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.



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”


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”


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.

Ignis Fatuus

Purple skies grumpily darkened and the moon’s mark of absence was dotted by the twinkling stars; yet again. For fifth straight night, there was no sign of moon.
Another sliver of wind cut through me, making me raise the hood of my hoodie over my head. I felt cold. My teeth clattered, almost matching the rhythm of my strides. Upon turning down the dreary lifeless alley, I felt relief settled under me. I was back on the street. Glancing sideways, I found the whooshing blurs of cars streaking my vision. I started leftward, and walked along the sidewalk framed with dust, while lampposts dutifully lit my way. I kept my head low, lost in thoughts; my long legs still striding. Like the rise and fall of a seesaw, my shifting shadows danced behind and before me as I passed each lamppost.
1… 2…  3…  4… 5… 6… 7…  8… 9… 10… 11…
It took 11 strides to mark each passing lap of those series of lampposts. And hence, I forced my focus on making sure I cross each lap in precisely 11 strides. It proved to be a surprisingly engrossing hobby for a while. But then I got bored and sighed. Steam emerging from my mouth writhed in the air then dissolved into it completely.
Across the sidewalk, a busy overhead road flowed parallelly then declined like a playground slide before merging with the flat main road. It then passed from under the overhead bridge that rooted from across the Eden crossroads ahead of me. Adjacent to the overhead road stood patches of grove.
Crisscross of the winds whistled in my ears every now and then, but the cacophony of the whooshing cars were what dominated the auditory senses. Horns blared and tyres screeched somewhere distant.
I had already failed at keeping up with my 11-stride laps when a crowd of grim-looking pedestrians streamed through, brushing past me like a cloud over moon. I missed their warmth the second they passed.
My long legs started again. Against my dark skin, the neon hands of my watch glittered. It was 7:47 thanks to the extended University session; I had better pick up my pace, I thought.
My head had lingered earthward for too long, I realized. Looking up, I noticed the skies were still clear, festooned with stars. Jetting cars to my right-
Oh, wait…
Is that…? Is that… moonlight?!
My monologue wasn’t alone in its abrupt halt, my legs stopped too. There, beside the overhead road to my right, the grove was backlit softly by a milky light. Through the constricted spaces in between the foundation pillars under the overpass, I spotted the furtive light; painted behind the benign forestry; on the sky. It was the moon.
‘It has to be the moon,’ I thought.

Neglecting now the slicing cold, I ran.

The overhead bridge across the Eden crossroad was the only platform high enough from where I could have spotted the moon. I aimed for there. Was it really the moon? After five tedious days and nights, is the sky willing to fix us a tryst finally?
It has to be the moon, I thought again.
The hood went flying behind me, hovering in the wind – slamming against my knapsack that doddered against my back. My feet engined along the pavement. I was a panther against the wind; my eyes still set on that lit segment of the sky to my right.
Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. 
Blocks of buildings blocked my view of the just apparent moonshine as I neared the bridge. Crossing the road, shimmying past the cars, I reached and climbed the metallic stairs – three steps at a time. I felt like a mad machine.
From atop the bridge, all the unhurdled horizons were apparent. I treaded towards where the source of celestial light would be visible clearly… and stilled.
They were stadium lights… of course.

I sighed and suddenly felt my chest and throat on fire, as if replaced with the breast of a dragon. My lungs too were inflamed. I bent, rested my palms on my knees and tried to catch my breath, still looking at the nimbus of light above the opened-up skull of the sports stadium. Ignis fatuus, I thought, and chuckled with a shudder.

With my lungs relatively calmer, I stood up straight. After the sky’s inspection, it was confirmed:
“No moon…”
I fetched the pack of cigarettes from my pocket, took one out and slid it between my lips.
“Just great,” I grumbled, kindling up a flame.

Sometimes, She Becomes A Human Too

You would always find her eyes uncovered; rarely blinking. Those otherworldly orbs, on display for the world to see. Sheer blackness in them, in contrast to all the colors that actually formed her. You should be, and maybe you unknowingly would be grateful that her gaze flutters everywhere but to your eyes. No blitz of thunder at your heart to strike.

Sometimes you would find her on the streets, walking hand in hand one day in one’s company, another day in another’s. A realm of angelic grace she would be. Calmly, easily, vigilantly would she take her steps, as if time itself sought refuge under her unseen kingdom – and who knew, maybe it did… You would also find bewitched strangers, hustling and making way for her to pass on as if she were royalty. A feathery thank you would roll out on her tongue and she would walk on, hand in hand, turning a blind eye to everyone… Unaware as to how baffled had she left those faces behind.

Some miracle was she. This girl, Safa – innocent, demure. Extracting joy in even the most mundane of tasks. Like all of a sudden she would stand on her feet, would raise both her arms up, hoping to accidentally touch the ceiling, without even realizing that she had become an immediate cynosure in the room. Then would giggle shyly lowering her vision as her cheeks heated up – when would be informed that everybody was watching her. Some descended fairy Safa was.

You would find her to be the breaker of worldly trends. Not only everyone but everything loved Safa. The sky especially. On some days, in her mind, skies would turn lilac with yellow stars; the shy sun would first hesitate, then refuse to come out altogether, hence the mornings would be dominated by the crispy moon. She would picture the sky bursting in mulberry gradients at other times – though unaware what the shade mulberry actually looked like – and festooned with juicy clouds that hovered heavily. Despite Safa’s absurd imaginations, the sky would never, could never curse her, nor release showers over her. She would somehow always get a predilection for rain. Always.

The way she smiled, ah! That was real – those curves and stretches of her lips that resembled smiles of a migrated traveller returning home decades later. And Safa’s would make the winds gallop, tripping over themselves for a fleeting sight of her. The whole world and everything in it pampered her…

And yet at times, unbelievably, she would turn into a human too…

… So naturally that you wouldn’t believe your eyes. One second she would be sitting over there – waiting – staring with glazed eyes at a wall, then gradually would fall under the spell of sleep; her celestial disguise slipping, like the evanescence of a dream. Her head would be leaning against the rest, her dark mane a messy nest, her mouth ajar; a string of drool leaking from its corner. How mundane, how ordinary would Safa seem.

There would similarly be days when Safa would be found ransacking her knapsack, feeling her hands around for something she cannot find. Frustated then, she would cuss indecently under her breath. If you would be lucky enough to hear that, you would find her so earthly in that moment; so mortal. An angel fallen from grace.

… You would also realize that only she could make those words sound cute. But that acknowledgement would come second – for obvious reasons.

Lights illumined with dignity, would ballet in Safa’s vicinity. If you really possessed eyes, you could watch the lights in the room desperately writhe and burn, performing arabesques and whatnot. All of that, just to grasp her attention, and yet they would fail. She had not, eyes for the ordinary. What Safa saw, others did not; could not…

And nor could she see the things others did see. Yet she would seem so accustomed to the revolving world, navigating with such ease that you would never learn at first glance, of her destitution of sight… Her blindness Safa carried not as a burden, not as a source of pity, but as a debt of this universe to her. Its wondrous compensations she accepted heartily; blissfully.

… But that never meant she wouldn’t give anything within a blink of an eye to watch the sky just one more time.

Glass Shards That Once Were Dreams – part two

Continued from part one…

The next three weeks saw Anzala’s fantasies of her escapes frequent all the more. This had fuelled her rebelliousness. She no longer felt fascinated by the cheap thrills around. Untaken roads, undiscovered strangers, unsolved puzzles; these aroused thrill.

No one could have predicted but this passage of time was what had been the roots for future ailments to come…

When Anzala’s interest for the mundane chores too evaporated, all the workload fell onto Anahlia’s shoulders.

“You’re getting married in no time, better get used to it.” Anahlia’s parents told her, and yet she complied, swallowing down complains. She convinced herself of the belief that no matter the strains of those days, Zahran would treat her like a queen. She deserved it, did she not? After all the poems and verses of love she had etched down in her diary and after all the sketches in her sketchbook for him, she did deserve it. Any cognitive man would have fallen for her after all those dedications.

What kind of a man Zahran was, she knew not.

Oblivious to the creeping dawn outside, Harun had been sprawled out on his bed. Eyes half awake and tinged with red. The pounding of his heart rung in his ears, accentuated by the photograph in his hands. It was of Anzala.

His heavy kohl-rimmed eyes couldn’t help but repeatedly travel the length of her unmoving yet pulsing beauty. She had him mesmerized since first sight. With intoxication seeping into his features, Harun admired her. Worshipped her rather – each night as the world around lay unconscious. Anzala and her pictures were the perpetrators of Harun’s sleepless nights and he used to complain not one bit. But her recent disinterest in Harun made him restless. He felt ominous.

“You still are all mine,” Harun thought and laughed shyly, deliriously. His laugh resembled a donkey’s bray he realized, and recalling Anzala call him donkey made him laugh even more.

Harun tossed and turned, explicitly being tickled by amalgamated thoughts for Anzala; of both growing panic and insatiable desires. He extended his arms, her photo still in his hands, “your devil eyes, your angel face. Mine Anzala… Mine.”

Ogling at her picture desperately then, terrific thoughts reached his mind. His eyes glazed over. He stared into nothingness, and blinkingly then, got his focus returned.

“If you won’t be mine, you would be no one’s, Anzala.” Harun whispered in a deranged manner.

He dropped her photograph on the floor then. Like a hovering leaf in the wind it swayed as it fell, finally resting over the sea of other photographs of Anzala. Hundreds of them.

The rising sun burning in his face made Harun draw the drapes and lay to sleep.

That afternoon, the sun blazed. Amidst the thin crowd of people stood Harun, wearing his skull backpack, nervously waiting outside the girl’s college for Anzala. Her sight, that would quench his spiritual thirst. Bodily one was barely any concern at that moment.

Half an hour swept and yet there was no sign of Anzala. Harun deduced that she probably took a day off, and wiping the sweat off his brows, he sighed and walked back to his car.

Taking the long way back, like Anzala always did was distressing for him, but regardless of that he did. Trying once again to understand her perspective of this world, he attempted looking at things through her eyes. The trees only seemed like trees, not freaks that shakingly laugh like old men as they stealthily monitor human activity. Decaying buildings were no ruins of future, but a mess to look at. Wild alley cats were dirty beings instead of savvy supernatural savages, and the wailing beggars were a disdainful sight rather than heavenly.

Just then, he stopped abruptly in his tracks, his backpack lightly slamming against his back. Earlier look of scorn wiped off his face when he found an ancient-looking beggar leaning against an alley wall, accompanied by the mesmeric form of… Anzala.

He stood there shocked, watching her from a distance. She sat in her uniform, both unwary and uncaring of all the eyes that were on her. She was feeding the ragged, heavily-bearded man from her lunchbox, and making him drink from her water bottle. As he swigged the drink, the decrepit man’s eyes, like pools of whiskey, rippled; and tears flowed in the shape of gratitude for Anzala. But Anzala, oh she just smilingly stared at the man – at his wrinkles as if they were paths on a treasure map.

This made Harun cringe. He reached up and called out to Anzala, making the old man squirm. Anzala looked up at him without a waver on her smiling lips. Just the softness of her eyes turned piercing, forcing Harun to avert his gaze. “Get up, and come over here,” said he.

As she prepared to rise, the beggar gripped her hand tightly, staring hysterically at Harun and then looking back at Anzala, furiously nodding sideways. “It’s okay, baba. He’s with me, I’ll be fine.”

Her reassurances were of no use as the mute beggar whimpered for her to not go with him, and Anzala had to be forced up by Harun’s grip on her hand. Away from everyone’s eyes, they went deeper into the alley. Anzala freed herself of his grip and exclaimed with a contained fury under her cutting voice, “do not touch me again, donkey.”

Harun’s eyes hovered over her angry face and yet he found her ravishing. He found himself spellbound first, and then soften. No photograph of hers in this state did he possess.

“I waited outside your college… You weren’t there.” With his shyness returning, he spoke softly.

“I bunked college to stroll the streets.” She shrugged swiftly.

“Bunked college?” Harun cried out in surprise. At her intimidating gaze then, he shook his face. “What has happened to you, my dear Anzala? You used to… be interested in me,” whispered he.

“Was I?”

Her mocking glare pierced through his eyes and he blinked sharply. Realization sunk within him. “But… I love you so much, Anzala.”

Anzala sighed heavily, throwing her hands in the air.

“Look Harun, you do not love me. You love this pretty face of mine. This face, that is not even me! My dumb ignorant friend, how do I tell you? I am not these contours, these edges. I am not this skin and smudges. I… I look at myself in the mirror and can’t stand to watch the same features that used to amaze me back then. This face, this body, doesn’t feel like it’s me, Harun. These unmerited burdens came to me; I didn’t traverse any mountain to earn them. No, this is an illusion, for I am something deep. These few weeks, I feel as if I have changed and developed. I grew up. In this tiny stay, I feel like I can last a forever. Something unseen, something soulful has always been calling me, and I have a chance to grasp it. These whispers of the breeze, rustling of the trees, floating of the clouds, they are calling me, and I… I am lured towards their arcane voices. I know you don’t get this, but maybe, maybe you someday will… That I have a pulsating soul within that needs its food, friend.

“You search for God at the end of a prayer mat and that is absolutely right. I am not faithless, I believe in all that, trust me. But you, all of you seem so oblivious of the fact that He is elsewhere too! I have… I saw a reflection of God in the face of that beggar, Harun. It’s crazy, but I see it in nature too. These mysteries, even I don’t get fully, but they overwhelm me. I want this side of world to swallow me – I want to lose myself. Trade my face for anyone’s, I don’t care. You’ll have to fall for another pretty face, Harun – you can’t have me. As long as the flare within me burns, as long as my dreams do not shatter, I don’t think anyone can.”

Harun stood in awe, staring agape at her as if a jinn had possessed her. Anzala seemed to be too much engrossed in her own speech to notice him. She was transcended into fantasies with the daggers of her eyes, blunt for once; unfocused.

“I… Did think that you might not accept me, but I didn’t imagine you would become this… ungrateful sinner. You are so beautiful on the outside, by God, but something vile and ugly has gotten inside you.”

Anzala smiled sadly, expectantly, at Harun’s flabbergasted comments, but she did not mind. She just pursed her plain yet striking lips. For the first time had she voiced her fantasies like this and she felt ecstatic. Her words were no longer going along with her spirit – they were becoming her spirit.

Harun clenched his jaw, and he, for the first time stared at whole of her Venus fair face unyieldingly; unrelentingly. For a near minute, his sight on her face lingered in absorption, as if he was memorizing her features.

… And he was, for since that day, along with the lustre in those burnt honey eyes, the flare of her soul too had been snuffed out, like a melted candle that would never light again.

“I have a parting gift for you,” Harun whispered softly.

… Procured the acid bottle from his bag then swiftly…

Before Anzala could even blink to reality…

He emptied it on her face, achingly.

While the acid ate away her skin, Anzala felt fiery pain. And yet it was not as much as that of the evanescence of her dreams.

To be continued…

Glass Shards That Once Were Dreams – part one

“Snuff out the lantern, you know I can’t sleep like this,” said Anahlia.

The room was lit in only partial darkness. Anahlia could only invite sleep upon being devoured by whole of it these days.
With her face cradled on her palms, Anzala let her gaze glide down the mirror. It descended from the curve of her forehead to the soft contour of her chin. A familiar fascination started clouding her face. Staring into the old vanity table mirror in an amused daze, she felt as if mirror returned her stares; praising every inch of her, but with a sort of lasting. Or longing. It baffled her each time. The shy dance of light and shadows, perpetrated by the fluctuating light of the lantern, played with Anzala’s face; its stale yellow glow, bringing a mystic lustre in her piecing dark brown eyes. While she explored her gorgeous features, she saw again, what Harun saw in her. The corner of her lips twitched up, manifesting the confused satisfaction that her whole being felt.
Every visit to the mirror felt anew. Like it was the first time. And despite the luring beauty she spied in the mirror, she could never stare into it for too long. Even though nothing changed, a fear lived in her heart. Fear that something would change. As if, if she kept looking closely for too long, her cheeks that sloped down the silky heaps of her cheekbones would turn hollow, like sucked into pits. Or as if the hands of the clock, like a mad ballerina, would swivel at such a speed that age would taint her smooth olive skin with wrinkles like crevices. Her fascination always morphed into aghast at this. It did yet again, making Anzala avert her eyes and blink to reality.
She realized Anahlia had called out her name several times, after she broke out of the daze muttering “alright, alright!.” Standing up, Anzala avoided meeting her elder sister’s eyes on her. She walked to the hanging lantern and extinguished the flame, introducing complete darkness into the room.
Each night the sisters would shut out all the electrical lights, turning on the soft lantern’s. They did so to give the parents an impression that they are still sleeping, as the dull light wouldn’t betray the illusion of darkness. Feeling her way to the futon on the floor, she laid next to her sister, cloaking herself under the folds of blanket.
Couple of minutes passed. She just laid with her eyes open, lost in a spell of thoughts. Thoughts of escape, and fantasies of living far far away.
… Faceless.
“I don’t feel good, Anzala.”
Anahlia’s voice tore through the silence. It made her sister sit up immediately. In the dark, she made her steps navigate to the lantern, lighting it up. The faint familiar glow ignited the room.
“Wha… What happened? What’s wrong?” inquired Anzala stuttering and falling beside her sister on the mattress. She was never good at nursing situations, and feared that one is about to show up. Anahlia turned to face her.
Compared to Anzala’s sharp features, Anahlia was more on the soft side. Her round face was as if lit by only a hushed radiance, but some radiance was definitely there. Skin of hers was polished with a wooden tan as opposed to her sister’s olive. The softest feature were her eyes. Innocent like a doe’s, they were of the same colour as her sister’s and shaped like perfect almonds. Always glistening. Her nose was fixed down between them; soft and terse, but complete, unlike her lips. It seemed as if her crafter did the job on them in haste, leaving one corner smudged. Because of that, they looked a bit non symmetrical, plain too. On the whole, all her features spoke home. As though her face was the only field on which they could belong. Anahlia was attractive, but not as stunning as to turn heads, like her sister.
“The marriage… with Zahran, I don’t have a good feeling about it.” She spoke in her thin, soft voice, tucking strands of her brown hair behind her ears.
Anzala let out a loud sigh, worriment escaped her. She spoke in her cutting voice, “Zahran is a good man, Ana… Hey, don’t fret! He looks like a… Very manly man.”
“One picture. One picture is all I have to determine everything about him, Anzala. I can’t do it!” exclaimed Anahlia, softly so as to not wake their parents up in the neighbouring room.
“You willing to tell that to Abbu?” Seeing Anahlia bury her face in her pillow then, Anzala replied with a scoff, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Her recent motions made Anahlia’s blanket lower, letting Anzala spot the rust-coloured diary.
“You know what really is your problem?” she snatched the diary that Anahlia had been hugging absent-mindedly, and swung it in front of her face. “This! This and that stupid sketchbook of yours. They are it. Let go of him, Ana.” Anahlia’s eyes bulged out in terror and she immediately regained possession of her notebook, hugging it again. Her eyes dampened.
“We exchanged poetries in this, Anzala. You know that. So many promises, so many poems… laced with love. We drew up a realm of towering glass palaces together. Calling them dreams.” Anzala saw her sister closing her eyes as she relived those moments. “It’s all going to shatter, I know, I feel it. I… have lost hope. Now this would be the only token of remembrance I’d have of him after…” She let out a shuddering sigh, thinking of the marriage after two months. “I can’t lose this.”
To Anzala’s surprise, her sister didn’t say this in between sobs like she had expected. She let it all sink in, but she barely had any assurances to comfort her sister with. She always had been the one to ‘stick ’em with the pointy end.’
“No matter the eloquence those poems contain, they are now your past. He is your past, while Zahran, your future. Believe it or not, that is the truth. The sooner you start accepting it, and the sooner you let go of him, dear sister, the sooner would you move on. I know I am hitting you with the harsh truth and it sucks, but I can assure you of one thing. Hope is never lost, dear Ana. Long as life remains, so does hope.”
Anahlia absorbed Anzala’s daggers with a swallow of the lump in her throat. She took a deep breath and wiped the little tear that had just leaked. “Hope…” Saying it out loud then, it really hit her. She raised her lowered face, her doe-like eyes bulging out.  “Yes Anzala, hope!”
Anzala stared at her sister’s now gleeful face with a contained confusion. “Huh?”
Anahlia’s eyes closed. Cherishing the words behind it, she recited her lover’s poem:
“If the palace of dreams I build for you,
By miseries unseen – do erode, love.
Hope still is not lost, for I live in you, 
Rise, do not fall – just hope, my love.”
Anzala still glared at her cluelessly.
“Oh silly!” Anahlia held both of Anzala’s arms and shook her. “You’re right! Zahran could be the one… Maybe, Zahran too will see me the way he did. Maybe he will grasp the light in me too. Maybe he would keep it burning too; brighter maybe? I just have to hope! That’s what this means.” Seeing Anzala’s unsettled response, she knew how crazy she sounded. She still went on, sadly smiling this time, “Sometimes glass does shatter beautifully, no? Piling up into shapeless yet sparkling monuments.”
Anzala stared at her as if she was deranged, but then forced her expression to change to that of relief. “Yeah… I’m just glad you got what I said, at least.”
Anahlia smiled, shaking her head. “What about you, though? Do your dreams include that Harun?”
She found her sister blink, and then snicker. Anzala didn’t expect this. “That donkey? No way. Far from it. He’s just there for my uh… financial support.” She poked her elbow into Anahlia and giggled, absent-mindedly fiddling with anklet on her feet that Harun had bought her. She squinted at her sister and then said, “I am more of a rebel, Ana. You should know, I can’t live the life like you; timidly. On the boundaries they set.” She pointed towards their parents’ room. “My dream is simply to escape.” She blew into her hand, mimicking an explosion gesture at that.
Anahlia waited for her to go on but then realized that this was all she was getting out of her sister. Hearing only this hollowed her chest, but she did not let on. Little did she know, Anzala didn’t even need to look at Anahlia’s face to know how what she said made Ana’s heart fall into the pit of her stomach. She knew her sister too well. Anahlia just whispered a prayer in her heart, that fate may never snatch her sister from her the way Anzala wants fate to snatch.
If only she knew that her prayer would be accepted…
“Sleepy?” Anzala inquired. “No, I think I’ll… Write,” she heard Ana respond. “A poem?” Asked Anzala. “Yes… Relapse of Hope.” Anzala was the biggest fan of her sister’s poems. It was no secret. She lighted up. “Will you read it to me?” she asked excitedly. Anahlia glanced at her fingers, then raising her eyes, responded with a smiling nod. Anzala was on the verge of spilling her merriment when Ana shushed her saying, “if only you agree to slow dance to it the way you always do.” Anzala shrugged her shoulders and slurred deliberately. “Aye, suuure.” She had a vivacious grin plastered across her face.

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