Musings on Monday Mornings

That odd familiar feeling. A rustling breeze blowing in through the open window. A night lit by the garish yet beautiful light of a thunderbolt. I am caught on the balcony in shorts and an unsightly T-shirt. The neighbourhood probably looks on. I discovered Ennio Maricone and am currently hooked. “Chi Mai” supports the mood right now. Sombre, serene, yet melancholic. It’s the lightening. It does that. One finds it rarer though in the desert. Especially since the weather has taken a turn for summer. So tonight is welcome surprise. Its Bachelor’s Broccoli and Cauliflower soup for me and the computer. Episode 13 is at 87%. 13% more to go and I can sleep on a happy note. The movie was a disappointment. Shahid is travelling. After some 2-3 months. I’m glad he ‘made’ the trip. It’s a return to normalacy. Caught Burki on line. She has the gripes again. She is so far away. I don’t want to write no more

Lay down your sweet and weary head, Night is falling, you have come to journey's end. Sleep now, and dream of the ones who came before, They are calling from across a distant shore. Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face? Soon you will see, all of your fears will pass away. Sail for miles, you're only sleeping. What can you see on the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea a pale moon rises, The ships have come to carry you home. And all will turn to silver glass, A light on the water, all souls pass. Hope fades into the world of night, Through shadows falling out of memory and time. Don't say, We have come now to the end. White shores are calling, you and I will meet again And you'll be here in my arms, just sleeping. What can you see on the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea a pale moon rises, The ships have come to carry you home. And all will turn to silver glass A light on the water, Grey Ships pass into the west.

We had to go into the depths of purgatory but we retrieved it. The hint of a smile, that damned sunny disposition. Into the clout we rode, deep. Via Stygian we strived, hard against a tide that threatened with every wave to drown us all the way to the deep and murky depths of the Underworld. Covered in black, bruised, we buried deeper into a place where there was no light no hope.......all to retrieve her smile. Like treasure hunters that know not their treasure but continue in the name of a glory, we continued. All around tired souls lured us with their melancholic tunes, their tear-glistening attractive faces. But no! We must not look. Purgatory held its charm. The inferno with its ferocious fire that burned the heart. And then we stumbled upon it. A faint light in the depths of the abyss. A golden hue that lone sparkled, weak like a month trapped in a bell jar. And she fell upon. Stumbled rather, on account of a faint heart and weak legs. It grew--the light--shining harder, stronger...

LET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shell: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question … Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its bac...

Loneliness. Loneliness on a vast shore with no people. No wind shuffles the sails on the mast. Not even the water stirs. Loneliness on a highway that brooks no traffic. No people. No cars. Just some lonesome music and a clear, straight road. Clouds in the distance on someone elses land. Maybe there people are sitting together looking out their windows, marvelling at the shapes the clouds make. At the shades of grey, at the turning breeze. At the moisture in the air. May there they smile as they slowly enjoy the intimacy that that serendipitous moment grants them. Loneliness in a room full of people. Buzzing of words, like bees in a bonnet. Many many people, so much noise. Laughter from every corner that resonates off others but falls mute on nearing you. A smile that reaches the corners of your lips, but can not cover the disdain that nestles there. A smile that rarely touches your eyes. And even then, it comes momentarily when your guard slips. Don't think I didn't see. I saw...

Because you are not there, nothing is the same. The old trees do not bow the way they used to. The summer monsoons do not give off the same smell of yore on dry parched driveways and the afternoon shadows do not linger on with that old sense of romance that defined them. Because you are not there, the house is not longer a home. Without you the memories of nightly conversation do not hold that same depth that only 'nonsense' inspires. With you gone, the houses silence shouts your absence. A litter of socks and shoes do not mark your passage, and no one bounces noise off the walls. Without you this house is not a home and knowing this truth they gave it away...again. I don't know what hurts me more today. The fact that you are no longer there or that that place we called home is no longer there. While the urge to cry is so tempting, I try not to succumb to it. I know you know what I mean. I am haunted by so many images, and her bravery....and his bravery...gives my bastard t...

Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example,'The night is shatteredand the blue stars shiver in the distance.' The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is shattered and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight searches for her as though to go to her. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same ...

There are a blank moments in my life. When I am devoid of thought and emotion and can find comfort in nothing. I stand on the balcony and stare out at a line of concrete built to house the 'corporate comfortable', while the wind just barely tickles my hair, so still is the evening. And there is meaning in staring at nothing and not comprehending anything. The grass is astonishingly green in summers. It is a hybrid breed that has been altered to last through the scorching 45 degree temperatures. I got up from the computer table and came outside. There is a strange sparse (even, unpretentious) uniformity to the saudi kapis planting along the wall. Like weak soldiers that pretend at guarding my space within this house. They wouldn't be able to stand up to anything. Not even a strong wind. ... and on cue it blows. I look onto leaves rustling and I am reminded of home. Everything is reminding me of home right now. I bared the last few months and now my skin is charred and peal...

I am always attracted to people who are integral enough to be inconsistent without discordance and who don't trail viscous threads of regret behind them. I don't think that it is on the threshold of life that one feels chaotic, it is when one has crossed the threshold that one discovers that things which looked simple and feelings that felt simple are infinitely more tortuous and complex. That it is only in inconsistency that there is any consistency.

Just realised that for someone requesting everyone else to talk, my mail was disgustingly sparse. :) Well ladies, I am generally well. I.E. my life is flowing along the natural course of inevitability. But having said that, life still bites me, out of the course of natural events, in my ass. And that though one has been bitten before it still surprisingly hurts in new ways. I still cry with the kind of tears one used to enjoy (luxuriously) in the early teens. Not so. One can still shake up that kind of emotion, which though exhausting is very purging. But as I grow I am realising consciously how much we self censor. No one says out loud that their heart is breaking. Slowly and painfully. Even if it is because we don't get the (hypothetical) bearded communist poet, or the kind of understanding we want reciprocated from a spouse, or the dream many years in the making, or the lack of truthful friends.........or many other 'ors'. I suppose one should once in a while fall in a t...

There is that scene from Forest Gump where the movie closes on a note of strange contentedness. Where the feather is seen floating into the final credits. In the film it evokes the perfect essence of peace. But in real life I think maybe things are different. Sometimes I wonder if being feather-like is good or bad. Can one just glide or float through things, through life? How unbearable is just 'Being'? Living in mediocrity without the additional responsibility of wisdom...the greater picture? There is that feeling of being light as a feather where one can glide. How consciously Insight (The Truth) brings us to willingly shoulder responsibility. Feel the weight of a thing greater than our comprehension. Or is it different. That in realising and acknowledging the Truth with our heart and mind we are lifting the weight of the world? Weights that bind us. I can't decide. Am faced with two sides of the coin and each one has an equal chance of being the right/winning side. Am fa...

I think the fans must be running now. Not on the higher speeds but rather on a slow churn that grinds the rims on every round and makes a noise that after a few minutes has its own relaxing rhythm. Where, very often the fan's breeze leaves one feeling hotter than cool for the air is disproportionately distributed in our houses. That's Lahore. Its more a feeling than something tangible. Its like a small gland at the back of your throat that salivates in the same way as some one hungering for a meal. The sun would be setting later now. And had I been still in college, younger, the shadows of the trees lining the canal would some in hues of darkness and light as I would have made my way home. The birds in the afternoon sun--a time when college is quieter--would chirp in a manner that only memory holds now. I forget the sound or perhaps I colour it too sweet to be the real thing. But that, is Lahore. Maybe at home the windows are open for longer. And the greenery in the patio is n...

I haven't been writing of late. Maybe I have been writing, but not on paper. My brain is looking like an ugly doodle now with no clean space for new words. It made sense some time ago, now it looks like lots of ants gone nutsy . So I had to turn to paper...Internet. Whatever. It rained in my desert and there came a rising tide that flooded all the sand dunes. For many days the waters poured down from the sky like Heavens dam was avenging itself on the world. Like a huge sigh that would not drawn air in until its previous burdens were lifted. And so the raindrops came thrashing down with mighty winds. And unperceptive bastards we are, we thought it was nice weather. Who knew that some small angel had had his wings broken and had fallen to earth in a mighty heap. And as it rained, God stirred the sands much like an old woman does with her wheat, sifting the clean, finer bits from the rough. God sifted the desert made a trough that filled with water for a lake that ran into the sea. A...

Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of '97... wear sunscreen. If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be IT. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now. Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are NOT as fat as you imagine. Don't worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday. Do one thing every day t...

We played king of the mountain out on the end The world come chargin' up the hill, and we were women and men Now there's so much that time, time and memory fade away We got our own roads to ride and chances we gotta take We stood side by side each one fightin' for the other We said until we died we'd always be blood brothers Now the hardness of this world slowly grinds your dreams away Makin' a fool's joke out of the promises we make And what once seemed black and white turns to so many shades of gray We lose ourselves in work to do and bills to pay And it's a ride, ride, ride, and there ain't much cover With no one runnin' by your side my blood brother On through the houses of the dead past those fallen in their tracks Always movin' ahead and never lookin' back Now I don't know how I feel, I don't know how I feel tonight If I've fallen 'neath the wheel, if I've lost or I've gained sight I don't even know why, I do...

...And when he picked up that violin he played with the glory of triumphant heroes returning. The grace of a ballet dancer returning for the encore. And within the spell of that song he told his entire story. The poverty of his birth. The misfortunes of anonymity and the struggles for this success. He played, and the entirety of her life seemed to come alive. It seemed that all those 60 years she has lived for just this one moment--when he would play and she would forget everything else. Age, propriety and time seemed to disappear . As the chords hummed to the strokes of his youthful fingers she lost the grey that coloured her hair, the lines that defined her face. She was ageless. As young as him. He as old as her. It was a wave. A wave of love. Under which she drowned, gladly losing the last breath of sanity, maturity and rationality. Under it she was swallowed, comforted by the bleakness of unrequited love. It was a canvas on which she would paint a rosy picture for her days rem...

ANCA , C3, C4, proteinuria . Life altering. Growing up fast. Managing responsibilities. New house. Issues: blocked drains, dishwasher fitting Dhs 500, curtain designs. Weathering the weather. Missing out. Lunches and oranges...all for a penny? So many school boys. Home. Home sickness. Self censorship . Bottling it up. Maturity you say? Lack of friends. Social responsibility. Propriety. Good friends with time eccentricities. Saving grace. Traffic. Unsettled. Unsettling feeling. LONG nights spent tossing and tumbling. Physical pain. Dark circles. Plants do not buy happiness. Professor "Lupus". Knowing what I know. Research on the Internet. Too much information. Ignorance is bliss? Known evil is a lesser evil? Loneliness . Akeel makes "Chicken in White Onion." Food in 10 days. Living for the weekend. Responsibility. Silly girls laughing in cars, it seems so far off. Maybe they are not silly. This too shall pass (?)

I think I can say with a measure of confidence that ‘Streets of Philadelphia’ is by far my favourite song. And that too despite the fact that I never really took a liking to the film. There’s something about the lyrics—a strange reconciliation with the forces bringing you down. A pact with the inevitable: do what you have to do and be done with it. That this is it. The point where I cease struggling. I have seen Man, and my disappointments out weigh everything by so much that I stand at the point of No Return. And I come as I am. No pretences. THIS is me. I was bruised and battered; I couldn’t tell what I felt, I was, unrecognizable to myself, Saw my reflection in the window and didn’t know my own face. O brother, going to leave me wasting away In the Streets of Philadelphia I walked the avenue till my legs felt like stone, I heard, voices of friends vanished and gone, At night I hear the blood in my veins, It is black and whispery as the rain In the streets of Philadelphia. Ain’t no a...

Dancers I am told are born with a rhythm—or at least and ability to comprehend the music when it is playing. They feel the music within their bodies. They manifest the beat of the music with action, articulating the language of music with physical movement. And so, it is the rhythm that sets the pace, making you move. Stirring you, slowing you down, embracing you and make you move forward. Life is much like that, with cities directing the pace of the music. As people living in them one has no choice but to move to the tune and speed required…and if you don’t, well you just fall to wayside like quitters. And I have never been a quitter. So here I am in a new town dancing to a new rhythm. I am struggling to keep up with everyone else … while trying to maintain an illusion of grace. It will take some time till I get my moves down. And I know practice makes perfect. But it is so hard. And the temptation to not even bothering trying is so overwhelming.

And when I say red, I don’t mean the darker shades of red that almost don’t attract attention. When I say red, I mean jarring, in your face, Lolita-returns-with-a-bang, Angelina-Jolie-lipstick RED. This is a relatively new thing in a series of ‘things’. It first surfaced in the middle of the wedding season back home. And far as I know it was not motivated by something. You know, the vindictive-splurge-of-anger-that-is-directed-from-somewhere-else-but-cannot-be-expressed kind of motivation. This passionate fascination seemed to be born of a sheer reckless abandon. The freefall-fun-approach to life. I notice of late she is expressing herself more and more. We were pretty much alike a few years ago. Her name and mine shared the same words. She just seemed to be reverse. (She is laughing in my head). When I got married she didn’t change her name. She kept it as it was…and to be honest thereon, started asserting herself more aggressively. She’s the reckless one. She climbs trees and bears s...

Life is full of little details. The details that become inconsequential the moment they fall out of the parameters of a particular moment, but while a part of it, their importance is of great magnificence. It’s the little things that come haunting when you least expect them. Like the line from a movie you saw just once, that means so much just when you are ached, bending above the dishwasher to load the dinner plates. “First class—it used to be a better meal. Now, it’s a better life.” :) Ok, so I am deliberately misquoting to give a different picture. But something to that tune. You get it. However, more precisely, I am talking about the rubber band you were playing with during the course of an hour long conversation with a friend. But the second the call comes to an end you have no more use of the piece of plastic. It lingers, used and over. The entirety of its existence summarized in minutes. Its sentence pronounced and on the verge of being enacted. And yet, as you decide to throw i...