Category Archives: Story & poems
Part two: ‘the story that didnt have a happily ever after’
I was 19 when I was forced into marrying a 26 years old fierce looking man, Zaigham Hassan Ali. I then was too young to probe the depths of personalities and handle kinship affairs, but old enough to understand that marriage would only mean a bar to my freedom. It turned out to be a useless fear, soon after the ceremony was over, I realized that he was the most charming person I would ever meet, who’d love me enough to make living a surreal fairytale for me, where he was the King and I – the queen. Continue reading
The story that didnt bear ‘happily ever after’ as an epilogue.
Note: story for http://weandwords.blogspot.com/2008/07/best-in-lounge-story-writing_29.html
Few stories are less fairy-talish, they don’t deserve ‘once upon a time’ as a prelude, or for that matter a ‘happily ever after’. Continue reading
My take on the child-abuse contest:
saat saal ki pyari lerki
Qismatoun ki maari lerki
phol chehra chand ankhain
titlioun si dulari lerki
hath mai kantay chubho rahi hay Continue reading
Note: I wrote this piece some three years back, adding a little more to it and posting here. Suicide. I think when you kill your conscience, and stop listening to it. You commit a suicide.
“I am planning to jump off the roof.”
“Planning again ?”
“yeah, yeah again, and this time I am Firm.”
“Oh, We’ll see…”
She rested her palm softly onto the wooden slab of the table and slightly leaned forward.
“Look, I am no good”
“You never were”
Eyes grew wide in exasperation. Color rushed to her cheeks.
“Yes. Yes! I deserve to be killed”
“I didn’t say that”
Pupil dilated in frustration.
“Oh yea? I can listen to all what you say and what you don’t”
“Sigh! You never could”
“There was always a guardian angel for you, you never looked back”
“And I never will” she spit out.
“When? When what?”
“When – when you are jumping off?”
“Jumping? Uh, Tonight. Yes Tonight. Tonight”
“Why?” she decided to give it a second thought.
“Yes. Go ahead.”
“Because loneliness delves deep into me and I am tired of talking to the lifeless bricks of the wall of my room; because I’m rejected as a person, as a girl, as a sibling, as a daughter as a lover, as a student!! I only wonder if my creater doesnt reject me as a creation. Because it is terrible knowing it all but unable to change anything, because I am the one shunned behind and everyone is so reluctant to give me whatever I deserve, if I deserve at all” she shuddered and a few tears lingered on her jaw, they fell to make the little room wet.
“Hmm” she nodded, not a very polite one, neither rude.
“Because my words have ended, lost, forgotten, burnt and ashes. I have no words, which I used to utter with the fleeting characters on the screen, I always watch shows with the tune mute, and I always make dialogs for the moving people. Do you listen? does anyone listen? do you care? does anyone care? do you love? Does anyone love??” she held her head in her palms.
“Ahh!” she uttered a mournful sigh.
“All the gratuitous Insults, the entire appalling demeanor… as if I am crumbling in the filthy slush-pile! The inferiority complex swallowing me, I’ve lost confidence in the only thing I was so confident of, Myself!” she lurched, and shivered terribly.
She bit her lower lip in anger, stared at her.
“You were never a help, you never Will as well.”
And she, within micro seconds, grabbed the cologne bottle, and threw it towards her.
Some glass broke.
Then she stared at her, some jagged pieces of freshly broken mirror seemed to be glimpsing back. She turned towards the door, and rushed out of the room, never to come back again.
The clouds walk with me!
I stretch my hands and starts descend to let me touch them.
and when i jump and shriek, The moon giggles!
The rain droplets come and caress my cheek
winds blow to play with my hair!
and I lose myself in the looking and loving.
You may come some other time!
I’m not alone!
I have moon, stars, clouds, rain and winds with me
My ultimate lovers for tonight 🙂
My first take for this kind of poem.
Please tell me how it was?
I felt my body languishing beneath the burning water. I saw the cuticles curling and the skin around my nails was white, wrinkled and dead.
I would then savor the ecstatic bliss of tearing it off with my pointed teeth and enjoying them. It was weird, wild and wilder.
It was like eating away your own flesh, perhaps my other futile attempt to scorn my self-detest.
It had a strange gentle sensation – a corner of your lip and the fingernails.
Although no one can commit suicide biting ones own flesh but I think I, very slowly, with others perfectly oblivious of it, am becoming a monster deep within!
The dormant necrophiliac monster is looming inside of me, silently and cautiously. Whence it came from? I don’t know, but it did, and that’s it. Its like a complete chick breaking the fully hatched egg… it presses the thinner end, “click” it crack open, and slowly but inevitably the whole egg-shell is broken into pieces and the chick comes out.
My skin is all peels. The hidden monster laughs a hideous laugh when i drag myself in front of the mirror. I can hear the eruption of wild laughs in my chuckles. I witness the venomous tentacles the monster is throwing in the air… floating back and forth.
It exist in me, like the bitter scum that is an integral part of cucumber, present but not apparent, like a dark gray blob of ink on black bed-sheet – existing, but perfectly hidden from their eyes. The monster in me breaths, eats, sleeps and nourishes itself inside of me.. That so sophisticatedly rebels from the igneous orders I give it.
july 07, 2007
She stood at the threshold, aloof, with blushed cheeks (more of rouge than of anything else), kohl eyes (dreamless eyes that can hold the seas in them, of tears, of emotions, of regret, of anything but dreams.) and lips melting into mirthless robotic smile of the recipient (with thick hair neatly plaited) of that financing bank, but she was not the recipient and she didn’t have thick plaited hair. yet, She wore pink shapely lipstick over her unshaped lips, (that are forced to smile at her unwelcome guests) and stood there more disintegrated and more dissimilated than she appeared to be.
No one would ever see the wetness of the freshly cried off tears. But the wrinkles of her crumpled cheeks lamented a foreign weird tale of grief and melancholy (blurry enough for the world to be oblivious of, and vivid enough for the ignorant!) Clad in baby pink shirt, embellished with pearls (she did this her self!) the dress too beautiful with a long dupatta (tidily wrapped around the head, less of modesty and more because of the falling hair and lizard-tail plait made up of ashen-brown, as if burnt, hair) and a chooridaar. Too beautiful a dress that could have looked lovelier hanged onto the hanger, than on her dreadful body. It dangled oddly over her, as if complaining on its gruesome fate! Her wearing it; had made it look less adorable -perhaps hardly adorable at all.
She stood there vacuously, under the stern scrutiny, being gauged by two pairs of noxious eyes – the length of her index finger, (short! Disapproved) shape of her toe-nail (curled! Disapproved), worth of her gold-bracelet (cheap! Disapproved), teeth on her lower jaw (pearl-white! But… disapproved). Her every gesture, her every leaning (and not leaning – why?) had been inspected! Few meters away, in front of a decorously set table, which bore the empty saucers, showing signs of freshly baked cake and patties (home made!), her special samosas, and other fruits, were sitting the garrulous flaunting mother, (the size of his car, the shape of his labeled coat, the weight of his pocket on the 1st night of the month) and her patronized child, hair slicked back as if with spite, an oversized coat with loosely hung pants, as if borrowed.
A pair of haunting hawk eyes and a pair of hungry eyes, (as if never fed with good food!). This scene had been rehearsed so many times that now she could even predict the movements. The hideous women, with crumbs of biscuit and cake on the corner of their lips and greed in their eyes, the women who would gloat over their dominant position, who would boast off their child’s status, his immaculate taste and choice, women, who smell of rotten apple when speak and who would never find the secretive path that led to her beautiful heart (a crystal clear heart has to bear a attractive face – some one had said it utterly wrong).
Hideous pompous women that could never probe the depths of her seas and could never reach the skies of her thoughts, who would only see the apparent ugliness of her, the cripples wrapping sheet in which her dreamy enchant lay virgin! And not her way-too-perfection that lies beneath her plain bodily flaws! No one can ever see her mesmerizing beauty within. Blinds – fiends – Morons !! The little green frog, remained the little green frog, the coward kitten waited behind the curtains, reluctant to come in the limelight. The mother and the child stood up, nodding! The handsome child would marry a white-skinned, rosy-cheeked and long-thick-haired princess! No one saw that the queen of illusionary world, a princess of the lost land of Atlantis, had a very delicate heart bearing a tag, “Handle With Care” No one noticed that another (yet another!) sly crease had crept on her cheeks, a permanent mark of being rejected again!
she was a little girl, unlike other little girls from whom you expect gentle behavior, neat attire, pleasing manners, and polite accounsting “Mamma! i have made my bed and cleaned my closet”. she was different, way too different. her hair would always be ruefully disoriented, her mud clad self was too crude for a girl of her age (grown-up enough to take care of herself, to write her name and to discern between the whats-nice and whats-not-so-nice, although she never even once intended to accept it) her manners were too savage and she would pick her nose in public and would not be ashamed of it. she said to me once that she was different, that she knew, what she didn’t know was that she was rude, impolite and very wild to consider urbane too.
she was younger to me, almost 15 years, that means when i was 24 she was 9, when i was 25 she was 10, and she thought ten means someone so big, TEN, it did sound too grown-up like, it also had two digits in it, 1 and 0 and she thought 0 was a real big number, adding one zero to any number make it so big. she thought that ten meant she has grown one fifty times in one years, but she didnt like 25 she wanted me to skip this year and directly go on to the next 26, which she thought was better to 25. as if growing 150 times in a year was really possible. as if skipping years out of life is something that can be done. as if living the way you want to live is achievable. as if.
she would share with me things too, which she said she would not tell to others. why it was so, i could never comprehend. she might have found her own reflection in my grown up self, and if it was something else, she didnt tell me.
she was then too young to probe the attitude variances, to answer the plathora of whys and ifs that poped in her head, to judge the indifference people had for her. her no-body-ness to them, and since nobody care for nobody, nobody cared for her. she was not allowed to intermingle her peers. she was just to climb up the grill, dangle her feet (a little larger than the feet of normal girl of her age.), rub her cheeks against the post but Nought to play.
she would keep watching children playing hopscotch and would keep on making illusionary friends. I probably was her only real friend. she would never play with dolls, because she was different and never played hopscotch because for that two players are needed and i was too grown up to play with her.
she was very clever and soon learned that loneliness itself is a bliss, and that two “w’s” water and writing always help.
i dont know if she had written stories to cover to or painted because colors are ecstasy, i guess she must have because she was a good learner and she must have understood these.
i know, because i did the same too, she? my oddball, i smile in the mirror.
Feb 07, 2007
ps. wrote it in notepad and in one go, hence all the spelling mistakes are pardonable :p
and thats how the new year begin….
I can hear in my loneliness
the melody of this fleeting moment
foot steps of eve’s drifting away
with the demise of the day
night’s creeping in.
I can perceive the silent throb of my heart
racing for an unknown breavement
flaunting hues are blending in haze
Towns are tumbling down to ashes
I can behold the transformation
into this wilderness
where haunting horror has reigned
Listen yourself if you can
This demise of day will sound the trumpet of death.
Jan 02, 2007