me was an untouched, whole page from her diary close by! Mixed emotions of fear and fulfillment ran down my spine but alas! I failed to move an inch towards it for my feet had stuck to the floor.

I wasn’t asked what I wanted to do, and it was made clear that I could only return if I never dared to touch it. So I took my steps backward and left the room with a heavy heart, forever.

© 2013 Maria Imran *Randomly Abstract*.

Sweet Dreams!

This is an updated version of this post.

Perhaps it was a pretty nasty day when my ink bled thus. Never wanted to post this but a recent death of a complete stranger reminded me of how it chases and follows anywhere and everywhere.

Got published on: LoversOfDarkness.com.

Don’t judge.

Found this great story from http://hussainjaffery.wordpress.com

A doctor entered the hospital in hurry after being called in for an urgent surgery. He answered the call ASAP, changed his clothes and went directly to the surgery block.
He found the boy’s father going and coming in the hall waiting for the doctor. Once seeing him, the dad yelled:
“Why did you take all this time to come? Don’t you know that my son’s life is in danger? Don’t you have the sense of responsibility?”

The doctor smiled and said:
“I am sorry, I wasn’t in the hospital and I came the fastest I could after receiving the call…… And now, I wish you’d calm down so that I can do my work”

“Calm down?! What if your son was in this room right now, would you calm down? If your own son dies now what will you do??” said the father angrily

The doctor smiled again and replied: “I will say what Job said in the Holy Bible “From dust we came and to dust we return, blessed be the name of God”. Doctors cannot prolong lives. Go and intercede for your son, we will do our best by God’s grace”

“Giving advice when we’re not concerned is so easy” Murmured the father.

The surgery took some hours after which the doctor went out happy, “Thank God! Your son is saved!”

And without waiting for the father’s reply he carried on his way running. “If you have any question, ask the nurse!!”

“Why is he so arrogant? He couldn’t wait some minutes so that I ask about my son’s state” Commented the father when seeing the nurse minutes after the doctor left.

The nurse answered, tears coming down her face: “His son died yesterday in a road accident, he was in the burial when we called him for your son’s surgery. And now that he saved your son’s life, he left running to finish his son’s burial.”

NEVER JUDGE ANYONE because you never know how their life is and as to what is happening or what they’re going through or why their doing !!

Died in love..

Yesterday noon, as I returned from a mall where I had gone with a group of friends, I saw a cage inside my house in which a cute, green chick lay dead. Shocked by the view, I ran to my mother to know what had been going on. She asked me to put the cage outside because the animal was dead, and then my bro told me what had happened:

My cousin who has come to Pakistan with his family for spending his holidays (and attending my sister’s wedding) had bought a couple of chicks a few days ago, and had taken them with him to one of his aunt’s house while he stayed there.

Unfortunately, another younger cousin (at aunt’s home) left the cage door unlocked, due to which a crow took a chick and flew away (and had a meal:/ ..)

Ozair was EXTREMELY heart-broken and cried A LOT! Later, he noticed that the remaining chick looked very sick. It was confirmed that it could not bear the loss of its friend and was about to die too.

He brought the chick to our place, and the kids gathered around. The sick, sad chick had stopped drinking water or eating its food. It flapped its wings for the last few times, opened his eyes and then closed them forever. He fell on the cage floor, and died too.

My youngest brother who witnessed the scene, had tears in his eyes, and my cousin got really heartbroken..

Later on, a cat ate the dead chick which had been kept outside.

It’s so true.

Distances kill you.

The chick who died because his mate died..

December and Death.

Today, when I saw a coffin (of somebody I don’t know, but who used to live in the building next to mine), I realized that I had been taking December for myself only. I realized that I was living in my shell. Looking with my views only. Thinking of my life. Living for my life.

December is not only for me.

It’s not about small mishaps or about cold, chilly nights.

Not even about poetry and stuff.

It’s also about great losses.

Huge Losses.

Like that death of that man.

And the sorrow of the entire family.

And of all those people who mourned the death of the man.

December is Distressful.

••••‹‹‹‹••••‹‹‹‹••••

Plus, nowadays its the sacred month of  Muharram . So, I see many people wearing black. I read about Hazrat Hussain (R.A) and Hazrat Hassan (R.A) in a magazine, and it really brought me to tears. Read this if you understand it:

QATL-E-HUSSAIN ASAL ME MARG-E-YAZEED THA

ISLAM ZINDA HOTA HAE HAR KARBALA KE BAAD.

P.s. I am NOT a shia. But love for Hazrat Hussain and Hassan (R.a.a) is obligatory for all Muslims because Prophet Muhammad(SAWW) said:Hassan and Hussain both are two flowers in my world” (meaning of a Hadees)…

P.S.S. I don’t know what you think of this. But I wanted to post about it.