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.