2020, Passages

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 ❤

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2019, Passages

dream, soul, what

I saw you in a dream. Again. How many times I think about taking your name but dust it off, it’s not possible. It’s not good. It’s not useful either.

I saw you in a dream again and it was so real. Like our two separate lives. Manind e Khushfehmi. I ask him “haal e shuma chitoray” and he takes his time. I imagine him opening a new tab. He searches for it and replies: “theek Alhamdulillah.”

I am already 4 languages down but it doesn’t create a mess in me anymore. The loudest is the language of art only. And some day I will tell you it was the soul’s.

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2019, Proses

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.”

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By the roaring waves!

Letting go

Hello, you.

My friend texted me to say she saw me in a dream and misses me. I couldn’t help but feel awfully helpless remembering I saw you in a dream too. How I wish I could tell you.

I want you to know that it’s been immensely long but I am going strong, and yep, it’s because I crafted another challenge for myself of which already a large part has been spent but still, still your name comes up everyday in my mind, and though I’m trying, I cannot forget you enough because I heard enough means letting go.

Letting go means cutting open and slicing out a part I’ve kept so close.

It’s amazing how this is! Because there’s no real string (like a real tangible truth) binding these. These, as in, this thing in the heart and your place in the…heart? and the future that holds neither. Wow, what a thing to bear.

Hello, you.

The only way this can really reach you is when you claim it yourself. Which is another way of saying: agar wo pooch len hum se kaho kis baat ka gham hai// tou phir kis baat ka gham hai agar wo pooch lain hum se. Oh okay, I just added this one because it wouldn’t leave me otherwise. You get the point.

I sometimes search for you amid crowds When I write again it won’t be about you.

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2018, raw and rough

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.

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2017, By the roaring waves!, Paintings and Scribblings, Poems and poetry

Keeper

Secrets are gifts. They don’t belong just everywhere. A secret lives where lives Love.

I have my grandmother’s stories within me,
and my mother’s, and yours—
Why do I have yours?

I have someone else’s anger, a tragedy from another place in time
Where I wasn’t, where I’ll never be – except in the future of their past
that is already a memory
Numberless faces read out their stories and not one I could tell not to
Like I could not tell you

“I don’t want your stories!” I scream now when it’s too late—
Waking up from a dream, and sleeping into another
Why do I still find you near?

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2017, Passages, raw and rough

Just Another Night – not.

I close my eyes and consciously direct my mind to rest. Settle, nerves. Breathe. It’s okay. And while they are closed, I let them see just black. Black that is absence but black that is peaceful right now. Breathe. There’s nothing to worry about, you know that. You are used to this.

The air is actually fresh and not bitter. There’s no weight on my chest, or maybe just a bit. Isn’t it funny how you have started to visualise him when he’s not actually here? Is it? However, this is just a phase and phases change. Like people change and well, they don’t come back like that. You will learn it with time. It’s been a lot but just some more.

Sigh.

Open now.

 

“You—you stayed?”

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2017, Passages

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.

loss

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2015, My Writings

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.

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2014, My Writings

My dark man.

“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.

“Are you satisfied without having any friends?” I asked.

“You are my friend!” he replied with a smile. I will never forget that smile.

“I know that,” I said his name, “but I am not always there around you, right? I never know where you are, what you are doing, how you’ve been. I worry about you. Who takes care of you when you’re not here? No one. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you don’t give an inch importance to yourself either. Why?

“I don’t need to. I am happy and more contented with my life than you can imagine. I don’t need these things. Care, look-after, love; these aid other people… People who can’t live without people, who depend on other humans and emotions as a weakling depends on crutches. I have come far from that now. It makes no sense to me.”

How would he know what “weaklings” were truly like, I thought. People need people, they need these “crutches” to walk around this world. Why doesn’t he get it? Or more importantly, how did he overcome this necessity?

He was at ease with his lifestyle, and he meant his words more than any of us could. He could see beyond his time, and yet no future thought worried him. He could look in a glance at his past and go through his early details in a minute– yet he was one whom you’d never find regretting or complaining about his choices (or their causes), or taking pleasure in revisiting his memory lanes for that matter.

He was not normal. Yet he looked more saner than many, some times. That was perhaps because he had given himself to his goal: it could either be absolute good or absolute evil that would complete your life and give meaning to your otherwise worthless existence. He had found ‘It’ in evil.

“Would you come back to meet me again?” one asked.

“Yes. But it will take longer this time.” other replied.

We both smiled as he got up and held out his hand to me, which I gave without a moment’s pause. Standing face-to-face I tried yet again to search him in his eyes, as if their color would light my way too and I’d be able to find a clue. He stepped closer and put his hand softly on mine, slowly whispering a “no”. Maybe he thought I could really do that if I tried?

He turned around then, and started to move away. There was the famous S-shaped scar at the back of his neck which always looked fresh and red, and was so deeply cut a wound that it pained me to only look at it. I followed him with my gaze, thinking of what he was and what he could never be, until tears blocked my vision and I smiled to let go.

[Okay, hellooo. I was having a real hard time connecting words but I also badly wanted to write a story-sort so here goes. Let me know what you think of it!]

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2014, My Writings

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, freecould 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.

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By the roaring waves!, My Writings

Lordly

I will write you a poetry
All yours will it be
Mesmeric like you are,
Worshiper I will be

Your Majesty! May I sit here and draw your portrait?
“Do it. But miss a single color, and you’ll be beheaded.”
I won’t, Master. Please let me have the honor!
“Granted.”
‘Thank you’, he whispered and bowed.

He began to empty his best colors onto his white palette, and wet his paint brushes on them. Looking at his canvas, he raised his right hand to wipe it.

I will draw you a sculpture
Of your own charismatic self
Complete like you are,
Devotee I will be.

Moments passed- or perhaps ages, after which he raised his head and looked at his half-completed piece of art. A smile appeared as he began to appreciate his own skill and the next moment he was thinking how the Master would like his fruit of hard work.

I will paint you some words
Dripping with warmth and affection,
Brilliant as you are,
Blessed I will be.

His head dropped low again, and his fingers voluntarily marked streaks of his own favorite colors this time, as he chose which one His Majesty would like, and which He should.

I will sit before you for hours
Counting your image and presence,
Almighty as you are,
Fortunate I will be.

Finally that it was completed, he held it close like a mother holds her newborn, and looked at it for one long time. It was marvelous indeed! A hundred colors had been put, a hundred hopes and dreams. With a heart beating fast, he stepped towards His Majesty and bowed.

“Show me what you did.”
‘Your Highness! Here’, he felt his voice come out from deep within, as he handed over his work with trembling hands.

“Name it.”
‘You’.
“Why me?”
‘Because you are my complete self, my reason to being.’

“If I destroy it?”
‘Please do. But keep me!’
“I will.”

 

– By: Maria Imran ~RandomlyAbstract~

Lordly_ria

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2013, By the roaring waves!, My Writings

Demented in Diaries.

Sugar_Skull_Art_M

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*.

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2013, By the roaring waves!, My Writings

Rose’ adventures in Thunderland.

THEY WERE ALL LOOKING FOR HER. Yet there she was, silent, somber and hidden. Unaware of the anxiety her absence was bringing to her guardians, she sat quietly on the swing and moved with its movements.

‘What on Earth am I going to do? Where shall I look for her?’ asked Jasmine worriedly.

‘Don’t worry Jass, we will soon find her.’ Cabby answered. But he was just as worried as Jass, and feared what could happen to them both, or Jass alone, if they failed to find her.

The swing moved merrily. Round and round it went, and Rose who sat there silently, was soon lost admiring the vivid, brilliant colors of her surroundings. She had lost grip of Jasmine’s hands, but that was not her fault really. It was hers, who was too busy chatting and laughing about with Cabby.

‘Oh what nose does this elephant has! And look at those stripes on the tiger’s body! I love this orange tiger so much!’ exclaimed the little girl.

She struggled to climb at the top of it while the swing moved, but thud! She fell again and again while trying to get over that slippery tiger.

‘I don’t like you tiger!’ she said, and ran towards the yellow bear.

‘Oh Winnie! You look so adorable in real! Have you got any honey today?’ asked Rose as she suddenly remembered that she felt hungry.

Pooh didn’t answer but Rose kept standing, waiting. Tears welled up in her eyes as she discovered that none of them would speak to her. Maybe they were all angry at her, but why? She could not understand.

‘Mr. Giraffe! Will you speak to me?’ she went to the yellow animal with black spots all over. ‘Oh look, how long your neck is! May I touch it?’ she questioned, but failed to receive an answer. Soon she felt lumps in her throat and looked at her whereabouts. She was all alone in the zoo they had brought her to, and no animal would speak to her.

Jasmine on the other hand, paced apprehensively. She didn’t know where to look for her or Cabby, who had told her he’d return soon, and that too with Rose. It had been about twenty minutes since he left, and Jasmine’s heart filled up with fears. The gatekeeper had already come by twice and warned that the gates closed by at seven-thirty sharp. What was she to do, if Cabby failed to find Rose? What if he came to her alone, and Rose? What will happen to that little girl? She shuddered as she imagined what the future might hold for them.

‘Pooh! Tiger! Mr. Giraffe! Won’t anyone of you talk to me? Why, does nobody like me? She questioned again, as tears rolled down her cheeks and the figures blurred in her eyes. ‘Horsey? Elephant? Dear Bunny? Will you not talk to me either?’ To her despair, none of the animals replied. They were too unkind, and too hostile.

Suddenly the merry-go-round began to slow and eventually it paused. She looked at it with horror. What had just happened? Were any of those animals sick? Or were all of them going to die? Her eyes stared in disbelief and her heart swelled with emotions.

Cabby returned to Jasmine and told her that Rose was nowhere. And while he was telling that, the incharge came yet again to suggest maybe the girl went outside for popcorn or something and that they should call the police.

Cabby agreed to that and asked Jasmine to relax.

‘We will find her very soon, Jass. Let me call the police.’ He also ordered the man to bring her some her cold water.

‘What is there to relax for, Cabby?’, sobbed Jasmine. ‘I have lost her. My sister’s daughter, her only glimpse. What will I tell others? How will I answer them? And how will I live myself?’ –

They suddenly heard a scream. A child’s scream.

‘ROSE!!!’ she shouted and started running to whatever direction she presumed the sound to have come from. ‘ROSE! Please Rose. WHERE ARE YOU?’ Cabby followed her, running north-east. They ran and ran, and kept running. From there to here and here to there, but couldn’t find her. Soon they reached the smaller gate which opened to a garden. A garden with swings..

‘She must be there’, Jasmine cried and bent to get in.

They quickly divided their paths and began searching her. Night had fallen completely so theyrelied on their torches to show them way.

‘ROSE! Are you here dear Rose? Can you hear me? Please answer!’ cried Jasmine as she repeated her name again and again.

But Rose was nowhere.

‘Jasmine! Head to the left.’ Cabby shouted.

‘What? Did you find her?’ she asked hopefully. And she sighed and smiled; relaxing like a traveler stranded in desert when an oasis is seen.

‘No. I did not. But look here!’ he pointed to the merry-go-round which was silently stuck and frozen at its place.

Jasmine looked unbelievingly at the floor – and to Cabby and the floor again. Then she bent down and picked up a few scattered beads with teary eyes. A few blue beads from a bracelet Rose wore fondly. Rose’ bracelet. Lost Rose’ bracelet.

Where was she now?

……………………………….x…………………………………

A fictional story based on the photo would be great (Who is this little girl? Where is she? What is she waiting for? Where is her family?), but we also look forward to non-fiction posts inspired by the photo. How does the image make you feel? Does the girl remind you of anyone in your life, or of yourself? Are you as scared of the unidentifiable green creature as we are, and is that a nose or a beak?
 
The story was writen for a WP challenge, and it needs revisions. Criticism is welcome.
© Maria Imran * Randomly Abstract*
 

Other entries:
Short stories / Merry-go-round

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2013, By the roaring waves!, My Writings

Be my savior, oh Pain!

I wanted to tell them that I loved them.

But I wanted too,

That they feel the soft hues of love themselves..

I wanted to tell my family, that I was nothing without them.

I wanted to tell my friends, that all the joy in my life was due to them..!

I wanted to tell that person, that my feelings for him were sacred..

They were not unimportant. In fact, they were wrapped up with a blanket of beautiful dreams and warm wishes..!

Wishes that remained unfulfilled. . .

I wanted to write on my country’s sand.. that I live for it and I will die for it..

I wanted to tell God, that I trust Him more than anyone in His world..

BUT..

It wasn’t the time that slipped away.

It was the courage.

And I could never tell them what I wanted them to know.

I couldn’t make them understand.

I couldn’t satisfy their needs.

.

A stone was projected on me. It hit my head. I could feel hot, red blood running down my forehead to my cheeks, towards my neck.. I was hit more stones. Even more stones..

They hit my legs, my thighs were bleeding..

They hit my arms, my elbows, my palms, my fingers, everything was aching..

Pain was screeching in my ears..

Pain was shouting.

Pain was yelling at the top of its intensity.

It seemed as if pain was punishing me for not being able to listen to it..

Then it began to understand me..

It came closer.. and sat beside me. So near, I could feel it on me. Within no time could I entirely forget the stones, the lights within the darkness, the hurt, the body.

It was just me, and pain, in complete darkness. It was swallowing me.

It was ceasing my wounds. It was giving me such an ease that I could easily forget my surroundings, and let it swallow me.. It licked and licked me, and soon my eyelids began to close.. I needed rest.. And sleep was now enveloping me. My eyelids dropped very slowly and my muscles began to relax..

The only one thing I said thanks to, was my dear friend and benefactor, PAIN

© All rights reserved: Maria <Randomly Abstract>.

Photo credit: Typewriter.

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2013, By the roaring waves!

Windy drizzles and memories ♥

I stood at the balcony whilst it rained. It was today’s dark night and the sky had blackened more than ever. It started with strong windy blows and it was not late before some tiny droplets began to pour. Tiny, tiny droplets, with increasing wind made it feel so soothing that I couldn’t stop admiring.

While I stood at the balcony, my head peeping out to enjoy the rain, I saw the fearful lightning on the dark, black sky. It was something that made everything go very bright, for split seconds. It looked frightening, orange streaks of it. And then the crosswind had made it hard to breathe. But I wanted to exhale the beauty of it! I wanted to live in that moment so that I can cherish it later, for a thing of beauty is a joy forever!

The rain dropped with its sweet smell and tiny texture on my face. I was amazed by the beauty of that moment. It was all so splendid. Though the lightning streaks and high airstream made me think of those who might be facing different problems due to the sudden change in weather tonight. I prayed to God to bless his mercy and save from His wrath. Then I thought of a friend who is on her exotic trip to Kashmir- the beautiful Kashmir! I hope she is enjoying to her best for she loves the rain as much as I do.

The polythene bags flew with the direction of wind and it was quite interesting to watch them do, (though they are a sign of pollution) they would fly so high and with such an impeccable speed that it was difficult to catch their view!

The trees were blown back and forth at a ferocious and violent speed due to the hurricane and the pedestrians had all hurried to their destinations. However, there still was traffic running on the streets because the people were in a hurry to reach their houses, safe and sound.

After having it all stand in my memory as strong and vivid that I could make it, I returned inside and had dinner. half an our later that I went to my balcony, the drizzling had stopped but the wind was as blissful as it was. The water from the taps is as cold as ice and my hands too..

Tuesday April 2, 2013.

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2013, By the roaring waves!

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 !!

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2013, Book Reviews, By the roaring waves!

Bookfairs are heavenly awesome!

So excited to have those two books from the bookfair held in my college! The fair was EXCELLENT! Because its just SO cool to be surrounded by numerous books in all variety. From literature to poetry, to drama and novels, research books and guides, politics and religion, ALL that you could LOVE!

Im going to write about them later when I read them because I just can’t find much time and there are still packed new in my drawer! I am having a tough schedule these days so I haven’t started them as yet. But I am sure they are going to be VERY interesting 🙂

Okay, so the first book is English, the other in Urdu. The first is Honeymoon in Purdah and the other one is Qasam uss Waqt ki. Honeymoon in Purdah is a travelogue; a beautifully written Iranian journey, by Alison Wearing. This is its review by Amazon.com and Goodreads.com :

With a love of travel, Alison Wearing invites us to journey with her to Iran–a country that few Westerners have a chance to see. Traveling with a male friend, in the guise of a couple on their honeymoon, Wearing set out on her own at every available opportunity. She went looking for what lay beneath the media’s representation of Iran and found a country made up of welcoming, curious, warmhearted, ambitious men and women. With humor and compassion, Wearing gives Iranians the chance to wander beyond headlines and stereotypes, and in doing so, reveals the poetry of their lives–those whose lives extend beyond Western news stories of kidnapping, terrorism, veiled women, and Islamic fundamentalism.

So far, so good. I really wonder if I would ever travel to MY most favorite places and earn memories of such kind hosts. Iranians, beside all what the media brings, are very nice people and that is exactly what the novel portrays. <read reviews here>

‘Qasam uss Waqt ki’ is by Abu Yahya and this story is the second part of ‘Jab Zindagi Shuru Hogi’. Thats a great book too, very well-described. Very interesting. Very grasping. It’s a book about the life hereafter- the life after life.

Other books that I jotted the names of but didn’t buy are:

  • Indian Controversies. by Arun Shourie 
  • Escape from Oblivion. by Ikram Sehgal

One of these is Indian, and the other Pakistani. They both looked quite interesting and I am going to fetch them later!

So there- what’s your favorite book?

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Don’t you ♥ them too?

 

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