A Letter To No One.

Dear You,

It's 7:24 & the maulvi sahab is having some trouble with the loud speaker during the Isha'a adhan. I suppose I should be studying but my own sneezes keep distracting me. Oh, and the mosquitoes. I sometimes question their existence, but they in turn might be questioning mine.

My English teacher said something today that made me smile. "Betrayal is a terrible thing. I experienced it once. I wrote a lot of poetry after that."

I've been feeling strange. Almost as if I were floating around in someone else's abyss. The last few days have too, been quietly tamed by the hushed silence that winter brings. It's that time of the year again, when I lie down and I can hear every clock ticking from near & far. It makes me feel watched.

My friend said to me today that I've seemed to forgotten about her. To be honest, I've forgotten about a lot of old things trying to remember the new ones. Excuses, excuses. I'm great at excuses. And writing down convincing applications to account for unnecessary absence on college days, also. I haven't forgotten, though, I just - well, I just haven't remembered.

There was a boy who took part in the elocution today, and he was blind. It felt good to be part of an audience that gave him a loud, standing ovation after he won the first prize. After I sat back down, I closed my eyes for a little while and felt the black nothingness, once I did. Then I opened my eyes, had a good look at the lights on the stage, the few blue sweaters in the audience, the red colour of the gown of the girl sitting right in front of me, the uncomfortable movements of the girl behind the podium, the distant look on the face of one of the judges; everything. And I felt so small - just my eyes are worth all the praise in the whole wide world, for the Almighty. Thank you, dear God.

Taj Bibi was telling me, offhandedly, how the roof of her house needed repair and how they'd all feel cold at night. She then proceeded to laugh and add that she'd boiled rice just for me. My problems don't even feel like problems anymore.

You never know; at the end of the day, you might get written about.

Thank you for listening.

Love,
Me.

silence swore and silence kept;
the heavy weight of words unsaid -
they float; they cannot sink

the more we rush to drown in sounds
the silence only grows profound
it grows; it cannot shrink

never have i seen such serenity in violence
the calmness of all the calamities in silence
and we will drown in seas of things we failed to say

miscellany

i cannot untangle love from hate
i cannot untangle hopes from fate
i cannot untangle the lies from what's true
i cannot untangle my dreams from you

A Letter To No One.

Dear You,

I have many friends. Tomorrow is my most loyal friend; it is always there even when I don't realize that it needs to be there. And the moon is as courteous as ever to welcome it; with all pride shunned. And the Sun, in its wake, rises up dutifully to furnish it with light to celebrate a budding hope. And what with all the Tomorrows and its companions: the Sun, moon & stars and also the soft, brown earth that hasn't squealed even once when I've trodden upon it, I think I am in good company.

There's a Turkish cap lying on the floor because I was spinning it around my head and it flew off. I've been doing a lot of things mindlessly. Silence being one of them. I don't mean to be this silent, dull or blank. Sometimes the roar of my own thoughts scares me into silence. Besides, I'd rather spare you off the awkwardness of a conversation with yours truly. But I'm okay with not being good at some things. I decided that today while walking from my last class to the college gate.

The TV is blaring, and Baba just exclaimed really loudly. I'm sure it's just another program about people talking about other people who had talked about some other people some time ago.

I am dressed strangely today. These clothes make me feel like a lost kid in an adult gathering. I rested my head against the car window on my way back home today and watched everything fly by, while my head crashed lightly with the glass with every jump & bump. Just like I used to do when there were too many people in the car for me to be in one of the back seats and I readily sat atop Baba's lap instead. I am now tall enough to do that on my own. Sometimes you've got to treat yourself to a smile.

There are a lot of things swirling around in my head, but I have only managed to make sense out of a few. The rest I will save for my attic notebook (the idea of which I got from a friend's blog). Just in case you are wondering, I am supposed to update the diary regularly and not re-read the entries even once after writing them. I've decided to open the notebook and re-read it only on my birthday. And it will be like finding a notebook from the attic. Won't that be a treat? I promise I will send to you a few entries of the notebook when I am finished. It has been fun so far.

I am not just on a journey, I am a journey in itself. I hope you travel me.

There's a cricket match going on, Imran Khan is answering people's questions on TV now, Ammi has set up the machine and a basket of apples near it so I can make apple juice, my headphones are lying tangled invitingly near me, underneath the headphones lies a Chemistry book that I plan to brush the dust off, and in direct view is a wooden trolley, on top of which a fruit basket rests, consisting of only bananas. I? I am infinitely blessed.

Love,

Me.

A Letter to No One.

Dear You,

I woke up today feeling strangely content. I think you have to smile at the day for it to smile back at you.

Sometimes all you have is yourself. The person in the mirror will grow as you grow, the person in the mirror will cry while you cry, the person in the mirror will laugh while you laugh. And the person in the mirror will always extend a hand when you reach out for it. I think it's important to be there for yourself.

When I was very little, my legs always ached when I lay down to sleep. All the doctors said it was nothing to worry about, and that it was just because I was growing up, bit by bit. Then I think, every little ache makes you grow, bit by bit. It's not exactly the legs that ache now. But I must be growing again. Which reminds me. There's only two to three months left of being fifteen. That makes me sad in the strangest of ways. I like being fifteen. Fifteen sounds like a crossroad between being a kid and not being one. Sixteen sounds grown up.

It's funny. The thoughts I want to erase the most are the ones that tend to stick around for the longest. There'd be a lot of space for productive thoughts to flow if they weren't blocked by the same old dreary ones that I've grown far too used to and they still hold me in their grasp. A thought is a great one if you control it; powerful if it controls you.

I've been whining a lot about college lately. I felt bad about it later. I should realize I'm lucky enough to have a place to study. That's the thing about blessings; you never know how big of a blessing it is unless it's taken away. God forbid, though. But there are a lot of things to look forward to, and a lot of things to leave behind. One of my favourite persons in the whole wide world said, "The doorway to your future is not big enough for you and your past." I'll remember that.

I'm sitting here staring at a trophy cabinet. I don't want to stop writing.

I'm so grateful for the wonderful people I can call family, the amazing people God chose for me as friends, and for the strife to become who I'd like to become. And even for a math book that's falling apart. I don't know what I'd do without it all. I think, by now, you know what I am. But I'll tell you again. I am infinitely blessed.

Thank you for reading, and for listening. (My sister says I should thank you for reading, not listening. Makes sense. But I'm sure the voice in your head is reading this to you and that you are listening to it anyway.)

Love,

Me.

things i love

i love the shade of the red of a rose

you never gave to me

i love the melody of all the songs

you never sung to me

i love that oh so pretty shore where

you never walked with me

i love those strings of perfect words

you never spoke to me

there's a million other things i love

maybe you could never fathom

and maybe why i love them is

because i never had them

A Letter To No One.

Dear You,

Times like these, I like to feel lonely. I make myself feel lonely. I hunt for words, said & unsaid, and prick myself with them. I think there's a part of me that finds sadness beautiful; a part of me that enjoys the flow of thoughts and colours and sounds in my mind when tears spill. I sound mad, don't I? Sometimes I doubt my own sanity.

In the morning I saw two little boys standing in the back of a Suzuki truck, whooping with their hands in the air while the morning wind whipped their little faces as they drove by. I can't seem to get that image out of my mind. I love the wind. And its steady whispers. How it dances around me, tickles my cheeks, messes up my hair and wafts into my thoughts. I can almost hear it giggling while it glides around, never ceasing in all its joy. I have told you before, haven't I? I'd love to be the wind.

There are several marks of ink on my fingers and the rest of my hands. A heart doodle drawn by a friend, an accidental brush of a black marker that happened during Physics, the word 'Funny' scribbled untidily on the back of my hand and randomly distributed splashes of blue ink. Ink stains make me feel like the writer I want to be one day.

I hate when I catch myself discussing other people. People are who they are and the words I say about them behind their back aren't going to change them. What's the point? Besides, I have too many faults of my own to be focusing on. And there's something else that I read somewhere: the only part of the universe you can be sure of improving is yourself.

Baba is back from prayers and Ammi is calling me for lunch now; I can smell the aalo-bharey parathey.

No one's always there to listen. Thank you.

Love,

Me.

5:35 AM.

from the hazy autumn wind

a winter chill does reap

and underneath my blanket-

coaxes me out of sleep;

into the ringing silence

words slowly start to bleed

"prayer is better than sleep

prayer is better than sleep"

distant voices blending in;

heaven's loud whispers in the air

a plethora of such harmonies

calling me to prayer

and through my bedroom window

(i find wonder in such sounds)

the noise of someone's yawn floats in and

water splashing on the ground;

my mind wanders to the cheerful sounds

that adorns Medina's streets;

in my thoughts, i wander in the thronging crowd

abandoning its sleep

- i woke up with such sounds, such thoughts

that is how my day begun;

and don't you know? God chose you & me

to wake up before the Sun

The remains of your old diary.

i found the remains of your old diary;

torn and battered, but living still -

it talked to me more

than you ever will

the pages have a funny smell

(the way all great books do)

and once upon a time, i learnt,

that you were Fifteen too

there's only two pages: one says that you will keep it

until the day that you die

and the other is the living proof of how you went

to the bathroom & cried

there's a lifetime to guess, to sit and to wonder

what pages had lied in between

and all the ink that was blotted by tears

that never have been seen

the pages made me a cry a bit

(a tear or two or maybe more)

and i read and i read, again and again - the pains of

the year 1994

i won't be selfish and i will learn the words by heart

(some memories have no expiry)

and i'll bury a treasure for someone else to find;

the remains of your old diary

I lied.

i lied - i lied,

and i set the truth free

to cocoon myself

in fantasy

now i am afraid

(a little thrilled too)

that the wind might whisper

the truth to you

i'm in awe of the truth

how it stands, still strong

and the pleasure of a lie

doesn't last too long

you'll look into my eyes;

you'll clearly see

that i lied - i lied,

and i set the truth free