Musings on Monday Mornings

I rarely ever put up pictures. But this one is an absolute winner. Its been some four months plus away from home, and two-and-a-half months into a change of status. We have a winning smile, favourite words, sparkling eyes and ...yes, I have fallen hook, line and sinker. (About time, I tell you!). A lifelong romance (even if one sided) begins. Life continues to a different rhythm. There is, guaranteed, less sleep, more trips to the loo, leaden arms and legs...but otherwise things are as before. Sort of :) We now measure days through feeds, burps and diaper changes. Through tiny grunts and attractive sighs. We are growing daily. As parents, the Mr and I tend to believe we have birthed the definitive genius...that is until the weekly update from babycentre tells us this is exactly how all babies grow. Damn, it's such an enthusiasm killer. Living as the typical new parent cliche, we take far too many pictures daily and assume everyone is interested in every "goo" and "g...

I am told I have a lot of life to account for in words. Some ten months of life. I’ve been putting it off so long now that the well has swelled so heavy that words don’t seem enough to recount so many days lived. So I will none of it. Rather, I will pick up the thread from here and now….at some 12.30am on a random March evening. Change: it’s been one of my major hesitations. Embracing change. Yet over time I have learnt to abide by the laws of nature …and for lack of a better phrase…go with the flow. Time ebbed and flowed and there was a recurrence of what was once ‘life’. We became clichés again. It is comfortable again …and this city is beginning to redeem itself. God Bless for that!! The change is mental, physical and spiritual. We grew … as people and as individuals. I am still growing (there is nothing that entertains like an inside joke) and there is hope in the future. Where there is life there is hope...and we have life. …I am returning home for a spell ...

I find myself flicking through pictures…some new…mostly old, while a playlist of old favourites plays in my ears. I’m walking a tightrope I know. It’s blatant provocation. A well of old memories. Mostly pleasant. Mostly beautiful. And home is so very far away. He drove relentlessly through the streets of a sodden city in hope of finding a shoulder, a voice that reminds him of home. I just drove. What is it that pushes us through the bareness of nothingness of find that one sensation that calms us? I look at old pictures. He went to a familiar home. Almost, but not quite. Time tethers on a fine balance. Having run its course it clears, granting clarity in hindsight. Always hindsight. It passes and its passing is felt more than seen. There’s a years worth of snaps that can’t be accounted for in seconds. They just are. And there’s the scars to prove the storms passing…but they’re not all seen. Those too are felt. Az, sometimes it’s good losing control and talking about not talking. Cold...

I think pretty much all of sub continental novels somewhere or the other draw upon the power and push of the monsoons. Like the lunar swelling of the tide. Something that is given. Something that affects deeply. Everybody. Today, somewhere near the Saharan desert, we had a morning that was geographically off. It got overcast and much like the monsoons, a gust of wind rose with lightening to shed on this dusty ‘shitsville’ a sprinkle of rain that smelt of home. Home, damn it. Home. Like fresh water on gravel. And for a few minutes we delayed going to work. Delayed donning the suit and the high heels and slowed the pace to sip milk over a heavily buttered jam toast. It’s at times like these when the mind invariably turns to a moment from before trying to recreate a feeling. Then it stretches it, tugging at the ends to try and make it linger longer. But sooner than later the sun comes out to reign down harsh and strong in a typical May-day desert fashion. You battle 6-lane traffic and dra...

6.00pm on a Thursday evening and the clock is taking it's jolly time crawling to close 9 hours of contractual labour...that too on May 1st. There's an irony somewhere in there. Still another 30 minutes to go. So here we are. A bustling, noisy and at times X-rated environment that is slowly beginning to grow in a nice familiar, homey kind of way. There are days ofcourse, but something comes up that makes up for things. Life also seems to be sorting itself out slowly (mash'Allah) and the stars a realigning themselves to resemble what was once life! There are ofcourse days there too...but. Azi, ditto. And thanks. I don't have to say it.

oye... you are my disney friend and my moulin rogue singer buddy.you are bocelli and fern gulli and knower of all things wise and true.you the watcher of last of the mohicans for the nth time with me.my dearest and closest friend!! may allah always keep you in his hifz o eimaan and may this day and all that follow be filled with happiness and glee. :D Amber the Goga! Happy Birthday!

June 1993 - April 2008: Requiem Tonight the sky above Reminds me of you, love Walking through wintertime Where the stars all shine The angel on the stairs Will tell you I was there Under the front porch light On a mystery night I've been sitting watching life pass from the sidelines Been waiting for a dream to seep in through my blinds I wondered what might happen if I left this all behind Would the wind be at my back ? Could I get you off my mind This time The neon lights in bars And headlights from the cars Have started a symphony Inside of me The things I left behind Have melted in my mind And now there's a purity Inside of me I've been sitting watching life pass from the sidelines Been waiting for a dream to seep in through my blinds I wondered what might happen if I left this all behind Would the wind be at my back ? Could I get you off my mind This time

Celebrities OD-ing on drugs—prescription or otherwise—is a not a new phenomenon to Hollywood. Elvis, River Phoenix, in addition to numerous others are a case in point, whose death left a tangible hole in the world of Showbiz. But they are long dead, distant memories, stars that have been immortalised on account of their young passing. But when Heath Ledger was found dead in his SoHo apartment in New York on January 22, it somehow hurt more … seemed more personal. Ledger moved to Hollywood after a few years career in Australia starring in TV soaps and a film that brought him localised attention. In his Hollywood debut in 10 Things I Hate About you in 1999 he played a self assured and independent iconoclast paid to date the college’s hell raiser. He gained popularity with teenage age girls, most of whom looked at him as the pin-up poster of the unconventionally-cute-but-deep foreign student they all hoped to find and fall in love with. His rendition of Frankie Avalon’s I Love You Baby, s...

There is perfection nowhere. It is in imperfection that we mark our individualities. I am a Pakistani, the product of what you see as years of flawed politics, feudal conspiracies, terrorist attacks, women indiscrimination and flagging institutions. But even when pigeonholed through a myopic lens coloured dimmer by a negative international picture of my country, I have never been more proud of being a Pakistani than I am now. We have come through one of the toughest years in our young history — tougher still because there has been no one tangible issue to blame everything on. We have been hit with drought, floods, mindless acts of terrorism, mass political instability and natural and infrastructural disasters. We closely avoid being bombed by the superpowers for one reason or the other and a few days before general elections in our country the entire world looks to us as a forgone conclusion. But even with a silenced media we speak. Even with the ‘rightful’ judiciary in abeyance we so...

I am so profoundly moved right now by some intangible string in the life stream. It may be the picture in today’s paper of starving ill babies in hospitals waiting for fuel to run out and mothers fighting for bread in Gaza, or it may be Death & Taxes playing my ear, or the cloudy skies outside, or the lack of what I think is rightfully- deserved appreciation. May be it is the lack of human connection in this pigeonholed existence or just shutting up and not talking. Either way, I am feeling it. Pathetic fallacy, Shakespeare called it. When the atmosphere and nature reflect your mood. I think mine is completely in tune. (Many puns … … I am laughing to myself). I wrote something recently in hopes of sending it to TFT. I live in hope that I might still send it. Till I do: I’ll let it rest here instead of the deep dark recesses of my computer: To Buy into the Dream (or Not) As one of those Pakistanis who ventured to Dubai for work I was more than enthusiastic about our new residence. ...

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...