You you and you. Seriously.

I am so sad today.

While half of my newsfeed is celebrating Diwali and Halloween, while half of my whatsapp groups comprise of Muslims teaching how wrong the 'others' history is.

I am sitting here wishing I was not feeling as normal as I am.

They barged into a house. A private gathering. They killed a family.

I wish I could feel the pain.
I wish I could see.
I wish I could make you all see.
You, you and you.
The champions of SUSHI talks.
The rational activists who assume the responsibility of raising awareness about the 'right' and 'wrong' way of mourning.

The confused breed that pauses and selects which country it wants to feel more for. Syria Yemen or Iraq.

The herd. The blind. The lost. The mute. The dead. The you. The I.

I wish we were alive today to witness. To see. To mourn.

Hell with what is the right and the wrong way of mourning.
Hell with your religious and theological debates.

You know what? In a country where the Federal Capital has banned militant outfits chanting minority as kafirs, in a country where my newsfeed seems so calm despite what happened to today. In a country like this.  People ought better be long dead.

And you know what. We are.

There are no two kinds of Taliban today. There is only one. And they like trafficking in mistresses of ego. Now go be happy, your side of religion won today. You ask me which side? I say, the side where you passively receive, selectively mourn and move on. The side where you are home and don't feel a thing.

Imagine how dead we are. Now pause. And imagine just how dead of a generation will/are we raising. You talk about hatred and racism abroad? Hahah. Funny.

We are dead. And dead don't feel.

Grownups and boring dreams.

Zainab has recently learnt to express her joy more clearly. Each day, quite literally, she is learning something new and celebrating. Each time she bends down to pick an object or recognizes something with its name or walks an extra step. She pauses, looks at us, smiles broadly and claps.

We clap back. She remains impressed and beyond. Thriving with this unimaginable contagious level of energy and positivity and happiness and celebration.

She claps and celebrates to and with- Her little friends from playdates around, her grandparents that she fondly skypes with and her Baba and Mamma of course.

I looked at her while she clapped for the millionth time today while her Baba responded with equal energy I realized something.

As we grow older, we stop being impressed. Routine takes away our energy. We go out of sync with outlets that could reflect back or take in that sort of energy that we do have at times even as grownups.

As we grow older, one by one, we start realizing and seeing the other sides of our favorite authors, movies, songs or heroes. We suddenly realize not everyone seems to be as passionate about those particular quotes/people as you are.

We start university or work, make new friends who while retaining their own set of favorites, start offering criticism (often valid) on our dreams/ways/passions and whatever may have motivated us till now.

Back in my Alevels, I knew and felt allergic to cynics around me. Fast forward three years into university, and perhaps that is exactly what I had successfully turned into.

We hide away our embarrassing little things that once motivated us. We stop celebrating and cherishing and dreaming wild and crazy.

I mean come on, 2010, three year of my undergrad and my Finance Professor had actively defended my dream of becoming the CEO of Boeing one day (while the class just laughed away). Am I the CEO? Nope. Far from even working there. But that is, just yet.

Sounds so cliche. So typical. But that indeed is the hard reality. We.stop.dreaming. We brush away 'that funny song that once motivated me' under the carpet to sound and look mature, adult and synced with the world.

Bit by bit, moment by moment, we regress. Gradually, individually, collectively - we regress our passions, our dreams. With each bit of information broadening our spectrum, we start becoming less and less impressed.

We stop celebrating. We stop clapping.

I saw nothing but beauty.

When the granddaughter of the Last Prophet of Islam was brought into the court of the tyrant of that time(who had ordered the brutal killing of the Prophet's grandson and followers) she was asked what did she see while her family was being mercilessly slaughtered.

She smiled and began with a sermon that later became one of the most quoted political and social sermons. One that is often attributed as stirring the downfall of the oppresor's regime. She said she saw nothing but beauty (in what stood as one of the most brutal acts ever recorded in the history of humanity).

How could she even see nothing but beauty in such act of suffering.

How was she even standing so calmly in front of the tyrant just after losing her immediate family in the battle? What was this beauty that she saw.

Imagine a cup of pure water lying on the table with people sitting and walking around it. Now imagine somebody throwing a drop of oil in that cup of water. See how that drop floats but never diffuses into pure water. See how at least a few of us might stop to notice the change within water. See how we often notice the striking contrast of pure water and oil once the oil droplet tries invading the water.

That's beauty because it makes you stop and ponder.

Beauty is not when we win the battle outside. Beauty is when Right makes us stop and ponder about Humanity and ugliness of oppression. 

Beauty is not when we win the world outside. Beauty is when we struggle with the oppresor within.

Beauty is not when we claim to stand with the Right for the world to see. Beauty is when we stand with the Right within when the world does not see.

Beauty is the pain, the suffering of Living the Right each moment by rejecting the million wrongs of that second.

Beauty starts with the guilt, the silencing of our self within. It starts with the admission of wrong within. It starts with the surrendering of our selfish within. With not just knowing what is wrong but bravely trying to fight what is wrong is wrong.

For the oppression to be fought outside, it needs to be fought within first. For if our stand with the Right is making us happy by massaging our egos for power, validation and fame on individual, political and communal level then perhaps it is not Love and Beauty.

Perhaps, so when she said she saw nothing but beauty, she was not just addressing the tyrant of the time, she was addressing the tyrant in all of us within. Her words resonating through history to remind us of the battle within first. Of the much needed suffering we all get when we claim to Love. 

To live the suffering bravely. To fight the tyrant within so bravely that you stand with her. So much so that when the world steps out to sympathise with you, you smile and say, you tried seeing nothing but beauty.

Of joys & wonderful pleasures

Is there anything more beautiful than home. The serene sense of calmness in chaos.

The realization that you can create home where and when you want. The blessing that you can choose to feel home. The joy that you can experience happy moments and satisfaction where you like.

When you wakeup to intensely craving Indian style Rajma chawal that your friend had once treated you to. The fact that you have the ability to message, surrounded with the hearts that respond to your request without whining and ranting (or completely ignoring you) about how you had been out of touch.

Sitting after enjoying the delightful pleasures of a plate full of Rajma Chawal, you cannot but thank God for such an amazing life.

Life where He has blessed you with the ability to create circumstances you envision, blessed you with the ability to freely will. To do. To ĺmake it happen. Blessed with the ability to choose comfort, peace, Love and Serenity. It doesn't then not matter whether there is chaos of any sort outside.

What matters is realizing the Power. Power of the Heart and the Mind to feel and think what you choose to. Power of the will to create from within. A home. Of joys and wonderful pleasures. Of saying a little prayer, of extending gratitude to all those amazing souls surrounding you, of gratitude to Him, to His ways of making you feel thankful.

Wishing and praying sincerely for every single soul on this planet to feel the Magic of creating the Home within. To feel the Serenity of living joys and pleasures of expected and unexpected. To feel Malang and radiate the dance of Joy to the world. No.matter.what.

From there. From here.

For the sound of bird outside my room window. Too sunny and just plain walls of the other building hence no view in particular. But the sunshine falling in between the two compound spaces. And the bird sitting on my window sill. The way zainab wakes up often to the maina's loud sound at the window.

It is every day little things. Routine. Life. Activity. That keeps us going. That should keep us going against the heaviness of impending pull of strong gravity. It doesn't stop. But so does the bird at the window. She doesn't stop either. Zainab wakes up every day. The sun dawns every day.

No matter what. Life keeps giving a choice each second. To choose. To listen. To move that blanket and brush your teeth. To live. To laugh. To smile. To cherish. To find like a shelter for your empty brain before the neurons lose connection. Before you stare at dendrites and wonder if it was or is even a word.

To write. To scribble. The sound of pencil on paper.

It isn't bad. Lows are not bad. Lows don't exist. Until we make them so. Lows don't exist until we see them so. Get up. Let yourself lose. Catch yourself off guard smiling at the bird sitting at your window. And take yourself from there. From there. From here.

Back.

What happened she asked.
I've lost my way I answered.

What way she asked.
You see the people praying so eagerly? That way. I responded. That. I envy those. I've lost my eagerness. My passion.

Your words fail you? She asked.
Words? There were feelings that would flow into words each time. Today I stand at nothing. Utter and shere unexplainable loneliness. No feelings. No words.

Each answer and justification to the world of where I belonged in my Heart bit by bit made me lose my way.

With each question of rationality, I timidly stepped back from Connection.

Each moment of worldly opinion held my feet and dragged me away. Slowly and gradually. Away from the Heart.

Till the conversations got louder. Till the words took over the serenity of silence. Till I entered autumn and the breaking of leaves hurt my soul as I stepped further back.

Till the connection blurred.

So, there you are. She said. Shaking me back to Life.

I looked around. I was back.

She had held my hand and had taken me back.

It was that simple? I wondered. It was awkward at first. It was silent and peaceful. No deeper meanings. No intense feelings. Just us for a while. Me within my heart. She held my heart and took me back to my heart where I belonged. To the feeling. To Him. To conversations with Him.

Back to Serendipity. .

Connection exists. Within each of us. We get up and step back from it when we fall prey to justifying the Grandeur.

In my timidy to justify. I had forgotten there are as many paths to God as there are humans. I had lost my way to my own heart. I had lost my way to.my God.

Dark.

Today. They snatched away another human being.

One by one I am helplessly witnessing as they come, shoot and ride away.

One by one I am losing good humans. I am losing them all. One by one.

I scream inside. My screams fade in the evil sounds of vultures screaming infidels, I clench and hide my little one in my arms as they make their way towards us.

I am dying. One by one. Helplessly I witness.

Rest in Peace Amjad Sabri.
Rest in Peace Pakistan. No wait. Hope you never rest in peace. Hope we wakeup.

I look around with fearful eyes. As everyone smiles back, they all seem to have loved my uncle. They all seem to have even loved Amjad Sabri too. Who could then possibly kill them?

I look around hopelessly. I look around helplessly. I look around as I feel strangulated with the rising voices, rising screams of delusional peace.

I look around as I am hoping they won't come for me.

I look around as I am hoping somebody will fight back and remind them of True God.

I look up and ask God where humans are.

I look into my arms and whisper hope to my little one.

I clench my hands and squeeze my eyes to pray.

I hold a hand of a passerby asking if he knows about God and Humans and mercy.

He looks blankly, narrows his sight and asks if I am an infidel. The one they are destined to kill.

No more mourning. I don't have energy to mourn more.

Enough is what I want to scream.

I scream one last. Come, get up as my scream fades again.