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Mundane.

29 Mar

We’re not special beautiful snowflakes. We’re mundane raindrops. Indifferent and ordinary.

There is this thing about uniqueness, It decays. Something superior is always there to be a replacement. The ordinary however, stays.

And our struggle is to stay. It’s about adding value to the lives and lacunae around us. It’s not only our skin that dies and regenerates to remain plump, it’s not only our soul and body that dies for once – we on a whole choose which part of us has to perish and which lump has to rejuvenate. Decline, anyhow is a requisite.

So we remodel. This process in our personal capacity often takes us to a moment when everything which was glorious suddenly becomes ash. Our elucidation of success changes and there are monsters that we want to cage to be called meritorious. We exert and battle ourselves, kill our weaknesses and wage a contest against odds that pull us down to get to our new goal. And when we get there, it’s not enough.

Many a times we save our selves for the grand finale. And suddenly, it’s not grand anymore.

I urge you to fell the stillness in accepting that the race will never be over and when you begin to hurt yourselves too much to shine – choose to be the audience instead. Just sleep! and before you do, just take the time to gaze up at the night sky. Bask in the silence, take deep breaths, and just marvel at this universe.

You’ll never know what you may see up there. And trust me, it’s going to be every bit as beautiful. Because by that time, you’ll learn the beauty of being ordinary.

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Ink!

14 Nov

This universe is magnificent. It’s enticing and beautiful, and out of all the material and nature that co-exist, humans surprise me the most. .

Look around you. There is so much of miscellany in gray matter, in hearts, personalities and other argots embedded in literature. Every single person imbibes a discrepant story – an anecdote that is a mess of emotions, responses, wars, dreams and decisions!

Yes, a mess. Wrecked.

This turmoil is amazing, you and I are amazing.The glitches and deficiencies that we have are curtained and compensated by the prodigious influence we have on minds. We destroy and reinforce moods. We shatter and mend each other. Romanticize, hate, admire and ignore – dimensions that we en-kindle consciously and sub consciously.

 

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Have you ever pondered about how much you prevail in other people’s lives?

People may think of you when shaky hands dwell over a cigarette in an hour of desert, when a song comes up, when they read a recommended book or revisit rotten albums. Do you ever wonder about conversations and tales that you might be a part of and you’ve forgotten or alienated?  I wonder, do I still breathe in the minds of people that I don’t talk to anymore? How many times in a day do I pass through someone’s head?

This is addiction.

These thoughts have now built houses in my voice box. They are there, content and glazing.

Eventually, there is one sentence that settles me down.

We’re ink. Volatile and permanent at the same time. We fade, yet our presence remains beyond question. Oh humans!

 

Saudade

14 Sep

 

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‘How come they have alphabets in mathematics?’ – I uttered.

I sneaked through the tall window repeatedly to confirm my soon to be planned allegation.

Laughing – naive to the concept of Algebra. Ironically, I was on ice that I was right and I could have launched a campaign on ORKUT about how absurd the teacher of class VI D was.

Walked back to my classroom to be seated on that wooden chair where desks had our scribbled FLAME game, the famous crushes with a icky heart emoji in the middle, the value of Pi that was too volatile to remember and never the less, the ‘Da Vinci’ sketches of each other and our teachers. The joy of calling ‘ASALAMUALIKUM AUNTY’ in chorus and the merriment of achieving a star on the title page of chapters. That life was nonpareil.

That phase ended.

I delightfully welcomed the teenage hood. A chapter where you eventually learn the meaning of the word privacy. The urge and turmoil suppressed the innocence or allow me to call it, ignorance of childhood and I discovered my self in detail.

That phase ended too.

And here I am today. At the brim of mature-hood, yet an ephemeral period. Remote to what I should be doing. Every single moment of reclusiveness makes me experience nostalgia of school and college days. Of people who’re no more, of opportunities which use to shine, the immortal ‘ifs’ and the withering present. I am miles away from satisfaction. Prisma, snap chat, Instagram, Facebook, twitter, whats-app – yet forsaken.

Sad no? it is. Interludes romances past more than future. It is how desperate I am to shrink and be 12 again. Arcing under expectations, wasted by grades and levels, hunting for people to talk without acting – the voids are expanding. Absences penetrate through me, like thread through a needle, everything I feel is stitched with its color. I am still not able to express what I need. There is a fire within us, no body pauses to swelter themselves at it. They pass by only seeing a wisp of smoke.

Give us time, give us a pleasing present. As much as I miss school and college, my childhood and teenage life – this phase should be no different. This age, is only a number. Painfully visible and entirely ignored. Give us space, permission to make mistakes and apologize, a lacuna to be better some other time. Don’t ask us to be best TODAY.

The most incommunicable piece I’ve ever written, comes to an end.

 

 

A Note To Myself.

12 Aug

Dear Me,

DEAR E

I know you’re fetching all the elfin thoughts in your mind, putting your neurons at work. Unpaid jobs are seldom sane. I can feel that right now (Bleak laugh). My brain demands steep wages once in a while. This time, the rumination is a little different.

I know that the past few months have been frenzied. The details are edgy and skittish and there is less of philosophy that can spill it out into words. Don’t induce anything, don’t compel yourself to look for ways to lessen the load. Just let it be. Your horoscopes are silent. This stage can be fugitive or eternal.

You’ve had friends darkening your moonlight. It’s okay. That’s one color of life. You’ve had expectations undergoing apoptosis. That’s okay too. They have that engraved in perfect literature. Don’t expect and be happy. You’ve had days when you were beyond your swing of pessimism and was sure that the light was on it’s way, for real. I can’t count times when I’ve seen this much consistency in your will. Thumbs up for that.

Eventually, Overthinking slayed it all. I now believe that it’s not a choice that you’ve made. It’s how you’ve been wired. This waveform that you ride by is crazy. At the Peak, you’re determined to put things into right place, and then you fall to the crest where picking up bits seems impossible. Don’t wait for this to end. The eclipse will be followed by a deathly sunset and you’ll be too inhuman to feel what it’s like to stand still and static. Nature has its fixed rules you know.

You should be glad that you gave yourself an unusual siesta, try and stretch its span in future. The fact that this is your last academic year as a typical student in an institute is provoking you to experience all the bliss that you should’ve sensed in the past 17 years. It’s too much for one year, but an overload of happiness should never return rejected. Go for it, embrace it. The odds will remain. The hitches will be painful, but this time of life will never come back!

Let this light come to you. Don’t wait for all the negativity to fly away. Monsters will visit you any how. If you’re waiting until you feel talented enough to make it, you’ll never make it.

 

Hide and Seek

5 May

 Was never fond of it as an infant. It’s alluring as an adult.

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I hide my flaws, those puny cracks that propagate finely through my soul. I curtain my faults, because I am so white for the rest of the world, a black stain would ruin that deception. And I love myself too much for that. Ouch! I sound self centered.

Once upon a time, my name wasn’t a success story. In fact, I had a feeble account to narrate which was illogical, unreasonable and boring. I use to begin with an admixture of all the known emotions and pitches, but no one hanged around for long. One breath, one blink, one sentence for the most. I mastered new arts of delivering, because I was helpless with the content. Monotonous much, it was MY story. Seeking an ear to hear me, I learned a new reaction, a new expression…. being cold, being numb.

Eventually, I gave up. Curtaining reality, I added everything that people appreciate and wanted to extract from a story. False emotions, tales of sleepless nights, amusing hobbies, sarcasm, failures, successes and what not. Results were instant. Attention, appreciation, companionship, everything knocked doors! I was overwhelmed. Years past by, and I kept on investing in this mysterious skill of transforming bad news into good news.My social media flooded with recognition upon partial truths. Hiding my true self, I was proud of the fake and diabolic me. And I never knew I was.

Now, when I am handful and practically have gathered enough. I seek my true story. All those hidden realities that I never confronted. My honest feelings, my genuine failures, my fair successes. Perfection doesn’t have a threshold, false perfection does. And I’ve reached that. The best and the worst thing about time is that it can’t be reverted back. There was a time when things were so vivid, that there was no room for confessions. Today, it’s other way round.

Like me, everyone else is playing hide and seek with them selves. Ironically, with no opponent. Either way, we win. Either way, we lose. I can’t ask you not to play this game. Because Darwin was accurate in putting forth his theory of the survival of the fittest. But I can confess and share – in the process of seeking my pure story. To be confident in calling it, MY STORY!

 

Will Grayson, Will Grayson

10 Nov

A light read.

No more hiding

Recently I read the book Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green and       David Levithan. I’ll take a moment and express my enthusiasm for John Green’s books and mention how awfully addictive and wonderful they are but a collaboration between two of the best writers writing today is something as glorious as Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory for chocoholics as it is for bookworms.

Basically the book revolves around two teenage boys, both named William Grayson, and how their lives cross paths and the aftereffects of it. Told from a dual perspective, this book is not only about their lives but also about the hardships of being different from others, teenage angst and struggling to fit in. One Will Grayson is depressed and lonely while the other is trying to make better decisions in the hopes of finding himself and pleasing people around him. The main feature of John…

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Separation.

17 Sep

16th September 2014. My Salma phopho died.

As monotonous and lucid as it may sound, It’s a wound that would never heal. I would never cure and rise. I would never be the same woman I use to be before hearing this news. I lost my mother. I lost a women who use to stand by my door staring at me when I used to fell sick. I lost a women who cooked me whatever I craved for, even at midnight. I lost a women who use to store newspaper cuttings of sayings of Hazrat Ali (AS) and showed me every time I visited, I lost a women who always use to bring me close to Allah, I lost a women who brought me up, helped me survive through my injuries, bragged about how mature and extra-ordinary I was, She was someone I use to specially call and asked to pray because I knew Allah listened to her, She was someone who was there for everyone, except her self. I lost my world. I lost everything.

Death separated me from her physical scent. But I can sense her around me. Her presence, her smiling face, her crying face, I can hear her voice, she is here, with me, But I can’t feel her, I can’t tell her that I loved her. I loved her very much. I am ready to die instead, just to bring her back. But rules, Allah’s rules. Nature’s rules.

It’s the hugest separation that I ever endured. The last time when I saw her before she was buried, she was smiling. And that’s the only strengthening stance that I am glad about. She experienced a peaceful death. She is in a better and a beautiful place. I don’t know what I am going to do without her, this vacuum will last forever.

I miss you phopho. I miss you very much. May Allah grant you a place in Jannah. That’s what you deserve.

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