Wandering Venture

Grey Street (Credits: This)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

I Don’t Wanna Cry Daddy

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

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

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

Source

 

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.

dsc00740
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.

 

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

294715-pakistan-attack-reuters
A mother crying on the death of her child- Peshawar School Attack 16 December 2014, Pakistan.

Ma!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Till then, With Love.

Your Brave Son.

 

2420B91F00000578-2877148-image-a-36_1418862011512
From this….
beautiful-flowers-garden-3
To this…

 

 

 

 

Thoughts Of A Stormy Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

Preamble Of My Death Note

Bones in the Desert

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…

tumblr_ntv17ykDn61sl9ts5o1_500

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.