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Hopes as high as the sky.
Dreams as big as the mountains.
Here’s to us.
The resilient ones.

Your bones don’t ache as much as your soul does,

And neither do your words bleed as much as your heart does.

Would you like to hear a story, the one I told you on the night your lamb died?

Tell me if you have anything to say. Tell me if you want me to stay.

I will. I always have.

She raised her gentle brown eyes to meet my cold black ones; smiled her smile and with that she was gone, in the blink of an eye. Her last goodbye already melting into the darkness beyond.

Some people just want to watch the world burn; others let the world watch as they burn themselves. She was the later kind, I guess. Which is better, I still ask myself. Drenching herself in agony brought a certain relief to her. I often wondered how. She never told why. Maybe, it was her way of defying norm, breaking the shackles of freedom, life bound her with. Maybe this was her escapade like she was mine. Maybe.

I tried stopping her. A futile effort, it was; yet earnestly did I beseech, but to no avail. Her resolve strengthened with each word I uttered.

‘Cage this heart of yours dear, do not let it set you on fire’, I had whispered.

‘Fire?’ – she had laughed.

Taking another step towards the edge she had whispered back; ‘I’m already ashes sweetheart.’

…

‘Do you remember the day I stopped laughing?’

‘Did it rain that day?’

‘If only our lives could be as dramatic as the stories you write.’

‘The tales we tell are nothing but a reflection of our own selves, they say.’

‘Like mirrors?’

‘Like mirrors.’

‘Mirrors intrigue me. How could a plain piece of glass reveal so much; the past, present and future?’ Her voice trailed off as I walked to the mirror on the wall before me. I leaned in.

You have been better, the heart hissed.

Don’t dwell anywhere but the present; mind murmured the lesson it was taught ages ago.

It’s a futile effort of the fool, she would say. I wasn’t a fool. I would never be one. But this notion of hers, of knowing the future beforehand, was an irresistible one. The mind protested against the improbability of it; the heart pleaded to know how. I took a step back, letting the reflection of the past replace the present- A composed look, a waning smile. ‘The only condition dear is to seek and not to see, it said. Seek what? In a world where sight was the norm, ‘insight’ was a rare commodity. Oblivious to its fallacies, indulged in its fantasies, we fall for this world and all it offers. Merging wrong into right, separating a sense of conscience from a self of desires; we crave for more- one after the other, till our greed outlasts the thirst- And when chaos finds its way back home, all we can do is pray that at least gravity is there to stop our fall.

I looked up, letting the present take over again- A withered look, a composed smile stared back. I had seen this smile, a temporary facade, a pretence to conceal the raging storm inside. Like I said- They reveal a little too much; Mirrors intrigue me.

The grand morbier clock in the study chimed the beginning of the feast. It wasn’t just the menus upon menus of assorted delicacies and champagnes that made the invite so irresistible. The charming host himself, with his irrevocable promise of the night being the only one of its kind, made the refusal utterly impossible. Standing on the balcony, witnessing the seamless ballgowns flowing in unison with the chords of the resonating motet, He smiled. Nobody would return disappointed from here tonight, nobody but him. Pouring himself a coupe of Moët, he inconspicuously shifted his gaze onto the front entrance. He let his thoughts run- as free as those carved horses in the mahogany door. Tilting his head to one side, he wondered, ‘Et si?’  –

The door was wide open, inviting everyone & anyone with a desire to quench their thirst for cloud-nine. It was, however, an altogether a different matter that there were no guests for it to graciously receive anymore, at least not who the owner of this classic château eagerly anticipated. Looking skywards, his gaze met the scintillating chandelier. He was trying to interpret the geometrical patterns it made on the roof’s dome when the realization hit him. Maybe, people are not supposed to be happy. Perhaps, gratitude is all that is expected of us. Instead of complaining about how things didn’t turn out according to plan, we should be grateful that it didn’t get worse when it could have. He had his answer, after all. So close, yet so far apart.

His plans deserved a genuine laugh from him. The music subsided as the morbier chimed midnight. The feast was over, and it was time to bid adieu. Shifting his gaze for one last time on the mahogany entrance, he reflected on the taste of his Moët, as sweet as his dreams, as bitter as his memories. ‘Et si?’  – The ticking of the antique clock was barely audible over the ensuing silence. Time passed, yet the night lingered on.

Inspiration: The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald

He wanted her to die,

So he could write her an elegy.

He put his pen to paper,

As she walked towards the gallows-

Such was his love, such was her naivety.

He felt the nib of his ink pen scribbling against the rough smoothness of the paper. It gave him a sense of freedom. He was just another ragged entity inching his way forward into the cruel world with quintessential dreams to aspire and inspire. To the people around, his fate seemed nothing but drowning into the remote depths of the whirlpool of life with no hope of resurfacing. But to his own self; he was an immortal, a creation turning into a creator.

—

Staring at the starlit sky, running her fingers through the damp earth she marveled at her ability to weave words in to rhymes and odes effortlessly, she was overwhelmed with perfection.  The goddess of words, the legacy he had left behind.

—

The enchanting lore he wrote,

The enigmatic tales he told-

A pity, he remained no more.

A couple of years back, when we still lived in Islamabad, my sisters and I used to take long walks. Going from one street to another, we’d keep on talking, unmindful of the time or the people around. From those idle hours of late summer nights, I got to know much about my sisters because, at home, we rarely talked. In our story of a happy family, God assigned the role of an introvert to me. I read ‘Family Atlas’ and ‘The Night Sky’ in my childhood. But at nights, I used to hop along my sisters, flaunting about the Great Sahara or the constellations they would simply interpret as baskets or bizarre flowers.

The sector’s marketplace used to be our starting point. That jammed-up street next to the ‘muhallay ki masjid’ fascinated me a lot. Although there wasn’t much save for a few inadequately supplied shops huddled together, that street hosted life, to say the least. People going on and about their daily routines, stopping only to share a word or two on weather or politics. The lingering whiff of crisp naan coming out of tandoor – so fresh that you could almost taste it, the snipping of the barber’s scissors – the way hair fell down, the clicking of the calculator keys – the sound of cans protesting against each other in plastic bags. There was a perfect tune to all of it.

One night, my sister said, “Several years from now, we’ll all grow up and leave this place only to come back and realise how much everything has changed. Maybe these shops get replaced by a bigger and better mall. How much different everything would be then. We might not be able to even recognise this place.”

Today, standing in the same street, I realise how wrong my sister was when she was right. Everything is the same, but everyone has changed. There is no big mall; all the shops are still there, but the people aren’t. For better or for the worst, everybody has moved on. Even I’ve grown as a person. I recognise this place, just not the people I see. The only thing I know is that everything eventually changes, even if apparently all remains the same.

The sun had set long ago. Even the last streaks of hue were blending into the impenetrable darkness of the approaching night. But she had no plans of heading home early. Done with her usual rounds of jogging, she sat on an ice-cold bench. Engrossed in her thoughts, she didn’t notice when someone sat beside her. Moments later, she looked up to see a feminine face beaming her.

‘Nice weather, isn’t it?’

‘It’s cold’, she stammered.

‘Obviously, it’s December. What did you expect?’ The lady chuckled.

She shrugged. She had never expected much from her life, or she thought so. What was December to her but just another month on the calendar? She retracted into her invisible shell once more.

‘Nice hair you’ve got.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Nothing. I was just complimenting your hair. Good texture… In fact, I’d call it Perfect considering mine.’ The lady motioned to her frayed hair bun half hidden beneath a wool muffler. ‘Anyway, it was nice talking to you. I’ll leave you be.’ With that, the lady buttoned up her coat and departed into the velvety night.

—

If not more, she was acceptable. A fine young lady- tan, slender, 5’7″ crossing into 8″. Her features made it easy to fit into her surroundings. Her friends, on the other hand, stood out, but she didn’t mind. A complex of the sort never found a way to break into her confidence. She had other accolades, ones she deemed worthy of her interest and energy; a mere tag of miss pretty wasn’t among them. In her opinion, beauty was a nuisance. Like all the things in life, it also came with a price – Something she would never settle for, so she learned to do without it and succeeded too, though briefly.

—

She ran a finger through her hair absent-mindedly. ‘Perfect’, she heard herself repeat and smiled. The ice queen was melting. It wasn’t long before the dread of losing her only perfection gripped her. Fear was the price she had to pay for what she had been permitted.

And once again, they were laughing. She regretted the moment she broke into a chortle, but it was no use now. She was with them from dawn to dusk, working here, aiding there. She could not help but ignore the growing intimacy. After all, how could anybody blame her? She was apprehensive about the idea at the start, but then she succeeded in drowning her instinct. She had taken the wrong turn for the sake of killing time. She knew this soon enough, but the damage had been done. For one, she might’ve messed with the wrong nerves, and secondly, an adventure of the sort may cost her much more than the change she craved. She could try breaking those bonds of friendship, ones she had so carelessly yet deliberately built. It would take courage and indifference on her part. A lot more this time. Breaking away from this lot won’t be much of a hassle, for indifference was her alter-ego. A reassuring smile crept across her lips, washing away all anxiety. In due time, she heard herself say. In due time.

It was her way of socialising. Always had been. Sometimes, even she marvelled at how easily it came to her – the skill. Making people stop and then moving on herself as if it didn’t matter. It didn’t, not to her at least. She would let them in of all sorts and ages. Friends – that was how she introduced them to her own self. Then after some while, as swiftly as they had entered, she would move out in search of something new, something better. Like a child who loses interest after playing with the same toys. The killing mundanity.

But nobody complained. Maybe it was the feigned sincerity with which she depreciated her own self, her humble accusations of being selfish, of being aloof to other’s needs and demands. This demeanour of her bewitched people into thinking she was just hard on herself and that she wasn’t a monster – a bitter loner she claimed to be. Or maybe because nobody cared either…Life is a search. You waste your time looking for people – both friends and partners, who idealise the things you do and then get along ideally. But the world isn’t a perfect place, dear, they added. You’ll have to make compromises all the way. She wanted to tell them how flexible she was but didn’t bother. A compromise was but another shade of indifference. She had no problem with it. The monotony of having the same people around drove her insane. So she sought a solution – a math logic that could be applied to people. A harmless game she loved to play – of substitution and elimination.

The thing about death is, its unexpected- nearly always. Lingering over us all the time but it lashes without a forewarning. Like the change of weather, you never know when the first amber leaf falls before the glory of winter or when the bloom of spring surrenders to the rage of summer. But, that exact moment is there – Undiscovered but not unknown.

I had come to pay him a visit. I was done with third grade and the summer break had just started. I had a lot of plans for us. Little did I know that our trio would cease to exist. “Just one. It’s been three days!”, Through parched lips Omar asked for a sip of water, begged infact. “I won’t ask for more. I promise to be a good boy. I will write all the ABC  and I will color the shapes properly”. He kept on going while his mother looked helplessly at the doctor. He was busy reading Omar’s charts. To me, he was just ill. That’s all everybody ever told me. Needless to say, I thought he’d be fine once I prayed for him. But for now, I was there to meet him. I could pray later. The nurse had adjusted the flow of his IV and was waiting for the doctor’s next command. He looked up some minutes later, glanced at his patient and nodded to the nurse. Mother uttered a sigh of relief. A minute later, Omar was sipping from the spoon in nurse’s hand quickly and without stopping. He looked up and weakly smiled at me. He’s perfectly alright, I thought. A staggering moment of joy. The world stopped then or maybe it just started spinning faster. Dense white foam was rushing out of Omar’s mouth. It couldn’t be, afterall it was just a few sips – of water! There was a high-pitched shriek somewhere, a loud bell, strong hands pushing me outside, a horde of people in white coats, machines and wires everywhere. Everything was a blurr. He died an hour later. I hadn’t prayed for him. It had just escaped my mind. But one thing was for sure, my brother had been ill, very very ill.

—

I was almost done with my chemistry test preparation when I heard them. Mixed voices. It was our neighbours at front. Must’ve been another fight between Adil and his mother over some chick he wanted to marry. A fortnightly routine, I thought. Tuning them out, I returned to memorizing atomic structure. Ninth Grade summer camp, Pure torture. The voices started getting louder and there was something unusual about them. I leaned in.. a woman crying for help, a guy in excruciating pain. And then, I saw him – covered in flames, making an effort to come out  into the open balcony.  His mother from behind started throwing blankets over him. The fire died but Adil kept wailing in agony. Half an hour later, I saw him draped in a white sheet, walking towards the ambulance. He was burnt, dejected but he didn’t want to die. I could see it. I knew it. Nobody wants to die, no matter how much they ‘seem’ to yearn for death. Ironic. At night, we were told that he was called in critical. ’What a miserable man’, I thought. He, who had deliberately set himself on fire to die, yet he was still there, fighting for a medical miracle. In my little understanding of the big world, he didn’t deserve to live. Maybe the Divine thought the same for he died before the next sunrise. And I still couldn’t bring myself to pray for him. Inhumane me, Insane him.

—

We had survived it. The drama, the psychological trauma of our first year in medicine. This called for a little celebration, a trip maybe. After spending almost a whole day on road, we reached the destined spot – A breathtaking gorge, surrounded from all sides by hills no less in beauty. He stood there – at the top of the cliff, mustering up courage to dive. A mere teen in twenties. He wouldn’t jump, I thought. The water was too shallow for that plus the rock he was standing on was 40 ft above. Zero survival chance. But he had our attention. I knew it and so did he. He attempted a run towards the edge – Fear reigned, he reversed. ‘Chicken’, I mocked and distracted myself. From the corner of my eye, I saw him come again. A somersault above in the air, a splash in the water below. He didn’t resurface after that. Panic. People jumped in after him while we prayed. I prayed for him. Almost an hour had elapsed when he was brought to the surface, resuscitation was futile. Under the shadow of the very cliff our professor called his time of death.

—

Its funny how people attribute sudden sad demises to hospitals. What I’ve learnt is that comfort of your room and bewitching beauty of nature can be deadlier than those white walls. It’s not the place but the moment one should fear.  Lingering over us all the time but lashing without a forewarning. Unexpected- Nearly always. It’s a thing about Death.

You had me believing that you’re a phoenix

I still believe you;

Be reborn from the ashes,

Give me, a new you.

Thwarted by luck and chance,

Encumbered by the pain of longing and loneliness,

I think I believed in vain.

My soul shattered again and again