WHITE NOISE

White noise

doesn’t help me block out echoes of your lies

the color of your laughter

(On this day 6 years ago)

but what about the nightmares?

I think it’s the part where I could go to mom and say “I am feeling so sad right now”.

I could TELL that my stomach hurt – there was a hollow feeling – or I’m cryey.

It’s not the same after marriage.

And this adds to the anxiety. Aik ishq ka gham afat us par ye dil afat, y’know?

Because you’re already feelin’ blue but you can also not share the work of art that is your heart. Red and blue. Blue and red. Yuck.

Sometimes I do wish I would go to my saas and say ammi I feel so sad right now. But she won’t exactly get it.

But did mom get it?

Well I think she did, even if she didn’t always have a fix. Sometimes just saying is enough, haina?

But this does give me something more to think about. Did mom get it? How did I feel in those moments? And this would give me insights into what became my coping mechanisms or how deep it runs, and self-awareness etc. y’know.

Because…. well because I remember.

And right now this is not the only thing that matters. There’s so much more stuff, right, and you…. take a deep breath.

Pause.

Yes.

So deep belly breathing is a way of regulating your nervous nervous system. You should try it right now. Thrice.

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۔

یہ کیسی خبر

جب کھڑکی کے اس پار چیخنے کی آواز آئی

تو لپک کر پہنچنے والا پہلا شخص

تجسس کے مارے آیا تھا

بروقت امداد کسے ملتی ہے

مدد کے لیے روتے ہیں تو خبر بنتی ہے

سب کو تسکین ملتی ہے

وہ جو خبر ملنے پر آتے ہیں

اپنا حق جتلاتے ہیں

ہم ہی تو اسے جانتے تھے

مرحوم بڑا بے صبرا تھا

م ع ۱۴ اکتوبر ۲۰۲۰

Moving

We came there holding baby Ibad in our arms, family awing together at the three-bedroom space, girls chattering about which room should now be theirs and then suddenly screaming because there are pigeons sitting inside!

“It’s okay, it’s okay, we’re not shifting today. The house will be clean when you come.” Today we were only seeing.

And then it was. We kids don’t know how but we know who did it. Baba. Baba and some workers. Baba and some electricians. Baba and some movers. Baba and some van walas. Baba and some plumber, carpenter, chokidaars. We only found the house ready. And clean.

Today we moved again, baby Ibad now seventeen, and one of us little girls married with kids of her own. The house is four-bedroom big, and we’re awing at it even more, but the feelings are not so singular anymore. There’s fear, there’s joy, there’s tiredness, there’s a thousand thoughts and jobs to do. A full rain and rainbow. Even Baba is now old but with Ibad and some men, he has handled most of it.

And then we’re handling the rest. We’re coping with the sweet change but also with the monstrous rain, no-signals, no Internet, no cable for a few more days. We’re also trying to manage the inside of the house and unlike our childhood, shifting and moving requires way more work than it looked like.

Anyhow, it’s also very spiritually moving, this whole experience. It’s shifting perspectives, memories, and making space for new beginnings. So when chaos lifts, there’s ease nearby.

 inshaAllah ❤

Hello, safe space?

Hmm. Here because everyone else shunned ya out? Uh-oh. Okay, what brings you here where you’re not even real. But reality can be so scary, you know that already. Never judge anyone on fearing it. For not being their harmless-for-others untrue self.

Still so complicated, your sentences. Ew. Told you I didn’t like poetry. The f with you.

Acha what brings you here then? Go on, I’ll listen. Wow, ehsaan much.

I read this poem from twenty seventeen. Was going through my archives to find something to letter. I did pick a line from it that you see in the photo above. And then put the poem in the caption. Read it out:

All our issues and one

Sometimes,
When I should be elsewhere
Inside Dreams,
I lay awake instead, and
Assemble a questionnaire in my mind:
Everything that I have now yearned too long to ask you, I would;
“This is going to be a very, very honest conversation,” I will say.
It’s our final friendly law.
A sudden surge of happiness like a reflection of seven colors on my sooted heart—
If you call me again I might at least find my name
And as we’re talking, I will ask— no harsh feelings, hey!— but why did you think it was okay to do what you did?
How many others have you scarred the same way?
Alas! In the back of my mind the colors shift
A curtain closes
Rubbing the drama away in one swift move:
How will I know if you won’t still be lying?

---

Idk if the ending feels as clear to me now. I remember knowing back then also that it was vague but for me the meaning was clear. How will I know if you wont still be lying, huh? Ajeeb matlab. Duh.

ANYWAY. I’m ranting to not think but I’m thinking all sorts of things. With so much speed that it’s hard to catch up. Painful that I can’t take your and your and your name. Matlab pagal hi bana diya.

Sigh. My bud-dua or yours? I remember this other poem — feels like another life when I wrote those but hey, — and it talked about the dua part will remain even after nothing else does. And then I think I mocked it in the same tone. I totally meant the mocking, you know? Because you’d think it’s a “good dua” while it might not be? And other meanings so f it too.

It’s such an important day I don’t want to use a wrong word. Especially when I’ve kept the decency salamat so far. eh tainting the image now? No please. Wont even dare.

Phew. All our issues and one. This late night. This needed apology. This lack of understanding. And not me. For once, I’m not the issue.

Maseeha Mazaq

Maseeha!
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

Aameen.

Memory hoarder (1)

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.

Abuse

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.

Three days

• 

• 

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.

Munafiq

Kia yaar. Kisi cheez me bhi hoti muhabbat me munafiqat na hoti.

Tum ne udhar aasman pe bithaya aur dil ka darwaza kheench liya. Lo gir gaye. Par girnay pe maaloom hua ab peron talay zameen bhi nahi rahi thi. Socho kitni chot ayi hogi.

Kon sa saal chal raha hai tum kis saal ki yaad ho? Pata nahee wo azaab jhelay bhi waqt hogaya. Sadyan tou nahee beeteen par neendain beet gayeen.

Na ansu na dua na guzarish na shikayat. Sirf aik kasak. Ya Muhabbat kartay ya Munafiq hotay.

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.”

Creation from Chaos

Bring me to my paint brushes when I am away from home.
Remind me of this freedom when I am crying of suffocation.

If my hand is pulling for a noose and my eyes are blinded by rushing streams
Gently hold me by my shoulders, guide me to art and silence,

And give me enough time.

I will hopefully carve out a creation out of chaos.

(I mean, actually inshaa Allah and aameen to that. It’s…like…an actual thing)

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.

Haar

Meray kuch khuwab hain
Unhe tum khareed lo
Umeedon ke jitnay rang
Zang pakaranay lagay hain
Un ka mai tou kia karun?
Tum samait lo
Beshak khali booseeda bastay me band kar ke chor do
Kaheen phaink do
Magar inhe zinda dargor hotay mai dekh nahi sakti
Ye zimmedari mai sahaar nahi sakti
So isay tum apnay sar le lo
Ye aik qatal meray naam pe
Meray maazi, meray haal, meray mustaqil ke sitaron jugnuon titliyun ka tum kardo
Aur akhir me
Apnay se jurri har yaad
Har baat
Is zaat ka har raaz
Dua, aansoo, hansi, marzi
Jala kar khaak kardo
Meri haar amar kardo

VOICE

Ouay huay huay yaar. What sadness mashaAllah. Like not exactly sadness – and here I am tryna put on a nice and decent facade – honestly well I don’t like this pronunciation of the word and would rather it be called faCAde please. Acha khair.

So basically I have been somewhat stressed. This time I’m not even talking to the anonymous listener kinda thing though the fact that I was reminded of them today speaks to me about the obvious halat. Other things also remind me of that because I remember being in this phase before. For other reasons but I remember this and I am imagining if this is stronger in any sense now. Because of any and everything at its root.

Do you mind talking about sadness? Is it a hard topic for you? I have been teaching some Japanese students and I give them a few personal writing exercises and man, what an experience that is. Like I am allowed to do that but I won’t cross that line and still enjoy a glimpse into THAT creative side. Pretty wow you know.

Also what else. We have another book fair at university these days, tomorrow being its last day. My voice is kharab suddenly, the kind of it some people like especially. Today we went to a mall. I don’t like malls I dunno why. But we had fun. I guess it’s shopping that I don’t like. And whatever. Etc means ends of thinking capacity aka spare me because I’m not bound to complete this sentence. Uff.

Okay anyway. Here’s to speaking better some other day. Allah bhailay.

OH ALSO I read a book after AGES matlab can you believe that? I had 100% stopped reading – actually not hundred because I tried and all that but it must’ve been like do saal or so. And I read Dan Brown this week. Such a good feel, seriously.

Also I WROTE after so long. Matlab I was going back home and chaltay chaltay I change my direction and there is this huge sports ground and I start in its direction and then I am sitting on that stair type (mundair? but better) and I open my bag, take out enough content until I can pick this black notebook and WRITE. I write in roman angraizi because it’s really a mix of Urdu and English and I vent. Like now but more secretive. And I get it off (only to that very extent as it goes) and bus. I put it all back and continue on my way and take a bus and go home.

Acha khair. Allah bhailay for reals now

Life not life, More unedited.

mirage. embodiment of a faraway feeling. ethereal. magic. longing. desperation. void in a voice. void in a connection. a connection about slow failure. a connection of ultimate longing. endless, never reaching manzil. a breath taking view but also lungs constricting, tear inducing. sob in the pillow, drink down the scream. so tough. so lonely. so unloving. temporary peace. temporary laughter. temporary butterflies. hand out. reach out. get out.