سکوت – Stillness

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

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

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

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

Time. That can never be counted. Only lived.

 

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

Hauntings

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

I Don’t Wanna Cry Daddy

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

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

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

 

Full of life, shinning eyes

Energetic box of chatter

I don’t wanna cry daddy

She writes him a letter

 

Shivering hands holding a pen

Scribbles on paper damp with tears

She shows him her bruised heart

Filled with heartbreaking fears

 

I am in so much pain , daddy

It doesn’t go, no matter what I do

You are so far away from me

All I need is a hug from you

 

As I laid with head on your arm

Be happy always, you used to say

May you never guess grief in my laugh

Now, while on the telephone I pray

 

You used to call me your innocent fairy

Guess what daddy, the innocence was gone

Long before my sensitive heart needed love

And I searched for it in strangers unknown

 

I needed a friend daddy, to share tales

To listen to my problems, hold my hand

While you were busy earning money

Life tore me apart, turned me to sand

 

My nights became so agonizing and long

Burning wounds, dying soul, bloody eyes

I cried and cried daddy I was so lonely

But in the day I covered it all with lies

 

And then you married me off to far away land

I saw you cry while you gave away my hand

I had a chance to tell you what I went through

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

 

This time daddy, after a few years

I went through the same heart break

The demons under my bed followed

The curse once again kept me awake

 

The pain tortured your little girl daddy

She needed the mask she used to wear

People changed, circumstances different

But the old depression won’t disappear

 

But guess what daddy, all that suffering

After mourning all night for so many years

Your girl refused to live and enjoy misery

She fought with her demons, faced her fears

 

Tears and pain made her strong

She fought and got her Allah back

Blocked memories that ate her flesh

Forced her dead soul back on track

 

Love and Pain both here but outlook changed

Heart silent, loneliness there but no despair

Still afraid of watching dreams as they shatter

But refusing to live in misery, I stopped to care

 

Remember the day when you were sick

Devastated, love you daddy, I cried aloud

Your little girl daddy, is all grown up

And all I wish is to make you proud

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About A Dream.

Dream. ©Lala Rukh

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

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

May be it’s a dream.

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

You discern. You realize.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

My Childhood Home

Alone beneath the shadows © Lalarukh

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

Thoughts Of A Stormy Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Find Myself Scattered…

I find myself scattered amid times age-old

In myths beyond expression, In tales untold

In sinful thought of a saint with heart unsure

In glare of kindness that emits from a whore

In pure love between a couple,weirdest of all

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

In the winds that blow away veil of a wise girl

With face painfully ugly, eyes green like pearl

I find myself scattered amid times age-old

In myths beyond expression, In tales untold

In wildest fears of Syrian Refugees in a boat

In eyes of Peshawar child, knife at his throat

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

In bullets fired at her mother with ripped womb

In hopeful eyes of tiny girl fighting with Cancer

In ungratefulness of healthy finding no answer

I find myself scattered amid times age-old

In myths beyond expression, In tales untold

In the Kaaba of my soul, In Prayers unheard

In pleasant sounding sad chirps of a caged bird

In emptiness of Namaz, In pleasures of Love

In finding Him in heart, not in the sky above

I find myself scattered everywhere but in me

Help me gather up myself, Please let me BE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Preamble Of My Death Note

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

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

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

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

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

But you can’t. You just can’t.

Just Sharing A Thought…

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

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

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

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

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

Then, I’ll start hating it like others.

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

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

Black Heavy Boots

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

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

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

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

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

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

————————————————————-

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

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

His black heavy boots are covered in blood…

—————————————————————

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

 

 

Happiness- My unusual side

                Me and my husband- Newcastle upon Tyne beach.

Happiness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article is written in response to Dungeon Prompts.

 

 

 

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

Me ne jab doolat ki havas ko janoon me dekha

Yun rishtun ki lash ko lat patt khoon me dekha

 

 

Paisay ka laalach tha, dhuaan ban k chaaya hua

Ankhun me chubhta dard, seenay se lagaya hua

 

 

Kaghaz k tukray banaay maan ki ankh ka noor

Notun ka uncha dhair tha baap k dil ka saroor

 

 

Bhae ki muhabbat ka gala ghoont raha tha bhae

neela hogya tha khoon, laal hogae thi kamaae

 

 

Zameen o jaedaad ne khoompa tha kamar me chura

Naik seerat ki daaghdaar, achun ko bana dia the bura

 

 

Yun aj zindagi ki haqeeqat apni auqaat dikha gae thi

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

 

 

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

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

 

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

Dark Mornings, Sunlit nights

As the sunlight shines through the sky, night falls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Bless me.

Bless me with pain, I want to feel alive

once again.

Bless me with tears, I need to cry out

my fears.

Bless me with love, I want to shine

high above.

Bless me to pray, to push this void

far away.

Bless me to beat despair, to breathe in

fresh air.

Bless me to write, to live once again

with pride.

Bless me a fresh start, to wake up my

sleeping heart.

Please bless me with pain, I want to live

once again !

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

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Other Side To The Story !

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)

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.

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.