2019, By the roaring waves!

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

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2015, Poems and poetry

Of our home- Dreamsville.

Once upon a time in Time,
A man came panting to our town
His eyes were red and head tousled,
On his face was set a frown.

He said, “I have come from a land afar
To question you of your false fame, sire!
My feet are tired but my heart won’t rest,
Until I get my answers – oh, need is dire.

You are people of a town so great
You live and sell, and play with dreams
It is here that they are born, from here do come
Our hopes and goals and smiles and screams.

But I have been dreaming now a dream for long
It seems to me  like a thread without end.
I toss and turn and shoo it in sleep,
But it goes nowhere at all, my friend.

Tell me why you spun dreams so eternal
Why for us humans you did not care?
Our capacity to hold untold is controlled
We can only bear too much of despair.

O people of Dreamsville! You say dreams breed here
Why can’t you find for me a closure to this nightmare?”

Hearing his plea a woman from our town
Stepped forward, smiled, and began to speak:
“Dreams, my man, are portals to great truths
They surely aren’t much for those who are weak!”

“When we send you a dream, it is for you to complete
Interpret correct or not, but to follow its lead
When you see a dream that seems everlasting
Go ahead and nurture it with struggle’s feed.”

It’s almost 4 a.m here. It took me an hour to write this one but it’s important to me because I thought I could never write a ballad*. It’s not perfect but it’s a try, and it was FUN creating this whole thing. It is in response to our poetry challenge 201: Neighborhood, Ballad, Assonance for which we were supposed to write anything related to a “neighborhood” or sense of it, as a ballad like it was done in the formative years.

* ballads are dramatic, emotionally-charged poems that tell a story, often about bigger-than-life characters and situations, and their rhyme scheme is a-b-c-b.

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2015, Passages

Not made for each other.

You see those two people standing in the room? One a figure so delicate it looks almost breakable, her sight stretched to faraway lands as she gazes from the frosty window; beyond past, present, or to-be. The other stands by the foot of their bed and stares plaintively at the floor, or sometimes at the creased cover-sheets on the bed which they both use. His hand is in his hair.

These two people—I don’t call them a couple. I call them apologies.

You will see now that the man will walk to the window, slowly, and stop a foot away from her. Then he will put his hand on her shoulder. She will turn back immediately, but not too quickly, and they will both just stand there for a moment until she realizes that he is smiling–that his smile contains every bit of sorrow there is in the world–and then she’ll smile too. Hers will be weaker, like something one would give after accepting the uncaring atrocity of life every day, but neither of them would care.

This will be done casually every other day.

You will find that the space of nothing between them has sucked air so much that in order to breathe, you will have to struggle. You will notice that it doesn’t affect them.

You will find that their eyes are empty but their hearts aren’t. They sympathize sometimes, like they did a while ago, and silently assure one another that it is not and will not be okay, but they will see to it until the end. They won’t complain nor hate. Sometimes he would kiss her lightly on the cheek and she would smile. (A year ago she would’ve had spent hours in the bathroom scrubbing, scratching away the kiss and crying. But this doesn’t happen now.)

You will see that it’s not regret that has settled in as a mountain between them. It’s not a grudge that has separated their ways like a sea in between. It’s not the absence of effort. It’s not that. But it still is.

 

That is the future I see of ourselves. Pardon me for saying so but it’s true.

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2015, My Writings

Father’s Day

When the baby was given in her hands, the mother let out a scream of joy. A flood rolled down her eyes and laughters full of life and love echoed all about. She was standing on the gates of heaven.

When the baby was shown to the father, he refused to pick her up. A daughter, oh? Not mine. He stayed as quiet as a ghost until they were in the hospital ward, and only became a devil when they reached home. This, he pointed to the bundle of new breathes, is not to live here. Take the filth away!

That day, a TV set broke. A row of perfume bottles was thrown to the floor. A knife was shown to threaten the weaker sex. Curse words were gifted. Tears were shed. Hell visited house.

That day, mother didn’t leave. That day, baby didn’t weep. That day, my father didn’t sleep.

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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. )
2015, Paintings and Scribblings

A silent death.

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2013, Book Reviews, By the roaring waves!, Photography

It was a palette of SOULS!

Palette of Souls – a book published on small-scale, was a collection of enlightening stories, poetries, thoughts and articles. It was prepared and produced by us – the then Matriculate students (Tenth Graders) with us being the sub editors, layout designers and writers!

Our teacher Mrs. Tasneem Vali was in charge of the project while another teacher Mrs. Talat Jabeen was the editor. Mrs. Uzma Shahnawaz being the Graphic designer and our school as the approval head.

I was one of the six SUB-EDITORS and submitted a total of three writings: A poem and two articles. This book was a HUGE SUCCESS for the LINGOVINZA! Actually, it had been designed for the lingovinza exhibition at our school: a show where different cultures were displayed and different languages were utilised in a variety of programs. There were so many dramas, cultural setups and the most amazing part was the presence of famous writers and poets of the past who walked and chatted in their own beautiful ways! 😀

There was Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, Shah Bhitai, and so many other writers of ancient times who were impersonated by the students. They dressed in their style and talked about their works so casually that it attracted the audience way too much!

A special logo for the lingovinza was designed – which itself was written in a number of languages! The book ‘Palette of Souls’ was distributed to all of us, of course and to the many schools who visited. It was supposed to be published later at large-scale, but the idea hasn’t been accomplished yet.

All of this happened a lot of time ago, but these memories – oh, they are always so cherish-able and beautiful!

A glimpse of the book.

A glimpse of the book.

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Book Reviews, By the roaring waves!

The Secrets Of The Secret Garden..

English Classic books have always interested me for their simple yet detailed descriptions of all the natural good things. This book that I just read is The Secret Garden, written by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It is THE most wonderful book that I can think of! (at least for now that I’m totally trapped in its magic;) )

The best thing in the novel which gets you all involved is the simplicity of every role. When you read this you are really travelling a smart journey, with curiosity and beauty at all your sides! There is friendship, and their is selfishness, and motherly love and gentle help, smiles and laughters and yes- one top secret of life. Which is mentioned in the end!;)

The Secret Garden is a book about a little girl Mary, aged ten. Like most of the classic books, this too starts with the death of the little girl’s parents. However, this was not too miserable for the girl because she never had got loved by her mother, an Indian MEM SAHIB who cared more of her parties and looks, rather than her only girl. 

So yes, the girl lived in India in a huge palace and since she was not cared too much from her mother, she was a responsibility of her AYAAHS (lady servants). That is why Mary was a very rude, selfish and arrogant girl. 

Mentioned in the first chapter only, there was a cholera and everybody except the little girl died. The girl when found, was sent to a cottage where some poor relatives looked after her, but soon sent her to her hometown in England to one of his uncle, Archibald Craven. That is where the real story begins..

Her uncle is a hunch-back and is a very lonely person who does not like to meet people since his beloved wife died. His enormous home has more than a hundred rooms, most of which are locked. The mysterious house has a lot of gardens too, and one of them is locked. Not only is it locked, but it has no door too. That is because it was the favorite garden of her uncle and his wife and they had planted every single detail of greenery and colors in their garden. Nobody was allowed to enter the garden, before or after.

So the girl somehow finds the key to the garden buried in earth, and a robin helps her find the hidden door behind ivy-covered walls. And then she enters into the secret garden! The story continues on how she along with her friend Dickon (who was Martha’s brother); an animal charmer and the best ‘angel’ on earth as Mary calls him, manages to bring life to the barren, grey place and make their efforts in planting seeds. Dickon was very fond of animals and the creatures were likewise fond of him. As Dickon was born on the moor, and had lived there all his life with his mother and about nine siblings or so in a small cottage, he was brought up to be a very wise and brave boy, who spoke broad Yorkshire. With their high hopes of bringing the garden back to life, they work hard and also, secretly.

Martha was a kind lady servant, who looked after Mary. She helped her understand how she had to change the way she was. The most mysterious character of the story was Colin, who was the only son of Mary’s uncle. Colin was always ill and he believed he would be a hunchback when he grew up. In fact  he believed he wont ever grow up, and that his life was only some more difficult years. His belief that he would die soon increased his ailment and he became an extremely snobby, depressed child.

when Mary gets to know about him, she makes friends with him and together with Dickon, show him the reality and the value of life. They manage to share the secret with him, and not only this, but also promise him a visit to the secret garden. In their own way of healing him, they bring animals in his room, explain to him the luxury of fresh air, and the beauty the nature beholds. The boy who had always been locked up in his own room out of his fears and ailment, soon begins to wonder what the secret garden would be like and wants to be taken there.

With Colin’s orders, the gardeners were sent away at the time he pleased (so that they don’t interfere in their secret) and Colin enters the amazing garden, which by now had been filled up with roses and silver-bells and ‘wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet and flaming scarlet’. In few days time, he begins to heal and later, gives his tries to stand up and walk. Very soon after he discovered that there was no lump in his back and it was not crooked at all, he gives up his fear and starts feeling better.

Till the time his father returns, he had recovered completely, thanks to the MAGIC which set things right. His father who used to hate his son after his wife died, (and because he believed his Colin would grow up like him) was astonished and bewildered when he dramatically returns from abroad to his own Yorkshire and finds out his son in his secret garden. 

The best part of the story is this:

In each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have been discovered. In the last century more amazing things were found out than in any century before. In this new century hundreds of things still more astounding will be brought to light. At first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done-then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago. One of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts-just mere thoughts-are as powerful as electric batteries-as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. To let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body. If you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get over it as long as you live.

– Story Review by  Maria Imran.

or RandomlyAbstract.

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