Black Heavy Boots

Scared little asian girl

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

                Me and my husband- Newcastle upon Tyne beach.


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.




Dead I am.


When I try to absorb inside me, the warmth of this beautiful sunshine, I feel nostalgic. Putting “The alchemist” upside down half opened on my neck, I lay down on this big sofa in my sitting room and close my eyes while the sun rays caress my face and take me back to the winters of Pakistan. Three  months of winter were a real treat after nine whole months of summer. Laying lazily outside beneath sun was my favorite hobby back then as well.

I love winters.

And I love reading books. And I love going out alone, walking by the streets or at sea front. I love going gym and trying aerobics, cardio and weights as well. And cooking… I love it too.

If I can go whenever I want, to a nearby library and browse through books for hours while forgetting completely about everything happening around, feeling a beautiful emotion running through my blood vessels after grabbing a book in my hand to take home…

If I can go to gym daily in the morning and enjoy working out different schemes in different days, sweating out smelling bad but still feel awesome…

If I can take long walks by the seaside with hands tucked in pockets and stare at the sea sitting at my favorite peaceful spot and listen to the whispers of water and winds….

If I can cook anything from curries,rice,steaks,soups,pastas to cakes and brownies… anytime I feel like giving myself a treat…

Then, Why am I still not SATISFIED with my life ? What is it that feels missing, what is this silence that seems to be a permanent part of my soul ?

I am happy. My life is almost the same everyday, but I am happy with what I got. I don’t have any wishes at this point in life. I don’t dream for anything at all. There are no particular regrets left to haunt, no broken dreams to pinch my heart, no fresh wounds dripping blood.

Then what is the reason that I feel empty? I am struggling to take one step forward at this point of my life, whether it is about knowledge or love or spirituality… There is a strong desire in my heart to push myself forward, to do something but It seems like I am stuck at this point and some force is pulling me backwards to stop me from taking a step forward.

The irony is, I don’t know where to put my foot after taking this forward step. I don’t know what exactly to do with my life.

Why? Because I didn’t struggle back then for my destiny and let myself go with the flow ? (Paulo Coelho)

Whatever it is, They say that if your life is same everyday, then you are already dead. You just don’t realize it.

Maybe that’s the case.

May be I AM dead.




On Seeking, knowing and Loving. On understanding Islam in it’s meaning as a whole.


“Love is the water of life and a Lover is the soul of fire. The universe turns differently when fire loves water” Forty Rules Of Love.


I need to arrange this mess in my mind. I need to remind myself once again that I should keep walking no matter what.

There was a time when I read Quran with meanings for the first time. I fell in love with the writer. I started relating quranic teachings with events in my everyday life. I’d pray five times and would stay away from everything that Allah forbade me. I started playing according to the rules. Love was the reason.

Then, with time when I encountered life rendering events, when my vision became broader and I inquired about life more closely, I got confused. Literal meanings and rules of Islam and people following them literally filled my mind with contradiction and heart with turmoil.

When I was on the verge of getting out of the circle of Islam (with my own consent), I was pushed back in (again with my own consent) with the help of right knowledge I needed at that time. Love was the reason once again.

By categorizing Muslims into different types, I learnt to blame people for insane acts, not the religion that they follow. If I wouldn’t have categorized them, I certainly would have lost trust and faith in my religion and myself till now.

The Extremists:

They are the most dominant at present and known to be the only type of Muslims by other countries. They include Scholars and heads of Islam (as they call themselves). All the Molvi’s, Mowlaana’s, fatwa giving mufti’s and everyone who follows them blindly fall in this category.

These are the people who take out bits and pieces of ayah’s of Quran, speak out about the ones they like and miss out the one’s they don’t. And then use them as an excuse to do activities they actually want to do. Probably that’s why one half told truth is dangerous than a thousand lies.

Suicide bombing, killing innocent people, spreading war, training children’s minds for fighting against non-believers, suppressing and beating women, dreaming inappropriately for virgins in heaven, killing people in the name of Prophet Muhammad and calling every other ‘Muslim’ as a ‘non-believer’ who don’t abide by their rules. That is what they do and believe in.

The moderate:

These Muslims are the ones who were born Muslims and they take it for granted. Their lives are more influenced by the society rather than religion. They learn reading Quran with a good accent in Arabic at the age of 8, learn saying their prayer and many short ayah’s by heart at the age of 10 and complete the definition of ‘true Muslim’ by praying five times a day at mosque and reciting some pages of Quran daily at the age of 12. Every other Muslim who don’t follow this routine is only a ‘Muslim-by-name’ (for them). They pass their lives according to the rules of Quran they learn from their Islamic studies text books in school and college.

These Muslims are the ones who sneeze and say ‘Shaker-Alhamdullilah’ (Thanks to Allah) without knowing why are they thanking Him.

For them, alcohol is strictly prohibited in Islam but at the same time they talk behind people’s back without knowing that Allah dislikes speaking ill of a fellow behind his back much, much more than drinking alcohol.

They admit that their prayers are filled with worldly thoughts and sometimes not for a single second do Allah comes in their mind. But they still follow the routine with a hope. May be if they attend the class, they get to pass even if they don’t pay attention to the lecture. Hope is the reason to live on.

They don’t search. They are intended with what they got. They are like the stagnant pond which don’t want to be a part of ever flowing sea.

The Searchers:

These Muslims are the ones who struggle to search for the hidden. They start their journey in the boat of religious rules but then, they dive into the sea and become a part of it.

They understand Quran with it’s meanings and try to relate everything they read with their life. Then their heart is opened for love by Allah and their struggle goes on. Slowly they start understanding Quran with it’s hidden meanings other than the literal ones.

For them, religious rules are important only if they don’t cover their sight. If they don’t stop them from becoming one with the whole. They spread love, fight against their ego, feel pleasure in pain and ecstasy in serving humanity.

They find Allah within themselves, within their hearts. For Love they live and for love they die…

Since now, I had many fierce questions which I wanted to ask Allah, about the religion He sent and about His rules. At this second, I have all the answers. This journey between unknown and known is mysterious to me.

He made different people with different qualities and natures. This shows how Great He is. Being aware of the thoughts of every single person, He set out different rules to control them. For some He introduced the idea of an afterlife, a heaven and a Hell. He became a grocer who will weigh their good and bad acts. For some greedy ones, He produced every luxury in heaven. For some nasty ones, He produced beautiful virgins. For some, He simply sow a seed of Love in heart and give them control of whether to nourish it or to let it die. Like a mother who knows which kid wishes for which treat and which one fears of which imaginary ghost.

He just likes to be remembered in return. He likes to be searched. He likes to reveal himself to those who seek His Love.

All praise worthy He is.He don’t see the acts, He sees the intentions. He knows how unique has He made every single being and how will He judge one. Why worry about the afterlife, an imaginary world when we can experience heaven and hell in this very moment.

In the journey of seeking truth, I am still a traveler. My mind gets messed up and then cleared. My heart empties and gets filled again. I am still learning to Love and I want to struggle to know more.

Help me in my struggle. Be my mirror. Complete me. Teach me to Love again.












A Walk To Remember


Water, it is everywhere. Right behind the place where I live, there is a magnificent sea where shades of blue shine with yellow glitter dust of sun rays. Sometimes, fresh fragrant breeze cushions the sun and delicately wraps it in the blanket of clouds. While sometimes, showers of fresh water purifies the surroundings.

I wander at the beach and get lost. Lost in the sadness of sea waves that travel all the way to the beach and slowly crawl back. Lost in the roars of sea waves that strikes the rocks in fury and make me think, why are the waves that reach at the beach so calm and why are those which strike stones so angry ? I don’t know. I don’t want to. I just know that I have to find myself between this calmness and fury, somewhere between sand and rocks.


While searching for my lost self, I walk through life with hands tucked in pockets. White trainers imprint stamps of my past over the sand of my present while I stare at the void of future. I stare with -4.00 shortsighted astigmatic eyes, at the blurry line that tends to join blue and white shadows. The enchanted beauty of this place overwhelms me.

I see a lot of people on my way, taking a walk with their dogs. I see them loving and caring for their dogs as if they are their own children. I feel the connection and I can understand the reasons. Everyone has his own way of getting over life after all. But I don’t know why, every dog barks at me and tries to jump over me. Maybe they see me as an ugly alien or may be they are racist, reality is tough both ways !

Their is a brown colored long bench at one corner of sea front which I can call as my happy place these days. It has a wall build all around it and a roof which makes it appears like a small dark room open at the front. There are names carved on this bench and at some places a sign of heart appears to be drawn too between two names. I don’t understand why people would do that, and then I find myself doing the same. It feels good to be a part of crowd sometimes.



I sit there and breathe. Breathing is new to me, I held it inside myself for too long and it aches at times to let it out all at once. With an empty mind I absorb soothing silence inside me. Thousands of seconds pass by and time stops. Or may be, it repeats itself in endless loops. Past, present and future flow somewhere along this loop.

A mobile beep brings me back to reality, where my husband waits for me at home to give him lunch. I have to go back, but this walk… I will remember forever.

Topic Inspired by Weekly Challenge.





Other Side To The Story !

Peshawar Attack 16-Dec 0063

Once upon a time there was a man who lived happily with his family, a wife and a son. One day his son went to school and never came back……….

Oh no you are guessing it wrong. Lets read the story once again.

Once upon a time there was a man who lived happily with his family, a wife and a son. One day his son went to school and never came back BECAUSE some soldiers were searching for a terrorist and during this search operation, many children were killed that day.

The same day while that man was carrying dead body of his son in his arms, a drone attacked his home and killed his mourning wife.

On 16th December, that man along with his friends invaded a school full of students. They killed hundreds of them. Put bullets in the shining eyes of children until all the dreams of a shining future came out in the form of boiling blood. Grabbed two children and cut their necks with sharp knives until their innocent souls left their body and they turned cold. Made bullet holes in heads, chests and backs of children crying with fear, delicate children who were used to cry with pain on minute injuries. Burnt a teacher alive in front of her students.

And while doing that, their hands didn’t shiver but their faces turned black and cold after they were killed.

All that was left in the school that day, were books drenched in blood and floors piled up with dead bodies….. Sky never fell down and earth never cracked open.

They witnessed. They cried. Everyone cried that day.

Because everyone knew what happened. Sometimes, similar things happen in other parts of our country and no one cries. Because no one knows what happens there.

Except the sky and the earth….. And Mothers who are left to mourn their children forever.


Everyone knew the story. I just explained the other side as well. I had always think, what thing urges these terrorists to do such things like to attempt suicide attacks. After all, they are plain humans like us. The same emotions, the same heart and same bodies. No wings or extra ears. Then what happens in their life that they kill themselves and kill many others along with them. May be they suffer with the worst kind of mind disease that is born with the death of their whole family. Revenge mixed up with this sickness can do devastating things like ‘Peshawar incident‘ and the famous ‘9/11‘ !!

May be, the simplest way to eradicate all this nonsense is not through the “revenge taking cycle“. May be the way is to change the whole system of “War against terror” started by America. No one is stupid enough to notice that this system is producing more and more terrorists instead of eradicating them. Killing the innocent along with the guilty, Oh no this isn’t the way !

Stop lighting up candles and pray for the martyrs, for our nation, for our country.

War, terror, fighting, killing…… No good can come out of all this. War is never the solution.

Peace, Patience and hope…. That’s the real solution.

New Country, New Life, New Me !


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 !


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


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.






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….


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.


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, 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…..


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 !