Woundfully

In the dead of the night, she lay still while her heart thumped sobs
The dark veiled her face; hid the stubborn twitching of the stubbornly firmly set lips
Hid the hot tears that wobbled momentarily and slid out of her brown eyes, like blood pooling and spilling from a wound
Her heart was a wound
The hurt just pooled there
Her scalp burned where the tears touched her, searing the hurt into her head, into her hair
Where a pair of fingers once ran themselves through to the tips, to the nape of her neck, digressing below her collarbone
She called out to the sleeping body beside her
Her voice cracked on the three syllabled name, as if it were feet treading on shards that got sharper with each step like the hurt sharpening in her chest
No reply
An invisible hand traced her neck, she recalled the fingers that touched her there, she recalled the fingers that set her pulse racing, racing, racing, racing
And the hand slid lower, inside the thin shirt that clung adamantly to her like a strong chest that once did, a warm strong chest within which a heart beat
A heart that beat for her
Or did it?
She missed the stubble that scraped her chin first, like a razor, the stubble her fingers slowly grazed over, savouring the hardness of hair and softness of skin that merged beautifully together underneath the soft pads of her fingers
Under the thin softness of her lips
Beautifully
Beautifully
Deliciously
She missed the spectacledeyes that looked at her, seared through her, made her avert her face away in shyness, bashfullness, excitement, lust
Like a bride
The hand slid lower and she remembered the moment her heart burst with climax, the first time it beat like it was alive, vitalised , strong
The hurt pooled in her heart deeply now; redder, thicker, slower, painfully
She imagined the soft voice and the thousand threeletterwords it said, out of love, out of pain, out of play, out of urge, out of lust, out of habit
The invisible hand grew a twin, together they crawled over her back to an invisible axis where they clasped together the long fingers and thin palms
She felt a pull, a tug
A hug
She felt that old warmth again on her skin
In her mouth
In her heart
In the pit of her stomach
In the secret of her body
In the core of her soul
And then, it vanished; deafeningly, blindingly, distastefully, hurtfully, coldfully, foreverfully
The pool spilled in her chest, drowning her heart
And she drowned with it.
Hurtfully. Foreverfully.

But Rumi Said!

Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along.”
― Rumi, The Illuminated Rumi


<3

Pop Goes The... Dil

Do you know what a breaking heart sounds like?

Kind of like the silent sound of the thin, soapy bubbles popping in the shower.

Yeah. No one hears it. No one knows it was even there.

Just when it's in the air, just when it's soaring high, rising with emotion and love.. Pop.

That's a broken heart.

It vanishes. 

The same heart doesn't come back again.

It dies.

Why?

Because it breaks.

This doesn't explain it? 

Try saying "Toota hua dil" - just the pronunciation encapsulates what it feels like..

Toota hua.

Now

So I watched the news today. No big deal right? Everyone watches the bloody news every bloody day. Well, something inside me snapped.

Well, I've been harboring this since the days commencing Steve Jobs death and.. Well. Facebook's right. One person dies, the world gets down on its knees and when one million kids are dying because of famine and illness and shit like this (let alone adults), no one has the fucking courtesy to mourn those innocent beings who could have, you know, been assets to us all in some way or the other - let alone grow up and be good kids and serve a tiny purpose in their parents' lives. Just because the creator of the Mac is gone - some damned computer which only a minority of the people can afford - we sit down and cry like it's a whole generation of brilliance dead. 

Hey, I'm not denying Steve Jobs was brilliant - hell, he's done a brilliant job bringing about a whole technological revolution; I revolve around Hamlet and Silas Marner Podcasts, but idolizing this man to such an extent.. 

Yeah. Not something I'd do.

Sorry, Mr.Jobs, I hope computer heaven is treating you well but I will not sit and mourn your death like you were a god. 

And another thing: The uncontrollable flood and Dengue victims, Oh and two new cases of Polio in Pakistan were also reported to be discovered today, too. Seriously? Polio strikes back. This is not a joke. Our country is dying slowly! WE NEED TO STAND UP AND DO SOMETHING. I know I sound hypocritical bitching about like this but I really do not know how we as teenagers can contribute. Maybe sign a petition requesting the WHO to help us here? Maybe signing a petition for President Zardari to call an International Conference appealing for ideas? Maybe.. Maybe seriously praying for our country?

Oh, and lo! The price of electricity has increased buy Rupees THREE POINT FOUR PER UNIT (Rs 3.4). This IS NOT A JOKE! IT IS NOT! IT'S ATROCIOUS! IT'S HORRIFIC! IT'S BARBARIC! Our economy is in a slump, load shedding is haunting us and now they go ahead and increase electricity? BESIDES THAT: THEY HAVE ANNOUNCED TWO HOLIDAYS A WEEK  NOW! TO SAVE ELECTRICITY - SO BHAYE, WHY ARE YOU CHARGING MORE FOR THE DAMNED THING??? HOW DO YOU EXPECT PEOPLE TO EARN ENOUGH TO BE ABLE TO PAY THAT EVER-INCREASING BILL??

And something I haven't blogged about: The Chaudry Aslam Bomb Blast? Yeah, I live two streets away from his house. I WOKE UP TO THE SOUND OF THE BOMB. And almost 18 - then - I was sleeping in my PARENTS's room. We're not even safe in our own beds. And my teacher was his next door neighbor with three adorable little kids - her house looks like a broken, haunted shack. Chaudhry Aslam has the mind to send his family away, knowing something dire was happening - could he not have made his surrounding neighbors and schools sign a petition of secrecy, informing us that something dangerous was going to happen and we should evacuate? Or rather, just announced that we should evacuate the night before that Black Monday Morning? It's just sad. We were not part of that war - us innocent people. His neighbors, the schools, his guards - why were we involved? Someone please answer that!

I thought I'd be patriotic till I die. Love my Land of The Green. Stand up for it. But really, I'm forced to rethink my emotions and decision. And events after that bomb blast in our country - the floods, local issues and shit - (19th Sep, I think) have seized my attention. A really bitchy teacher in my school once said: This country is going to the dogs. I think I'll with Miss Bitch on this.

Know why? Because this country has hurt me. It has hurt my family and my people.

Scrubbing.

Can aquatic animals ever be dirty? I guess not.

When you have a pet, you learn to dote on it like your mom doted on you when you were a cute, cuddly round football.

Yeah.

Anyway.

Imagine someone telling your mom you're stinky, and very dirty and need a good scrubbing.

Diss, right?

Yeah, Fishshopguy dissed me. Told me my turtle needed a good scrubbing.

MoFo.

His mustache needed a good scrubbing.

If you can scrub them that is.

UGH.

ChillingWithMyTurtleChillingWithMyTurtle.

God damn it, this is what a fucking tired mind with insomniac crap does. 

Bloody mustache Fishshopguy.

Awake

Night-time.

Sleeplessness.

Steady breathing.

Hush.

Hush.

Whir.

Sigh.

Fantasize.

Dream.

Recall.

Lover's touch.

His sweet lips.

Warm hands.

Around you.

His gentle breath.

His sweet words.

Hush.

They might hear you.

Sleepy dawn.

Call to prayer.

Again.

A hush.

Sunrise.

Orange flames.

The sky is alight with blinding colour.

Stupid crows.

Gentle sparrows.

Alive. 

Eyes droop.

Lashes cage your eyes shut.

Again - the lover.

Lips on lips.

Hand in hand.

His weight upon you.

Stop!

Enough -

Sing the songs of daily praise.

Step back into routine.

Sweet tea.

Warm toast.

Looking at the deceased room.

Looking up.

Imagining.

Thinking.

Linking.

Wondering.

Pondering.

Questioning.

Answering.

Fantasizing.

Climaxing.

Release.

You ask: Why?

Madness unveiled.

Drudgery of the daily routine.

"41 dead"

"Strike: Today"

Daily life.

Distraction.

Distraction.

Stoic life.

Early morning bell.

Again - the lover.

Hush.

Gentle laughter,

Hush.

They're together.

Ami, God's Got You Now :)

Losing a grandparent - pretty ordinary thing, right? Same old "Ah man, they got old" or some cruel illness invading them. It's a fact, that death's inevitable, has to come take you and me away. But what if.. What if you could cheat death? Steal a day, knowing the person would be gone the next. 
Around 5:15 a.m, 21st May 2011, my Daadi, my Ami, died. She left me. She left us all. Silently creeping out of the bedroom every night, breath caught in tight holds, tears tumbling down, I think of her. Same typical thoughts - how good she was, so pious, so funny, so unique. If I'd known God'll take her, I'd've begged Him for another day. I would. I would. 
I would have spent the day with her. Watched Dr. Israar's fanatical speeches she fancied - "Daadimi ka boyfriend" was what we'd dubbed him - and watched those silly but oh-so-entertaining Star Plus soaps which she devoured with Amma. I'd've told her all the Pathan jokes I could gather - she laughed at them till her voice became hoarse. I'd've made her wear a red sari, red nail polish, a lily in her hair.. She promised me - she promised me she'd dress up with so much pomp and swagger at my wedding. I'm lucky to have found my Prince Charming, my jaan, my everything. If I had a day, I'd've married him, with Ami in all that red, there. 
Ami was so ill.. So ill. In the last few months, I had lost the courage to step into her room and sit for hours like I used to. On a long term catheter, almost paralysed, prey to multiple strokes, tubes and drips and injections.. I didn't have the heart to see her like this. My Ami, my Daadimi, who'd walk to her cupboards giving me cookies I loved, lotions and creams, giving me neck massages and oiling my hair.. Teaching me Salah. Teaching me duas.. My Ami was bed ridden. Grey. Stoic. 
My Ami loved me when my parents resented me. My Ami trusted me, had faith in me when rotten relatives complained about me. My Ami doted on me, more than she doted on anyone. And my Ami, was my Daadimi.
She was strong. She had the most amazing, crazy, wacky, brilliant sense of humour. Telling her all sorts of jokes - that became our thing. She confided her sons' weaknesses in me - my strong Tayas, my Dad - all their weaknesses. She told me things my parents hid from me, trusting that I'd handle it maturely. My Ami was a great lady. 
I sprained my ankle three days after she died. Before that I had missed her Janaza because I fell asleep; fatigued, tired, hurt. I knew she'd understand. So anyway, after I got a plaster, I was living in Ami's room, having Amma take care of me. I never felt her absence because.. I just didn't. It's like she was there. There in that room. With me. Like she hadn't died, rather.. Seeped into my mind and heart. Ami always prayed I'd get "Hidayat" - whatever that is, but in a way God was comforting me by connecting Ami and I.. Even after she's passed on
Days went by. It's the 18th day. I pass her room, it's empty. Ami left me again. Seeing Amma sleeping alone under the soft, swift whirring of the fan, I see now: Ami really has gone back to God.
Can it be possible? That a person dies, but isn't really dead? Is it possible, that when a person isn't really dead, they can leave you again when it was just their presence you felt?
Ami was my pillar. I'd rant to her about what bothered me, call her "Maata Jee" and laugh with her, saying silly things in my broken Punjabi. Just to see the corners of her mouth turn up slightly. I'd stay up fearlessly in the dark morning hours, because Ami would be there. I'd allow myself the liberty to temporarily hate my parents, because I had Ami to vent it all out to. I had someone to laugh with at the most atrocious jokes, because I had Ami and her dazzling sense of humour.
Ami was pious. Cared about religion, the Quran, Yada yada yada. Ami taught me Salah. I remember every day at Asr I'd go into her room and start imitating her - I even learnt her Punjabi niyat! Ami gave me a gift no one could. And Ami will keep on getting rewards for it, iA. Around August 2010 onwards, I was the one helping Ami pray. So much so, Asr-Maghrib-Isha were mandatory done my me. What honoured me was, how she'd specifically tell Amma to call me to help her pray. 
There's so so so much more about Ami to be disclosed. I was a wild child, to tone me down, my Mama would threaten to send me to the Murree Convent hostel, regarding which I had a very Disney-evil-like image in my mind. Ami would turn around and say: Agar yay jaey gi tou mai mar jaoon gi. Yay meri jaan hai.
God, I know you have my Ami. That's where she wanted to be. But please let her know I love her. Please let her know I miss her. That I need her. Please take care of her, God. I love You and I trust You. My Ami is MY jaan. Please: Please take care of her till I come see You. 
I love you Ami. 
Tusi meri jaan ho. Assi tenu bohot yaad kardey pae. Saada intizaar karo. Assi teray kol inshallah zaroor awan gay <3