What Next?

Have you ever asked yourself that question?

I bet everyone has, at one point in their lives. Things might have been good or bad, situations easy or difficult, relationships complicated or… well very very complicated, but you do get to a point in your life where you ask yourself, what next?

You see dreams. You work hard to fulfil them. And then you ask yourself what next? And you see more dreams. It’s a vicious circle. It goes on. It’s called life.

I bet some of you remember me from my old writings. I used to be in the darkest shit-hole ever and I used to rant here about it. When I read it now, I cry for my past self. I got married. I moved to this big world that I had never imagined before. And I stopped writing. But things have changed. Things are meant to change right. You can’t just stay at one place forever and ever now, can you? So I got divorced, some year and a half ago. My passport and travel documents were stolen from my bag so that I can’t go back.

And then I was at my parents house. Sitting on that brown sofa where I spent, I can’t even remember how many days just lying down watching days becoming nights and nights rolling into days. I woke up shaking everyday, and then I remembered my world is shaking. My soul, my being was shaking. I remember, remembering at that time that I have never been through such pain before. And I have never caused that much pain to my loved ones before. I came back for ten days and was left to rot there forever. I still hear remnants of my mom’s shrieks in the middle of the night and my dad’s tears still seep into my heart drop by drop.

But you never took me to be like the ones who give up easy, did you? I didn’t. I had to do something to get up again. My life was revolving around like a movie in my eyes. Not the life that I spent in the past, but the life I would have to spend in the future as a young divorced girl in my parents house. It was now or never. I somehow managed to get new passport and travel documents, spent all my savings to get back here in this foreign country. Had an interview on a call with a company and took tests on a borrowed computer. Sent out hundreds of job applications on my mobile because I didn’t have access to a laptop. But I got out in the end.

I lived in shitty student accommodations till I could afford a nice flat to rent. The day I moved into my new, my own home was the best day of my life. I felt proud of myself. The day my company offered me a sponsorship to work for them, I felt proud of myself. The day I setup my own home office with a beautiful big screen, I felt proud of myself. The day I started spending money not on myself, but on my family, I felt proud of myself.

Right now, sitting in my warm house in a corner with a beautiful pink rose vase standing just beside me on the window sill, I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. But this story is not about tears for every story is not meant to be sad. There is much more to my story than I have poured out here this time.

But some things are better left unsaid…

سکوت – Stillness

Time. Can you count it? Seconds, minutes, hours, years… yes years. They pass. Can you count them? Ofcourse you can. It’s been 2 years since we last met. It’s been two and a half years since i last layed on this bed in my room. Where time stands still, like all the toys in the huge wooden shelf standing tall against one of the walls. All my dolls, books, teady bears, trophies from school and college, photographs, diaries and my old broken computer. My whole life. My everything summed up. It all stays here, on the same spot, collecting dust and memories. Silent. Still. Nothing ever moves. My mother, who is a bit weaker now than she was two and a half years ago, she doesn’t let anything move. She pickes up things, cleans them and put them on the same spot as they were. It’s been two and a half years since i last visited my room. It’s been 20 years since i put my toys in their spots for the first time.

My room.. it reminds me of you. All those years that i spent talking to you in this room, when a second would feel like eternity. The air, it smells of you. Of us. Of what was never meant to be. Out of all the feelings bubbling up in my heart while lying in this room, your memory is the strongest. It stands still, on its spot, in my room, in the air. Like other toys in the big wooden shelf. It won’t move. Years would pass. Years have passed.

But time… it stands still. Frozen. It hasn’t passed. It can not be counted. Like years. It has made my father older, my brothers stronger and my mother weaker. But everything else is the same. As it was two and a half years ago, three and a half years ago and five years ago. I am home. I feel as if i float here, weightless and still. Burden on the shoulders feel lighter. Walls surround me, walls of unconditional love. Walls that once suffocated me. After years now, they make me feel safe.

Some things, just a few, have changed though. All those years did not pass in vain. They have filled my father’s life with some more hardships, some more pain that’s intense. My mother’s life with some more dreams and uncontentment and my brother’s lives with sime tough life experiences. Their faces look mature now, it breaks my heart. Their eyes shine with the same naughtiness that was there, years ago. One of them is still the most sensitive, one still the most angry and one still the most calm and sensible. Like they were before the years passed. When we were children. When i lived with them. Here. In this house. Where time stands still. Nothing has changed after all the years. This, is still my world. I belong here. In the world that doesn’t change with the years that pass. The world that holds the six people, who mean the world to me. Yes, including you. It’s still you. It always were you. My heart, after all those years, never opened again. Like time in my house, it stands still. On its spot. Closed. Shut. Holding my world of straws. Protecting it from years that pass. Through time.

Time. That can never be counted. Only lived.

 

— My visit to Pakistan. 10th March – 24th March 2019.

Hauntings

I just recently watched a series named Haunting of the hill house. I thought, like any other horror series or movie, it will be funny! I would have a laugh in my mind for every scene that’s supposed to be scary, and move on to something else. Well, I guess not. I am still stuck in the series even though I have finished watching it.

Some imaginary story illustrated in the imaginary world of TV and Film can sometimes have that effect on your mind. You know sometimes… sometimes you are watching a sad scene and tears start flowing down your cheeks without your eyes noticing. And sometimes your heart smiles without your lips noticing. It’s just all an imaginary world that sucks you into it. Lets you play a part in it where you watch it with your eyes while your heart and mind start their work. The work of relating your own memories, fears, guilt and emotions to the world your eyes are watching. But can some series or film be that relate-able that you start living it? Every day, 24/7? Or have you been living it for-ever.. even before you watched it?

I want to write about it. People ask me how was the series and I say oh it’s amazing, I loved it. When no one else seem to like it that much. I guess it’s all in your mind how you take the things you see. Whether you feel the things you see or just watch them. And sometimes, something, out of the blue, triggers your deepest most dark self that you hide behind so many walls. Like demons who lived in that haunted house. When a person dies in that house, he lives there forever. Exactly like every emotion in your mind. And heart. Emotions also die but they live there, inside you forever. They haunt you in the most mysterious ways but they don’t scare you because it’s not a scary movie, you know. It’s you. It’ not supposed to scare you. It’s just yourself. Dead but breathing. The self that you killed thinking you’ll get rid of it. But it’s still there, caged forever inside you. And it WILL haunt you.

I have lived every character while watching it. I have been to the house so many times. I have felt so much pain that could cause the stones to fall from the sky and smash windows of human logic. I have built so many walls around me that no one could enter and i thought i was safe behind those walls but in reality, i was in more danger than ever. I have been terrified of the dark shadows that haunted me, shadows that were only my own reflection in the mirror of time.  I have felt fear, the kind where you see something approaching you, something really bad, but you can’t move. You can’t do anything to save yourself. And that bad thing, it gets closer. And that fear, it gets stronger. So strong that your heart stops beating. And.. I have felt love that poisons you to death.

And I… I wander through the house for hours, with madness that makes me sane. And then I put this madness aside whenever it gets just a little weaker, with every voice approaching me from the outside world. The more I listen to the world outside, the weaker this madness gets. And then I am out, again. In the world… to conquer it. But that house, that dark haunted house, it stays inside me. With it’s firm walls and sensibly shut doors. With silence that sits on the floors while waiting for me, with it’s back against those firm walls.

And me? I promise myself never to go back to the house again. The same promise, that I have broken a hundred times before.

 

 

Nah, that’s Impossible

From this…

To this….

Everything changed, while I traveled from that to this…

So I used to hear a phrase, ‘the word impossible is not in my dictionary’ and I used to think, what kind of a crappy dictionary do these people own? I mean, there are a lot of impossible things in this world, no? You can not fly like a bird, can not just reach out and touch the sky, can not pass one day without shedding out tears. It’s just impossible. I defined impossible.

But turns out, the word ‘impossible’ somehow got erased from my dictionary as well. At least how my mind used to define impossible sure is changed. If I was the same girl who would sit on the desk in that first photo, the girl sitting on the desk in that second photo would have been a marvelous strange character of some piece of fiction.

Now that I sit on that second desk in real, I can’t stop thinking about that sad, miserable little girl who would when ride her daddy’s or later husband’s car never by any chance think that she would own her own car one day. Who would when spend her daddy’s or husband’s money to buy stuff for herself never think that she would buy stuff with her own self-earned money one day. And, her fingers which would press these buttons on the keyboard just to let her sadness and pain out would ever write programming code for UK’s largest travel agents. Still sounds funny to me, I swear. I never thought I would achieve all this, but I sure used to dream it like a dirty little fantasy.

In this short period I have made my parents proud a couple of times, I think. At least they show me off to other people and that’s a big thing to me. As a matter of fact, I have proved it to the world around me that yeah I can do something on my own, that I am capable of doing more than what they thought of me. And believe me, they thought very little. It’s even a little fun to look at their faces when they find out things about me. I feel proud. I have proved myself that maybe, when I used to think I am worthless, it wasn’t so true after all.

Big achievements is not a thing, it’s the teeny tiny steps you take towards those achievements that matter. My achievements may not sound much to you, you may think this woman has gone crazy, but these are big for me. I know how much I have struggled, and how ready I am to struggle a hundred times more.

You may not even read this rant of mine that sounds like I am in heaven , or that I am high. Same thing. I am not. I am the same, just a little more plastered on the wounds than you expected me to be. However, it’s still a long way to go.

 

 

 

 

Forever

Open your hand, He says in a voice so calm that pinches her heart, like always. She tightens her clenched fist a bit more, for she knows once opened, not only herself but both of them will be left empty-handed once again.

They sit there, in her room beside her writing desk, staring at the laptop screen. So close but so apart that there are worlds between them. Listening to the tick-ticks and the silence, hearts sinking to immeasurable depths.

They are different. She lies. He tells the truth. She saves her world but destroys herself. He destroys his world but saves himself. Always. Yet they sit here, bound together with their weird connection, like nothing ever happened when their world is on fire. Fire? is it dangerous than silence? Of course it is. It destroys? and what does silence do? It kills. Destructed can be rebuilt, but there is no coming back after death.

She opens her fist. Nothing happens. The air still suffocates. Tick-ticks keep on piercing their hearts. and silence? It has already killed them.

I am sorry for your loss. I am sure you are sorry too, for mine. Our losses will look different, from the outside. But trust me, both of us have lost ourselves forever. Forever.

Forever.

17 July 17.

Wandering Venture

Grey Street (Credits: This)

‘Is this a dream or reality?’ I am sure some of you, if not all, may have asked themselves the same question in an intricate day-dreaming state of mind.

I am standing right now beside these tall ancient buildings, asking myself the same question. The buildings are dark brown with just the right amount of golden shade that adds to their glory. Its not easy to look towards the top  without straining you neck, but it is worth it. Doing that makes you feel small, almost too tiny to meet eyes with your own conscience.

I am confused. I can’t decide whether to reflect myself in the magic of these buildings that are connected to each other but feel so apart, that they seem lonely. Or to look at people, walking hand in hand, in pairs and in groups, with smiles on their faces talking to each other, enjoying each other’s company better than the silence of these buildings. And listen to the stories being told by their eyes casting sorrowful shadows that are mismatched to the big upward curve of their lips.

At places between the main road with tall buildings, there are narrow streets that emerge out of nowhere. Strolling on these streets is a totally different experience. I feel like I am inside a historical Hollywood movie, in which wars are fought and traditions are preserved. The walking paths here are made of bricks and carry small vintage cafes, pubs and restaurants that give out a strange homely feeling. Everything is perfect, the architecture, the colors and the classical smell. I walk closer to the wall along one of a vintage cafe with old furniture, some torn up books and a piano in it’s window and touch it. And wonder if it is just me, ……or anyone else can also hear sobs?

Well, may be it is just me. I am a traveler not a tourist, so I tend to feel things no one else can. I am not even sure if those things are real or is it just my own reflection that I see in places that own footsteps of people from thousands of years ago.

I pause for a second and take a deep long breath, trying to take in the air that smells of the past. Standing there right beside my eyes; Centuries pass, faces walking along these paths change, some colors fade and some are brightened, spellings on the name boards at the front of little shops are shuffled to form other words and melancholy… it lingers in the air of these streets. And Within a blink of my eye, it all comes back to the present. Its just a street, a normal street that quite conveniently takes you to your destination. Right. But where would it take you if you don’t have any destination at all?

After wandering around for the whole day it is time to go back. But the strange thing? My heart. It used to be active, mostly to cry and be sad but it was active. Active is being alive, no? And right now, after seeing so much, I feel like I have seen nothing. Do I feel sad now? I do, yes. Do I cry and ask for help? No I don’t. Because there is no one. Absolutely no one. Just the silence and empty heart beats. I laugh now, I tell jokes. I am funny. Because, I guess I have no other option. Not being funny asks for someone to listen to the reason of not being funny and there is no one. So hey there lifeless buildings and silent streets, You are about to be discovered some more by a traveler who is not alive anymore.

 

 

I Don’t Wanna Cry Daddy

There was a time when I used to write poems when I was sad and had to ease my pain. I wanted to tell the whole world how miserable I am and how painful my life is. I don’t know why but I liked receiving pity. No one could imagine what I went through, and I tried hard to shout and tell everyone here in blog-o-sphere. May be it was my way of a catharsis. Everyone here, specially some beautiful friends helped me so much emotionally.

Then things changed and I stopped writing poetry. Pain was a strong driving force for me to write. It’s intensity lessened. So did my interest in writing. I just wrote a poem again, after I guess two or so years. It’s my life story, more or less. I don’t remember how to use fancy words and amazing allegoric phrases. It is a very simple poem written in very very simple and plain words. There would be many poetic mistakes, but it comes straight from my heart, that weeps right now.

Is it worth reading or not, that’s upon you to decide.

 

Full of life, shinning eyes

Energetic box of chatter

I don’t wanna cry daddy

She writes him a letter

 

Shivering hands holding a pen

Scribbles on paper damp with tears

She shows him her bruised heart

Filled with heartbreaking fears

 

I am in so much pain , daddy

It doesn’t go, no matter what I do

You are so far away from me

All I need is a hug from you

 

As I laid with head on your arm

Be happy always, you used to say

May you never guess grief in my laugh

Now, while on the telephone I pray

 

You used to call me your innocent fairy

Guess what daddy, the innocence was gone

Long before my sensitive heart needed love

And I searched for it in strangers unknown

 

I needed a friend daddy, to share tales

To listen to my problems, hold my hand

While you were busy earning money

Life tore me apart, turned me to sand

 

My nights became so agonizing and long

Burning wounds, dying soul, bloody eyes

I cried and cried daddy I was so lonely

But in the day I covered it all with lies

 

And then you married me off to far away land

I saw you cry while you gave away my hand

I had a chance to tell you what I went through

Instead, I’m happy, I silently made you understand

 

This time daddy, after a few years

I went through the same heart break

The demons under my bed followed

The curse once again kept me awake

 

The pain tortured your little girl daddy

She needed the mask she used to wear

People changed, circumstances different

But the old depression won’t disappear

 

But guess what daddy, all that suffering

After mourning all night for so many years

Your girl refused to live and enjoy misery

She fought with her demons, faced her fears

 

Tears and pain made her strong

She fought and got her Allah back

Blocked memories that ate her flesh

Forced her dead soul back on track

 

Love and Pain both here but outlook changed

Heart silent, loneliness there but no despair

Still afraid of watching dreams as they shatter

But refusing to live in misery, I stopped to care

 

Remember the day when you were sick

Devastated, love you daddy, I cried aloud

Your little girl daddy, is all grown up

And all I wish is to make you proud

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About A Dream.

Dream. ©Lala Rukh

There is this beautiful garden fenced in by tall trees. Some flowers along the sides, a bench in the corner facing the setting sun. The kind of bench in tales. Where you dream to sit with the one you love, staring at the peace lingering in the air. Where leaves are somehow greener than usual and where flowers smell better than most expensive scents of this world. Where birds chirp to compose melodies so soothing that you wish time to stop there for a while. Where grass dances with the wind and tickles your feet. And where we, us together, sit and stare at the sun trying to hide away in the clouds, being brighter that ever. Diffusing warmth inside our hearts. And where our hands touch,meet, as if they were made to be in each others embrace forever.

Perfection find it’s meaning here. May be it’s heaven.

May be it’s a dream.

But then. Something, may be reality, yanks you to life. Or may be it was life itself.

You discern. You realize.

This place. This beautiful place. That felt almost enchanted to you, it’s not special. It’s ordinary. Nothing is perfect here.

You realize, perfection lies only in dreams. And you remember, your dreams were always meant to shatter.

The air, that you imagined holding peace, suffocates you. The leaves are not so green either, they turn black, they wither and fall right in front of your eyes. Birds here don’t sing. They mourn. Flowers smell of burning desires, grass doesn’t dance either. It moans with it’s head down.

The beautiful garden, is not beautiful anymore. Not so perfect. It’s ugly.

The sun, it’s burning everything alive. It always burns. You were wrong to expect warmth from it. You were wrong to expect at all. Expectations are meant to be failed.

Your hands, sitting comfortably in each others embrace, shiver, are pulled apart.

And then you realize, you were all alone there. Always alone. Forever alone. The person you love was never meant to be a part of your dreams.

Your dreams, huh, your dreams. Dreams which were shattered once, so hard and so painfully, that your eyes would quiver with fear before thinking of watching them again. Dreams that once injured your heart and your soul so bad, that blisters there would ooze blood every time you took a breath. Dreams, that you promised yourself never to watch again.

How dare you break that promise? How dare you see a beautiful dream again.

It was meant to be shaken up, broken and shattered. It was meant to hurt you once again.

You realize, doing the forbidden never brings Love. Just tears. And tears are words that need to be written, after all.

 

My Childhood Home

Alone beneath the shadows © Lalarukh

 

With her back leaning against the wall, she sits down on the ground. It feels cold to her palms. Despite the fact that it is really hot out there, with sun at its peak in the noon, and with almost forty five degrees temperature, there is a row of trees behind this wall that keeps the passage way where she sits a bit cool with their shadows. And she has her history with deep shadows and darkness.

It’s ironic. Right in front of her, with the opposite wall she used to make a home with long sheets and pillows in her childhood. She’d make a kitchen with small plastic utensils and some snacks and then invite her little brothers to have tea. And she had this pink box with small clippings of extra cloth drops and pieces of laces and threads and a needle and she’d sew these things together to make random designs and what not. And she’d sit there all day busy in her little chores. It felt amazing.

The pink box is gone along with her childhood. Her brothers are grown up and living far away places. Those tiny plastic utensils, her mother safely placed at the shelf in her room along side other useless items she used to play with. Her mother dusts these daily but never ever thinks of throwing or giving away. Mothers. They have their own ways.

A bird chirps from the trees above. Their is a mud pot placed right beside her, filled with water for the birds to drink. It is really hot out there. This house, it used to be filled with laughter and shouting and excitement where a strange kind of silence and sadness resides now. Her mother and father, they have grown old. They look tired when they smile.

Tear, a tear rolls down her cheek and falls on the ground, cold enough in the presence of summer’s bright sun. May be its the tree’s. It’s their way of grieving. Over beautiful lost memories and a cheerless future. Or may be it’s the coldness from inside of her heart. It’s dead, after putting up with so much pain and faking happiness for so long, it’s finally dead. She is scared, this home with all it’s memories and charm, what if it wakes up her heart again? But then dead can’t be woken up, can they?

She thinks of her room. It feels haunted to her. She remembers when she was little, she had an art wall in her room. She would make drawings,paintings,scribbles and art and then stick those to the wall. Her drawings and art work improved as she grew up and it was all there at the wall which she was proud of. And then once while the house had to get painted, she had to remove her art from the wall with her own hands. She was sad. She was a teenager at that time. A long cupboard with lots of shelves was then placed alongside her wall. That cupboard now contains fragments of her childhood and they get dusted daily by her mother.

Those albums with her baby photos, school functions and their family day outs, that car which saw her and her siblings grow up from children to teenagers and then adults, that same TV they used to watch cartoons on, the fans the ceilings the walls, nothing’s changed, everything haunts her. The memories are beautiful. It’s the fact that nothing like this can happen in future that wrings the heart and wrinkles the soul.

She weeps. Head in her lap, hands wrapped around the knees she weeps. Her shadowed self, this mud pot, all these trees and those countless memories that crowded in her mind and flowed through her veins while sitting here, this scene, it would freeze in her eyes and would be a valuable treasure for the rest of her life to come, away from her home.

That day, she buried herself right there, in the passage way, beneath the shadows and under the weight of good old childhood memories to live inside them forever.

 

 

 

Reflections

‘Trees In My Feet’ Copyright © LalaRukh.

I developed interest in photography a while back. Like blogging, it became my passion for a while. I would take my camera and spend hours taking photos of anything that would seem interesting to me. Both of these so called passions of mine have gone back to being hobbies now. The ones that you feel like doing occasionally.

I have got many photographs collected in my computer so I thought what better place can I find to share those except here on my blog, with such lovely people as my readers. So here I go.

Attempting the word press photo challenge ‘Reflections‘ for this week. I like this photo because it was the first proper photo I took so despite so many issues in the photo, it is one of my favorites as it marks an interesting stage of my life. Looking forward to your criticism as it is the information that helps you grow !

An Open Letter From a Dead Child To His Mother On His Death Anniversary

A mother crying on the death of her child- Peshawar School Attack 16 December 2014, Pakistan.

Ma!

It’s 16 December. The day you saw my blood stained dead body. The day you died along with me. It’s our first death anniversary Ma.

I can see your red swollen eyes today, you didn’t sleep Ma, I know it. I can see your hands tremble while you make tea for Baba. I can hear that painful unspoken conversation between you and Baba. When you look at each other and say nothing, your silence tells me all. The wails of your heart and the cries of Baba’s eyes, they pierce my heart. It’s been a whole year since that happened, but you still live in the moment I died. The days after that, they didn’t pass for you.

I know you can see the wound of bullet on my head bleeding again today. The very place where you used to kiss me before sending me off to school. My white shirt which you used to wash with such pure love, It’s blood stained forever in your heart. You clean my books, my toys, my chair where I’d sit to eat and my plate everyday, with your scarf. Today when you clean, I know you can hear these weep with you.

Remember Ma, the day when they entered our school with big guns and started shooting at the children. There were cries everywhere. I was scared. I called your name. You were not there. You were running in the street towards my school without shoes.

My friends with whom I’d play everyday, they were crying and falling down while bullets hit them. I saw a pile of small bodies on the ground beside me Ma. I was standing in a pool of blood when a bullet hit my arm Ma, It was so painful. I fell on the ground. Your little kid Ma, your baby. I remember how you wept when I once had my arm broken while playing. I had a bullet in it now, I knew you’d come to save me.

They fired up my teacher who tried to save us, she burned to death alive and we saw it. It was all so scary. I wanted to hug you and hide in your shawl. I called you Ma. I tried getting up and run to you but I couldn’t. One of them saw me. He came towards me and put his gun on my forehead. It hurt so much Ma, so much. I looked him in the eyes. I wasn’t afraid of him, he was a coward. I did called you and baba for the last time before he fired the bullet.

I saw you from up there, when between blood stained books and misplaced shoes you searched for me. When in the hospital Baba showed you my little cold body. When you touched my face, brushed my hair and fell down. Hysterical, crying, unconscious. The eyes that you saw shining in the morning, they were dark. The tongue you heard speaking, singing poems while having breakfast, it was silent forever. I felt your pain Ma. I felt the pain of 132 Mothers that day.

Please don’t cry Ma. Do you know, with every tear that sheds from your eyes, a beautiful flower blossoms here in our garden. Oh did I forget to tell you? We are here Ma in this magical garden with green grass and so many beautiful flowers. They smell of you Ma. We play here and laugh. We have Allah here with us, who love us like you do. He takes care of us and He tells us that you and Baba will be here one day and then we’ll live together in peace. No bad people can enter here with their guns.

I want you to be strong Ma. We’ll meet one day. You can kiss me on the forehead then and wrap me up inside you.

Till then, With Love.

Your Brave Son.

 

From this….

To this…

 

 

 

 

Thoughts Of A Stormy Night

Sitting there on the floor in the middle of the night and staring at the fog covered window, she looks like a complete mess. She has sore red skin around her nails and her back aches like hell. Tears are rolling down her cheeks that sink into her messy hair making them a bigger mess. But she don’t care. Nothing matters anymore.

Everything around her is awfully silent. This carpet, the walls, the golden vase in the window, the overly caring sleeping husband, the ticking clock, one of the two hearts in the room…. Everything. Except that scary gust of wind that shoos away the silence from time to time. Reminding her of some nostalgic moments back home and of the fact that she is awake. Not sleeping. It’s almost midnight. And she doesn’t have insomnia.

There is no moon today. Sky is all dark and red and frightening. Like in horror movies. Where suddenly a vampire jumps at an innocent victim to suck blood out of it. Only, the difference here is, the victim is already devoid of blood, and life. There is just a lot of hollowness and quiet. This much quiet is dreadful.

Why isn’t this fog disappearing? And why isn’t time moving any faster? And why isn’t this mind shutting up already? It has to do a lot of thinking tomorrow. Once again. Lots and lots of crap. About her painful past. And fruitless present. And fearful future.

Oh and I forgot to mention, she does just go with the flow. Smooth. Because you know, only the dead can go with the flow. The alive, they fight. Till the last breath. And she? She hadn’t took a breath in for a long time. Along the road of breathing through an oxygen mask somewhere, she forgot to do it on her own even when she had a chance. Some things we can choose to forget, some things we can’t.

Oh and did I mention, that that ‘she’ is me? Right now? I think I should get some sleep. This sound of rain, it makes me feel dizzy. Stormy gushes were a lot better !

I Find Myself Scattered…

I find myself scattered amid times age-old

In myths beyond expression, In tales untold

In sinful thought of a saint with heart unsure

In glare of kindness that emits from a whore

In pure love between a couple,weirdest of all

Man as tiny as a dwarf, Girl so fat and tall

In the winds that blow away veil of a wise girl

With face painfully ugly, eyes green like pearl

I find myself scattered amid times age-old

In myths beyond expression, In tales untold

In wildest fears of Syrian Refugees in a boat

In eyes of Peshawar child, knife at his throat

In the fire that burn Gaza’s screaming new-born

In bullets fired at her mother with ripped womb

In hopeful eyes of tiny girl fighting with Cancer

In ungratefulness of healthy finding no answer

I find myself scattered amid times age-old

In myths beyond expression, In tales untold

In the Kaaba of my soul, In Prayers unheard

In pleasant sounding sad chirps of a caged bird

In emptiness of Namaz, In pleasures of Love

In finding Him in heart, not in the sky above

I find myself scattered everywhere but in me

Help me gather up myself, Please let me BE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Preamble Of My Death Note

You know some people, they are like barren land. Vast, sorrowful, grieved. The mud that forms their skin loses life and gains the gloom of empty, fruitless desert. They breath dry mud. Instead of blood, they have misery flowing through their veins. Barren land and barren people, both are hopeless. Unwanted.

When rain falls down on them for an instant, it gives birth to hope. A dangerous feeling it is. It kills with the most blunt knife ever. Hallucinate you with dreams and then break these with it’s own fist, into your eyes. The shards of glass cut through the eyeballs, blood falls drop by drop, for centuries. Yes centuries.

May be if hope wasn’t there at the first place, life would have been smooth. It is easy to develop habits and live by these, whether of painful moments or living forever in the dark. It is simple to go with the flow, with no flowers and sunshine, if one hasn’t EVER seen flowers and sunshine. Going back after taking a long journey is tiring. Really tiring.

Have you ever experienced the torture, when your fingers cry and eyes can’t ? When your heart yearns to vomit out pain but your eyes, they don’t let it no matter how much that sting. No matter how much your mere existence pricks you like a thorn. No matter how much you want to put a pistol on your head and shoot without any pause, but you can’t. You just can’t.

You feel lonely in the middle of a crowd. Rain falls from the sky but leaves you dry. Green leaves of spring turns to yellowish orange ones of autumn around you. Chilly winds suffocate you. You can’t breathe. In that moment, no one knows how much, HOW MUCH you want to close your eyes and die in peace.

But you can’t. You just can’t.

Just Sharing A Thought…

You know the thing that suffocates you till you can’t breathe anymore? That’s a wish. And then that dark shadow that occupies your mind and shuts off the light of your eyes just before making you unconscious? That’s despair. And then a sudden air that forces it’s way up your nose and mouth and pumps your heart very hard and makes you feel alive again? That’s hope.

It is raining outside. Whenever it rains, my heart talks nonsense just like that.

I don’t hate rains like other people do here (By here I mean, here, In the city where I live now. where weather is cold almost throughout the year).

Rain is still like a mystery to me. I haven’t experienced getting wet in it with hands stretched in the air and face towards the sky. I don’t know what it feels like to sit on the stairs in front of my home with a mug of coffee in hands and staring at the rain drops pouring on the ground beside me. I don’t know the warmth of hugging someone special while standing in the rain showers. I’d also like to scream and laugh out loud in the streets though there might be a risk of being caught in this.

All I have seen of rain is from my window glass, while reading a book or staring outside purposelessly. Sad, Quiet.I want to know it more but I am scared. I am scared that if I’d know and experience everything about rain that’s mystery to me now, what will I do then? There would be nothing left to wonder about. It will all be over.

Then, I’ll start hating it like others.

I know that’s absurd. I am being strangely honest. I am so scared of taking one step further and I don’t know when this habit took control of me. I can just think and think for hours of getting out of my comfort zone but I have no courage to step out practically. I am not brave enough.

May be I am still circling around into the darkness of despair or may be, I am breathing that fresh air of hope but I haven’t realized it’s there.

Black Heavy Boots

With sewed lips and glued eyes she’d put her first quivering step on the stairs of cellar. Before climbing down, she’d leave her mortified ‘self’ on a shelf beside the cellar door. Her exhausted 10 years old corpse would soon drag itself down to the cold ground where sinful darkness would cloak her.

A pair of black heavy boots would instantly follow her down. The sound of their hammering knocks matches the rhythm of her thumping heart. As it reaches more close, her frightened heart rips apart her chest and falls right in the middle of his feet. The bleeding that follows would be far less than the one that happens just before he leaves her there.

His hands reach for her clothes. Her body turns to a rock. Her heart would squirm like a fish out of water, lying right beside her as the water in her stone eyes dry out. Her teeth would bite hard into the flesh of her rosy lips.

A tough blow from one of his boots makes her alive again.

She draws a long burning breath in, in a desperate hope of it to be the last one. Hope laughs. She falls into the arms of despair yet once again.

On the way back, she never forgets to take back her ‘self’ from the shelf beside the cellar door…

————————————————————-

She helps her mother cook food for her father. It is time for her mother to go to her teaching job. She want to beg her not to go but she can’t.

As she serves food to her father, she could feel a burning sensation on her skin where he stares. She looks down on his feet.

His black heavy boots are covered in blood…

—————————————————————

Almost 90,000 cases of child sexual abuse are reported each year. Out of which, 96% are known to their victims and 20% are fathers. (Advocates for Youth, 1995)

 

 

Happiness- My unusual side

                Me and my husband- Newcastle upon Tyne beach.

Happiness.

When a poor little girl, hungry for two days, wander from street to street in search of a single morsel of food, gets to a heap of rubbish and see a half eaten piece of bread. The shine in her eyes, that’s happiness.

When a father of two, who spent last ten years in a far off country to spend money for his family, climbs down the plane stairs to meet his children. That excitement on his face, that’s happiness.

When a rich businessman, after earning a truck load of money after an international tour for a month, enters his home at night to eat a simple meal prepared by his mother. The peace on his face, that’s happiness.

When a father, after waiting outside an operation theater for hours, hears a good news of a healthy daughter, that one drop of gratitude in his eyes. That’s happiness.

A hug by your father when you get good results, an excited scream after winning a game of ludo with your cousins, chatting uninterruptedly with your siblings while sharing a meal, simple moments of rejoice that we often ignore, that’s happiness.

Happiness can be triggered at any moment any time of the day with simple happenings. We often mistakenly associate it with big achievements in life. Or a state that remains forever long. We just have to fight with our selves to let ourselves feel it in a full way. All who laugh out loud every time are not necessarily happy and all who just smile when everyone laughs, are not sad.

‘Always’ is not a word suitable for it. Nothing can stay always. Nor does happiness. Restless souls like me keep sitting on a pile of happiness all their life while screaming that we don’t get it. It is us who can decide whether we want to be happy or not. It is like a switch that you turn on when you feel yourself worthy of it. When I was here, In Pakistan, I was in a constant state of depression because I never wanted to get out of it.Small bursts of laughter couldn’t change the state of constant denial in my mind.

I still punish myself sometimes by not feeling happiness around me. By pushing myself towards depression may be for showing loyalty to my life long friend. It feels good sometimes. You can even feel happiness in extreme pain. I definitely can.

Sitting in peace on green fresh grass while staring constantly at the beautiful blue sea water flowing to and fro, that’s my idea of happiness these days. I have started enjoying my solitude equally as I enjoy the company of the person fate has blessed me with. May be life can not get any better that this.

This article is written in response to Dungeon Prompts.

 

 

 

Rishtun ki laash ko lat patt khoon me dekha…..

Me ne jab doolat ki havas ko janoon me dekha

Yun rishtun ki lash ko lat patt khoon me dekha

 

 

Paisay ka laalach tha, dhuaan ban k chaaya hua

Ankhun me chubhta dard, seenay se lagaya hua

 

 

Kaghaz k tukray banaay maan ki ankh ka noor

Notun ka uncha dhair tha baap k dil ka saroor

 

 

Bhae ki muhabbat ka gala ghoont raha tha bhae

neela hogya tha khoon, laal hogae thi kamaae

 

 

Zameen o jaedaad ne khoompa tha kamar me chura

Naik seerat ki daaghdaar, achun ko bana dia the bura

 

 

Yun aj zindagi ki haqeeqat apni auqaat dikha gae thi

Khaloos ki qabar per mere dil me udaasi c cha gae thi

 

 

Jab paisay k ghulaamun ko hirs o havas k mun me dekha

Me ne tab rishtun ki laash ko latt patt khoon me dekha

 

This poem here was an impulsive reaction of brutal things going on around me. I don’t know why I have written it in Urdu and I don’t know why I have written it at all. It may have no sense, but it is an honest portrait of my surroundings.

Dark Mornings, Sunlit nights

As the sunlight shines through the sky, night falls.

She would open her big black eyes with no eye-lashes and try to listen closely to the mesmerizing music of ear-piercing cries. It soothes the grayish red stone in her chest.

She balances her heavy sobs with the rhythm of pain stricken shrieks that originate from her drumming heart and reflects through her eyes while flowing through her veins. Oh the melodious song that forms, so dramatic.

Her soul, a black shade of white light, punches the walls of body around it so hard that it cracks open and let it out to dance with the music of pain. The music of pain laughs out loud at the soul and holds it in it’s arms while whirling round and round like a dervish.

Vanished hopes, unheard prayers, unfulfilled wishes and broken dreams tightens their orbit and grabs her throat. The music of pain inside her starts evacuating itself through her mouth which she covers tightly with her own crooked hands.

Hours pass as she tries to fight this battle. She could feel poisonous snakes biting her face with sharp teeth. She smiles with fear, as she is tired of crying already.

Her heavy eye-lids start dropping down. It is dark outside when sleep blankets her. Morning’s here.

She looks Beautiful while sleeping. She is Happy… Yes she is.

 

 

Bless me.

Bless me with pain, I want to feel alive

once again.

Bless me with tears, I need to cry out

my fears.

Bless me with love, I want to shine

high above.

Bless me to pray, to push this void

far away.

Bless me to beat despair, to breathe in

fresh air.

Bless me to write, to live once again

with pride.

Bless me a fresh start, to wake up my

sleeping heart.

Please bless me with pain, I want to live

once again !

Words are out of my grip. My fingers have stopped writing. The struggle I had to do, to write such less words, was very hard on me.