New Country, New Life, New Me !

X-Plane-10-HD-Scenery-Mesh

The fear of Change has always scared me to death but changes turn out to be the best for me every time. Sitting on the floor right beside a big glass window in my room, sipping a warm cup of Mocha latte while taking small bites out of the bar of whole nut dairy milk chocolate, I think about my new life.

It is freezing outside. But inside, it is warm. Inside my home and inside my heart. The life that haunted me for too long, that made my heart cry and that gave me shivers. I am living that life now and it is nothing like that. If I would have to define ‘perfection’ in my words, I’ll define it as ‘My Life’.

What is happiness? You get to know the answer only when you struggle to drag yourself right through the furious thorns of life. What is Love? You get to know when you feel it inside your heart and someone rips out your heart along with your love. Answers are simple, the procedure of finding them out is difficult. But you have to pass yourself through mines to turn yourself into gold.

When I was sitting in the plane, I peeked through the window and thought of how far away I have left my life. And whether all my pain and sorrows have been left there with it or they are coming all along. And then, my husband held my hand while he was asleep during the flight and all of a sudden I got my answers. For the first time in my life, I became sure how satisfied my life is going to be.

After all the sense of security, the love and care and the respect that my husband gives to me, It is worth forgetting my painful past and moving on with my new life with a fresh start. It’s been two weeks since I moved here, and life is good. It is peaceful and nice. I like my new self and I am sure you’ll like it too. No more tears, no more worries, InshAllah.

More about my new life in the coming posts. Hope you all are doing fine.

P.S: I moved to England from Pakistan on 22nd Nov.

 

 


Of The Being….

The unbearable lightness of being (1998)

The unbearable lightness of being (1998)

Seeds were sown, in the infertile lands

an immortal being was born

pain do it yield, tears make it torn

as it, eats up self of its own

Story be told today

Of the bouquet of

yellow faded leaves that this being is

Of the sore cramps all over it’s soul that

blisters gather up to tingle

Water in the blisters be like

in the inquisitive

eyes of a sad Mother

whose children sob in the nights and

sleep beaten arms can’t comfort them

Their pain, they don’t tell

sympathies don’t make them well

Of the stinking fragrance of it

fragrance like of the flowers in the eyes

of a beautiful damsel

flowers that bloom on the plants of

abandoned gardens and die there

Of the angelic body

as of the body of a married lady

which is, tired of embellishing

loveless deceitful fancy beds

Story of the being that bathes

in the moonlit nights under

flaring silver skies of it’s darkest desires

that burn in their own sweat

Story of the being that, with all it’s imperfections

is dunk in the divine sanction of Him

as it suffuses beyond time and space.

Dedicated to all the readers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Fire, Water And Humans !

th

A fire festival in Fukushima.

Fire and water, two opposite forces forever lost in epic revelry. Fire seems to be the destructive one, which strangely proves out to be  the most fruitful while providing food to humans. Water be the constructive one, floods away civilizations with it. Isn’t it strange ? What force urges these to change their entire nature ?

That was the question that hopped into my mind a couple of weeks ago. It was 7 in the morning and I was sleeping in my room with air conditioner turned on when suddenly a pungent smell entered my nostrils and woke me up. It took me a while to figure out what had forced me to wake up and when I recognized that smell, I turned my neck back and here it was. With all it’s glory it was fiercely shoving it’s orangish-yellow sparks up towards the roof as if it will consume everything coming in it’s way and turn it to black ash.

I hadn’t seen such a big fire live in front of my eyes before. I am so afraid of fire that I had never lit up the stove for cooking food by myself ever in my life. Witnessing this kind of fire that closely was a night mare. I got up and ran outside shouting for help. My room was all covered in thick black smoke and when I opened the door that smoke started spreading all over the TV lounge. My dad figured out what has happened and turned the main switch off. My mom and brother filled up buckets with water but when electricity supply was cut off, the fire extinguished slowly by itself. I stood there with shivering legs and thumping heartbeat and it took me some hours to get back to being normal.

Our Ac got burnt but there was no other loss by the grace of God. The story may be told dramatically, but it is hundred percent true. That scene still give me shivers whenever it flashes back into my mind. If I wouldn’t have got up that time, the smoke would have made me unconscious and I might not be with you right now, telling you stories.

The Pakistan Floods

Children affected by flood in Pakistan, waiting for the rescue teams.

On the other hand, there is water, which has recently played havoc and drowned whole lot of  villages and cities in Pakistan. Watching footage of families standing on roofs of their destroyed homes, waiting for getting rescued, watching their animals and luggage flowing away with water. Watching a mother crying for her daughter whose dowry flooded away– It breaks my heart. Army troops are still busy rescuing hundreds of families affected from this devastating flood.

We sit here and watch them suffer. Say some sympathetic words and change the channel. And we are Humans.

What force urges things to change their nature ? I have no idea but, if this force is strong enough to change HUMANS, It sure can prove out to be a weapon of mass destruction.

 


Once In A Blue Moon

Pain_mle46-vThis world’s pain, so intense and vast

My pain seems very little in contrast

I forget my pain as I start to mark

Human’s wounded soul & bleeding heart

Every once in a blue moon, a phase comes in everyone’s life where they have to stop and look back—To compare what they had with what they have and to assume what they will have in future.

This phase comes in my life very often. A crucial time when a sharp beep echoes in my brain and urge it to think day and night without taking any rest. This beep cuts my nerves and bleeds them to death. Leaving me no choice but to cry it out for hours to get rid of it and then my mind goes back to being numb and dumb.

This phase has left me with a question this time, ‘Is Love necessary for a successful relationship?’

I put care, respect and fondness in one plate of the measure pan and Love in the other but nothing seems to be heavier than the other. One of them has to go down….

At this point, Love brings a slight sadness in my heart. Sadness that gives me a feel of warmness and care. A feeling that assures me of being special. An emotion that still awakes every sense in me and digs up every cornered grave in my heart. Love, that is abandoned but still lit up a candle of hope in me…. Hope that never sees whether it is needed or not.

On the other hand care, respect and fondness—as much they appear to be a permanent part of my whole life, seem valueless. As my mind gets lost while wandering between these, my heart drags itself along.

My absurd philosophy makes sense only to me but let me say, Love brings expectations with it and coping up with the expectations is very hard. Without love, you accept whatever life offers you. So for me, Love is not necessary to have a successful relationship, though I would never say a dear and a peaceful one.

As I would be busy straightening up my tangled emotions right now, this world would be grieving–over the deaths of loved ones, over living under the line of poverty, over suicides, over corruption, over terrorism, over being divided into sects, over unemployment and low literacy rate and over dying because of hunger.

Is my pain really worth getting written here? I don’t think so.

 

 


Cracked Pink Mirror

girl-in-mirror

Holding a small cracked pink mirror in her right hand she would stare at her bald head for hours. Her lifeless stone eyes would feel focused and concentrated as if they were trying to break the mirror into pieces with their melancholic gaze. Left corner of her bottom lip was swelled with bruises and clogged blood on it. A similar kind of wound could be seen at the center of her neck near the collar bone. Sometimes when she couldn’t stare at the mirror, her hands could be seen scratching her wounds with her sharp nails. It was impossible for her to rest her hands even for a few seconds. That’s what her Mother would say, three years ago, when she would keep herself busy in doing unnecessary chores along with the necessary ones. Three years later, her habits were more or less the same.

Close your eyes and think about the happy moments in your life if you want to end your depression, a voice would echo in her head. She would close her eyes but she could see nothing except the haunting black darkness. You come alone in this world and you have to return back alone. At some point in life, every relation fades away from your life. It is you who are left, hanging alone between the sky and the ground. Just start living for yourself, the voice would continue. She would look around gently and smile. He would smile back. She never was alone.

Thick tear drops would come out of her stone eyes and get absorbed in the pillow when she would yell and cry her throat out. Her feet could be seen rubbing against the hospital bed. Her fists clenched, struggling with immense pain. Eyes, closed so tightly as if they would crack themselves from inside, like her cracked pink mirror. She had to go through the same, everyday for three years. Her cracked pink mirror wasn’t broken yet. He always gives you the amount of pain that you can bear. She sure was made tough enough.

It spread in her blood through her veins, like the same way love spread once. Suffering was the same. The only difference was that love used to kill her everyday while this would kill her once and for all. Waiting for death is awful. Waiting is always awful. Death on the other hand is comforting. It gives life. It completes the cycle.

Love was necessary, so were the departures.

White is life, black is death. Living in the shades of grey is always painful.

She has Him. Who knows He would hold her hand gently and walk her to the black meadows or He would let her rejoin white.

Only in the darkness can you see the stars.

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‘Ishq’

Mevlana_Wajd Ecstasy Sufism

As drops of summer rain plows her barren land of heart

Desire of ‘Wisaal‘ sprouts; years of ‘Separation‘ cut apart

Renunciation of will, ecstatic pain of love’s desire grows

With the light ofIrfan, ruptured veins of her soul glows

Self is abandoned; dew of ‘love‘ turns her dust into mud

From the very bosom of self, arises the scent of beloved

This tightly coiled fire of love is neither requited nor denied

Conventional ‘wisdom‘ reverses, ‘Junoon‘ cries out with pride

Shackles of ‘reason‘ are broken, It’s wise lectures are declined

Wish to become dust of His feet echoes in her oblivious mind

Then crushed soul leaves the body, far away from time and space

It becomes One with beloved while ‘Nafs‘ drowns in His grace

Human unites with God, Divine unites with Man; a bridge is done

Rhythm in the cry of Hu‘ merges with the melody of ultimate One !

Secrets are unveiled, paradoxes solved, mystical assent completes

Levels of ‘Ishq‘ conquered, Mortality and immortality finally meets

Annihilation, Fan’a; Death is all left behind, nothing to be afraid

Contentment in non-existence, euphoria from the death of blade.

(Wisaal:Reunite, Irfan:theological philosophy which seeks to describe being, Junoon:Madness, Nafs:Ego,  Hu: Sound that imprint marks on heart, part of Allah’s name, Fan’a: Ultimate destruction)

 

This poem is dedicated to all the lovers of Allah, experiencing Ishq-e-haqiqui. Love is just a primary stage in the journey of Ishq. I have tried to explain all the levels of Ishq in my poem, through which one passes to reach the ultimate level, the level of death. May Allah blesses us with His Ishq.


In My Dreams….

hidden-falls-natural-scenery

In my dreams I envision a place. A place that is not a magical wonderland nor it is a place where possibilities meet impossibilities. It is a place where I can do whatever I want, outside the walls of my home, and there is no one to judge me. Where cultural narrowness widens up and embrace me in its arms. Where I can breathe freely without heavy burden of boundaries occupying my mind.

Religion is never the problem. Religion is just a code that defines an individual’s life. Culture and traditions are what define rules for free societies, just to abandon them in an eternal invisible dungeon.

In the society where I live, I can’t step outside the walls of my home without a male person with me. Not because anyone of my family forbids me to do so. But because my society forbids me. Once a girl of my age steps outside, people start judging. They start binding their darkest thoughts with our emotions which results in massive destruction eventually. This isn’t happening all over my country. Their are many modern areas where going out alone is nothing like a problem for a girl. Girls appear to be satisfied with these cruel set of invisible rules but I may have a problem as I have proved to be weird in every sense.

When going out with my husband or father gives me a sense of protection and security, it also makes me valuable and respectable in the eyes of society. It makes me feel comfortable and I don’t have to worry about anything because taking my care is their responsibility then. And I admit, I wouldn’t be able to fight with the abnormalities that would have flourished in my society if girls would have been going out alone. This balance in nature is essential and here in my society, the balance come just like this way. Sometimes restrictions are good.

I can’t think about changing the norms because I won’t be able to handle the abnormality in balance of nature. I can just talk about my wishes and dreams. If I don’t like one thing out of many good things in my society, I have a right to express it but still, at the end, I end up loving it more. After all, no matter how many bad traits your beloved posses, you can’t stop loving him.

In my dreams, when I feel lonely, I want to go outside a take a walk instead of siting in my room, crying like a baby. I can’t go out in the morning to jog and I can’t throw out my frustration by running hard. I can’t wander in the city, I can’t stare at the birds and trees while sitting in a quiet corner. I can’t listen to shouting kids while passing by them and I can’t be a part of those silent sea waves that touch the beach. I am free but I feel like I was born in a prison and since then, I have been living in it. I know how beautiful the world outside is but I can’t go and feel it. I want to enjoy my loneliness instead of detesting it.

In my dreams, I just see that when I step out, people don’t judge me. Women don’t roll their eyes weirdly and men don’t start whispering and staring. I just want that people consider me as respectable as they do when I am with my husband or father. I just want that they clear out their minds and eyes of bad judgment and let me do my work. I just want a society where no one feels a need to poke into the lives of others.

We are beautiful, we just need to apply the rules of this society in a positive way rather than being negative. I guess this little wish of mine isn’t that bad. Or may be, that wish will remain in my dreams forever.

 

 

 


Just Sorting It out.

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Why can’t I think like normal people ? Why can’t I behave normal ? Why can’t I pass my day and nights the way normal people do ? What is NORMAL?

People change with time. No, actually their perspectives change with time. The way we see the same simple normal things in our lives. The way we react to the same familiar situations and the way we think about the tiny little details of life. Perspective is all that matter.

I was tired asking myself all these questions some time ago. I was mad for being normal. I was jealous of normal people. And now when my life has turned into a usual normal life, it feels boring to me. Now I have come to know what I have lost. I gave up a life of awareness and enlightenment for a so called casual NORMAL life. Huh.

What normal life is actually ? A life passed in a conventional way. A life in which you don’t question what, why and how. You just do what others have been doing for thousands of years, you just follow the rules. You run behind life without any aim and at the end you end like a puppet in the fingers of nature. When you don’t feel the craving to look behind things for their logic, for the reason of their existence. When you lose the purpose for which you were born at the first place.

I have seen people living that way, very happily. I mean they have their lives all settled and families to share their achievements and problems. People who lay down to enjoy a good night sleep at 9, at night and wake up at 6 in the morning. People who don’t need to cry every other day and people who can share their things with anyone they find. People who are friends with many people and they don’t have time to figure out who is the best one of them.

I am that kind of people these days. I mean not completely, but more or less the same. My mind don’t feel connected to the weird and supernatural feelings and my heart feels hollow and dead inside my body. I wake up, pass my day doing nothing and then I stare at the dark and sleep in the morning. I don’t think…. I seriously don’t. Not about who am I, not about why am I like this and not about should I live or die. And I don’t cry, literally I don’t !! I feel like my body has been boiling with thick foggy clouds and it will burst out one day. And…. I am bored ! Fed up of this life where nothing at all seems to be making any sense. I don’t want to be a puppet. I don’t want to be NORMAL.

Allah was the solution of every problem I had for the past few years but He has stopped looking at me. I may be responsible for that but now when I need to get out of this cursed life, I find no help. My hand is being rejected by Him since long. And I am tired.

This post was the only way for me to sort out what I really want and what is actually going on in my mind. My mind don’t talk to me these days either but I can trick it into writing everything down, which I just did. Sorry for what you had to read. Just forget it.

And yeah HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY to all my Pakistani friends.


The Realistic Fiction – A Memoir

One of the other gloomiest nights wears on to a morning. She rolls her fingers over her already half-opened eyes and pulls her husband’s arm softly aside to get out of the bed. After a while, she was fastening the laces of her pink Nike trainers and ready to jog ! She knew, she’d run so hard today that her feet would feel wounded and her legs would hurt like hell. Her breath would feel irregular for hours and her heart would beat in her ears for long. And after all that, she won’t still stop. She’d jog until all the energy inside her body would be drained out. And today wasn’t different from the other days that had been creeping slowly.

Why such torture on her own self ? She had no concrete answer.

With his head filled with confusions, he turned the page. He had started reading this fiction written on a beautiful white leather covered diary but after reading only the first page, he felt some things strangely familiar. As if, he actually knows the heroine of this story…. As if….

May be, to trick her mind into thinking about her tired body rather than her ruptured heart full of fears of the future and guilt of the past. May be, to get rid of those painful anxiety attacks and depression disorders. Or maybe, just to distract herself from her own self. Sometimes, the un-satisfying reasons you give yourself are not important enough.

“I can’t have a child. I am not able enough to bring a new life into this world. For all my life I have done nothing but to hurt my loved ones. I can’t be a parent I am a total mess”

For years, these small sentences were often followed by painful cries while she’d go to sleep at nights, with needles tingling all over her body and rapid breaths getting out of control. Her husband would sit aside holding her hands and pushing her head against his chest. Sometimes, silent presence of a loved one is better that a thousand empty words. He was her doctor, her friend and her faith.

The day when their baby was born, her eyes smiled while staring at his eyes with pride. The pride of winning the battle against anxiety and depression while fighting together, the pride of loving and being loved innocently and purely — and most importantly, the pride of being a Mother !

He couldn’t find himself strong enough to read another hundred or more pages. This fiction was not a fiction, as this diary was not just a diary. 

————————

I am sitting in my bed today watching Mother’s day programs on Tv. He comes rushing towards me and hides himself  in my embrace, as he used to do when he was a kid.

I love you, Mama ! I won’t be able to thank you for the priceless love you have given me in all these years, and I want to tell you that you are important to me more than anyone in the whole world. Everyone loved you mama, they just didn’t express their love the way you needed. I don’t want to be like them

Saying these words, he hands me over a copy of this famous magazine. I open that half folded page in curiosity and there I see, my 25 year old story published in a neater version with my name.

I recalled, I was scared of writing diaries because the thought of getting exposed and judged frightened me. That’s why I started giving my daily anecdotes a color of fiction.

He understood my ‘fiction’ when nobody could. I wonder, how many more strange habits had he taken from his father ?

Inspired by The Daily Post.


Somewhere

Branched-Paths-and-Lost-Sheep

Photo Credits : CHINESE CAULDRON

Somewhere, there is the tall guy boarding a plane

who once used to lay down and see her asleep

while she’d open one eye secretly to steal a look

of his worry-less face and worried eyes wide-open

staring at his temporary present through a distance

of miles between them.

Somewhere, there is the girl feeling hot dusty clouds

floating in her lungs as the pile of ash gets soaked

in those salty little drops which never fell anywhere

but on the tall guy’s finger pores and  that long stick

burns with the nerves in her mind as the pressure of

her blood lowers down.

Somewhere, there is the small hut on the hills

which echoes with the crying silence of the wishes

of people who made it. There is this couch there,

where no one sits to watch tv together and a

stove on which no food is cooked but the song of love

can still be heard from miles.

Somewhere, across the sleepless nights and

nightmares, there is a branched path like the

lines on one’s hand, telling them to start counting

number of sunsets they have to see without each other

while holding hands with the soul mates that were

always meant for them.

 

The list of nouns : The tall guy, the girl, the small hut, the hills,  the sleepless nights.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


I Am That Little Girl Today…..

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I am the 8 years old me today. Thinking about the time when I was laying in my dark lonely room and when for the first time I cried, not for some childish wish to get fulfilled but with pain… because of intense pain that I felt in my heart. For the first time when I was 8. When I saw one of my brothers sleeping on one arm of my father and the other brother on the other arm. I stood there beside the door staring at them while he told them stories, of fairies and brave commandos till they fell asleep. I stared at his arms and wished for sleeping there for once, only for once but that wish never got fulfilled. Wishes have been abandoned for me since then. Instead of telling my father what I wished for that night, I came to my room and cried. That was my first real encounter with tears. Tears, that have been my friends since I was 8.

And then I remember the time when I was 15. My uncle gifted me a cell phone and I used to send random jokes to my friends when one day I met a wrong number. That wrong number remained a wrong number for me, besides he would talk to me and I would listen. I never knew his real name or who he was or where he lived. What I knew was that he was the one person in my life who would listen to whatever I had to share with him. Every problem, every change in my life, every reality revealed… I would speak and he would listen. He became my one best friend. Back then, I didn’t know that my society don’t understand or accept this kind of friendship. All I knew was that I have got someone who understands me.

And one day my mom caught me texting with him. She read our texts and all that she understood by reading them, was that I was talking to a boy. That was the first time when I got cursed. At the age of 15. My mind will collapse if I’ll try to think about what happened next but all that I remember now, is a miserable me, sitting next to my mother and staring at her lap with a boiling wish of putting my head in there and crying out loud. But I never was able to gather that much courage to do that. I used to crave sharing my matters with her and cry on her shoulder but never got a chance. I wasn’t strong enough to tell them who I am. I was afraid they would abandon me if they’d know the real me.

Every night is a night in hell for me, since then. These nights taught me how to fake emotions and how to wear a smile in public. They taught me how to collapse in the dark and weep till I gather strength to stand up in the day light. I admit, I am emotionally weak and I craved emotional support since I was 8. Yes, I am selfish because I never got expression of love that I wanted and every illusion of love felt real to me since then. I admit that I am hateful because I forget every other thing when a little ray of love strikes my heart. For all my life I have begged for love and care, I have rubbed my heels on broken stones to get a single second of peace and serenity.

I may have done thousands of sins to get a little satisfaction of being cared, but I am not that bad, am I ? Every time I loved, I ended up empty-handed. I am shedding tears in this very room of mine for 14 whole years and I am tired now. I understand that I am hateful and you have every right to hate me. I too hate myself so much that no one can even imagine. I understand that I screw things up for everyone whether it be my parents or the person I love, or the person that I was meant to love. I am tired. If I get to bear the same pain all over again, I would die. And that pain has started consuming me once again. It would have been better if it wouldn’t have gone at all, in the first place.

I really wish memories could be erased just like that…. with a little push on the button of backspace. And I really wish I could sleep one day without the burden of endless regrets, pain and guilt on my shoulders, In tranquility !

 

 


The Real Face Of Real Terrorists

With red bulging eyes burning like hell, his distressed slow steps dragged his dead body into the class room. His beloved students got amazed as they took a glance of his miserable self in contrast to the usual polished and well dressed one.

Every student in this class loved their teacher ever since he had been teaching them. Their hearts literally missed some beats as he spoke out in a broken voice, again, very unusual as compared to his usual soft polite voice.

“How are you all”

“We are fine Sir !” They all spoke out at once. The pin dropped silence scattered for a second and then settled itself back.

He never used to teach them in ordinary ways i.e by reading from books or through cramming. He had his own style. He would usually tell them an incomplete story and then students would ask questions to complete that story extracting all the hidden lessons inside.

Listen to my today’s story carefully students, it is real and the topic is sensitive” His voice felt hollow as he continued.

The world’s most “moral army” of Israel committed a new massacre this Sunday, November 18, 2012.

The Israeli aircraft bombed a 5-storey building in Gaza City, a building that houses 40 people, belonging to the Dalou family: 12 people died in the Dalou family, among them: six children, three women and two seniors. There were 25 wounded.

And the atrocities continued—

As the Israeli military’s “Operation Protective Edge” entered its third day, the death toll in Gaza continued to mount. As of this writing, at least 81 Palestinians have been killed in three days–among them 22 children-and over 550 injured as a result of the air force dropping hundreds of bombs. A driver for journalists was killed, as were Palestinians watching the World Cup at a beach coffee shop.

Zero deaths of Israeli people has been recorded so far.

The typical Israeli crimes against the children and civilians, a new massacre against humanity…

And a new silent complicity of the countries that claim to defend human rights.

A piercing cold silent breath followed his voice as he stopped and searched for questions in the scared eyes of his students who were sitting still while holding their breaths.

Sir, After all the atrocity of US on Iraq, India on Kashmir and Israel on Palestine, why do they still call us Muslims as terrorists?” A sad innocent student finally spoke out.

“Because my son, they needed some solid base to aim their atrocities at, and to blame weak and innocent people by exploiting them on the basis of religion. They have to hide their terrorism by calling Muslims doing Jihad as terrorists”

Sir, What exactly is Jihad ? As non-Muslims claim that every Muslim doing Jihad is a terrorist, Is this true ? “

“Let me make it clear for you.

What is Jihad:

1- Travelling to another Muslim majority country like Palestine where non-Muslims have invaded and they are doing barbaric activities and injustice, and fighting against them with weapons is Jihad.

2- Spreading the word about the atrocities of non-Muslims doing atrocities on Muslims, or about the bad activities happening in one’s own country by writing or speaking on radio or reporting or by any means, is Jihad.

3- Striving against the evil desires of the soul is a kind of Jihad.

4- Spending wealth for the greater good of people who are under oppressive rule, who are not free to do anything. is Jihad.

What is NOT Jihad:

1- Suicide bomb blasts is by no means called as Jihad.

2- Fighting with the innocent people with weapons, without any reason is not Jihad.

3- Forcing non-Muslims to enter in Islam by using force is not Jihad.

4- Spreading hostility and destroying peace by any means is not Jihad.

And about the other part of your question. No, every Muslim who truly does Jihad is called as Jihadi. Unfortunately there are some people,extremists to be precise, who have no idea what Jihad is and they spread terrorism on the name of religion and Jihad. These are the people who are responsible for making an image of ‘terrorist’ for every Muslim in the minds of people all around the world.

“What should we do Sir, to fight against the atrocities of Isreal? How can we play our part?”

“You are the young pure future image of Muslims my students. Hold your pen and tell the world about the real face of terrorists. Fight against them, if not with the sword, then with your pen and tongue.You have to fight until they stop their barbaric actions on innocent people. Tell them, Islam is about peace. Tell them how the real face of terrorists look like”.

His breath started clustering in his throat and tears came rushing out of his eyes.

“Sir, are you alright? “

“No, I am not alright. I have lost my only 4 years old son in the bomb blasts of Israel. I am not fine, because I couldn’t save my son as I was teaching my students at the time he was taking his last breaths. I won’t be fine till Israel stops killing innocent people in Palestine and I won’t be fine until every human being on this earth stops killing other human being on the name of religion and geographical boundaries. I won’t be fine until ‘humans‘ start practicing ‘Humanity‘ “

Say NO to the Terrorism of Israel with Me !

A photographic journey to the terrorism of Isreal (Source) :

Israeli attacks on Gaza 19 - A Palestinian medic evacuates a boy hurt during Israeli attacks Israeli attacks on Gaza 13 - Funeral in Gaza City Israeli attacks on Gaza 10 -  More civlians butched by Israeli forces in Gaza Israeli attacks on Gaza 8 - Man killed by Israeli warplanes Israeli attacks on Gaza 7 - Young boy killed by Israelis in Gaza Israeli attacks on Gaza 5

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Because I had to write this.

I think of those times when passion was defined by writing, in my dictionary. When words flew off the alphabet grid and combined themselves in my cluttered mind to form tales, all fake as well as real. When all I had to struggle with was life and depression, and pain. When I had companions to read my tales and to hug me with words. When I used to feel love coming out of a small robotic machine. And when…. I had him to stand beside my side. No matter how hard the time came, no matter what happened…. My faith in him never got lowered.

And here I am, now, struggling with words to arrange them in some decent manner but they are flying randomly in front of my eyes. Catching them up and sewing them here seems difficult. I have lost my passion, I have lost myself. I wasted my whole life running for the things that came and then faded away…. in fact were snatched away from my hands. I never had the idea that this same phenomena is going to happen with those things too, that happened to everything in my life before. Like someone let you smell the elixir of euphoria and take it away before you drink it. The taste, you can feel it but can’t really taste it !!

You know I used to wear masks on my face to hide my pain from the world. While doing that, my true self was left hidden from me. All those years I was a fake being for people and I never knew when I became fake for myself too. And I never knew life would unveil my true self in front of my eyes like this….. I look in the mirror and all I can see now is a psychotic selfish ugly faced bitch !  Some people are born bad… No matter how hard they try to look good from outside, they are meant to be bad at the end. They say nature can never be changed.

Love took me to the heights. When I reached there, I found no path to continue going up. I was stuck there, at a certain point at a certain height and when you can’t find a way forward, you have to go back. Hate is what dashed me to the grounds. Hatred…for my own self. I am no one…. I am just that one person who destroys everyone’s life claiming that he is doing the right thing. That one person who is sent as a punishment for others and has no other aim.

My tears and pain about which I once used to write poems are meaningless to me now. An emptiness flows through my veins and I don’t know what to do. I am lost. I guess that’s how life turns out for ‘my’ kind of people.

And yeah I am sorry you have to read this bullshit. I am just so sorry….

 


Hiatus

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An elegant beauty with glassy, unblinking eyes and a straight face veiled in abyss.He couldn’t find better words to illustrate her charm at that time, in his mind.He sat next to her on the bench she was sitting, with her hands clenched to the corners.

“I thought you have stopped thinking like you used to do. That deeply.”

“I tried but I couldn’t” She replied with a thousand years tiredness echoing in her voice.

He nodded his head as if he understood what she didn’t say. They told each other their stories, the day to day activities, those pleasant smiles and the tears followed by them, In a silent conversation. Silence was there to speak, words were never enough for them.

He looked around to pause and all of a sudden she disappeared. A tiny regret occupied his heart, he shouldn’t have shook his head. He knew, she has to return to the reality.

He has to return too, but he knew they will keep meeting like this, in the meadows where dreams meet reality.

He was satisfied, she was happy. She was satisfied, she wasn’t there in his life to create troubles.

While watching them vanish into the thick fog of reality, the meadows almost cried. For they knew, once they both wished and insisted Him to be with each other….

Meadows didn’t know, life is a step more than this greenery that brown bench and ‘love’.

He smiled and continued merging reality with eternity.

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Moving on….

“And yes, you moved on… So easily ! It didn’t even take you a while.”

He cries with a voice brimming with pain.

She sighed. That’s what she do when words cut like knives. Words… That are not actually words, but boiling emotions seal packed in some random alphabets.

“You say I moved on…. Yes,maybe I did.”

4 whole years of painful depression were quite enough for me to understand that ‘this’ is not life. Life is something else…. Something better. Four years, i prayed for you….. He listened to and replied to each prayer i made but this one.

“aur insaan shar ko aisay mangta hai jesay khair ko… Aur insaan bara hi jaldbaaz waqay hua hai”

Your ishq led me to His ishq… And i did kufr for four whole years by holding on to mere ishq e majazi along with the ishq of supreme. You taught me the meaning of love…. But you never knew it yourself.

The minute i stopped praying to be with you….He announced his descision….His will….His orders.

And now after just 3 months of my marriage i have learnt…..He is after all the best planner.

The person He gave me loves me….and this love is the sacred one…bounded in the walls of marriage.

Tell me one reason to hold on to you still… It doesn’t matter now who i love…. What matters is that i have to live…happily..for the persons who love me….for myself.

And i am happy…. Expectations hurt and i don’t expect. Life gives me a new surprise daily and i am accepting His will. 

Your love lies inside my heart….like a bare thorn pricking and tingling the walls but it can’t come out…. My heart cries but there is someone now to wipe my tears off. You were not made for me…. Our love was forbidden.

And they say forbidden love teaches you the lessons and secrets which no knowledge can. 

May be that’s why people pass their whole lives searching for Him while He lives so close to them…but they can’t “get” Him… He likes to be searched.

You say i moved on…. 

Should i continue trying to move on or should i hold on and fight with what He wants? 

I’ll do whatever you decide.”

He stares at her with red stone eyes…. 

She spread her hands to pray for him…..

Love never dies but it can stay in the abandoned graves of heart….

She weeps and prays for him…till she return back to her “moved on” happy satisfied life…

Things have always been complicated for them….thet still are. Trying to solve these complications is the key.

She tried…. he’ll too one day.

“…….aur pher hoga wohi jo meri chahat hai”

                     ………………………………

This post is not edited…. just wrote it on my phone and felt like posting it. I’ll reply to all your comments and start regular blogging in a while. Thanks to all of you who still read my useless posts.

 

Your Thoughts ?

With that same old empty mind and heart, I sit here again and write. No specific topic in mind and no idea how long or short my words can weave this thread. I don’t know this connection, I can never understand it. The connection of my heart with your words. They say you always learn when you sit back and listen to the silence.  They say it right. This sheer silence tears up my mind… The echo of fan piercing through the calmness of summer afternoon tells me tales…. Tales that are weird, unimportant but very interesting.

Happiness, contentment….. the two things I wanted the most throughout my life. I got them…. I was a cry baby, as you know it, when I left you guys almost three months ago. In these three months I enjoyed the most happiest moments of my life….. My world turned upside down but guess what ? The down side was not that bad. It was good… It pleasured me with the most exciting tastes. I am happy with the guy my parents chose for me….. The nightmares I used to see are gone.

But…I am afraid to share my feelings right now with you. You’ll judge me wrong. I am happy but still, I feel the need of writing in distress, In the saddest hours. Life is going good…. at least for now. My past is still with me but I have learnt to live the present. I’ll share these tales some other time.

A weird thing has started happening to me. After a week or so, In the nights I have severe depression and panic attacks. I cry out loud and I don’t know why does it happen and I feel like I am drowning in darkness or something, I don’t actually understand the feeling. My mind pricks me and this condition lasts for an hour or so and the dies. I don’t know why it happens but it is severe and painful. Do anyone of you has any idea why does it happen or what it is ?

 


How Are You ?

Two months and thirteen days…I was absent from here. In two months and thirteen days I learnt a lot. Things that were invisible, things that are beautiful and ugly at the same time. Hardcore facts. While I write today after a long time, words slip out of my fingers like they used to be before. I thought they would have forgotten the path of my heart through fingers but they didn’t.

I missed you all so very much. Writing here today just to tell you that I am fine and I know you guys may have, sometime in your life while wandering through blogs, missed me too. I hope you all are writing energetically and struggling through life bravely.

I’ll be back in some days. I miss writing things out. That was my thing, it still is. In the meantime I’ll try to read your new blogs and reply to your comments.

Stay happy ! Love you all.


Wounds That Turned To Wisdom

There was a time when things were different.

At that time, I wasn’t aware how life’d treat me. I was in school when I came home with my first hole. After repressing the pain while I had lunch with my family, I locked myself inside my room and bled for too long.

Then, the next day, I came home with two more holes. One on my upper thigh and the other one on my shoulder. A stinging pain sprout out of them that made my whole body, a wound.

The next day, after returning back home, I left my mother shouting and hustled towards my room while leaving a trail of blood on the white carpet. I slammed my bag on the bed and lifted my shirt in front of the mirror. Half a dozen holes were revealed that dotted my stomach and chest. It was hard, bleeding for hours that day. I needed someone to treat my wounds with gauze. Instead, they were left open. It took half the night to stem the flow of blood and I was exhausted. Excruciating pain was the price of healing.

In the morning my mom made my favorite pancakes for breakfast. I wished she’d have kissed me on the forehead instead of stuffing me with those delicious pancakes.

I returned home that day, more battered than usual, covered with holes from head to toe. I gazed inside my mother’s brown eyes, longing to see the reflection of my holes. Instead, they were filled with every other dilemma our family endured.

I locked my room that day, and stood beside the mirror with blood pit-pattering on the linoleum. The holes looked like tiny flickering tongues. A sucking wound on my back, square between my shoulder blades was hurting me the most. It was too wide, too deep and a gentle touch brought back the memory of my best friend at school. May be that’s why the wound was the worst.

I stood there for too long, dribbling blood on the surface of clean mirror and staring at my face. The taste of loneliness mixed with the sleepless night was bitter. I heard my family talking, my brothers fighting over stupid things. My mother knocked at my room’s door. She waited for an answer but silence was all she could hear while I struggled with my cries, cupping my mouth firmly with both hands. She screamed and called my dad.

I got up, wiped my eyes brutally with one hand while holding a knife in the other. After hiding it under the bed I slammed the door open. My eyes saw fierce expressions on their faces and their lips moved angrily but my ears heard nothing. A shrill sound as if a drill was making a hole in the wood echoed in my head.

After it was all over, I shook my head and locked the door, again. My steps felt heavy as I motioned towards the mirror. The two days old wounds sprang open. Blood spilled out of the crusty scabs that were peeled off.

In the morning, I left the bloodied bed sheets as they were and headed towards school with my head cast towards the ground. I came back that day with more holes but they didn’t hurt that much as they did before. Because, I made dozens of holes that mustered over my torso, to avoid pain from the ones given by others.

“Soon these holes will all turn into scars and they’d be the reminders of how tough I’m“, I thought. The light had started entering inside me, through my wounds.

I bled that day on my bed but the door was wide open. My parents passed by as I lay there, un-noticed, for they had their own monsters to fight with -and I had my own.

“She was not quite what you would call refined.
She was not quite what you would call unrefined.
She was the kind of person that keeps a parrot.”

That was the day I promised myself, that I’ll try to fix my daughter’s holes with gauze, made with love and care. But as they say, life is what happens to you while you are busy making ‘plans’.

Every one of us has to unfold one’s own myths.

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This 695 word story is written for Speak Easy. The task this time was to use “There was a time when things were different” as the first line and to give a reference to a photo that was of parrots. I should admit that, while writing this story, my mind started wandering in my own past and when I read my story now, it seems more like my real life story than fiction. I have decided to leave it unchanged, as it reminds me of my ‘fresh’ old wounds.

This story can be an end, or a new beginning of my writing career. I am getting married this coming Friday and life had been hard on me, lately.

Meet you after my wedding ! Miss me and pray for me, Please. Love you all.


Can You See My Fingers Bleed?

I was planning to write poetry or fiction for some challenge today and here I am, sitting, staring at my laptop screen with my vision getting blurred every few seconds. I wipe my eyes with my already damp hands and start staring at the screen again. I feel an urge to hug my laptop right now or kiss it. And I feel an urge to go out for a walk in the woods with my laptop and never come back to my real world.

I have got the best friends, brothers and sisters here with the help of this little box, a machine. Who knew machines would be understanding feelings more than humans, someday ? Technological advancement or Humanity decline ? I know If I’d cry right now, there would be someone sitting right beside their computer ready to embrace me with their words. I know if I’d share my darkest feelings and the most strange emotions there would be people understanding these without judging me.

Unknown people who have no idea who am I and where I belong, what my country, cast and religion is. People who just know that there is some soul out there, craving for their sympathetic words. Craving for the Love that real world failed to give it. Craving for the care that everyone wants, but doesn’t get it. Craving for someone who could listen, just listen to what it had to say. To listen to the rants of a restless soul.

The time I spent crying while laying in the dark, for 20 years is spent writing now. My fingers dance on the keyboard of this very old model, slow laptop and ‘words’ come out along with the silent tears. My tears cried for 20 years and it is time to give them some rest while I let my fingers cry out loud. There is a difference, no one listened to my crying tears but now everyone listens to my bleeding fingers.

No matter how hopeless and depressed my real life is, my virtual life is awesome. I got to understand life, happiness and care –  The strange words which don’t exist in my real life dictionary. In this life, I am not a depressed bipolar soul….I am the queen of my world, my blog ! I walk here with pride, that my real life can’t snatch away from me. This is my world…The people here are my friends…My beloved online community is the best thing I have….And I am grateful for everything this virtual world has offered me.

Words can’t express my gratitude and Love but my tears can. And I know you can see my fingers bleed, while reading my wounded words.

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Linking to Daily Prompt and Dungeon Prompts : Community. Head over to Speak Easy to vote for my story “Waiting for a dead promise” If you like it. Do read and vote for other awesome submissions too.


Cyclic Inception

Credits :

Credits : Thomas Leuthar

Life ‘Inception’

                    Riddle wrapped in Enigma

                                          Prehistoric pen shrieks

                                                                            Echoing Like

                                                                                              Tunnels in Labyrinth

                                                                                                                       Reflecting tales of illusions

                                                                                              Time follows the quest

                                                                             Of Unreachable stars

                                              Struggles and failures

                      Bleed into Hope

The cycle Continues.

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This 33 words piece is written for Trifecta Challenge. The challenge this week was to write a 33 words response to the Picture given. Click on the Badge to read other beautiful entries.


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