Two sides, and both right.

Try living the life where you try to think of the other person, the other side, the opposing story... constantly. It's painful. But is it right?

Whether with friends or foes, imagine yourself reasoning for their behavior, attitude and feelings, and more than often above your own. Just because you realize that there are sides,and there are stories, and that the other person is as human as you. He/She deserves as much a chance as you.  I believe , 'empathy' is what its called.

But how much empathy is enough?  And on the expense of sounding selfish and insane, does constant empathy not ruin our own self esteem? As egocentric as this may seem, how do I find logic in losing my self in the process of understanding others. Just how...

Can anyone out there tell  me the exact proportion of using 'I' as well as 'them', and in that maintaining individual sensibilities and the social etiquette necessary to run a better world?

I am living in paradoxes, which life is. But I can't do it. Cause it seems that this very contradiction this universe runs on, disallows it to be followed by men - perhaps only understood.

Baah! How unfair is life.

Hulksville Villain

Chapter 1: Casual killing

Known for its year around cheerful spring-summer weather, it was an awfully dark and gloomy night for Hulksville. Massive grey clouds encircled close to the earth’s skin, engulfing the moon in and out of sight. It felt as though the moon was drowning over and over again, and even though one felt they could reach to touch the protruded tummy of the clouds, against the terror they welcomed, the moon was far from reach and shone merely as an example of what one assumes was a show of tyrannical public punishment. 

Famous for its friendly crowd, functioning institutions and governmental competency, Hulksville was an ideal city of a few thousands. Surrounded by high peaks and low valleys, flowing rivers and evenly spread green pastures, it gave a reflection of a post-card perfect picture. Only today, contrary to its general nature, it was dark from the outside and it was on the inside. On Lane 26, house no. 13, home to Mr. and Mrs. Frank, a monster was to be born. He was going to commit the first true sin the city would suffer greatly from in the future.

It was Saturday, this dark night, and the couple had decided to grant themselves a break and go out on a date leaving their 5 year old son under charge of Melissa, the designated babysitter of the night; and another, very patient guest, but one who they were oblivious to.

Our uninvited guest, apparently a figure of sleek stealth had made way through the garage when the couple was on their way out, and into the house, where he seated himself on the ground in the shadows of the study adjacent to the garage, waiting for the kid to be put to bed, and in no hurry.
At 10 pm, when the parents had been out for some odd 20 minutes and Mel had put James to bed, a black hooded figure entered into the kitchen where she had her face dug into the fridge. Cashing in on the opportunity, the black hood walked swiftly past her into the kitchen closet right next to the sink and crouched to not be seen.

‘James?’ Mel turned looking around and down, ‘are you up, Jammie?’ she asked loudly to reaffirm, but there was nothing and she got back to finding something to eat. He gazed longingly at the babysitter, smirking with an aura of superiority. He had the chance he was longing for. Sliding by the wall to the lounge, taking the knife Mel had put on the counter, he strolled quietly past the fireplace and for a moment there, when his eyes met the fire, his irises reflected those flames, a little too perfectly. His walk reflected unsullied familiarity with the house and could have easily fooled any stranger into taking him as a member of the house.

By the time he reached the end of the lounge, he decided to give the babysitter one more look. From the other door that opened between the lounge and the stairs linking to the first floor, he could see her making a sandwich and swaying to the music that reached her ears through her headphones. At this sight, he couldn’t help but run a finger on the blade of the knife he had now attached to the left side of his pocket.

What seemed like a few seconds of pondering over whatever he was thinking, he started to walk upstairs, taking each step with care. The silence was so deafening that his heartbeat was the only sound clear to his ears.  And with each step he took, his heartbeat grew louder, consuming him and making all blood in his body rush to his face in waves, hitting his flesh hard.

At the head of the stairs, the silence only grew louder and with each pair of heartbeat that gonged, it signified a step forward. Steps he took towards James’ room.

Soon finding himself standing at the door ajar, he took his hood off, revealing a head full of lively brown hair. Pushing the door, he crept in and found Jamie tucked gently in his bed.

‘What an angel’ he thought and closed the door behind his back.

The room was small and had a suppressed strawberry scent to it. It was carpeted blue with a singular window to the left with the view of the backyard. The tiny cupboard to the window’s right had toys stacked on its top, with a reading table right parallel to it. On it was a night lamp that made the room shine with thousands of tiny little stars, and with each rotation the lamp would complete, it would make a little sound, *tik*. The silence made it audible, albeit gently.  It was to the right of the room, where Jamie actually lay secured in the embrace of his blanket.

Smiling, with his head tilted in almost with awe for Jamie, he slowly started moving towards him, making each step more meaningful than his last, all the while, scanning Jamie from head to toe. His breathing grew louder with each step, competing for loudness against his heartbeat and the *tik* the night lamp made every five seconds. The same rush of blood, this time stronger, started hitting the flesh of his face. Even his skull was pumping. Whether he was thrilled or scared was unknown. All was known was he now stood at the side of James’s bed, looking at James with wonderment, and stroking his arm with the tips of his gloved fingers. So gentle was his touch that it failed to even stir Jamie in his sleep.

‘Wakey wakey little one’, said the killer softly, stroking James’ arm a little firmly now.

While the killers’ attempt made James twirl to face him, he was still very much in sleep.  He dragged his finger from the child’s chest, to his chin and shook it a little.

‘Look, who’s here’.

And with some struggle, only a child in deep sleep would portray, James batted his eyes heavily and smiled at the sight of his companion, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just sending you someplace where you can play forever…’ 

Confused, James did not know what to reply with.

‘I just came here to say goodbye… go to sleep …’ and so James did, instantaneously falling asleep to the lullaby the killer was now singing. The astonishment in the killer’s eyes had gone, and his stare grew but empty. His breathing subdued, the *tik* continued, but his heartbeat mounted simultaneously with the goose bumps on the back of his neck.

The lullaby soon found sleep with James’ little snores dancing off his nose. A full of five minutes must have passed when the killer flexed his muscle, gulping the little saliva that accumulated at the end of his throat and slowly snaked James’ pillow from underneath his head. Puffing it up to even the softness and not once moving his gaze from the child’s face.  


‘I’ll miss you James’


Slowly placing the pillow on James’s head, he soberly climbed the bed and sat on the pillow with his butt on it, opening to keep his feet on both side of James’ torso.*tik* James read struggle started after a few seconds of realization, *tik*, his hands started to claw the killer’s legs and his body jerked. His legs moved frantically, making the bed budge. But how hard can the combined strength of a five year old move the bed? He screamed into the pillow, into nothingness, only drawing more air out which squeezed his chest harder with every try he made. *tik* the killer sat with emptiness in his eyes, staring at the wall in front of him, unaffected by the nudges his body too was receiving.

 James body grew heavy and the intense pumping of blood was the only thing any sense in his body could experience. It was resonating in his entire body. With the energy running out of him and his limbs fidgeting more from the pain than with the effort to fight back, he grew slower and slower.
The killer took his knife out, and wiped the little trickle of sweat that had made its way to his forehead with the pointed edge of the knife, closing his eyes in the process, mumbling something to himself and with little wait, striking it hard and fast to James’s chest. *tik* Ending little James’s little left struggle, and leaving the knife there.


We women, we lie.

Tears by Halmurzaev Edward. All rights to its respective owner. 

We women, we lie. Sometimes to get a smile on his face, and sometimes to get a giggle out of our babies.  You may never tell how deceitful we can be, just how ruthlessly selfish our souls can get to stop the tears running down from our mothers cheeks. We are a lost cause of nature - weaker to male in material but arrogantly, prejudiced about our nursing instincts.

What has hell got against us?

Our pit of secrets is deeper than the darkest hole any hell of any religion possesses. The possibilities of the avatars just  one of us possess is beyond the magic, science and literature, of any world, anywhere, can unravel.

Reveal to me myself as a woman,
and I will discuss why you can never.

Prick a pin in us, and just see how many emotions ooze out of us. You will have a hard time naming the colours mankind hasn't even discovered - the dark, the light, the faded, tattered, glittery, shimmering, rouged, grotesque...

How many sides will you read before you grey, kneel down, dig yourself a grave with your own tired hands and lie down, calling upon God for giving you a companion - a companion that has been your biggest nemesis. Your toughest test in the world and yet, the best solitude. The most noble comforts that God ever offered - in her nagging, , in her sleepless eyes, in her lap that magically transfuses her comforts into yours with the quilt of sacrifice wrapped around you that kept you warm from the cold the world offers, from the hug she desperately seeks when she looks at your fatherly face, sometimes more to kindle your sense of authority, so gently, than out of personal fear.

Yes, we women lie.

We are thieves. We steal from Satan the satisfaction of death and hopelessness - we birth joy!

We are cons. We rob the dark side of the world from greed and needs, and we smile from our family's eyes. We light from their successes. From their triumph, we win.

We are murderous! We kill logic, and let emotions sway us. Thus, we love. But more than that, we teach love.

We win because we are hopeless with hope.

Ha! We women, we win because we do all the wrong things.


What I know about women  (the good that is) does not come out of my own-self as one, but emerges out of other important figures in my life. That includes my mother, leading that group, with my khaala (aunt), sisters, nanni (grandmother), teachers (specially Ms Riffat and Ma'am Lubna), my girl-friends - Anam baaji, Hiral, Zonobia, Javeriyah, Roshna and many that I am forgetting at the moment. The list includes every woman that is known by the world, and the ones that have honoured only my world - knowingly and sometimes not even that.

When Silence Resonates Loneliness. (Guest Post)

Alone. Being alone is the worst feeling ever. But it does not necessarily mean that you have to feel lonely just because no one is around. You can be alone standing there in a bunch of people. No matter how many people are around you, you can still feel lonely.

And that's what I've been feeling lately. Lonely. I have so many people around me to love me, to take care of me, to accompany me but it just isn't the same. I still can't shake this feeling away. Like there's something missing. Like there's some vital part of me that has gone missing. I've even trying to figure out what is this missing piece but all I've been coming up is with nothing. A big empty whole in my mind. Why can't I figure out what's missing? Why can't I answer myself? I should know myself better, no? One should be familiar with what they feel and why they feel like that. Then why is it that I find myself battling with my emotions? Why is that I can't seem to come up with an answer? Because about one thing I am certainly sure. There's something missing inside that has stirred up this feeling of loneliness inside me.

When I read books about people being in love and how perfect they are for each other and how always in the end they find their way back. Reading something like this always stirs some emotions inside me. Like I could feel my stomach tightening at whatever is it that I feel. Like my subconscious mind keeps hitting me at the back of my head, hinting towards the answers of the gazillion questions I have running through my mind. But perhaps my stubborn mind doesn't want to wake up and realise the fact that I've known the answer to my questions all along. Because it would take too much of me to let my guard down and accept that I know what has been missing all along since those feelings kicked in. So to shove the thought away, my mind started making excuses and delays became it knew that my heart wasn't ready yet. Thoughts like 'maybe I should stop reading novels that have romance or anything related to love and the feeling of being loved' rush to my silly mind every time a sickening thought kicked it's way in. Yes. A sickening thought I called it. Why? Because that's how I want to look at it as.

I was in love. Still am. But heck, I don't think I'm old enough to know what love really means. Oh, wait. No one ever knows what love actually means. Because you just can't describe it. It's like explaining someone why the sky and the ground can't meet. Or maybe I am exaggerating but this is my point of view and I'm going to stick to it. I don't know if the love I feel is real or not because at times I feel the same for another person. And to tell you something interesting, I haven't even met that person. Now something even more interesting, that person doesn't even know I bloody exist. So that makes me what? A teenager with an obsessive compulsive disorder or someone who cannot keep her emotions and feeling and most importantly hormones under control? Well, if you ask me, I'd rather call myself an utterly massive idiot for even feeling something like that for someone who doesn't even know exist and for someone who has millions and billions of girls falling over him because he's that much famous. I told you all something majorly embarrassing so now I think I have to say something for you all to let that roll of laughter die down. But for some of you, I still might be an idiot. Anyways, I can't really tell if the actual person I am in love with is really "love" because when I read something utterly heart melting, that person's face flashes through my eyes and I can't help but let that smile appear on my lips. I know it's totally wrong to hold on to someone who is someone else's even after you told him how you feel. I know it's wrong to smile like that on the mere sight of seeing their face flash across your eyes. But at the same the feeling is totally right. Because in that moment you know there's someone that you've give your heart to. You know you love that someone with all the power that there is inside you because in that one moment, you're happy. So maybe what I feel for that other person is nothing but a mere obsession. Even if I decide to picture the other one there beside me, all I can come up is with the same image of my someone. And it makes it hard to concentrate on.. The other one.

A part of me tells me to stop and move on because it realised how wrong this all is holding on to someone who isn't even mine. But is it my fault that I am so much in love that every time I try to think about someone else or picture myself with anyone other than him, I just can't. That part of me tells me that I have made a grave mistake my placing my heart in the palm of that someone and giving him every power to crush it, to break it into tiny millions pieces. But the other part of me screams at me that he has already done that. He has broken my heart before I even realised I gave it to him. He said no even before I asked him to. Does that make me a pathetic lover? I still am waiting for that moment where I would feel true happiness of being loved in return by the person I'm in love with. And someday, God knows when, but someday I will feel that pure happiness rushing through my veins and making me cheeks go wider and wider. Because in that moment, I will get to know the meaning of happiness. 


A guest post written courtesy of  a very good friend, Neha Batool. She likes writing, reading and making her opinions stand out through these mediums.

Read her first ever attempt at a fan-fiction, short story, that has gotten many to bow down to her talents, here: Break The Walls. 

Side Note:  She is effortless when it comes to being cute!

Give her some love, ya'all. 

My satisfaction ever after?

Lost. Lost was all I was. 

In the folds of my walnut brain
The indistinguishable twigs and stems of my veins
In the darkness that followed,
In the pool of blood,
On the skull space so hollow,
As I quiver mid-air as if shocked by the air - Lost.

Lost was all I was.

 I knew deep down what direction was mine. What road had shone the brightest for me. What path was mine and what gave me more than what no money, power or status could ever amount into giving me - Satisfaction. The pleasure of being satisfied. 

But I also knew how hard it was going to be. How untraditional it was. That it will demand of me what no money, power or status could ever demand - Honesty. The honesty of hard work. The uncorrupted involvement of each and every cell of my body. And the honest emotions that would reflect in the heat of my face and the beating of my heart every time I walked that one true path that always signalled me towards it. 

But I was not ready. The path was giving by all means, but it asked for too much. In short, I am not a risk taker. I am not bold. I do not have the courage to give more than I can bet on taking back. Coward, I thought. Is that not what a coward means? 

For years, I veiled my cowardliness under the consolidation that it was shyness. Shyness. But the only times I questioned this notion was when I longingly gazed the path - the path that was for me.

It used to talk to me, only rarely, but in manners that made me aware of the vibration of every atom around me. Sometimes saying things that were too, too honest. And really real, too real to take.

It (the path) honey-whispered things to me,  

‘No’, was my only comeback.

I shied?
It talked.

‘No’, was my only thought.

It talks more when I am alone. Growing softer each time it calls me out.

Does the path you walk do that to YOU? 

Does it talk lovingly? In a way that reminds you of your mother's tender smile, or your younger sisters shimmering, naughty but pure eyes. Does it call you out in a way that shows consideration, consolation? 

Can a life choice do that? Has it ever done that to you, or am I the only lost stranger.

Does it smile without smiling? Call you to dance, when you both can’t? Summon a beast in you, the addict if you may, as if knowing your passion more than you realize it yourself?

‘NO!’ I shout.

The path… my sweet path, stays quite. Quite until I become quite enough to hear it again.

Is your path as patient? Does it give you the vibe of being your ‘satisfaction-ever-after’?

My humanly appetite asks more of it, much, much more. I ask of promises of comfort - the comfort of this world. The ease of being careless and carefree. Why is it disapproving of my weary complains and to the idea of giving up. Have I no right to lose it once in a while? Why do you swell on the idea of me hurt and tired?  Worn out and jaded, as exhausted as I can ever be. Why will you not allow me short cuts and ways that are easy? Why are you, my path, so stubborn on making it so damn hard? 

And there, it does it again - smiles without smiling. 

I stand - lost. 

Lost, as I always was.

That one Donkey and her muse.

23rd June, 2014.

Dear Diary,

Even though I have just invented you for this post, today you're going to be my close companion and listen to one of the most beautiful instances I've ever witnessed. 

But before I start narrating, I need a name for my story. You'd be surprise that even though a name to a story is nothing, for the story is the meat; it often takes a lot more time to come up with one. Often more time than itself a story ever takes. At least to me, that has happened quite often. Nevertheless, after thinking well and hard, I finally decided on one.

I’ll call my story:
That One Donkey & Her Muse

It all happened one dreaded Monday afternoon. To be fair, all Monday afternoons are dreadful. So uhm… let me rephrase that.

It was a casual *wink wink* Monday morning - dreadful and tiring. I had just given my last paper and was on my way back home. To make things worse, Mr.Omnath (our van driver), decided that’d he’d give Monday a run for its money, and took on the enormous (read: idiotic) task of dropping girls who live poles apart in the city, in one go. Imagine the pain I felt when I realized I’d be more than an hour late to my home than usual, all because my uncle could save some petrol.  Oh and by the way, I live approximately to a 15 – 20 minute drive from my university. THE AGONY!

Not to forget that it was painstakingly humid, and the girls, all cramped up like 20-odd pearls in one clasped oyster, didn’t do any good either. The only thought making the heat of Karachi and my miser van uncle’s miserable maneuver any bearable was the fact that I had a month long semester break waiting for me.

Some 40 minutes later, after some girls had been dropped off and after I had dozed on and off during that period, I opened my eyes to the locked away alleys of Karachi and what I was missing on. The beautifully old crumbling structures, all those small windowed homes, the lazy laughs of men in the market, the swell sight of happy kids bidding school goodbye, the leemopaani  wala (lemonade) serving the old and young… oh, how I could write an endless story on Karachi. But let that story be reserved for another day. For now, let’s be back to the story I am currently telling.

Dear diary,

This part is where it gets beautiful. But before that, it gets ugly.

 Life’s like that. Is it not?

Anyways, returning to the ugly. Our van broke down.

Yes, yes, it did. The Monday Curse is no myth, I truly believe now.

Whatever little ray of hope was left in me, died and I wanted nothing more than this day to end.

But then the beautiful happened:

There, a few feet away from where I stood, was a parked ruined cab.  It was damaged, dusty, and the yellow and black on it was now peeled off, exposing its corroded and dented body. And right there, was where I saw her. That beautiful little donkey, tied to her cart from behind, with her chin resting motionless on the trunk of that dented taxi. Her kind eyes were shaded with big, soft lashes, and they looked very tired.

Its' odd how we so often forget how beautiful these creatures are, just because they do the work for us that which we ourselves don't/can’t do; or maybe it’s' because we’re so fond of seeing them, that they just become ordinary to us. In any case, for me, there is merely ordinary by perception.

The scene of her chin resting so subtly cooled my heart. And even from a distance apart, I could sense she had rested it just hard enough to not let the taxi feel her weight. To her, maybe it was living. To us, maybe she wasn’t.

‘IT’S FIXED. ALL OF YOU GET BACK IN!!’ our uncle yelled.

With that, we walked back; I, a little hesitantly. She then looked longingly at me for whole two seconds before I broke eye contact and found myself behind the doors of the van.

 I wanted to sigh, but before that could happen, I noticed a school going girl trotting by. In her red and white checkered frock, she was bouncing merrily with her water bottle swinging off her right shoulder.

Our van was struggling to start at this point.

She stopped some two steps away from the donkey. Tilted her head to the right, and with furrowed brows, looked thoughtfully at her (that donkey).

“Come on…work” said Mr.Omnath in a pressed agitated voice.

By now, the little girl seemed to be moving close to the taxi ; still looking thoughtfully at her new friend. But the friend was  unmoved. She was still immobile and looked weary. But the little girl knew what to do. She kept her water bottle down. Took her bag off, stood on her toes and placed it on the dented roof. Reached back to the water bottle, opened the cap and let water fill it.

“FINALLYYY’ roared our uncle simultaneously with the engines.

We started to move, but I could see the donkey move her head closer to the girl’s hand.  She drank from it slowly, as the girl managed and failed to stand on her toes, and stroked the top of the donkeys’ nose as much as she could.


P.S. This one's dedicated to Zeba, from Zeba Talk. For being the little inspiration <3; Thank You.


Somewhere around 8th or 9th standard, we were issued to buy a book with a collection of poems for our English class. Unlike many other school books that pass us  by every year like trash (sadly) does , this book is one of the few that remained attached to me. And to-date is very much a part of both, my shelf and my self.

Today, as I am reminded of how little I am , and how grand life is; I'd like to share a poem from that book. I do not know whether it is the poem itself that attracted me, or the fact that like everyone, I found a connection in it that I so needed at that point of my life. Which ever the case may be, this is it :

Try Again

'Tis a lesson you should heed,
try again;
if at first you don't succeed,
 try again;
then your courage should appear,
for if you will persevere,
you will conquer, never fear
try again;

Once or twice, though you should fail,
try again;
if you would at last prevail,
try again;
if we strive, 'tis no disgrace
though we do not win the race;
what should you do in the case?
Try again.

If you find your task is hard,
try again;
time will bring you your reward,
try again;
all that other folks can do,
why, with patience, should not you?
Only keep this rule in view:
try again.

Hickson, William Edward

I hope with reading you find why I like it so much. It's simplicity and yet in it, the prevailing life changing concept of what trying means: to live forever, is what makes this poem a remarkable piece of literature for me. Its concept fails to age and it is foresight, gained from the hindsight, that puts faith in me for the poem to last  ( going to go cliché here) forever and ever...

( Poem copied from : . With some corrections made )

Dear past self

Dear past self,

Know I write from care,
and so it's urgent this be told, 
present lies are corroding the future,
of the only true thing you own :
that tiny bit of dignity earned today, for tomorrow
well off, but sweetheart, a person who ends hollow.  

I know, you mean well,
but fear and submission, 
and even silence in chaos,
may not make you a culprit but a sinner nonetheless. 
So talk, show and boast of all you mean well
for an indifferent soul is the result of anything less.

Pay heed,
for mistakes are inevitable, 
and courage demanded,
be noble and prudent
not arrogant and defy.

I know, intuition guides you
foresight says otherwise, 
'To lie is to hide,
and to hide is for cowards,
and for cowards are temporal,
bravery... lasting & durable'

Alas, my future depends on you, 
you...who can do, 
that what I can not do.

With sincerest of regards,
and a heart of your own... I bid you goodbye.

Future unknown.

Status update : Busy.

As I type I have about 20 odd tabs open on my browser, three word documents, two PDF files, countless folders and a whole lot of paper and note books flying about on my bed.

You know what this calls for? A cry for help!

With two weeks left for the semester to end, I ideally would have liked minimal work load, but to my surprise, I have more work than I can seem to handle.  

Oh and not to forget, the living breathing monster of a place I live in, Karachi, who instead of feeding on,  I don't know something more acceptable like... flesh, feeds of human energy. The heat is actually THAT bad. So, even if I am up for completing my work, my brain only withstands an hour of work and no more, just no more. 

What else... 

Oh yeah, my absolute absence from social media. It's a miracle how I've gotten so far, but I have had literally no time to check on Facebook, Twitter or watch any tv-shows with persistence ( Dr.Who, I miss you :'( ) ; but these are things I am willing to forgive myself on, its the distance from my blog and books that bothers me most. 

Timetables don't work on me, sleep comes rather too readily, hunger escapes me like logic does from bollywood movies. Understanding?  Meh. If I can't convince myself of making sense, how will I expect any of you to. 

Anyhow. I wish to rant more, I seriously do, but I think Karachi is more hungry than my self energy can satisfy. 

Sooo, thats goodbye from me. 

I won't be apologizing for not writing, since I have a few tricks left in my draft box. ;)
See you!

Where vendors live – a childhood wonderland

They are everywhere you go. In shadows and dead ends, found in daylight and sunsets; at beaches and barren roads, besides you and behind you, in sadness and joy, with the youthful and old, but mostly together with a child, accompanied by a smile.

They survive on your happiness, knowingly or not, intended somewhat. Yet, like trees or those candies and toys they sell, we don’t appreciate them as much.

These vendors are the ones living and breathing, everything. Reaching extinction, in the dead ends and shadows, in sadness and troubles. At barren alleys and sunsets but not as on the beach.

Small homes, mini quarters, they are truly behind you, below you in every aspect of life.

They sell what they can’t have: Dreams. They live like veiled super-heroes, at the edge of each city, just minus the luxuries. 

(Picture source :

Differences that hurt us.

The one mean thing we do to ourselves is: we compare. We are never truly happy with what we have, and that is basic human nature for most of us; being receptive, critical and comparative, is one apparent quality that reflects this notion.

Certainly, being inspired is a perk, but engulfing our accomplices' traits, not to indubitably 'add' to our characters but to have it fight with what we already are, is dangerous. It leaves us with a sense of inferiority and in turn, upsets us heavily. are suppose to be individuals, with our own set of problems and blessings, and all with varying degrees. And it's meant to be explored, build-on and embraced. What we mostly do, is we fail to  take this first step and readily jump onto other sources of inspiration.  Just like two fingerprints, that are never the same, we can't blade our personalities to match that of others, so why bother?

 Just like two fingerprints, that are never the same, we can't blade our personalities to match that of others.

So, I guess, what I am trying to say, is we need to be a bit grateful for our distinctiveness and not treat  it is as a menace; you inevitably end up having a fight with your own self, and since no one in the world judges, never truly, what makes a good person a good person, we fall into a loop of endless confusions. And take it from me, it is NOT a nice place to be in.

Take baby step, just try and come to terms with yourself. It'll be relieving, to say the least.


To Kaa'ba and eternal rest

Turned, twisted and spun, the car did
Just like the life in me,
like the life in them - my family

Glimpsing death so fleet,
I saw like pearls, and precious, few smiles 
but none one was mine,
I understood, death was not my guest tonight

One untainted said ,' Fate had it, I had to go pure...
so God called as I visited heaven on Earth, right here...' 

Softly the smiles faded and darkness prevailed,
the only difference remain: 
my darkness is temporary, 
their's an eternal bliss.

In honour of my uncle, aunt and cousin, who passed away recently due to an accident on their way to perform Umrah. And in special honour of my cousin, the only one who survived. This one's for you Marif Bhai. 

Prejudice died.

Saw blindness walk among the sighted, working every minute with more conviction than most of us ever see -  prejudice died.

Zebra Talk: "Homes, places we've grown, all of us are done for...

Zebra Talk: "Homes, places we've grown, all of us are done for...: I can wade Grief, whole pools of it, I'm used to that, Emily Dickinson assures me. But the least push of Joy Breaks up my feet, And I t...

Younger sister and the parade of questions for me.

Oft times even with my own self I tend to question whether I exaggerate, and thus if what I conceive and conclude is truly reliable.  Later , with more anxiousness than I can admit to, I concluded that sometimes, I simply have to go with the flow. What I think should have a voice and whether right, wrong or somewhere in the middle, it should be spoken.

Today, looking at my youngest sister sleep I can't help but think, as I've done many a times before, whether people realize that being in authority is and should be more scary than taken.

For kids, like my sister, right and wrong are mere terms we feed them, before that they are all just questions,tangled but prominent conjecture of nothingness. Though questions are never wrong, it is the answers that may or may not be right.

Exhibit A:

Mama J gets a call from the school to send back Little J's report card, that which was send a week ago to be signed by her. To her surprise she knows nothing about the report card and asks her son directly.

'I didn't want to show you my report card' little J says in an obvious tone
'But why?' she asks
'Cause I got bad grades ...and if you saw it, I'd be scolded ' comes a reply in a matter of fact tone.

What a tight spot for Mama J to be in, if she scolds him, she proves just how right J's deduction is.

Sometimes kids bring up the loopholes in us, those which we stopped working on as soon as we realized we have power. Like this very common example which exhibits in its simplest form the improper way we exercise our influence. most of us at one point or another have encountered an unfair treatment by a supreme figure or been one ourself, examples that are much extreme version of Little J's story. So it comes as no surprise to me that the topic takes shape of an extensive importance.

Being authoritative, I believe should  not just be synonymous to being strict and firm but mostly kind. It's important to realize that like J or my sister, these kids don't carry manipulated ways of living their life. They don't live to prove how right or wrong mine or your designed morals and ethics are, they survive in the most inspiring manner of simplicity, something my words lacks worth to define.

Likewise is the case with other juniors in life , whether in respect to age,class or career paths. We can't simply exercise our powers and ditch the responsibility that are affixed, most basic of which requires  us to be sympathetic.

For now I just see a little girl by my side, but imagining how similarly our roles may be played by different people all around the world, with different degrees of consequences, I shiver to think that slavery is not an archaic concept any more, but has developed and modernized itself.

The leash of life

Disclaimer : What you're about to read is something some may call a direct threat to humour and sarcasm. Please, for the sake of comedy and who respect it, don't read and be gone. There is only a mere hint of buffoonery, all for the purpose of a bigger concept.

My life's not public, and for that I feel very thankful. The notion of having some,if not all control over what you let for the people to see, is a blessing. Yet some folks are at a beautiful ease when it comes to plastering themselves out in the open. How much it helps them in a long run, only they know, for me they seem at extremes of either being at ease or at a position where they seem to be quite obnoxious... or at-least so I thought.

Why am I suddenly at an interest how people choose to manage the leash on their lives?

Because I went out today. *the walls gasp*

Don't worry dear wall, you're still my best and only friend. If it weren't for my university beginning , I would have never ever ever left you :')

Anyways, fast forwarding through my misery, I was strolling down the lobby and eavesdropping overheard what people there were bantering about, and it was quite hilarious.

Take this group of about 8 - 10 girls who were squealing for God knows what reason, when one of them suddenly shoved her mate, half her size, rather delicately, resulting in a thrust of not so delicate force. She took about 4 steps to her right before stabilizing...

'Har wakt 'FB' pe kyun chipki rehti hai? Is jangli ko sardi bhi lagti hai tau yeh facebook page pe dal deti hai uske baray mai... " OMG SARDI SARDI"  

I do not know what was funnier, the push, the imitation as she swayed her Queen Latifa body, or the reply that followed...

'Yaar woh meri ammi kar deti hai..' 

Bahahaa whaaaaat?

A slightly exaggerated back version of Ms .Vergara,
always a great metaphor. 
If ladies and gentlemen, IF , a huge 10 times Sofia Vergaras' buttocks size huge IF, this is true, I'd like to meet the mom myself, smile looking at her uncontrollably and take her autograph.

IF it's not true, which it IS, I think the girl could have done a better job with her alibi. Sisters,brothers,friends,cousins,random-hackers yada yada ...were not enough? Your mom? Seriously...? :|

Shortly after, there was another follow up of a very goofy character who happened to have been sitting right next to me, she was quite the spectacle. You name a colour, she had it on. The purple yellow earrings, with the pink doll clippers, the blue band, the black slippers, beige socks, yellow cloth with a dozen coloured polka dots and the fancy red mobile phone,*sigh* which brings me to the conversation I over heard...

Oh for heads up, know that we were sitting in a classroom with a speaker giving the introductory speech in a voice that felt like one had stepped on his tail.

The girl : 'Yaar subah 8 se mai bhi pakk rahi hoon,ajaon na tum. '
Translation : 'Koi khaas hamdardi nahi tumharay sath, saath paknay ke lie koi chaiyeh'

The speaker, whose words I could barely make out over the 'gola- ganda behan' talking, went on something like this

"Yeh mukaam apki zindagion ka buhat ehaamm mukaam hai... " 
"Is mukaam pe apko mehnat se kaam karna hoga..."
"Pleaasee ajaaoooo"
"Yahan ke ustaad, apki har tarah se himayat karainge.."
"Pata nahi yeh admi bol rha hai, tum ajao please please, shuru hone wala hai show..'

Erm... show?

Little Ms.Rainbow here forget that we were sitting in a lecture hall, about to be graced by our departments' head.

Considering how a twenty minute orientation, that was suppose to commence at 8:30 in the morning but ended up being at 12 in the afternoon, I applaud the energy these kids show. Somewhere down the road I was so tired, I began to think how easy it is to not be the quite one. To not be the observer but the observant. Hence the reflection upon people's control over themselves, their speech and their demeanour.

These kids are just a few example over the many little phrases, curses, yelps, cries, laughters I heard and took in. Yet to some I might have been the same spectacle I looked them as. Good thing, chances of them not writing a blog about it are in my favour. :D

In short, whatever we do to show or accustom ourselves to display as a part of us is individual property. Its unique in every way we describe our emotions to be. The only thing left to do is be at ease with that individuality, and leave it for dumb and lately inspiration -less bloggers like myself to write about it. :3