the object of my affection

The object of my affection

Years ago I acquainted a stranger
I sought a reflection of myself in another being
I hoped to discover my own self in another

I breathed life in it with all my fears and hopes
I nurtured it with warmth and affection
I adorned it with all my dreams
I cleansed it often with my tears

Soon the idol and its human face found separate ways
I saw them depart yet I refused to accept the dichotomy

I worshipped my idol night and day
I dreamt of it coming to life one day

The idol stood cold and heavy on my heart
Years passed by and it never moved

There came a time I became disillusioned with my ideal
I mourned it for endless times
I stood by it through my anguish
I never set my eyes off it

I had immense faith in my creation
I was reluctant to embrace its reality

It took me forever to accept the true color of my deception
I took too long to realize I am not god

I lost faith in my god
I turned away from my idol
I shut out the stranger inside my mind

I ran so far away that the stranger and the idol both disappeared
I lived in denial for countless months

Self deception took me far but not far enough
I returned to check on the well being of my idol time and again

Every time I left it the idol weighed heavier on my heart
Every time I returned despair caught me by a greater force than before

There came a time I lost faith in me
I lost faith in all I used to be
It was at that time that I decided to redeem myself
That was when I reckoned change of heart essential

I took all my courage and decided never to walk away again
I must not leave the land on which my idol had stood for all these years
I must reclaim all the life I had imbued in to my idol

I took one last look at my cherished obsession
I stood still in admiration
I was fascinated by my own creation more than anything

And with all my strength I blew it apart
I struck my ideal down
I broke my idol with the same hands that had built it

My heart bled for what seemed like a lifetime
I suffered the grievance of freedom from emotion

Now I stand firm on my feet
My heart is warm again with dreams of a better day
My soul seeks strangers no more
I worship gods and idols no more


(December 11, 2005)

Too many thoughts and too much chaos
Words buzzing in my head
Feelings and emotions
Dreams and hopes
Tears and fears

A noise playing all by itself
A darkness hiding nothing but itself

There was a time I could cry
There was a time I could talk
There was a time I could write

Today am bereft of all these escapes

Catharsis is a remote possibility
May be no expression can heal these wounds

The scars always remain
I scratch them just to feel alive again

I bleed occasionally
I scratch deeper
I feel scattered pain
I cannot trace its origin

It hurts to have so many stitched pieces for a soul
It hurts to know I hurt no more

Mein Khayal - Mehdi Hassan

Mein Khayal - Mehdi Hassan
Ghazal by Saleem Kauser

Mein khayal hoon kisi aur ka,
mujhe sochta koi aur hai.
Sar-e-aeenah mera aks hai,
pas-e-aeenah koi aur hai.

Mein kisi keh dast-e-talab mein hoon,
to kisi keh harf-e-dua mein hoon.
Mein naseeb hoon kisi aur ka,
mejhe maangta koi aur hai.

Ajab aitabar-o-bey aitabaree,
keh darmayan hai zindagi.
Mein qareeb hoon kisi aur keh,
mujhe jaanta koi aur hai.

Mujhe doston ka pata nahin,
mujhey dushmanon ki khabar nahin.
Meri daastan koi aur thi,
mera waaqaya koi aur hai.

Jo milen kabhi unhen poochna,
dekhna unhen ghaur sey.
Jinhen raastey mein khabar hui,
keh yeh  raasta koi aur hai.

Jo meri reyazat-e-neem shab,
ko 'Saleem' subh na mil saki.
To is key mani to yeh hue,
keh yahan khuda koi aur hai.
keh yahan khuda koi aur hai.

times have changed
seasons have changed

my days
my nights
my dreams have chnaged

you have changed
i have changed

over this course of voluntary separation
look around just once
you will see a changed world

if at all there is something unchanged
it's the (im)possibility of us being together

indeed that has never changed

Ode to the Nice Girls

by Jessica Leigh Griffith

This is my tribute to the nice girls. To the nice girls who are overlooked, who become friends and nothing more, who spend hours fixating upon their looks and their personalities and their actions because it must be they that are doing something wrong. This is for the girls who don't give it up on the first date, who don't want to play mind games, who provide a comforting hug and a supportive audience for a story they've heard a thousand times. This is for the girls who understand that they aren't perfect and that the guys they're interested in aren't either, for the girls who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance, whisper, touch, because somehow they are able to keep alive that hope that maybe... maybe this time he'll have understood.


This is an homage to the girls who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts and sweats and combat boots, who care more than they should for guys who don't deserve their attention. This is for those girls who have been in the trenches, who have watched other girls time and time again fake up and make up and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying a word. This is for the girls who have been there from the beginning and have heard the trite words of advice, from "there are plenty of fish in the sea," to "time heals all wounds."


This is to honor those girls who know that guys are just as scared as they are, who know that they deserve better, who are seeking to find it.This is for the girls who have never been in love, but know that it's an experience that they don't want to miss out on. For the girls who have sought a night with friends and been greeted by a night of catcalling, rude comments and explicit invitations that they'd rather not have experienced. This is for the girls who have spent their weekends sitting on the sidelines of a beer pong tournament or a case race, or playing Florence Nightingale for a vomiting guy friend or a comatose crush, who have received a drunk phone call just before dawn from someone who doesn't care enough to invite them over but is still willing to pass out in their bed. This is for the girls who have left sad song lyrics in their away messages, who have tried to make someone understand through a subliminally appealing profile, who have time and time again dropped their male friend hint after hint after hint only to watch him chase after the first blonde girl in a skirt.


This is for the girls who have been told that they're too good or too smart or too pretty, who have been given compliments as a way of breaking off a relationship, who have ever been told they are only wanted as a friend.


This one's for the girls who you can take home to mom, but won't because it's easier to sleep with a whore than foster a relationship; this is for the girls who have been led on by words and kisses and touches, all of which were either only true for the moment, or never real to begin with. This is for the girls who have allowed a guy into their head and heart and bed, only to discover that he's just not ready, he's just not over her, he's just not looking to be tied down; this is for the girls who believe the excuses because it's easier to believe that it's not that they don't want you, it's that they don't want anyone.


This is for the girls who have had their hearts broken and their hopes dashed by someone too cavalier to have cared in the first place; this is for the nights spent dissecting every word and syllable and inflection in his speech, for the nights when you've returned home alone, for the nights when you've seen from across the room him leaning a little too close, or standing a little too near, or talking a little too softly for the girl he's with to be a random hookup.


This is for the girls who have endured party after party in his presence, finally having realized that it wasn't that he didn't want a relationship: it was that he didn't want you. I honor you for the night his dog died or his grandmother died or his little brother crashed his car and you held him, thinking that if you only comforted him just right, or said the right words, or rubbed his back in the right way then perhaps he'd realize what it was that he already had. This is for the night you realized that it would never happen, and the sunrise you saw the next morning after failing to sleep.


This is for the "I really like you, so let's still be friends" comment after you read more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for never realizing that when you choose friends, you seldom choose those which make you cry yourself to sleep. This is for the hugs you've received from your female friends, for the nights they've reassured you that you are beautiful and intelligent and amazing and loyal and truly worthy of a great guy; this is for the despair you all felt as you sat in the aftermath of your tears, knowing that that night the only companionship you'd have was with a pillow and your teddy bear.


This is for the girls who have been used and abused, who have endured what he was giving because at least he was giving something; this is for the stupidity of the nights we've believed that something was better than nothing, though his something was nothing we'd have ever wanted. This is for the girls who have been satisified with too little and who have learned never to expect anything more: for the girls who don't think that they deserve more, because they've been conditioned for so long to accept the scraps thrown to them by guys.


This is what I don't understand. Men sit and question and whine that girls are only attracted to the mean guys, the guys who berate them and belittle them and don't appreciate them and don't want them; who use them for sex and think of little else than where their next conquest will be made. Men complain that they never meet nice girls, girls who are genuinely interested and compelling, who are intelligent and sweet and smart and beautiful; men despair that no good women want to share in their lives, that girls play mindgames, that girls love to keep them hanging.


Yet, men, I ask you: were you to meet one of these genuinely interested, thrillingly compelling, interesting and intelligent and sweet and beautiful and smart girls, were you to give her your number and wait for her to call... and if you were to receive a call from her the next day and she, in her truthful, loyal, intelligent and straightforward nice girl fashion, were to tell you that she finds you intriguing and attractive and interesting and worth her time and perhaps material from which she could fashion a boyfriend, would you or would you not immediately call your friends to tell them of the "stalker chick" you'd met the night prior, who called you and wore her heart on her sleeve and told the truth?And would you, or would you not, refuse to make plans with her, speak with her, see her again, and once again return to the bar or club or party scene and search once more for this "nice girl" who you just cannot seem to find?


Because therein lies the truth, guys: we nice girls are everywhere. But you're not looking for a nice girl. You're not looking for someone genuinely interested in your intermural basketball game, or your anatomy midterm grade, or that argument you keep having with your father; you're looking for a quick fix, a night when you can pretend to have a connection with another human being which is just as disposable as the condom you were using during it.So don't say you're on the lookout for nice girls, guys, when you pass us up on every step you take.


Sometimes we go undercover; sometimes we go in disguise: sometimes when that girl in the low cut shirt or the too tight miniskirt won't answer your catcalls, sometimes you're looking at a nice girl in whore's clothing - - we might say we like the attention, we might blush and giggle and turn back to our friends, but we're all thinking the same thing: "This isn't me. Tomorrow morning, I'll be wearing a teeshirt and flannel shorts, I'll have slept alone and I'll be making my hungover best friend breakfast. See through the disguise. See me." You never do. Why? Because you only see the exterior, you only see the slutty girl who welcomes those advances.


You don't want the nice girl.. so don't say you're looking for a relationship: relationships take time and energy and intent, three things we're willing to extend - - but in return, we're looking for compassion and loyalty and trust, three things you never seem willing to express.


Maybe nice guys finish last, but in the race they're running they're chasing after the whores and the sluts and the easy-targets... the nice girls are waiting at the finish line with water and towels and a congradulatory hug (and yes, if she's a nice girl and she likes you, the sweatiness probably won't matter), hoping against hope that maybe you'll realize that they're the ones that you want at the end of that silly race.So maybe it won't last forever. Maybe some of those guys in that race will turn in their running shoes and make their way to the concession stand where we're waiting; however, until that happens, we still have each other, that silly race to watch, and all the chocolate we can eat (because what's a concession stand at a race without some chocolate?)

Ode to the Nice Guys

This rant was written for the Wharton Undergraduate Journal

This is a tribute to the nice guys. The nice guys that finish last, that never become more than friends, that endure hours of whining and bitching about what assholes guys are, while disproving the very point. This is dedicated to those guys who always provide a shoulder to lean on but restrain themselves to tentative hugs, those guys who hold open doors and give reassuring pats on the back and sit patiently outside the changing room at department stores. This is in honor of the guys that obligingly reiterate how cute/beautiful/smart/funny/sexy their female friends are at the appropriate moment, because they know most girls need that litany of support. This is in honor of the guys with open minds, with laid-back attitudes, with honest concern. This is in honor of the guys who respect a girl’s every facet, from her privacy to her theology to her clothing style.

This is for the guys who escort their drunk, bewildered female friends back from parties and never take advantage once they’re at her door, for the guys who accompany girls to bars as buffers against the rest of the creepy male population, for the guys who know a girl is fishing for compliments but give them out anyway, for the guys who always play by the rules in a game where the rules favor cheaters, for the guys who are accredited as boyfriend material but somehow don’t end up being boyfriends, for all the nice guys who are overlooked, underestimated, and unappreciated, for all the nice guys who are manipulated, misled, and unjustly abandoned, this is for you.

This is for that time she left 40 urgent messages on your cell phone, and when you called her back, she spent three hours painstakingly dissecting two sentences her boyfriend said to her over dinner. And even though you thought her boyfriend was a chump and a jerk, you assured her that it was all ok and she shouldn’t worry about it. This is for that time she interrupted the best killing spree you’d ever orchestrated in GTA3 to rant about a rumor that romantically linked her and the guy she thinks is the most repulsive person in the world. And even though you thought it was immature and you had nothing against the guy, you paused the game for two hours and helped her concoct a counter-rumor to spread around the floor. This is also for that time she didn’t have a date, so after numerous vows that there was nothing “serious” between the two of you, she dragged you to a party where you knew nobody, the beer was awful, and she flirted shamelessly with you, justifying each fit of reckless teasing by announcing to everyone: “oh, but we’re just friends!” And even though you were invited purely as a symbolic warm body for her ego, you went anyways. Because you’re nice like that.

The nice guys don’t often get credit where credit is due. And perhaps more disturbing, the nice guys don’t seem to get laid as often as they should. And I wish I could logically explain this trend, but I can’t. From what I have observed on campus and what I have learned from talking to friends at other schools and in the workplace, the only conclusion I can form is that many girls are just illogical, manipulative bitches. Many of them claim they just want to date a nice guy, but when presented with such a specimen, they say irrational, confusing things such as “oh, he’s too nice to date” or “he would be a good boyfriend but he’s not for me” or “he already puts up with so much from me, I couldn’t possibly ask him out!” or the most frustrating of all: “no, it would ruin our friendship.” Yet, they continue to lament the lack of datable men in the world, and they expect their too-nice-to-date male friends to sympathize and apologize for the men that are jerks. Sorry, guys, girls like that are beyond my ability to fathom. I can’t figure out why the connection breaks down between what they say (I want a nice guy!) and what they do (I’m going to sleep with this complete ass now!). But one thing I can do, is say that the nice-guy-finishes-last phenomenon doesn’t last forever. There are definitely many girls who grow out of that train of thought and realize they should be dating the nice guys, not taking them for granted. The tricky part is finding those girls, and even trickier, finding the ones that are single.

So, until those girls are found, I propose a toast to all the nice guys. You know who you are, and I know you’re sick of hearing yourself described as ubiquitously nice. But the truth of the matter is, the world needs your patience in the department store, your holding open of doors, your party escorting services, your propensity to be a sucker for a pretty smile. For all the crazy, inane, absurd things you tolerate, for all the situations where you are the faceless, nameless hero, my accolades, my acknowledgement, and my gratitude go out to you. You do have credibility in this society, and your well deserved vindication is coming.

Fu-zu Jen, SEAS/WH, 2003

cold steel heart

sometimes we are so scared of our hearts breaking
that we seal them in metal casings

emotion is denied all warmth of breaths and beats
inside its dark and cold

even then certain things refuse to go away
a few threads of relations survive the incubation
and it is these fine threads that extract you from the abyss

yesterday i realized i can't shut away feeling too long
i can't feign apathy even if it causes tremendous pain

i would rather have an aching heart than none at all
i would rather live as myself than not at all

id(ea)ls

we live our lives believing in one myth after another
sometimes its happiness sometimes love
sometimes its you and me
sometimes us and we

we dream a new fantasy every day
we think a negation to survive each morning

we build our own idols to escape our insufficiencies
we make our ideals as reflections of who we would want to be
and the ideals shatter
sooner or later reality dawns
and fantasy fades away in to nothingness

and then often we sit in a corner mourning our loss
we think of all that could have been
we live in a bitter sweet nostalgia
that stings every moment
but still is so very hard to let go of

i have followed the same course for long
i have mourned the loss of many ideals
i have witness the shattering of various idols

but i realized only today how very essential all this is
an ideal must fade away
every idol must be broken
existence is characterized by change
why worship the same god all your life

there is a 'sher' i have always found amusing
i think it fits here so very well

'yeh kia keh ik taur se guzre tamam umr
ji chahta hai ab koi teray siwa bhi ho'

These are the days

Read this on the net today . . . .

These are the days
These are days you’ll remember
Never before and never since, I promise
Will the whole world be warm as this
And as you feel it,
You’ll know it’s true
That you are blessed and lucky
It’s true that you
Are touched by something
That will grow and bloom in you

These are days that you’ll remember
When May is rushing over you
With desire to be part of the miracles
You see in every hour
You’ll know it’s true
That you are blessed and lucky
It’s true that you are touched
By something that will grow and bloom in you

These are days
These are the days you might fill
With laughter until you break
These days you might feel
A shaft of light
Make its way across your face
And when you do
Then you’ll know how it was meant to be
See the signs and know their meaning
It's true
Then you’ll know how it was meant to be
Hear the signs and know they’re speaking
To you, to you

(author unknown)

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Read this some time back ... the following seem so very true today And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;	25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;	30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go	35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—	40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare	45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,	50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—	55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?	60
And how should I presume? (T.S. Eliot)

dommy maddy

I do not want to be a hostage to your shadow. I do not want to live my life standing behind the bars of your fears. I do not want my vision of the world to be tainted by your dreams. I do not want to be a prisoner of your experience.

I know you have made me who I am. I know you have invested a life time in me.

I know all these years you have stood by me. I know you have always given me all that I needed. I know you have always wanted the best for me.

I have taken from you all that you had to offer. I have given to you a lot that you did not deserve.

But I just want you to accept me for who I am. I just need you to understand that I am a person of my own. I have a mind and will of my own. And if you force me to fit the frame you have built for me. I will stop being me. That very moment I will stop being everything that makes me who I am.

I do not want to be an ungrateful child. I do not want to leave you when you need me the most. I do not want to betray your love.

I want to shine under your gaze. I want to blossom in the warmth of your smile.

I only want to be able to love you my own way.

Why won't you let me be a chipmunk?

I was born a chipmunk. I know because when I was born they uttered the chipmunk gibberish in my ears. I am a chipmunk because the first spell I was taught was the holy chipmunk gibberish. They told me that the utterance of this spell made me a chipmunk. They told me stories of blessed ones who had been embraced in to the chipmunk kingdom by saying this spell. They told me the spell made one a chipmunk the moment it was uttered. I have uttered the spell day after day but it never works. They still tell me I am not a chipmunk.

As I grew old I was taught the chipmunk stunt. I can do it for you anytime you ask. I can utter the holy spell and do the chipmunk stunt. Yet they say I am not a chipmunk. I can roll on earth and rub my head against the ground for you. I can do it the way all the other chipmunks do. But they won’t let me do it with them. They do the chipmunk stunt many times a day but they never let me do it with them.

I can even recite chipmunk gibberish for you from the chipmunk book. I know bits of it by heart. I can read the book and say the gibberish just the way they do. Still they tell me I am not a chipmunk.

I know all their chipmunk gibberish. I do all their chipmunk stunts. I believe in all their chipmunk idols. And yet they do not accept me. Yet they do not embrace me. They tell me I am not a chipmunk. I do not know why. But I know they do not like me. They do not want me. They always reject me. Refuse me is all they do.

They have this chipmunk label. They put in on the green leaf that lets people move from one land to another. They won’t even let me put their chipmunk label on my green leaf. They say I cannot use their label. They say it’s a holy label. They say I am not holy. I am not a chipmunk. Only the chipmunks can use the holy label. They call me a gorilla. They put a gorilla label on my green leaf. I do not like the gorilla label. I do not want the gorilla label. I am not a gorilla. I am a chipmunk. Why? Why would you not let me be a chipmunk? I am a chipmunk. I jump and roll over like a chipmunk. How can I ever be a chipmunk? Would you please tell me? Why am I not a chipmunk?

gibberish

Sleep deprivation
An easy way to explain a state of mind
That eludes rationality

Boredom
Another excuse
Only as hollow as the feeling itself

Hollowness
A term as vague as love

Love
An overwhelming affection
Wholly contrary to the worth of self

Self
Another form of egocentric significance

Egocentricity
Mere exploitation of the will to dominate

Domination
An expression of moral degradation

Moral degradation
Labeled stigma of blasphemous change

Blasphemy
Self annihilation to reconstruct

Reconstruction
Another attempt at creation

Creation
The causal link for destruction
Destruction
Essence of progression

Progress
Another twist in the downward spiral

The downward spiral
A convenient explanation
Only that it escapes the fertile mind

The fertile mind
A self created dilemma

Dilemma
What better way to complicate freedom

Freedom
Only an idea to instigate choice

Choice
A mockery of free will

Free will
A synonym for destiny

Destiny
Rebellion against fate

Fate
All one fails to create

Failure
Facilitator of success

Success
Gravity of despair

Despair
An offspring of uncertainty

Uncertainty
The desire to know

Knowledge
A means of control

Control
An indication of impotence

Impotence
Aggravated fear of power

Power
A survival enhancing desire

Desire
What makes all else bizarre

I feel I am waking up

I feel I am waking up
Coming out of a slumber that lasted too long
I open my eyes to see day light breaking in to the room
Is it the bright sun streaks that color my vision?
Or is it merely switching on of the yellow light bulb
That startled me out of another reverie

I look around
Hoping to look up to you
Will you take my hand?
Will you guide me through this mire?
I extend my hand to you
Hoping to feel your warmth in my palm
And your strength in my fingers
The tactile feeling of association
A reflection of security and calm

Oh but I do not see you
Today I do not feel you
You are not there
May be you never were
But today I feel your not being there
Today I see your absence
I realize the hollowness within
The emptiness that surrounds me

I close my eyes again
Trying to escape to another fantasy
No
Not again
It does not work any more
I open my eyes before idealism can take on
I shake my head as to snap out of a dream

Is this a dream?
Is reality as abstract as fantasy?
Is being as subjective as thought?
Am I as transient as the moments passing by?
Is the darkness I feel a creation of my own mind?
Is the light outside mere imagination?

I move my hand to exercise existence
I lift it to feel my face
Is this my face?
Does it feel like my face?
I feel my fingers touching skin
I rub them on one spot after the other
They feel flesh
They feel a body mass
Why do I not feel it?
Why do I not feel my fingers?
Why does it not feel like my face?

I lift my hand in front of my closed eyes
I open them with hesitation
What if I fail to see my hand?
What if my hand fails to reflect light enough to make itself visible?
I see a shadow
A shadow of movement
Am I moving my hand?
Is my hand moving at all?

I part my lips to utter a sound
I strain my ears to hear my own voice
I wait and wait
Yet nothing
Nothing at all
No sound
No sight
No feeling

I feel a tingling feeling in my feet
I bend my head to look at them
Nothing
Nothing again
All I see are feet
Nothing but just my plain feet
Why the tingling?
Why then a feeling?

I lift my legs from the bed
Pressing them down on the floor
Is the floor cold?
I feel my feet are cold
I feel I am cold

I try to stand up
My legs fail me
I try harder
Pressing my weight down my knees
My knees feel weak
My legs feel shaky

I turn my head to search support
Find something to hold
Find a thing to grab
Nothing again
Nothing around
Nothing near or away

I try again
Wishing myself to stand
Wishing harder
Closing my eyes again I press myself down
I kneel down on the floor
I must move
I must get out of here

I start crawling
Crawling away from where I am
Crawling towards somewhere else
Somewhere away from here
I crawl towards the door
Yes the door
The way out
The escape from here
My way out of here
Today I will move out of here

I reach out for the door handle
Lifting my arm with effort
Why does everything seem so slow
Why is my body so numb?
I search for the knob
The knob that will open that door
That will open this door to close forever
Yes I will close this door forever
Once I am out I will close it
I will close it behind me
And I will never
I will never open it again
I tell myself to close it after me
To never open it again
Yes never...never open it again

The knob
Yes the knob
Where is the knob
I cannot find the knob
I press my fingers on the door
Searching all over for the knob
My knees failing me again
I sit down
Letting my legs rest for a while
My hand keeps looking for the knob
Why can I not find it?
Why can I not see the knob?
Why can I not see the door?
The door
Yes the door
The door that was just here
The door that was to open
The door that was to take me out

I shake my head again
I must be dreaming again
I must not lose sight again
I must find the door
I must keep looking for the door
I look around me
Look all around me
All over the walls

I can see the walls
All of them
How many
I should count how many
One
I can see one wall
And just one wall
Why can I not see the walls?
The other walls
Where did the other walls go?
There are no others walls
I look again
There really are no other walls
Just one
One wall
One that stretches all over the place
That bends around the corners
The corners
Where are the corners
There are no corners
There really are no corners

Why
Why no corners
Why just one wall
Oh
There is just one wall
There are no corners
I am in no room
I am in a different room
A room with no walls
A room enclosed by no walls
Oh its round
The room is round
I am in a circle
No
I am in no circle
It’s a sphere
I am in a sphere
I am inside a sphere

How did I get in here?
No
Wrong question
How do I get out of here?
Yes how do I get out?
Think
Thinking
I am thinking
I am in a sphere and I must get out
I must get out

My eyes feel heavy
My body is giving in
Why do I always give in?
I hate giving in
I cannot sit
I feel tired
I must lie down
I let myself lose
I let myself fall down
I am falling
Falling in a sphere
The sphere is moving
It keeps moving
And I keep falling down

Close your eyes
Yes
I should close my eyes
I close my eyes
Think of a room
A room with walls
A room with corners
A room with a door
Yes a door
A door with a knob
Now look for the knob
Look harder
There must be a knob
Good
You found the knob
Now reach for it
Try harder
Yes I know it’s hard
Try to reach for the knob
I found it
The knob
Yes
I found the knob
Turn it
Quick turn it
I feel it getting out of my grip
No
Do not let it slip away
No
No
Do not open your eyes
Focus on the knob
Turn it
Turn it more
Yes
Keep turning it
Keep turning it
The door will open
The door must open
Keep trying
Keep turning the knob
Yes I am
I am trying
I am turning the knob
I will get out
Today I will get out
I will open the door and get out
I will close it
The door
I will close the door behind me
I will never return
Once I get out I will never return
Yes I will never return.

all through the night

No matter how strong the adversary I am stronger
No matter how far the destination I can go further
People will come and go
Strangers will continue to inspire
Closed ones will continue to disappoint
But I must not stop
Through despair or darkness
My hopes and dreams will shine through
I must not stop
Every day brings on a new sun
Every breath takes me to new possibilities
The horizon shines through ever
I must not close my eyes
An idealist or a fool
I believe in who I am
Transgressor or a dissident
I will continue to be who I am
And with time they will know
With time I will know
That the will of a dreamer
And the imagination of a soul alive
Know no bounds
I know no bounds
Yesterday cannot restrain me
They cannot keep me from where I belong
I must go on
Today and forever I must go on
Through good and bad
I must go on
Further and farther
till I find what I seek
till I embrace what I feel
I am my own master
My freedom has no limitations
No rules of man
No belief in a divinity
Nothing
Nothing in this world and beyond
Can hold me back
I must go on
I will go on
From this moment on
I must go on
I will go on

Denial (a short story)

Certain things are always hard to accept. Sheila wondered if being an adult made it any easier for her than the four year old sitting next to her. She stared at him in silence, his ever inquisitive eyes questioning her. The boy asked again ‘mommy, where is daddy’. Sheila lightly stroked his hair taking him in her lap. She searched her minds for words she had been rearranging for over ten minutes now. ‘He is here’ she said unable to think of anything else. Ali gazed around the room and looked at her confused. Sheila knew this was going to be difficult. She had been pushing it further for a week now. She had sent Ali to her sister’s house the day his father was hospitalized again. The doctors had told her a year ago that her husband only had six months to live. He had outlived his time. The miracle had happened and faded away. This was it. Amir was dead and she had to accept it. She had to explain it to both herself and her son.

Every time Sheila thought of a story for Ali she could not get herself to believe it. Nothing could make it easier. Nothing could make it better. Her husband was dead, leaving herself a widow and her son an orphan. She could not get herself to think beyond this. Ali pulled at her sleeve, bringing her back to where she was, asking her the same question again and again. She could hear it echoing in her ears since the day Amir left. Mommy, where is daddy? Where is daddy? Where was Amir? Where was her son’s daddy?

Sheila shook her head as if trying to break out of a spell. This had to be a dream, an ugly dream. She must wake up now. She closed her eyes and opened them again. May be reality would change if she wished hard enough. Ali was getting impatient now. He was staring at her with his bright black eyes; wide open and waiting. Sheila looked at her son’s naïve face; innocence sprinkled with anxiety. He wanted to know where his daddy was. He wanted to know why he had been sent away from home for a week. She called him everyday to tell him she loved her. Every day he asked her if he could talk to daddy and every time she made up an excuse, Ali said the same thing. ‘Mommy, tell daddy I love him’. Sheila wished she could tell his daddy that he loved her; she wished mommy could tell daddy she loved him.

Sheila felt tears welling up in her eyes. She held her son’s arm firmly to draw strength enough to hold back emotion. She could not let him know. She could not break his heart. Ali looked up from her lap. He could sense mommy was upset. He knew something was wrong. ‘Are you mad at daddy, mommy?’ he asked innocently. Sheila shook her head. ‘No, no mommy is not mad at daddy’ the words deceived what she felt. How could she not be mad at the man she had fought with all her life and who had left her alone to fight her way through life? She had to tell Ali. She had to tell him a story. A story they both could believe and a story she could live for.

Sheila picked up one of Ali’s bed time tales. She read out to her son. She read out to herself. Daddy was Sindbad and Sindbad loved to sail. Sindbad loved to sail to far off lands. Sindbad loved his son and wife. He sent them gifts from wherever he went. He sailed for years in the oceans and traveled to new lands. And when his son grew old Sindbad came back. Sindbad came back to live with his family. And they lived happily ever after. Sheila, Amir and Ali lived happily ever after.

moment of joy

Maria had waited for this moment all her life. This was it; all she had ever wanted, all she had ever wished for, all she had worked for years. They say opportunity knocks at every door it is only a matter of recognizing it when it’s your turn. She had seized her chance and now it was time to relish the fruit. She heard her name being announced and waited for a brief moment. Heads of over a thousand esteemed guests turned in her direction; all eyes set on her. She straightened her dress and rose ever so gracefully. The modest smile on her face and the calm expression of satisfaction defied the outburst of her pounding heart. The entire auditorium rose to its feet, their applause roaring louder than the music being played by the orchestra. She walked towards the stage, smiling at her audience as she crossed each tier of the hall; her gait patient and her gestures composed.

As Maria reached the first step of the stage she turned abruptly and stared at her audience in utter disbelief, her expression blank and her eyes furious. How could they do this to her? How could they stop already? This was her day, her moment; she had every right to rejoice it all the way. She parted her lips and uttered words fiercely. The crowd froze, no one could hear her. She repeated herself again and again; louder and louder, everyone staring at her in disbelief.

Maria raised her hands in midair clapping them together. The audience started clapping with her. Maria stared at her hands as if they were alien objects and clapped harder. The organizers standing at the footsteps of the stage reached towards Maria asking her if she was ok. She refused to look at them and kept on clapping her hands. The guests raised their hands above their heads and clapped faster as she clapped more and more aggressively. A man reached towards her with a glass of water. She took the glass tapping her nails against it. He stared at her confused as she smashed the glass on the ground. It broke into pieces but Maria did not care. She could not hear it break, she could not hear herself shouting, she could not hear them clapping. She looked around herself, shocked and pale. She was screaming out her lungs now, crying away like a little girl. She could not hear herself; she could not hear a thing, not the murmurs of the crowd or the inquiries of the men gathered around her.

Self discovery

I always found class reunions boring and pointless; the same old people, the same meaningless small talk and the same gossip about different people. Why I went to the homecoming dinner that year, I cannot recall. Though, I do remember feeling utterly aloof and uninterested. I almost slept through the opening speech and the redundant list of what all had been achieved by the college alumnus in the past year. I sat amongst strangers pretending to applaud strangers.

The call for dinner was a relief only for a moment that was abruptly shattered by acquaintances who just could not wait to scream my name, shriek in faked excitement and hug me for a few mechanical seconds. I excused myself after a brief exchange of words and smiles that meant nothing to both parties. Everyone had started walking towards the dinner tables now. The seating arrangement was crowded so I just stepped aside to wait for the frantic greetings to subside.

I remained close to the window, even when most were done with filling their plates and settled in positions suitable to savor the loot. I was not feeling particularly hungry. In fact I was not feeling anything at all; not hot in the vanilla cashmere shawl I was wearing in an overheated hall, not uncomfortable in the stiletto heels my sister had forced me to put on and not tired of carrying the embroidered velvet shalwar kameez that weighed more than me. I stood alone staring at faces of people who knew how to make others laugh and never ran out of things to say. If anyone asked me whom was I looking at I am sure I would not have been able to answer. I was not searching a familiar face or envying a happy one. I was just staring…staring into nothingness, and the being of alien faces was never reason enough to fill the nothingness I always witnessed.

The realization of going there being a mistake and remaining there so long an even bigger mistake came late as ever. However, as soon as it did I did not waste another moment and stormed out of the hall. I had no one to say good bye to or leave my contact information with. I ran out of the hall and kept running till I was out of breath. I had passed the parking lot minutes ago and now I was on the road. The headlights of the cars seemed blinding so for once I changed my direction and headed in the same direction as everyone else. I kept running till my legs were tired and my toes bleeding. I had to run away…far away. I did not like these cars, these roads, this city and so much more. I had to go away. Right then I only knew I had to go away.

Looking back today I wonder if I was running away from the people, the cars, the streets, and the city or was I just running away from something more proximate. It only took years to realize what that something was and since that day laughter never seems too loud or the lights too bright.

Developing a character

We saw him every morning on our way to school. He was always there as far back as any of us can recall. May be he had always been there. He always looked the same, yet interesting. He was never interested in us or anyone else around him. Day after day we saw him sitting alone in the corner of the street. His eyes were always closed and he said things to himself as he played with his string of stone beads. But even with his eyes closed he could sense the presence of others around him; every time we tried moving close to him, his fingers moved over the stone beads faster and his chanting became louder. The closer we reached the faster and louder he became; much that we became scared of him and ran away.

We never understood was how his white shalwar kurta was always so white and why he never wore any shoes. We initially thought he did not have shoes so we arranged a pair of daddy’s old shoes for him. He never wore them, never even looked at them. We had put them next to him one morning and they stayed right where we put them for days. Some say he sold them away for money others say that someone stole the shoes from him. We prefer to believe the later.

On Sundays, we watched him for hours, hoping he will open his eyes or move from where he sat. Our hopes were never fulfilled. We often wondered about where he slept and what he ate. We secretly observed him at meal times and stayed up for as long as our school routine allowed but it never happened. He seemed glued to the ground he sat on. He never left and apparently never slept or ate.

nostalgia

Shadows of your memories crawl stealthily over my imagination,
as the shades of my existence stretch from dawn to dusk.
Every new day brings on its own challenges,
trivial tasks distract my attention,
or may be your thoughts distract me.