It was my convocation today.

Dear Little ones,

It was my convocation today.  The day we strive for. The day our ammi abu look forward to.

The day with century old tradion of draping in robe and receiving your degree. The moment when knowledge acknowledges and presents you to the world. The day when you can see the pride in the eyes of your parents and realize it was all worth it. You know the day that you won't ever see.

Today, standing here and receiving condolences, I realized it’s the day when I have failed you. When the system has failed you. When the God trafficked at lower prices turned out to be faulty.

For I stand here while you are mourned. For I could have stood up, fought and combated the faulty version of God that was fed to create monsters. For I could have stood up and saved you years before you were born.

It took your deaths to make me realise that there stands just one type of Taliban today.

The one that kills justifying the killing as revenge.

The one that refuses to condemn citing reasons of various sorts.

The one that brutally repeats the massarcre, disecting the bodies of innocent ones by presenting faulty wisdom, conditionalities and justifications for your killings.

The one that plans to the one that executes to the one that downplays your significance by getting stuck in the egoistic debates over vigils versus Quranic recitations.

The one that stands as psychologically infertile, unable to think beyond his own brand of religion.

Today, there is no good taliban and no bad taliban. There is only one kind of Taliban for me.

Dear Little ones,

It was my convocation today, the day you will never experience. I killed your chance of experiencing the day by letting the psychologically infertile minds target you.

Dear Little ones,

It was my convocation today and I am sorry for I have nothing to offer besides dedicating this day of knowledge to you. As you died, you opened my eyes to the only kind of Taliban that exists in my country today.

You died and with you died my fear. You died but gave birth to realisation.

Remembering a verse

* The words below is a piece of writing I came across recetny; amid various expression struggling to express about the Peshawar attack, this one seemed to resonate with what I was struggling to express. With permission from the writer (Zain), sharing the post as it is.  

 "More than 100 kids were killed today in Peshawar, Pakistan.

Muslims use the verse from Quran, Inna Lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un in times of death. This term, translating to "We belong to Allah and to Him we return" is used to share the feelings and ideology of being grateful and thankful to Allah for whatever happens.

More than 100 kids were killed today in Peshawar, Pakistan.

Perhaps Muslims have forgotten another verse, which says, "Bi ayyi dhambin qutilat" (81:9), translating to: "For what sin was she killed?", related to some young girl.

More than 100 kids were killed today in Peshawar, and ask the parents, they are crying the same verse: For what sin were they killed? The young ones - who are yet to learn ideologies.

People in Pakistan, who have soft corners for those who talk of the contemporary ideology of Jihad, and have soft corners for these brutal animals who kill kids because they believe it is a "retaliation" of the drone attacks or Army operation, they need to open their eyes and learn from Quetta blasts and killings. When the Quetta blasts happened targeting Hazara community, as retaliation, nobody was harmed, the bodies were put to the grounds asking for justice, something that is hard to get in Pakistan.

More than 100 kids we killed today in Peshawar. Would the parents or anyone else do a sit in and shut down to ask for justice? Probably not.

Shut down, sit ins, and rallies, are usually to secure political or religious ideologies. We have seen sit ins and shut downs in the case of Quetta killings in the recent past, but that was from a minority group, with a set goal of imposing a state of emergency and removing the provincial government.

More than 100 kids were killed today in Peshawar, and no, it is not the time of patience. It is the time to actualize who is the perpetrator, to find the institutions where soft corners are kept, where people confuse these as reactions to drone attacks and Army operation.

More than 100 kids were killed today in Peshawar, and if you still have any kind of soft corner or confused logic in your mind that this was a reaction to drone attacks and army operation, then you may wait till you lose people from your own immediate family and realize all this.

More than 100 kids were killed today, it is not just the time to say Inna Lillah wa Inna ilayhay raji'un, it is the time to question ideologies, to question the way Quran does; For what sin were these kids killed? To take up this verse and question those who justify killing as a reaction."

- Zain

Look around.

You see these humans walking around in the park?

See the lady in that pink jacket playing with her little kid near the swings?

See that old couple sitting and staring somewhere far on that bench?

See that young couple that just walked by, entangled in each other's arms?

That little teen in blue jacket on that bench with books and macbook?

This girl in late 20s or early 30s who just cycled by?

You see. Some of them are alone. Some with another human. Their age, older or younger.

Issue is, each one of them is gazing into the wilderness of what the other has or doesn't have.

Each wants another human, another job, another activity or something "another" that they don't seem to have at this moment in time.

Issue is, sitting here and interrupting the intensity of their gaze to make them realize is difficult.

For no matter how hard you try, it's only after running a whole track of losing and gaining people, jobs, money and other things that a human comes to a realisation.

A realisation that for you to eliminate loneliness and vacuum, you don't need to focus on what you don't have. Human, out of the shere pain of internal vacuum, often succumbs to positioning the lack, the pain, as a misery; consequently often striking a deal, getting what it wants and acquiring temporary fulfillment.

Ask that old couple sitting on that bench. Have they gotten absolutely what they wanted? They'd say, eventually yes.

Now ask them, did it come to them through how they positioned their vacuums, needs and miseries to the world or did it all come to them in its all due time?

Eventually you get everything you want. In due time. You get exactly what you need at exactly the moment you need it. Not a second more. Not a second less. Not a thing more. Not a thing less.

Trying to acquire something is different from obsessively wanting something. The first stems out of an understanding that having something doesn't make you complete. The latter stems out of a shere compulsive delusion that the acquired thing will make you complete.

We love portraying ourselves as passive victims of this world, of this society. Often a times, in our effort to bargain a better deal with the world. And if not with the world, then with ourselves. For the self pity of the words of the situation we are in soothes us and resonates the reassurance of our role as a victim.

The world is unjust. Indeed so. But doubting His justice to his people or His spread of appearant/nonappearant suffering/blessings is like confining Him in our little books of accounts.

In doing so, are we forgetting the Creator who created the very concept of Justice? In running after the world are we not trying to fill the vacuum meant for Him by everything apart from Him.

We remember Him in pain more often.

*an inspired thought.

We remember Him in pain more often.

We remember Him in missing a human.
We remember Him in that vacuum. In that absence.
In that job we couldn't get.
In that wealth that couldn't be ours.
In that opportunity we just missed.
In that past we miss.
In that time we don't think would happen.

We remember Him in pain more often.
We remember Him.
In what was said to us.
In what we couldn't change.
In that regret of what we could change but didn't.
In what we didn't say.
In what we didn't do.
Or in what we did say and what we did do.
In our failures.
In our mistakes.
In our shortcomings.
In what could have been or should have been.

We remember Him in pain more often.
We remember Him helplessly and timelessly when we fall for what is beautiful, just, powerful, wealthy and  knowledgeable in this world.

We forget that these beauties, the justs, the wise, the powerful, the weathy and the knowledgeable are nothing but mere figments of who He is.

They are the 'effect' in which we helplessly surrender our hope of living the Cause.

In all of the absences,
In all of the manifestations in worldly things,
Somewhere deep down, we realize.

We realize the Realisation of Our Yearning.
Our innate yearning that rests not well with anything but the Cause.

Thus, we remember Him in pain more often.

For pain bursts open the realities of illusions and obsessions.
For pain dissolves our hope in what was just a mirage.
For pain realigns us back to what our hearts were originally seeking.

We come home, when at the end of the day, tired and helpless, we surrender back to the Yearning within.

We come home when we stop obsessing after His manifestations on earth. We come home when His manifestations on earth become a means to be with Him. We come home when we break the idols of worshipping worldly manifestations - driven by the Yearning for Him.

And pain. Pain brings us back home.

Now I know why we remember Him in pain more often. His remembrance in pain. A step closer to Him. to Home.

Pendulum.

You have to forget your happiness to be with the world.
Just like you have to forget your troubles to be with the world.

On the pendulum from joy to suffering, each one has a share.
Each share has its own intensity and appearance.
Not each share is visible.
Joy has sufferings as much as sufferings has joys.
Each pendulum swings for each human, but not in synchronised motion.

Nobody has more.
Nobody has less.
I am as lucky as you. You are as lucky as the one next to you.
No grass is ever greener on the other side.

Our dismissal of the other's pendulum of joy and suffering as any less or any more reflects our victimised obsession with our own pendulum.

Finding another as luckier, even in heart, is committing a grave act of error against Him. For He is Just. He is the Just of the Just. So finding a grass greener is disbelieving His Justice.

Finding anyone in apparent misery and feeling sympathetic rather than empathetic is an act of error. He wants you to help a fellow being by being empathetic, not feel sorry for him. For what may seem like a misery to you, maybe a human's ultimate connection to Him. For what may seem like eternal misery for another is a mere phase of suffering.

As I sat with a friend, she said, 'Remember me in prayers.' I told her I need them too. She smiled and said well then remember me in prayers, for who knows who prays for whose prayers to be answered.

You have to forget your happiness to be with the world.
Just like you have to forget your troubles to be with the world.

On the pendulum from joy to suffering, each one has a share.
Each share has its own intensity and appearance.

Pilgrimage.

I haven't been on Pilgrimage.

But I have heard from those who have that you hardly get time for God.

Amidst countless and continuous actions, requirements and precautions, you somehow somewhere seem to be more occupied with ensuring that you perform the act right.

It is how somewhere somehow you just feel you just couldn't have enough. Not yet. The yearning remains, rather so often, it intensifies.

I haven't been on the pilgrimage but I have heard so from different people.

I think I know what they mean.

Life then just seems like an extended version, rather a zoomed out version of the same pilgrimage. Wherein, often a times, you expect and yearn for the Meeting, which doesn't just quite happen fully. Doesn't just quite happen absolutely. If it does, it lasts barely a second or more.

It seems just when you step up, pleading a meeting, He sends your way, another action. Here, perform this first. Here, love humans first. Here, express gratitude to this blessing first. Here, bear patiently this suffering first. Here, love for My Love first.

Amidst what seems so material and mere performance of duties, obligations and expectations, you seem to be constantly experiencing and living each in the Hope of Final Meeting. In the hope of quenching that Yearning in you.

Through His world, He makes you feel the vacuum. The void. The Yearning. The incomplete in the complete. The slight pain in that Absolute Peace. The Missing.

Impatiently, succumbing to your ego, to your self, you run away from the Yearning.

In that each second of Missing Him, lies Him. In thaf each moment of killing the Yearning to be with His world, lies Surrendering to Him.

In the Pilgrimage, you find Him by being your best at your actions within the physical sphere of this Life.

In the Pilgrimage of Life it seems, you find Him by being your best at your actions within the Worldly sphere of this Life.

You find Him not in the satisfaction of all day worship on a prayer mat.
You find Him in the pain and joy of living the daily life.
You find Him in waiting.
You find Him in combating your self and doing what your conscience says you should against the comfortable palaces of ego, pride and arrogance.

You find Him in sacrificing what you love the most in ways unimaginable each moment.
He doesn't give for you to own, He gives for you to Love Him through what He gives you.

He lies in smiling for each joy and suffering of worldly life.

I haven't been on the pilgrimage, but I have heard so.

Fireman

It was a fine Sunday morning of Autumn.
Crispy leaves and crunchy trees.
I was walking along a pretty path when I saw a fire.
A tree nearby was on fire.
I looked around and wondered.
I thought maybe somebody had left something burning.
I shrugged my shoulders and continued to walk.

Days passed.

It was a beautiful winter evening.
Cold breeze and jackets everywhere.
I was walking along the frozen lake when I saw a fire.
A car nearby was on fire.
I looked around and wondered.
Hurrying like the rest, I went to see if the car was empty.
I debated with the rest of who could have caused the fire.
I pointed to the man most suspicious in the crowd.
It was getting late.
Shrugging my shoulders, I continued to walk.

Days passed.

It was a pleasant fresh lovely morning.
Birds chirping and spring flowing
I was walking along the road when I saw a school building on fire.
Sad and dismal at the sight, I ran to try and save the people I could.
I was angry at who could have caused the fire.
I hurried to fill a bucket as my mind raced to find the culprit.
My eyes scanned the crowd as I joined the rest in blaming the school guard for negligence
Bucket of water and bucket of words was all I could to extinguish the fire.

Who did it.
Why did they do it.
How could they do it.
Why would they do it.
Why was it happening.
How could it happen.

I wondered in my utter frustration as I reached the house I called my home.
My eyes saw as my mind froze.
My house was on fire and I didn't know who had set it.

I delved into gathering buckets of water and sights of people as my mind ran to find the culprit.

Wood by wood, pillar by pillar, I saw it all turning into an ash of Nothing as I stood there wondering.

Had I known on that one fine morning of Autumn, that I had to fetch a fireman rather than stand and wonder at the tree.

Had I known on that winter evening that the car needed an extinguisher more than catching the culprit.

Had I known on that fresh lovely morning of Spring that I could save it all if only I knew the fireman.

Using my brain to call the fireman at the right time could have saved me my house.

Knowing that a fireman exists doesn't stop fires around the city. But it helps in Surrendering to the One who knows How to Extinguish the Pain.

Remembering Him is an act of mind.
Calling Him is Presence of mind.
He works through us indeed, but for that, He needs to be called. to be felt. For that, we need to surrender to the fact that He knows His ways more than us.

What was that person doing, what was that person not doing, what was that person wearing, what was that person not wearing. Why did they do this to me. Why did they do that to me. Why did they do that to them and why did they not do that to them.

In these whys and hows of finding the culprit of the fires, we forget that the Fire is an indication of calling the Fireman.

Amidst fires and nonfires of Life, we forget to use our brain to call out the Fireman.

To Him

To Him, we are perfect.

In all our imperfections and ugliness.
Amid the bumps and wrinkles of growing age.
Amid the sufferings of moods and laughters and sorrows.
To Him, we are perfect.

In all our worldly weaknesses and shortcomings.
In all our declining looks and passerby glances.
In all our worldly compliments and our sense of self
To Him, we are perfect.

To how we see ourselves in the mirror to how the mirror is to who the mirror is.
To all the words of wisdom and thoughts of comfort.
He is the only One are perfect to.

Perhaps because He created us.
Perbaps because He is the Guardian of our secrets.
Perhaps because He witnesses our sufferings like our Sole Companion.
Perhaps because He sees us evolve from a wrinkle to another.
Perhaps because He hears the depth of unsaid to the confines of unheard.
Perhaps because He sees us struggle for his people because He said so.
Perhaps because He is the only One Perfect.

Perhaps then, He is the Only one we are perfect to. He is the Only One.

Mourning is.

Mourning is never just crying on martyrs.

As I mourn today, as countless across sects, communities and faiths and no-faiths join the mourning, mourning feels such a joy.

Mourning is never about crying that Hussain died.

Mourning is crying why Hussain died.
Mourning is not the events of the battle.
Mourning is the events that led to the battle.
Mourning is not the events of processions today.
Mourning is lack of understanding the cause.
Mourning is not the pain of a dying body.
Mourning is the pain of the dying soul.
Mourning is silence and lack of empathy.
Mourning is not lack of knowledge.
Mourning is the pain of lack of curiosity to know. To question.
Mourning is the pain of witnessing marginalisation of Hussain and philosophy to a sect, to a faith.

This mourning today liberates me of my bodily being, narrates to me the Possibility of Standing for the Right. for Truth. It indicates to me how Truth and Justice stand alone. Universally. Across Time.

As my city sinks into silence, security takes charge, people mourn to combat the rising extremism. As this armed rangers guy bows down and smiles making way for these ladies and children to enter a risk zone, I see how mourning helps combat the fear of Injustice and Oppression.

Mourning was never crying over Hussain.
Mourning was and is why he was alone.

Mourning is never crying over Zainab.
Mourning is the pain of why she saw 'Nothing but beauty'.

Mourning has taught me to combat myself within.
Mourning has taught me to decide whether I combat with words for God or for my ego.

In this world of blurred reality and skewed representation of Truth, Mourning is helplessly not knowing where I would have been in the battle.

Perhaps then, Mourning is also the only way of expressing the wish of Knowing the Truth, combating the Injustices and silences, growing beyond a faith and a sect.

Perhaps then, Mourning today is the way of attaining the Knowledge from the Kingdom of the One who created us. Pleading Him for wisdom as I continue trying to understand Hussain's message.

As I mourn today, I witness countless gathered under a single cause and bowing down to the Single God on this concrete urban road. I witness people mourning Hussain in Siraiki, Pushto, Sindhi, Dari, Urdu and English within a mete stretch of 2kms.

Mourning today is an act. An expression. An attempt. To combat the self within in order to understand. In order to realise the peace within of The Universality of this Mourning.

As injustice continues penetrating with ideological weapons and threats, countless stand and combat with nothing but presence of Mourning. Presence that cuts through the fear of absence and combats Injustice like no other.

Black

It is not just a color.
It was not just a battle.
It was not just another conflict.
It was not just a political friction
It was not just a protest.
It was not just enmity.
It was not just matrydom.

It is not just an emotion.
It is not just a ritual.
It is not just mourning.
It is not just wearing black.
It is not a season.
It is not a habit.
It is not a month.

It is not just one of me being killed.
It is not invocation.
I am not an infidel.
I don't worship Prophet's family, I worship the God they taught me to worship.

Round the year don't raise your eyebrows and comment that one of me must have been killed for political affiliation.
Raise your concern to why I am still being killed.
Raise your queries and read history. All history. Everyone's history.

It was Muslim's Last Prophet's Grandson.
It was and is about Justice. about Oppression. about Truth.

And it was not just for me.
It was and still is for all.
It was never about saving me.
It was and has always been about saving Humanity.

His message is too grand to be confined to a community.
His message is for anyone who remembers him, anyone who reads him and anyone who understands his message.

So black is not just a color.
It is a symbol for all that happened and continues to happen.
A symbol that resides in the eyes of growing orphans of my community.
It is about vigor. Enthusiasm to stand for the Right.

The Right that transcends all borders of sect, religion, creed and color.
The Right that dissolves all and recognises Justice.
The Right that gives me the reason to combat oppression and darkness.

The Right that fought and still fights the dying glimpse of what constitutes Humanity.

It is a symbol that reminds me.
As much as it reminds me of the level of evil a human can stoop to, it reminds me of the level of Humanity a soul can reach to.

Sitting here tonight as I look around. I realise. Black. that black is not just a color.
And it was not just a battle.

He is.

It is as if when He created us, He placed in us a yearning. a need.

He plays in mysterious ways through His people. In search of Him, in search for something that quenches the thirst of the one yearning, the traveler journeys through His blessings.

He wants us to give to our blessings. Of completeness, of Peace. He wants us to give Absoluteness of everything of what we do. He wants us to receive His blessings with the depth of our Soul that knows nothing of self, knows nothing of existence and ego, knows nothing of needs. It knows well of yearning, for yearning lies in the Heart of the Soul. So when blessings walk by, the Soul gives like a generous donor inneed of meeting Him.

And while the Soul gives to the blessings, He draws nearer in pain, in yearning. He lies in Yearning. He lies in feeling helpless. He lies in the pain awakened by the frustration of a lover. He lies in the ticking of Time that doesn't seem to pass. He lies in the ache of self when the Soul cloaks the self to give Completeness to the blessings. He lies in the fatigue of the Soul when the Soul combats the thoughts within. He lies in the frustration of muted expression struggling to find words. He lies in the battle of the mind and the heart struggling to let the Soul give of Peace.

He lies in the yearning ache of Absoluteness and Completion. He lies in the trust of the Soul that accepts blessings. He lies in the intensity of loneliness that the mind tries warding off through worldly work. He lies in the Silent Combat within to nurture the Blessings outside.

All along He lies just where the Soul tries finding Him. He stays just right in that figment of that little fickle where the Yearning resides within.

Some chai and koels.

Koels converse too. Across buildings.  Beautifully. Every morning.

This uncle who smiles as he walks by. This sleepy dog who sits across the gate everyday. Empty peaceful roads. A bit of mist. The only shops open. Doodhwala and sabzi wala. Smell of toasted bread and chai. Some crisp texture of the newspaper. Home.

It seems the happiest hour, the hour that helps you write tales of the day and for the day, the hour when walk just doesn't feel like so.

The hour that gives you clarity. Literally and figuratively. The hour that makes you fall deeper in love with a cup of tea. The hour that makes you realize the wonders of mundane beauty. The hour that gives green its green, the breeze its breeze.

The hour that defines the rest of the hours. The mornings that refine the days and nights of Life. The hour that convinces the night to let you sleep early.

The most intimate hour with Nature. The hour that let's you witness its morning expression of Love to Nature. The hour that beautifully plays with the morning dews. While the world sleeps, the Nature and the Morning weave the pattern of Beautiful existence.

Existing as beautifully each day as if yesterday never happened and tomorrow will not be there.

Welcoming you each morning to the walks as just like the first day. Chai as Chai like never before. The smell of toasted bread seeming as wonderful as ever. The crispy paper, existing just as it is.

The koels conversing across buildings and trees. Just like always so.

Home. Mornings. That hour. Mocking and smirking to human's incapability of expressing the experience. As the human tries waking up the rest, desperately trying to narrate the tale of wonders; while the world sleeps to the blasting sound of illusionary comforts of artificially created rhythm of Time.

Koels converse regardless of who comes and who doesn't, singing and swaying to the joys of early mornings.

Chai awaits with the smell of freshly toasted bread. All happens in this hour, automatically. Magically. Nature rules the hour, doing justice to each that comes. The Nature that exists so beautifully insynced with Time, with Life.

Man Khushaal Hastam II - من خوشحال هستم

Continued from: Man Khushaal Hastam - من خوشحال هستم 

I went to meet her today.
I went to the same street I had first met her. I looked around. Found no trace of her.
I went to the other side of the building where I had started meeting her after her location was "changed" by her "chacha". Found no trace of her.

I went back to where I had first met her, the place where I kept meeting her for days. For months. For a year before I left.

I looked around. Disappointed. I shrugged my shoulders and stood there staring into the void of nowhere.

Projects changed. Interns changed. Even the guy selling sweetpotato at the roadside corner changed. My office timings more or less changed. Yet, each day arrived cloaked in the heaviness of corporate mundane routine which I had immensely fallen in love with. Ironically, each day was different. What stood different was her.  

Each day, as the evening breeze swept across, I sat on the stairs of Forum, chatting with her. About Afghanistan. About Chitral. About Karachi. About Sohrab Goth. About her weekends. About her family. Little did I know, amid all this, in her lively conversations about herself, she was talking to me about me.

I went back today to tell her how much she had taught me. 

Her words dancing across the evening breeze of Karachi, mixed with that faint smell of bhutta and vehicle fumes, still journey across my thoughts. Inevitably translating my unseen, unheard and unsaid thoughts. Thoughts that I eventually meet when I stare at the words in front of me. 

I desperately stare harder at these words, surrendering to my wonder of how does she still manage to let my thoughts be given words. So painlessly. So carelessly that half of the time I do not even realize it is happening. 

I went back today to make her meet my words that she can back trace to her stories. 

I went back today taking in my eyes the Silence of Definition. The Stillness of Now, that "pale blue dot" of my universe within which she existed. 

Many give words to your thoughts. 

Few give stories to your thoughts. 

Stories to thoughts that you only become aware of when you see them in the shape of words on screen. 

Many unwind your thoughts from complication. 

Few turn the complicated into stories within you. 

I went back today to tell her of Stories she had once taught me. 

I went back today to tell her of things happening in my life because of her. For she made me write. 

I looked around, regretting the fact that I did not ever even attempt to take a picture of her with me. Capture the moment. I have nothing of her to show. 

But then I realized, she was so independent of "capturing" the moment; for her, moments simply existed. She couldn't fathom the philosophy of capturing what resides well in stories. 

I went back today to tell her that "Man Khushaal Hastam". :) 

Perhaps, she would just smile and ask what is there to declare about it.  

For Joy and Happiness exists for her just as breathing exists for us. 

And in this thought again, she just taught me how to breathe again. 

Three seasons & more

Season I.
I stand at the fence as I see the other greener pastures. With my sad
eyes, I try smiling to avoid anyone catching the glimpse of my dismay.
I turn around to walk back to my garden, only to be pulled back again
and again by the lush greener fields on the other side of the fence.

Season II.
I stand at the fence today as I see the other pastures. However,
today, the owner of the field looks different. I stare into the
neighbor's eyes and see the familiar self. Today, the field across the
fence, his field, looks less green. Looks a lot like my side of the
fence. Or rather, worse. I realize how he has been standing at his
fence, his eyes speaking of yester years of joy. I feel sad. It hits
me. I gather some seeds, some plants, some grass and walk to his side.
I try and I try to complete his greener pastures like they were. I try
to complete him, only by casting his pastures greener.

Season III.
I stand at the fence, astonished, Rather surprised. I see, how today,
his fence is back to being green, as much as my sadness is back to
realizing how much greener is his fence compared to mine. I sigh and
watch in dismay with heavy sinking heart yearning to have as greener a
fence as his again.

In between these seasons and beyond, as much as the grass is dependent
on owner, it is dependent on the seasons that cast their magic on it. I
forget that both sides of the fence flirt with the clouds, get hurt by
the sun and healed by water. I forget how seasons have been making the
grass on both sides greener or less.

We all have our souls and we all have fields composed of our worldly
factors. Happiness and Sadness are seasons. Sighing over greener
pastures across the fence or giving grass to the other field cannot
stop the seasons from happening. At the end of the day, what matters
is the neighbor and not his fields. What matters is me and not my
fence. At the end of the day, we all put our things aside and walk
back alone into our own souls. And when it comes to the soul, Peace within is the
Absolute Greener side of the fence.

Amid all Apples and Oranges

My favorite camera lens died an accidental death in Oxford, few months back.
My favorite phone - which I proudly claimed as my camera replacement got hurt an hour before I left for Paris.

I decided to breathe without my incubators for a few days.

Few days into being smartphoneless - As my old nokia rings amid all Apples and oranges of this world and as three people turn around, amused, to look at me, I smile back broadly waving the phone at them, it ends up in a nice quick conversation with strangers.

Amid all these apples and oranges, for once, I see signs instead of googlemaps, I ask people instead of google, I notice the beauty of this happening city as people are busy capturing it.

I let go and enjoy as the world around me tries to seize the moment.

My hands instantly crave a phone and a camera as I see something festive, lost in the loneliness and inability to capture, upload and get some likes, I stand there enjoying the moment.

While I immensely miss my phone & can't wait to get it repaired, I realize how different the same city can be without it.

While for once, even before I had reached home, my mobile uploads would have told stories to the world, today, I return home eagerly to share the same.

I feel a little bit more human and less of an apple or an orange or that blue arrow on the google navigator.

Needless to say, I still miss that part of me. For now, when I'd have it back, I'd introduce my phone to the world as a human, rather than the phone introducing me to the world. For I'd know while everyone is busy capturing the tower bridge, there is an immensely colorful set of festive group sitting next to me - waiting for me to strike a conversation with them and as I do, I'd know I'd want to turn my phone's camera away from the bridge and towards them or maybe I'd enjoy the moment, while seize it later through my camera.

I guess I can't wait to introduce my phone to the newly discovered city! Amid all apples and oranges, I'll make my phone more human. 

Struggle.

Last night, around this time, he must have been contemplating death. If not contemplating, he must have at least been struggling. Struggling with his thoughts, with his life, with time, with his struggle. He must have been struggling with his struggle.

Whenever I have ever brought up the topic of death, of suicide, of self harm, or of depression - every single time, the person I have spoken to has paused and looked at me with a query. An expression of silence if not words asking me if it is about me. And every single time I have just felt disappointed. Talk of death, of suicide or active discussion of depression does not in anyway say anything about the one who is saying it. Against the naked backdrop of humans stripping down their clothes, nothing remains a taboo as much as such topics. We all seem self aware of everything yet we somehow like to believe in the nonexistence of personal struggle of others.

But then, thanks to him, there are millions discussing the topic today. Countless wrote about it today.

Struggle.

We all struggle. What makes pain and struggle worse is our exaggerated capacity to assume that nobody else is going through it. For us, we are the weirdest. For us, we are the most depressed, the most wrong of all wrongs. For us, we struggle while the world shines out there perfectly. For us, we seem to be the only ones in pain, complicated beings while the world out there is normal. We shy away from expression. We shy away from believing that the world collectively smiles but individually struggles.

We all struggle. Struggle makes us human. Sitting here at the bridge, I wonder, somewhere in the world right now, maybe just this person next to me, is struggling too.

What astounds me is how surprised we are when we hear of others struggles. When we realize that beyond our bubble of life, there exists others and their struggles. That beyond our capacity of living perfection, there exists an oasis of human pain and suffering.

Pain and Suffering, mind you, not the one attached to material or lack of material things.
Pain and suffering, mind you, not the one related to successes and failures of our concrete life.
Pain and suffering, mind you, not the one dependent on the arrival and departure of relationships.
Those are mere reasons.

Pain and suffering, mind you, the one that makes us struggle.

Pain and suffering, the one that remains personal to us.
Pain and suffering, the one we are most possessive of. Never admitting.

Pain and suffering, we deny, as we all struggle against the shackles of our thoughts that often confine us.

Somewhere, somehow, out there, in my sane mind, I wish I could hug and give out the Magic that keeps our struggles sane. I wish as much as we write and advocate treatment for clinical issues, I wish we could just look at each other,  nod and say the most cliched phase - we all suffer. Maybe we don't want to know that we all struggle. For that might just undermine our own struggle. But we all need that one hug of brutal honesty -  Knowing that we all have a mind that has thoughts which we combat.

The difference between a butterfly and a human is, a butterfly never regresses back to being a caterpillar. While for human, the struggle is constant. Fail. Fail again. Fail better. Become a butterfly, regress back to being a caterpillar. Become a butterfly again. Regress back. Struggle.

For Struggle keeps us alive.

Somewhere somehow right now somebody might be contemplating what he was contemplating yesterday.
Somewhere somehow right now, countless are struggling to become butterflies again.

I have nothing to give but a little prayer in the sky tonight, for I strongly trust the Magic that transforms a caterpillar into a butterfly.For I trust the Magic that motivates a caterpillar to try again, for it was once a butterfly. For I trust the Magic that inspires to Fail again. Fail better. For I trust the Magic that makes us Struggle and alive. For I trust that little hope that melts our ego, helps us shed the first tear. Even if it is just between us and ourselves.


For I trust Pain to be indicative of Life.
 

"A person like me.."

A person like me can never pay allegiance to a person like Yazid. - Said the Grandson of (all) Muslim's Last Prophet once. What followed marked a turn of political events in the Islamic history. 

Recently, there has been a strong debate about this line, for the line seems liberated from any cultural, timely or political context. Across centuries, it still holds true. For it depicts two sides. 

We often are asked, or often ask ourselves. If we were to witness and had to choose a side, which side would we have been on. It takes less than a moment to respond, of course the right side. It takes decades to realize the bitter reality otherwise. 

For the stance to stand with the Right, the Truth is beyond selective definition of Oppression and Oppressed or comparative misery. 

Sounding like an utterly whiny typical human with a typical complain, scrolling down my newsfeed on twitter & facebook, I receive countless requests daily requesting support in every way for Palestine. Which I try supporting..in every single way I can. 

Having said that, I pause and feel guilty. No matter how hard I try not to, I end up judging. I judge us. I judge us at our silence for one stance and extra enthusiasm for another. 

I judge our selective marketing of one human misery while ignoring another. 

I judge myself for writing this, because I am unsure if this judgement stems from the fact that my sect is attacked everyday or from the fact that I truly mean it. 

I am happy that we are feeling so much for Palestine, I am sad because we never felt so much for minority killings in Pakistan.

I am sad because no matter what we say, we are selective in our stance of choosing which misery to support. 

I am sad that an average Pakistani feels SO much for Palestine while feeling less (if anything) for minority killings back home. 

I am sad because the last time I saw similar vigor for my sect was at the peaceful sit-ins one year ago. A lot many humans from my community have been killed since then. We may agree and even accept the reality of these killings, but no, our vigor to support minorities in my country remains extremely weak and unsustainable. 

I am sad because our support for Gaza will die (hopefully not), just the way our support for minorities has died. 

Our expression and support for Justice and our Right to Stand against Oppression seems in a little wave. It comes and goes. Fad as they call it. 

     

This sadness in anyway can't underestimate what is happening in Gaza. But my selective silence and carefully choosing to support a misery seems as good as BBC's selective coverage of Gaza. 

We have always been told, there are two kinds of people in this world. Good or Bad. Hussain or Yazid. Gaza or Israel. I think, there are three kinds of people in this world today. Good, Bad and the one waiting to choose a side. Hussain, Yazid and people of Kufa. Gaza, Israel and people today.

We all choose to support causes based on what our friends, family and broader network has to say. We all influence each other's support for a cause. Ironically, we seldom critically assess our motivations for our support.

So don't give me your Gaza support, for I'll recall what your stance has been for minorities (including the sect you happen to share your religion with) in Pakistan. If your stance has been silence, I will judge your  support for Gaza as short-lived while praying for Gaza to earn some strong, sustainable and loyal supports who understand what Injustice, Oppression and Misery means across borders, identities and sects.

And don't give me Hussain's philosophy if your selective silence to killings back home have been reflecting your support for Yazid. And please don't give me numbers, for you will sound just like any other media house justifying their selective coverage.

Don't justify your niceness for it will only make your silence speak louder.

Aao.

Aao khamosh kerein.

Aao khamosh kerein her us soch ko.
us andr kay insaan ko.
un nafsani baton ko.
un khwabun ko. un sochun ko.
un khwabun mein palnay walay rangun k mirage ko.
un batun ko un cheezun ko.
un duniyawi hasratun ko.
un bemaani bebaat si ana k dard ko
Aao paar kerein androni paharun ko.
un jungalun ko..un sehra ko.
jo andr he andr paltay hain.
jo khamoshi k alam mein Khudi say Jung kertay hain.
jo aaj bhi hain aur kal bhi thay.
jo barhtay qadm ko, us azm ko, us muskurahat ko dard mein mubtila kertay hain.
jo apnay gham ko Khudi k saamnay laakr, Khudi ko behkaatay hain.

Aao khamosh kerein us duniya ko.
us waqt ko jo aaj is pal is waqt nahi.
us ehsaas ko jo ghuzra kal aur anay wala kal hai.
us darr ko jo masoomiyet k libaday main Khudi ko iztiraabi khaifiyet mein dalta hai.

Aao khamosh kerein khud ko. Un awazun ko. Un baatun ko. Un iradun ko. Un khwabun ko. Un sochon ko. Jo Khudi ko subkuch honay ka ghalat ehsaas deyti hain.

Tum ho bhi aur kuch bhi nahi.
aao bus khamoshi say jung kerein.
Apni khamoshi mein apni androni jung mein, subkuch bhool jayen.
Jo ho, woh sub kuch is maidan mein layao.
Aao apni ana ko, apnay dukh ko, apnay dard ko, apni umeedun ko khamosh kerdein.

aaao sirf Kuch bhi nahi bann jayen.
aaao har pal yeh khoshish kerein k hum kuch bhi na rahain.

Two.

There are two kinds of wine in front of me.  

One is good for me. It is pure. 

The other is not good for me. It is impure. 

Every second, I have to choose either of the two. 

The trouble is, both look the same. 

To the world, they may even taste the same. 

The only person who can differentiate between the two is me. 

However, both are addictive. Both taste well and both help me go high. 

One boasts my ego. The other boasts my soul. 

One is expecting and counting what others did for me, how much time they give to me. 

The Other is Living above it in the state of Stillness, and of Being and of Nothingness. 

One is fear. The Other is Courage. 

One is disagreeing endlessly to prove oneself as the right one. The Other is Meaningful Silence. 

One is vulnerabilities. The Other is Struggle. 

One is avoiding. The Other is acknowledging. 

One is denying. The Other is surrendering to Him and praying. 

One is shackles of my mind, darkness of my short shortsightedness. The Other is Vision and Liberation of thought. 

One is holding things down. The Other is letting things go. 

One is illusion of completion. The Other is Completion. 

One is addiction. The Other is Nothingness. 

One is rebelling, reacting by being a victim, by imposing on others. The other is Patience and Silence. 

One is naivety of suffering. The other is Beauty of Suffering.  

One is obsession to feel happy. The Other is Joy. 

One is gathering things. The Other is giving away things. 

One is my stream of thoughts, my ego, my world of whisperers that whisper Illusions of what I am and could be. 

The Other is a Struggle against all to remain as Nothing as possible. 

There are two wines in front of me. 

I choose. I decide. Every single moment. I decide which one to have and which one to ignore. For, "any wine will get you high, judge like a King and choose the purest"

Ideology.

You are in a laboratory.

You read and research, you derive a formula. 

You mix ingredients according to that formula and create a solution. 

You feel happy. You write out that formula to the rest. 

It spreads. Everyone starts making the solution through that formula. 

You come back to your lab, beaming with success, you decide to call all your friends. 

You launch a grand operation. 

You take the formula to other labs. 

The other labs have same ingredients but different atmosphere. Different environment. 

You continue mixing the ingredients, however, this time the formula yields not a solution but a monster. 

The monster grows. You remain unaware. 

It grows until it turns too big to be denied. 

Sitting here, you debate, whether and how to end the monster. 

Some even tell you the positives of letting the monster remain. 

This is how ideology stems from theology - eventually leading to movements. 

Movements are not good or bad. Any movement rising against tyranny and injustice is good. 

However, not every formula for movement turns the way you want it to until of course you deliberately wanted a monster. 

Not every culture, not every nation in Arab Spring had the same ingredients. Not every nation had the context of Egypt. Not Syria. Not Iraq. 

Not every culture yields the same result. Not every nation is independent of Global Powers with vested interests. 

Some of them want a monster, some don't. 

You are sitting in the lab with the monster as your army goes to war with it here in Pakistan. 

This is how ideologies shape. Religious narratives evolve from theologies. Versions and brands endorsing movements, when movements turn violent, theologies disassociate themselves from it. 

When monster turns big, the blame game starts as to who created the formula. The formula is not wrong. The theologies are not wrong. What is wrong is how ingredients are mixed with vested interests with hegemonic intentions. 

If you know what I mean. 

In our loneliest moments.
In our happiest ones too.
When we get up and leave.
When we run and come back.
It is He who remains.
It is He who yet Loves us the most.
Blesses us the most.
Why then do we forget to Trust Him the Most.

Zartosh.

Zartosh asked what the issue was. Aged 7, he did his little dance, decided his best to be at the behavior that impresses me the most. 

But I, I decided to ignore him. 

I picked up the little kid and kept him in the corner. 

But why are you ignoring me, whined the little kid. 

I took a deep breath, folded my arms, rolled my eyes and went away. 

I walked into the comforts of Life, of the world and I felt so much like them. 

I suddenly could feel part of everything, at least as a passive observer if not an active participant. 

I felt just like the others. 

I was told, now, just copy the rest. 

All awhile, amidst the acceptance I got, I had made a little trade deal. 

For the peace of acceptance and of looking like the rest, I had decided to keep Zartosh away. 

Even when Zartosh believed to have been performing in a disciplined away, I sat him away. Away from me, for he made me think, he made me step up and do things. 

It was easier to be away from Zartosh than to be with Zartosh. 

Between the world and Zartosh, I chose the world. 

Between conformity and Zartosh, I chose conformity. 

Between understanding and being understood, I chose understanding. 

Not so many years ago, one of my really good friends had once stopped me mid sentence and said, "You know your brain is crazy right?". I had smiled and nodded. 

Yup, it is. 

There are two types of people in this world. 

While some of us are strong enough to tackle their Zartosh, their brain and let their brain help them; there are others- who are timid, afraid, after thoroughly enjoying the epitome of crazy high of the brain, they don't seem afraid of the unknown but the possibility of "what could be". 

Her Cheez.

her cheez dil nahi hoti
her cheez ruswai nahi hoti
her cheez gham nahi hota
her cheez khushi nahi hoti
her cheez gham ka mayaar nahi hota
her cheez dukh ki sachai nahi hoti
her cheez jhoot nahi
her cheez dhoka nahi
her cheez bolta such nahi
her cheez dil lagi nahi
her cheez zahn nahi
her cheez dimagh nahi
her cheez soch nahi
her cheez soch ki woh hadh nahi
her cheez her insaan nahi
her cheez ek insaan nahi
her cheez yahan nahi
her cheez wahan nahi
her cheez is jagah yahi abhi nahi
her cheez mazi nahi
her cheez anay wala kal nahi
her cheez maqadar nahi
her cheez mau bolta saboot nahi
her cheez deen duniya nahi
her cheez is mein basa her shaks nahi
her cheez jang nahi jangu qaidi nahi
her cheez muhabbat nahi
her cheez pyaar nahi
her cheez sukoon nahi
her cheez aurat ki kashish nahi
her cheez yeh nahi
her cheez woh nahi
her cheez woh soch bhi nahi jismein her cheez ki talash nahi

her cheez pana nahi her cheez khoona nahi
her cheez mil ker khojana nahi
her cheez maut nahi her cheez zindagi nahi her cheez arzo nahi. her cheez arzo mein chupa woh anso nahi

na dukh. na dard. na khushi. na hansi.
na soch. na dil. na dimagh. na ehsas.
na kal. na aaj. na aaj kay baad kal.

her cheez is such tak pohachna hai keh kuch bhi her cheez nahi.

Depart. Arrive.

Every minute, every single second, the world evolves. Something somewhere changes. Somebody dies. Somebody is born. Somebody steps out of the house. Somebody reaches. Every single minute, we depart and we arrive. Figuratively and literally. Within and outside.

We are departing. Individually. Collectively. Communally. Socially. Nationally. Universally. From oppression, from being told, from being oppressed, from imposition to liberation.

Away from confines of the mind, of the ego, of the petty issues of hurt and people, to bigger endeavors of discoveries, innovations, progress, Knowledge. "Universe within and universe outside".

Every minute it seems, we are departing from a notion, a theory, a benchmark to challenging it, to questioning it. From one paradigm to another.

We seem to be arriving too. We also seem to be arriving. Collectively. Communally. Socially. Nationally. Universally. From liberating ourselves from "oppression" of any kind to submission of another step.

If I depart from my brain, I surrender to heart the same moment too. If I depart from my shackles of ego within, I surrender to the Liberation the same moment too.

But is the process so linear? We have always fought. Within and outside. We have always evolved. We
have always revolted.

Revolution within and outside is then nothing but an hour. An hour composed of group of moments. Moments of departure and arrival. We depart from one idea to arrive at another. We depart from one struggle to arrive at another.

The question then is, does the destination at which we arrive, does it encompass, welcome, accept and tolerate the past destination of our departure?

Do we knowingly arrive where we arrive, do we knowingly question what we question. How real is what we are feeling from what we had felt previously.

Do I depart from one knowledge to another, accumulating on the way or do I depart from one knowledge to another gaining Wisdom on the way. 

Is my point of departure this very moment met with the point of arrival of Wisdom?

When I get up from the school of my brain this moment, do I surrender to another brain outside or do I Submit to the Brain of my heart where resides a request for His Wisdom.

Raise your hands, feel and remove for a moment- the two blinders on both sides of your face. It is a piece of leather/plastic that prevent the horse seeing to the rear and, in some cases, to the side.

"You know Sultana, when is your muharrum starting"..A phrase I have heard countless times.

Aunty from the 60's Pakistan would not and actually did not ever tell me how I am wrong. Neither did she ever narrate sympathetic tales of how we all commemorated muharrum together. How we helped put up sabils too with your families. She would not and she did not narrate such things because she could not and cannot comprehend "your rituals/your muharrum" concept.

Aunty from the 90's Pakistan would and does tell me how I am being wronged in this society. She would then and does narrate sympathetic tales of how she has been told of how we all commemorated muharrum together. How she and her family helped put up sabils for "you". How "you" are being wronged beta and how she thinks it is completely unjust as "you" can't observe "your" muharrum.

There is no talk of sectarianism anywhere. No spiritual talk that I ever attended with my friends ever spoke about the divide either. What it does talk about, later reflected in silence of people around me, and till date reflected in statuses of people on facebook is "One-ness of God", strategically and timely updated around "my muharrum" often. Where "One-ness of God" is praised and absolutely equated to denying any other entity linked to Him.

Since when did it become "your muharrum". I thought we at least shared the same Prophet as the Last Prophet and we all at least were in unison of who his daughter and grandson were.

A mere glance, a general observation and a thorough analysis of religious texts..all at every level will tell you that none of it talks about sectarianism.

None of those spiritual fancy pages and soul-wrenching lectures refers to "all else being excommunicated from Islam". Nope. None of it propagates explicit hate but...

What it does narrate and propagate is Oneness of God equated to "all else being wrong". Where Praise of Him is by "shunning" all those that acknowledge His Prophet's favorite on Earth.

And that my dear child is the very start of mass engineering of consent in people. Where the uneasiness of people over your sect is visible in their silence, and in their "overly done" attempt to condemn what is happening in the country.

Where famous speakers crossing million fans on pages (who happen to claim you as excommunicated from your religion and who happen to be banned by sane governments) are praised and followed frantically by richly educated individuals, by supremely hip youngsters. While all at the same time, nodding their heads and sympathizing with you over "your muharrum".

Social exclusion in ideology, thought, discussion, opinion happening. A divide..so subtle..so smooth..so gentle...yet so remarkably evident to those who want to see.

I miss the aunty of the 60's Pakistan. Whose God's Oneness was not based on excluding my God's Oneness. Whose God's Absoluteness was not the kalma of "bidat". Whose Spirituality stemmed from her existence with me without "you" and "me". Whose presence seemed at peace because she did not struggle to maintain an awkward silence to ensure that unity remains outside while she considers me "wrong" inside.

It seemed like the day when we both had praised the same God.

Now, put back your blinders again. For that is the only way you and I can exist in this society anymore.

And if, you feel, you did not even have the blinders on from the start, then know well, the blinders have long been embedded into our skin. Dissolved. Part of us.

  

Away from Mind..into the Mind.

I guess human's love for and act of seeking knowledge and knowing things in personal and social capacity (directly or indirectly affecting him) stems from his need to feel liberated.

It feels as if we all are desperately seeking liberation, from ourselves, our thoughts and from others and their thoughts.

In our attempt to feel liberated, we try making others captive of our ideas, we fail.

In our attempt to feel liberated, we try owning things and people. We fail.

And then, in our last attempt to feel liberated, we try distracting our mind. 

We let it wander into the wonders of the world, into books, into words, into visuals, into any and every form that narrates to us stories of history and future.

Perhaps, that is the closest humans have ever gone to feeling liberated. In a library. In a bookshop. In a work environment. In learning. In reading. In viewing. In listening.

Perhaps, that is why books are called human's best friends. Strangely so, for most of us are not not even equipped with the stamina to read much or retain all that we read. Yet so, we desperately seek its presence..in our attempt to escape the inner and outer captivity, into the sense of liberation. From judgement - in and of ourselves, in and of others. From thoughts - in and of ourselves, in and of others. 

Dark Chocolate

In the realm of Nothingness. 

I look around. 

There is nothing here. 

No thought. No idea. No feeling. 

Just Peace and Nothingness. 

However, in that Nothingness, there is identity. There is attachment. To all but Nothingness. 

The attachment to Nothingness is sacredly approached by the earthlings. 

Taunted from standing afar, slowly approached to be torn apart. 

This Nothingness becomes an object of witness. 

No, it has change colors. 

All conspire. Paint it in colors. Give it names. Give it expressions. Give it emotions. 

All dress it up so that it exists on the stage of the World.

So that each feels happy to see another alike. 

So that each feels less threatened to see another similar. 

In the realm of Nothingness. 

I look around. 

There is nothing here. 

No thought. No idea. No feeling. 

Just Peace and Nothingness. 

But it shouldn't last, it couldn't last. 

For it has to enact the fears, the joys, the emotions of existence. 

For it has to disguise in a definition that symbolic. 

For it has to appear in the costume of the musical. 

For it has to become the prince of his own. 

For it has to pretend to just hear what was said. 

But it has to enact exactly what was unsaid. 

But truly within, It remains what it is. 

In the realm of Nothingness, exists the Nothing it truly is. 

A happy, A peaceful, that shall be torn and remade

Into a definition of goodness that calls for pretending. 

I am the Nothingness and I am the earthling. 

Within each of us lie, a Peaceful Realm of Nothingness

and within each of us lie, an earthling that becomes the color of the other. 

an earthling that runs to another and team then combines to color the deny the Nothingness that exists. As Peaceful as Joyous. 

Somewhere in the Realm. 

Nothing makes sense. 

For it is Nothingness. For once, a thing that is not suppose to make sense. 

Borrowed thought. 

Imagine the river telling the sea.
Imagine the light in the room turning back to the candle and asking the candle to burn differently.
Imagine the passenger telling the driver how to drive.
Imagine the beggar laying conditions on what he is receiving.
Imagine the patient telling the Doctor how to treat. 

Imagine the mere "effect" telling the laws of Creation to the "Cause"  

We confuse who is asking and who is providing. 

We can state, plead, beg, request and try. But that's it.
What we can and should do is utter a mere request. a pleading of the beggar. a whine of a little child before that bitter medicine.

What He gives is a blessing. 

He is the Guide of the guides, the Giver of the givers, the Healer of healers.

Why do we then in our limited capacity think as if He owes us giving in a way that we want. 

Why do we then in our limited capacity think He should be healing us the way we want. 

Why do we then in our limited capacity ask Him to trust us instead of telling ourselves to trust Him?

This friend.

I once had a friend. 

I loved that friend. 

This friend of mine, intrigued me. fascinated me. 

There was this aura of mystery around this friend. 

I loved how this friend would question me. Yet be the answer to my questions. 

I loved how this friend said exactly what was in my mind. 

Until I became obsessed with this friend. Totally. 

And then started the games. 

I realized this friend of mine suddenly had started playing games. 

Games of all sorts. Hide and seek. Run and catch. Stop and freeze. 

I began liking those games. Loving those games. 

I became part of those games. 

Because it was challenging. It was intriguing. 

But then, this friend, never spoke to me directly. 

This friend just spoke through games. 

That remained the only conversations we had. 

And then, one day, tired of losing some and winning some games. 

Tired of no conversations but games.

I stopped this friend of mine. 

Stopped this friend right in the tracks. 

Caught this friend finally. 

Caught this friend's attention and asked. 

Asked about the games. 

This friend just looked at me blankly.

Blinked. Once, twice and just blinked.

Looked directly into my eyes and went mute. 

As usual.

Another game...

But before I could label this silence as yet another game..

I heard a voice. 

Some voice. 

It hit me. 

I realized. 

This friend was nothing more, nothing less than a machine of thoughts. 

This friend was not a game player but a part of the game I had imagined. 

There was no game. 

There was no player. 

This friend..was my brain. My mind rather. 

It was just a fabric of my imagination. 

The games. The chase. The talks. The obsessions. The hurts. The pains. 

With this world, with myself, with others, with my ideas, with my successes, with my failures. 

Every single thing..was nothing. No Game. Just me and my mind. 

My mind processes thoughts. A web of it. 

Pac-man like. Entangled web of thoughts. 

And then, letting me fall victim to processing those thoughts. 

Running and chasing, stopping and freezing. 

Running and chasing, stopping and freezing. 

Running and chasing, stopping and freezing 

Illusions of completeness, illusions of emptiness. 

Illusions of pain, illusions of happiness. 

And in all these illusions, I began making this friend, my friend. 

And in all these people, I began making this friend, my friend.

And in all this time, I began playing the games with this friend. 

This friend, my mind. 

And in searching for something to fill the emptiness, I began telling this friend that it was the only thing that could. 

All these people, things and materials that I look to fill the emptiness with, all this outside of me, all this is nothing but my mind's figment of imagination. 

An illusion..of nothing but of this friend, my mind. 

I spent double the time and effort to convince this friend that it was and could be the friend that complemented. 

If only I had spent half of that time and effort to convince myself that I was wrong. 

If only I could break this illusion of this friend, my mind. 

For nothing lies outside my heart's wisdom. Not even in my brain. 

Only what lies is inside and with Him. 

Just like the mirror, it works I realize.

I look at my hands, I feel so strange. 

I look into the mirror and realize I am more than just what I see as my hands. 

I see my face, my nose, my eyes, my body. 

I see my image.

I raise my hand and touch my nose. 

The person in the mirror does the same. 

I realize it is me. 

I now know where I began and where I end. 

I smile and the person in the mirror smiles back. 

I notice a pimple on my face and cover it with foundation to appear like the one I like. 

I see myself as if I am seeing somebody else. 

I walk out of the room. 

I smile at the person on the street. 

The person smiles back. 

Just like the mirror. 

It works I realize. 

I meet a lady complaining about traffic at the grocery store. 

I nod and agree to what she is saying.

Suddenly she seems calmer and nods back. 

Just like the mirror. 

It works I realize. 

I walk to the clothing store and pick up a pair of jeans. 

I wear and see, feel happy and hit back the streets again. 

I see a young girl, my age, appreciate my new look.

I look at her confidently and thank her. 

I look just like her. 

Just like the mirror.

It works I realize. 

I enter the cafe and join my friends. 

They are talking about the college breakups. 

They pause and ask for my opinion on it. 

I join the gossips and I feel good. 

They all agree and offer me a drink. 

Just like the mirror. 

It works I realize. 

On my way back home, I curse the traffic as I go. 

I imagine the heavenly roads and humanly traffics of some other country. 

I horn like animals and break the signal because I am in a hurry. 

I justify and I move on. I ignore some part of me like the pimple on the face. 

Just like the mirror. 

It works I realize. 

I join the protest, I update my status. I tell my friends and smile when they like my posts. 

I do all that and more, I hate when I am criticized and I ignore those who tell me otherwise. 

I go to depths to find reasons for how the society is evil. 

I choose friends, probe people to justify how society is worse than I am. 

I do all this and more. Just like the mirror. 

It works I realize. 

And when I am alone, on my own. 

I love watching movies in my mind. 

Of my past, of my future. If things are bad. 

I like the victim of the movie because its me. 

I realize she is the victim so she deserves better. 

She looks like that person from the mirror. 

Just like the mirror. 

It works I realize. 

On my death bed, I struggle and struggle. 

It is not the pain but the fear of dying. 

I won't exist I realize. 

There is no mirror as I lay on my death bed. 

There is no mirror. No person. No memory. No excuse. 

For the first time I see. I am not me. 

I realize I am not the person in the mirror. 

I am that pimple, that scar, that part of me that I ignored. 

I am that voice of others that I ignored. 

I am the horn, the breaking of traffic light that I justified. 

I am not the perfect me as the mirror told me so. 

All my life, I carefully chose the validation from the mirror, from others. 

All my life, I lived the wrong me. 

All my life, I silenced the Real Me. 

As the angel of death approaches, I question about the Death of this Life. 

He smiles and says, you could have lived if only you did not believe the mirror that day. 

For if you had shattered the mirror that day, you would have lived forever as You. 

With that, he picked a little stone from the ground. Threw it on the mirror, shattering the image of me. 

I felt dead. I felt Nothing. I became Nothing and in it, I became Everything. 

With death, came the Life I could have lived. 

With death, came the Liberation I could have lived. 

For only and when we die to our egos in the mirror 

Do we start Living and Feeling The Souls that we are. 

With this I finish, as I sip my coffee. 

Taking another validation of my perfection from the world. 

Just like the mirror

It works I realize..

to us.

For the love of peace and unity.

To us, to us - the ones living in denial, to us the ones living in comfort, to us the ones waiting in turn, to us the ones giving up our resilience, to us the ones scared, to us the ones numb, to us the ones disappearing silently, to us the ones killing, to us the ones being killed, to us the ones - the champions of unity. 

I wonder at a man standing at a funeral

Consoling his friends from the comforts of his security.

I wonder at his confidence of thanking his God 

for saving him, protecting him, from making him stay away.

for letting him remain frozen and in denial. 

I wonder at his knowledge while reading history.

I wonder what his eyes read and what his mind infers.

I wonder when he supports unity in his country from the depths of his insecurity at being judged otherwise.

I wonder when he ssshs his friend, takes his defense and silences him for the sake of peace and unity. 

I wonder when he does all that with a sword of "you're killing us too". 

I wonder when he, in the name of peace,

takes the human ashes, buries deep down in the soil and puts flowers of unity.

I then wonder at Unity for unity you need two.

But today, it is just him.

One by one, slowly and gradually, as I wonder, he comes nearer.

Takes my pen, takes my defense, takes my protest, whispers Unity and Peace.

Escorts me to the Soil of Heavens and smiles as he bids me farewell..

For the Love of Peace and Unity. 

Women and Sympathy.

I have a problem. A serious problem with two words. Women and Sympathy.

I feel utterly disgusted, sad and equally sorry when women are felt sorry for.
I wonder at the educated elite as much as I wonder at the illiterate
street labor.
I wonder at the rich married executive as much as I wonder at the
unmarried youth.
I wonder from one corner of the world to another.
I wonder from the nudity of branding this gender to glorifying the
ambitions of this gender.

I wonder not just as men. I wonder at women too.
I wonder at every human who looks through the lens of sympathy,
looking for the fragility of a woman, diagnosing her as victim and
prescribing her sympathies.
I wonder at every woman who leverages the eyes of sympathy to justify
her bitterness at this evil world.
I wonder at every single one of us.

I wonder at every parent, every girl, every woman who accepts and
internalizes the notion of a prince.
I wonder at every girl that exploits her fragility in the society by
assuming herself as damsel in distress.
I wonder at every girl who depends on becoming a damsel in distress to
get her knight in shining armor.
I wonder at our society's obsession with colorful lens.

Anyone who is a feminist and anybody who is an anti feminist are
equally worth of wonder.
For they both present a skewed representation of identity.
For they both reflect their rigidity of choice.
I wonder at our rigidity and impulse to feel for women.

I wonder how the world romances with women.
Stripping her off her strength, inculcating in her the need for sympathy.
Subtly flirting and probing her pains at the society
Proving the society as evil to position her as the damsel in distress.

All along in this pseudo praise and celebration of her fragility.
She is being used, exploited and positioned as a victim
Not because she really is, but because her victimhood gives an ego
boast to the society.
Her being a victim, in pain, in need makes the society run to her to help.

She maybe the weaker gender.
She may even be the victim of this society.
But that, does not, in anyway, give anyone the right to celebrate her
victimhood and shower her with sympathies.

The only woman I don't wonder is the one
who amongst all this game of sympathies
does not take part at all.

The one who has herself for herself.
The one who doesn't need to become a damsel in distress to seek her prince.
The one who refuses to accept herself as a victim.
The one who refuses to be the victim. Of society, Of society's evils
and Of society's sympathies for her.

The one who cherishes her Pain as much as she cherishes her Joy.
The one who doesn't use her pain to appear more feminine.
The one who doesn't use her pain to become a bitter evil feminist
revolting against the world.
The one who doesn't fall victim to the society's remedy for her.
And maybe, the one who has Him to rely on.

Mark of a real human is to remain the Soul with no rigidity either way.
Mark of a real human is to look at her without the prejudice of
finding a victim in her.
For if a human is looking through the eyes of ego, it is easier to
find her as a victim, easier to label her as one,
For then, it is easier to create in her the need for dependence.

For mark of a real human is to recognize her just the way she is.
Nothing less. Nothing more.
No feminist. No anti-feminist.
Maybe its time to teach our daughters not to seek the prince who seeks a damsel. 

Seek a prince that seeks a human. 

The day we stop seeing her as sad, bad, weak, in pain and as a
victim..is the way when we'd start seeing her as a complete human.
For only complete humans, refusing sympathetic exploitation of their
pains, take humanity forward.
They know the power of Empathy for others, rather than sympathy for themselves.

Waves.

Waves. 

I like waves. 

I like the waves on the shore. 

I like how they smoother the sand.

I like how they fill the pitches in the sand.

I like how they leave sea shells.

I like how they tear away the castles in the sand.

I like how they keep coming and keep going. 

I like how sitting there, I know they'd keep coming and keep going. 

I like how sitting there, I know they'd smoother the things. 

I like moments. 

I like the moments in life. 

I like how they smoother the life at Present. 

I like how they fill the pitches of past and future. 

I like how they leave beautiful feelings. 

I like how they tear away the castles of illusion. 

I like how they keep coming and keep going. 

I like how sitting here, I know moments are the Reality. 

I like how sitting here, I know they are the Only Reality. 

I like how this, right here, This Moment, This Present, This Now is the Only Reality. 

As I stand on the shore, with waves taking away the sand from beneath my feet,

I look forward to another wave bringing back the base beneath my feet. 

I stop focusing on sand from my grip. 

I start focusing on waves and their feel instead. 

For I know, waves don't stop. 

I take comfort in moments to come and moments to go.

For I know, moments don't stop. 

As far as we are standing at the Shores of Now, Moments will keep coming, will keep making us Feel. and Live.  

Sold.

I look around.

There are two people in front of me.
One gives money, the other hands over a cup of coffee.

I look around.
There are two people in front of me.
One gives a smile, the other continues the conversation.

I look around.
There are several bunch of people in front of me.
One gives a nod, the other laughs, the third appreciates, the fourth disagrees, the fifth snorts.The conversation continues.

I look around.
There is a guy sitting alone. Aged. Scottish by looks.
He sips his coffee, rolls up his sleeves, glares into his macbook and starts writing.

I look around.
There is a young kid, fidgeting with his cell phone.
He reads something on his cellphone screen and smiles.

I look around.
There is an old couple walking outside. A lazy stroll.
The lady holds the old man's hand. The old man offers his shoulder instead.

I look around.
Each second, each moment, we are sold. we are bought.
We trade through emotions and words. We buy validation, comfort, security and further emotions.

It is as if, we can't exist without the whole buying and selling here.
We sell. We buy. Each day, Each second.
We auction brains, bodies, ideas, thoughts, emotions.

We are sold.
We are bought.

There is a sea within. An everlasting supply of thoughts within. Looking for a buyer. Looking for a transaction. Looking to be sold. All the time, every time. 

And we sell. We breathe. We think. we sell. we live. we die. 

In between all this, we never pause a transaction. we never bypass our thoughts and our mind to Cherish the Soul of Silence and Peace. 

Just Silence. Peace. Him and Nothing. Where there is no trade. no selling. no identity. Nothing. Where we blink our eyes to capture the Feel rather than selling our time to capture on technology. 

Where you can hear the Heart Beat rather than transactions of your thoughts. 

But then, 

as if happily noting the observation, excited with a new thought..I think.

I look around.
My brain says to write.
I start starting. 

Sold.