Your (Almost) Daughter


Dear Mother,

You have left the house with all your children but me, and this is not the first time. The lights in the house are all out and I am sitting near the door numb like I always sit when you’re gone. Numb and naked and in darkness.

Mother, I am sorry for the way I cannot show it to you but you leave me shredded sometimes. You always tell me, picking me up in your ever-warm hands, launching kisses across my face, that I am your baby too. You always make me sense this sensation that you love me almost as equally but then your abandonment says otherwise, mother. I never say it to you, but you sense it, do you not? There is an expression on your face that I think you all refer to as ‘guilt’ whenever you return home and find me on my spot. No one but you approach me and say sorry. It’s not like I mind. Do I say anything to you? No I don’t. I am mute. But you always always always read my eyes. Your children cannot, mother.

Your children are what you all refer to as ‘prejudiced’ against me. I am different, I do realize, that is why I always am on my own. But you love my blue eyes, don’t you? Their black eyes would scrutinize my charcoal hair but you love them because you would gently brush them in the evenings and whenever you’d bathe me, you would be so careful with them. During the bath, you would always keep talking to me but some of the stories you tell, I do not understand, mother. And do you understand my isolation and solitude, mother? You must because only you come and tend to me just right and know when to give me space. But there is always something missing, mother. Is it wrong of me to feel this way, I just don’t know. I have never felt this way for anyone the way I do for you. The mother in the previous house never loved nor took care of me they way you do. I want to be loved like your real children.

But it’s not like I have never tried to get included with them. I have lowered my dignity and pride but they ignore me often as if I don’t exist. They do come and fondle me and caress my neck and pat on and scratch my head and I feel so nice but they then always have to busy themselves with some work of their own which I would not have any part in. I’d keep sitting around them, mother, but they would barely notice. I am too young and they are all old; they do but you never have made me feel bad about this. When it would get too boring to watch them in front of their screens is when I would retreat back to you in the kitchen. You would understand that I need food. You know, mother, I have gotten used to you giving me food separately. Me on the floor, they on the table. I really have. The likes of me are not supposed to eat on the table.

But I am sitting on the floor right now, mother, naked and numb, thinking and thinking and over thinking all of these thoughts in my head. I feel hungry, mother. My eyes are stuck on the door you would come through – after you return from shopping or the doctor or from your relatives’ or from the movies or from a dinner out or from some funeral – so that I could pretend to be upset at you and you sense that from my dish you left filled with cat food.


 

Advertisements
Featured post

Diseased Relief


From the healing of healers,
Pain will not be diseased, right?
Yes, do give me potion but do assure this,
I will not be relieved, right?


،چارہسازوں کی چارہسازی سے
درد بدنام تو نہیں ہوگا۔
،ہاں دوا دو مگر یہ بتلا دو
مجھے آرام تو نہیں ہوگا۔


This is a quatrain by Jaun Elia, translated from Urdu which I.

Featured post

Until Your Next Return


Breezes in ocean’s breast breed,
Timidly first, ashore they sweep.
Yearning the taste of sentinel sands,
How they then softly dance entranced.
Clawing, crawling, making their way,
Gathering rage against no light of day.
Slivers silver, shimmering under the clouds,
Whirling for the union, they soar about.
Winking and blinking comes Shore in sight,
Rhythm trembles at the faltering of might.
‘My Beloved’s glance acquivers my stance!
‘Makes me melt, to meld with Sands.’

 (A simmer…) | as the Waves’ breaths breathe their end,
(…Immersed) | alongside a kiss, a new life sands give.

 


My first Sonnet.


 

،شب و روز بدلتے ہیں پیر و مرشد تیرے
اچھا نہ ہوا خدا نے  جو ولی نہ کیا؟

،قبلہ جو اب ہے درست، یہ سمبھالے رکھ فہد
ولایت سے تو گیا، اب  منافقت سے بھی جاۓ گا کیا؟

 


Shab-o-roz badalte hain peer-o-murshid tere,
Acha na hua Khuda ne jo wali na kiya?

Qibla jo ab hai durust, yeh sambhale rakh, Fahad,
Wilayat se gaya, ab munafiqat se bhi jayega kia?


 

Wings Where They Belong

 


It is easy to find seagulls living in isolation from the company of crows.
Who finds seagulls befriend a crow, frantic at the charity they finally get,
where ultimately the latter flies ways.

The sea is too much a splendor,
broken rooftops reveal greater treasures
save for one who has eyes but no sight.

Paths where clasped hands walk,
from there shoo robins.
One hand with grains pulls a dozen sparrows.

Why cuckoos conceal themselves and sing on branches, I finally know.
It fears not the hawk,
the hawk is much too merciful on the tune.

Why rant of flying when you fly not, you flee?
Jibrael shakes his head at the words you speak.
In reality, these are wings where they belong.

Turn to the pigeons now, revolving round the Ka’aba,
ecstatic like the planets.
Dying echoes of Bilali azaan in their heads.

Painted walls bring a headache, their stench.
It is humbler to perch upon raw brick’s wall.
Or better yet, no walls.


 

The Exorcism


to ZA


Horrendous compulsions, dreary as void, consummate.
Illuminating paths, all ignis fatuus, I mark and execrate.
Guilty pleasures, filthy measures, make me whole
(Conceal me not but stir and expose me bold)!
Journeyed forth to the Patience Stone and back,
And yet no delight did I find… Alack:
Found but this Alabaster, drenched black in sins.
Change me please, I plead; wanton demons challenge many a rinse.
But mute is this Rock; You are no miracle, I chant!
Empty of veneration, left I at my own command. Continue reading “The Exorcism”

Prescriptions


Save these attempts, Physician! What know you of my malady?

Fall in love, then into grief, then prescribe me my remedy.


!تبیب یوں نہ کر کوششیں
تجھے کیا خبرمیرے مرز کی؟
،عشق کر، پھر چوٹ کھا
پھر لکھ دوا میرے درد کی۔


Withering Agent


Let the dust and smoke of this world collapse into your lungs.

Do not from it repulse. They are not enough of withering agents.

 

The real one is the barren desert, still and empty,

that dwells inside one – a possible breeding ground.

 

It is not the barrenness of that place that makes it barren.

Only the perception of that barrenness as barren.


 

Out of the blue awards – Mystery Blogger and One Lovely Blog


We know that I keep myself – and my private life – isolated from my blog posts over here, but I’m just gonna turn slightly carefree of that for a while.

Alright so, getting on, like I had previously established Avantika, I was totally taken back by this award nominee from you. This act of nomination might seem like a casual one to you but holds much prestige in my eyes, so thank you so much; that really comes from the core of my heart. Continue reading “Out of the blue awards – Mystery Blogger and One Lovely Blog”

Devastation


We are standing there

from where, news of our own self

does not to us come.

 

… Dying in desire

for death. Death keeps appearing,

alas, does not come.

 

With what face will you

be reaching Lord’s house? Shame till

you yet does not come.


ہم وہاں ہیں جہاں سے ہم کو بھی
کچھ ہماری خبر نہیں آتی

مرتے ہیں آرزو میں مرنے کی
موت آتی ہے پر نہیں آتی

کعبہ کس منہ سے جاؤ گے غالبؔ

.شرم تم کو مگر نہیں آتی


Made a little haiku poem out of last 3 stanzas of Mirza Ghalib’s legendary ode – which coincidentally – terrifically – reflects my current state of devastation.


Meretricious


You might as well grab me by the neck and shove me against the wall for all I care. I’d slam but the only protest you’d hear would be the dhuk sound from the wall. That’s it. I can’t help it when my legs would stop carrying me forward like this – when I’d be lost in some heavy daze. You’d bump and stare eerily at me. You’d nastily roar at me.

Satisfied? Took it all out? Would you now move on?

…Because my mouth won’t be freeing any hostages. No lies trembling out of these starkly painted lips. No false apology. My form says enough. Too smoky, my eyes, shielded with a lack of focus. Foreigners; all of your voices, drained out, I swear. And I’m so aware that they are.

So. Fucking. Aware.

This me would be a symbolism of disintegration, of disinterest; the contradiction of enthusiasm. I’d walk not – my legs’d take me. I’d eat not – this mechanical mouth’d tear, chew, swallow for me. There is a country-wide gap between what I’d be feeling and what I’d be expressing.

Hollowed am I. Not a gutted fish, an eviscerated fish. I wonder if fishing might just turn out to be exactly my thing? The empty hours of stretched stillness. Then the sudden jerks.

Just my thing.

In the finishing of my reports, attending of my calls, submitting of my works, there would be a robotic monotony; my voice, a distant cavity (during my day job). Still, my real one at least. And nobody makes me laugh; nobody can make me laugh.

These glorious sunsets and I would have tedious staring contests. They’d depart first, hence they’d blink first, hence they’d lose (I can sit unblinkingly for millennia. Seriously), though sometimes I’d wish they don’t…

Sometimes I’d wish the sun never goes down.

(But when it does…) And when it does… when this crossing of my life is trampled over… something is sunk behind… and something entirely else is afloat on the surface.

See, I can scan past all these morphing faces, these lifted masks, these sick realities (and this time I’m actually interested in all of them) – eyeing me as if one flashy look is enough to read me wholly. No fam no. It works the other way around.

It is at night when you wolves come flowing out, showing your true thirst; howling wildly. And oh how much I love letting you seek pleasure in the illusion of decrypting the enigmatic ‘me’. The illusion of you using ‘me’. You’re the one above, no? No. Way down below in reality. Look at your eyes. I spot a hundred grammatical errors in them…

Whatever your nightly hedonistic labels would be for me, your mornings would have more or less the same. To put it in one word; “Meretricious”. Aww, poor you. You thought you’d have the last laugh, no? See how the filth of your forms is now moving into your tongues? your vocabulary, growing trashier like a sewer. Is this the part where you throw me out of your house? No? Uh oh, I’m laughing now. A desolate, sardonic, broken laugh because you’re a joke (what? I never said nothing can make me laugh).

Aha! So this is the part where you throw me out of your house…


 

When There’s Poison In Her Head


“… And then it began to settle in me, you know, the solemnity of the situation…

“I mean I’m there, right in front of her while she has another of her… attack, and it’s… it’s crushing to see. I feel like… like I’m being gutted like an animal.

“She’s there, right in front of me, roaring and screaming with glittery eyes and a… a body personifying agony like she’s… she’s s.. seizing and… sh… shivering so hard, with her hands flailing vviolently and all – an utterly beautiful disastrous mess, really… Imagine looking… imagine the one you’re madly in love with going through that… Imagine…”

He sniffs and carries on. Continue reading “When There’s Poison In Her Head”

Hey, You


Hey, you – the one resting their chin over their folded arms on their side of the car window, while the others hoot and laugh beside you in the car.
Yes, you – the one leaning against the balcony railing alone in the chilly winds, while the others celebrate in the halls and rooms inside.
Yeah, you – the one sitting atop the grassed land with your eyes fixed above at the otherwordly infinities, while the others now are nowhere in sight.
Yes, you – the one with their chin rested upon their knees, sitting on the chair and looking out the window at 5 AM, while the others weave their mundane dreams.
Psst, you – With their legs dangling in the waking waters and their head gazing ahead, while the others snuff out bonfires and fix their tents.

Continue reading “Hey, You”

Braided


I like my hair in a braid. No, I love my hair in a braid. From where he sits, I bet that all he could see is the braid, if he is willing to.
He never seems to be willing to.

The dutiful scribbling of my pen would loyally fail to betray the sea of thoughts in my head. His thoughts. An urge, like bile rises in me to glance back towards him, which I swallow back. Look up on the blackboard instead, Shireen.

Yes, better.
We’re studying something related to Chemical Energetics in Inorganic Chemistry and I’m getting a D this semester. Needless to mention to whom should the blame for that be directed to; technically. Struggling to distract my mind, I adjust my feline glasses and dart my eyes back on the board. And the urge strikes again.
Screw it, just steal a glimpse. I turn around impulsively.
The caffeinating sight of his coffee-coloured mane, I spy first. Everything else next.
From the dreamy hazel eyes to the jaw occupied with shadowy stubble – that thankfully leaves his jawline unperturbed. Those protruding pink lips that could be chewed like a marshmallow, and that tan, lighter than the shade of the milkiest milk chocolate in the world.
Why of course, thank you for the unwanted maniacal stretch of a smile, dear lips, but I’d like it vanished now. Yes, good.
It’s a freaking wonder how I am the only girl around obsessing over Narcissus here. Was it Narcissi or Narcissus? Darn it, stupid Greek mythologies.
The mechanical board-to-notebooks, notebooks-to-board glances roll all around the classroom. I’m stumped and don’t know what’s the worst of it, whether the fact that my wrist has gone irony after endlessly jotting down the chalked letters and diagrams, or the fact that nothing that I have written makes sense to me. I might as well have been trying to decrypt Egyptian hieroglyphics.
I drop my pen with a sigh and navigate my eyes back towards Narcissi/Narcissus to find his determined eyes dribbling in synchronicity with his pen. His tongue is planted across the corner of his lips and he writes on. Everything else fades into the background.  It’s breathtaking as to how oblivious is this boy to the wonders nature has endowed upon him. My head leans into my hand as I gape at his Hellenic face. My lips part; I even forget how to blink.
And suddenly then, he raises his hand and Sir Baig points towards him, “yes Zamad, answer,” and he blurts out “By drawing the Hess Cycle.” Accompanying his voice, I feel as if a thick wave of a summer zephyr breezed into the room.
Zamad. Could there have been a better name to go with that face, oh perfect stranger?
“Right!” The professor walks up to the board and chalks some more lines.
I return to glare at him with a slight squint of my eyes this time… and he sees me. At the intersection of our eyes I feel a clang of sword beat against sword in my chest; my stomach goes all acrobatic and then there’s a miserable juggling of breath in my lungs.
I’m never going to the circus again.
I think I feel a stroke of thunder within when he squints his eyes into mine, bemused, his lips twitching – he inaudibly challenges with an eyebrow raise, ‘you sure you know what you’re doing?’ Am I sure?
Goosebumps fall on my skin like rows of toppling dominoes. Just his looks could evoke such anarchy?
Against the plenitude of odds, I dare myself to hold his sight. Unblinking, both of ours glare remain. His brown eyes brand into my darker ones. I feel myself in tatters on the inside; yet I find no feathers of skin shedding off of me before my eyes. Even as I inch into this battle by the second, disbelief of my own feat cloaks me. I’m braver than I thought I were.
My lips feel funny. Shireen, hold yourself together. But I can’t.
I do something with my lips that I think might appear cute, but then he gives me a bulging-eyed look before averting his gaze as if he’s walked in on someone who was undressing. I feel a piece of me carve and die out right then. The loss of electricity, the return of eye-blinks and the normalcy of breathing pattern are the trends I’m no longer thankful for.
“Yes, Shireen… Answer what I just asked.”
I immediately turn towards Sir Baig. He has asked me a question. Another surge of electricity rushes through me, but this one I don’t crave again. “Uhh… Hess… Cycle?” I say in my soft timid voice.
“… I didn’t ask any question.”
There was a murmur of laughter.
I fail to grasp that. “Sir?”
He runs a hand along his bald head and barks out this time, “I didn’t ask any question, Ms Shireen! I’d rather you pay attention over here or I’d be more than pleased to throw you out of the class.” Saying that, he turns to the board again, fuming. I wonder if it was just an illusion of light or did I actually saw steam rising from atop his head.
I don’t care whether rest of the class was laughing. My eyes just tread back to Zamad’s seat… and find his face covered behind his notebook. He parts it slightly and I see the playful laugh in his glistening eyes and a corner of his upturned mouth before he shies away from me. Heat rushes up my cheeks.
That was the most beautiful sight I have seen this week. 
 
Yield Shireen, yield, or this’ll be the death of y- 
For once, I snap off the voice in my head like some deity would shut close the Pandora’s box, before giving in to the field of smiles awaiting behind my lips.
I feel a spring blooming in a corner of me where I never thought it’d bloom.

A WordPress.com Website.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: