There are days when one of those wintery November evenings, quietly saunter into your realm. Thinning light on the crimson horizon as the sun prepares to bid an early farewell to the day. Chilling Cold dominates the air with righteous abandon.
You sit by the fire, pondering about those timeless paintings of unknown artists.
The stale air in those uninvited chambers where old, possibly torn, canvases lean against forgotten walls. Scattered in those dusty attics, Like faint suggestions, devoid of their owners, in a muted disarray.
How do you casually nurture the gardens of silent grief?
The vines climb all across the pale red brick walls of your being. The flowers of pretense hide the thorns, causing tiny fractures to the epidermis of your existence.
You hang portraits of imagined peace upon the walls pretending not to notice the echo of footsteps that are long gone.
Painting the corridors with faux windows, you build your prison under the illusion of refuge.
You got to know early that the world seldom breaks you all at once. It prefers the patient art of erosion, so that by the time you notice, you are already a different shape. It leaves its traces in finger prints on your soul but only if you look closely.
You learn that pain rarely announces itself as tragedy. More often, it seeps in quietly, through the cracks in an ordinary afternoon, until you no longer remember what the walls looked like before they crumbled.
And yet, in the ruins, you have found shapes that one could not see when they were whole.
You sit just beyond the edge of thought, until it feels like it has always lived there. You stop noticing its weight, the way you stop noticing the pull of the earth beneath your feet.
When it loosens its grip, you almost miss the strange certainty it gave you.
Eventually it begins to settle. Not softer, not kinder, but less…. foreign. It sits where it will, and you learn to walk around it.
She moved in rhythms that were too mystical to be ordinary.
She hummed, at times in hushed tones to the point that he couldn’t hear the tune. And yet in her presence, even from afar, the city felt less hollow.
Rain fell like whispers over the city: gentle, relentless, almost like prayer. Nestled between two gleaming towers of commerce, his existence oscillated between the spectrums of “Izteraab” and “Qarar.
The sharp edges of time, the dull ache of routine, the weight of memories he no longer spoke aloud: they all grew quieter in her presence.
The fade of memory is cruel. Time even more so. There is no order to that reason.
How do you ignite a person who outlived the purpose he had once wrapped tightly around himself like armor? Nothing seems to matter anymore.
The red sash though. Still swirls in ghostly passages of his reality… or whatever was left of it.
جب گھلی تیری راہوں میں شام ستم ہم چلے آئے لائے جہاں تک قدم
لب پہ حرف غزل دل میں قندیل غم اپنا غم تھا گواہی ترے حسن کی
دیکھ قائم رہے اس گواہی پہ ہم ہم جو تاریک راہوں پہ مارے گئے
Sometimes you fight the fires alone because you don’t know any better. Life has been a journey full of lessons learnt and unlearnt. Yes you are human but are you allowed to have that excuse?
The question remains since everyone you come across will have a take on this from their own lens. I guess humans are selfish even when it comes to experiences. We validate our traumas and tragedies because we have the box seat to them, all the while seeing others as content and fulfilled.
Survival comes in many shapes and sizes. Your actions may conform but your soul doesn’t. Therein lies the paradox of being. They say the journey is what matters and that the outcomes are beyond your control anyway.
Rules. Rules. And then some more. The intent is always forgotten in the end. When you are told to be thankful for what you have, and every want beyond that is deemed unruly. Compliance is what decides the color of your existence.
Black or White. Dark and bright. Devil and saint.
Nothing in between.
With every morning light, you tell yourself that you will make it till the end.
Reassurances.
The calm surfaces often hide the most turbulent depths.
Yes yes I am compliant. Okay. You pass.
On the brink of madness and back. Never crossing the bridge.
The Echos of those screams follow me Deep into.. The labyrinths of my conscious As sleep eludes my weary existence . “Can you tell me a story, baba?“ My firstborn inquires naively Unaware of what tragedy unfolds In another corner of the world I dont know how to tell her That there is no savior In their chronicles…..
All the letters I have written to you They reside in my mind. My paper is white My ink bottle brimming. My silences have a language and the ciphers are with you but you don’t know that and that is what is sad About the life we have chosen to live because when we cant change anything we see it through the prisms of choices. life. in its entirety, has fooled us. but oh well.. as they say All things tend to their ruin in due time. so will we. More now than ever.
Morning walks With the ghost of thy memories. The end is unclear. But then who really wants to know. The lines of destiny Keep bending at the wrong turns.
The air is growing cooler as the landscape gradually turns to a blend of Red, orange, green and a tinge of yellow. One can hear the whispers of the lingering winter in the air but there is still warmth to behold.
I don’t know how long I have been stuck in this apartment. Days have been passing by like train bogeys. The world is entrenched in a catastrophe. Refreshing the infections stats website every morning as body counts pile on, has become routine. It is strange. So strange that something so tragic can become so routine as well. My eyes wander into the distance outside but I don’t see the end. This makes me nervous.
“You need to get out”, he says. Suddenly I feel so claustrophobic in the tiny apartment. I take the last few sips from the coffee mug and grab my jacket with intent.
“Lets go”, I say. He follows.
The streets are devoid of life. An eerie silence hovers around as I walk towards the forest nearby. You walk a step behind me. There isn’t much conversation but I am aware of your presence.
We get on the battered track which goes on topsy turvying into the distance. The lake is calm. One can see some ducks in the far corner but other than that it seems deserted. I turn around to see if you are there and you smile as our eyes meet. I see tiredness in that smile.
“Maybe the outdoors will fix that”, I tell myself as I look around.
Autumn truly has set in. The wind rustles through the crispy leaves as we walk past the old trees. They stand tall, ready to face the inevitable tyranny of the forthcoming winter. It is nothing new for them. Every year they stand the test of biting winters as their leaves abandon them one after the other. The stubborn cycle of ruin will continue for years to come so they are steadfast in their defiance: Or so it seems….
The lonely leaf
Wanders off from its roots
tending to its ruin
.
We walk slowly to our usual bench and I sit down. You sit beside me and I take your hand in both of my hands. We look at each other and then look at the scenery in front of us. Your skin feels cold but I blame the winter chill in the air. The evening sun sets as I hear the noise of an ambulance siren in the distance.
Another life hangs in balance.
One can see the birds flying back to their nests on the horizon.
“Do you think they know that the world is dying”. I ask without looking at you. “We, in our supposedly great wisdom, are constantly up against it but what do they think? Sustenance seems to be the common goal between us. We seek a bigger meaning from life but maybe they are better off. I guess we can never really know for sure”.
Life and its abundant mysteries.
Life. Why does it exist? The pain, the happiness, the suffering. We tell ourselves stories to make sense of it all. Some believe them whole heartedly. Others have a certain skepticism. No one knows for sure though. That is a different kind of darkness we do not want to dwell in. We do think about it though and then we get on with our lives.
Death. does it solve the mystery though? You do not respond to my musings.
The wind seems to be picking up. Clouds are getting darker. Evening rituals of the universe ensue.
There will be a time to go home but we will stay for a little while more.
You, me… and the trees as our quite audience.
—————————————————————————————————————————————-
“Look there she is again”. Melissa tugged at Johan’s arm. Johan looked in the direction. The old lady was sitting on the bench. Strands of her silvery white hair flayed carelessly in the wind. The cold didnt seem to bother her. Her lips moved, while she looked on the empty side of the bench as if she was talking to someone but no one was there.
They often saw their neighbor sitting there alone since her husband passed away. It had been seemingly a month long fight before they finally gave in. She had to make a choice on whether to take him of the ventilator or not. Melissa shuddered at the thought of her signing that consent form.
They quietly walked past her. Their eyes met and an unsaid hello was shared. They had to keep the distance for obvious reasons.
“I hope she finds some peace”, Melissa muttered under her breath as they walked away…
Peace. Does that change anything?
Once upon a time Strangers sat on these benches And told stories of their journeys Deep into the crimson evening But then seasons changed Along came the somber falls Leaves turned yellow And fell along the northern winds Covering the tracks Burying the footsteps Silence took over Time felt hushed…
"To the times when the world was at loss." All the pictures were taken during the autumn of 2020 when pandemic raged through the world. A trip down the memory lane, albeit a painful one. I lost my mentor, my father figure due to COVID and I couldn't reach back home in time to lower him in his grave even. One of the rare regrets that will stay with me forever.
To my Mamoon: A person who raised me on his shoulders as a kid to supporting me in my education, practical life and my biggest cheer leader. May his soul rest in peace.
Spring has decided not to show up this year. Every morning, either dense grey clouds or pale reluctant sunlight welcomes me to its dread.
There are days where it snows endlessly till every thing in sight is covered in white. Life seems to have become a gluttony of frozen moments like those snow flakes, scattered everywhere. You try to find your way home, sidestepping, avoiding the black ice forming on the walkways. Somehow you make it but the sense of loss still lingers..
The north winds provide no respite either.
Why do we always have to find our way home? Our own little cornerstone in the whole wide world. Can people be homes? You wonder…
If this is home then what did we leave behind? “A lot probably”, you hear your brain tease you with that thought.
You try to distract yourself with playing some music but the guitar is out of tune. The E string is wound too tight and probably needs to be replaced. It has served out its purpose.
Purpose. The carrot we dangle in front of us because why else would you want to make through the period from your first breath till your end is decided.
Decisions. you think you have control?
what did you say?
Free will? Sure…….
Well tomorrow is a new day so fool yourself with the thought. Let’s leave it at that. Sanity demands it.
Why is insanity so feared? Why hide when we know it’s there? Quickly, cover it before it’s too late.
What about free will then?
The night stays quite in response.
The snowflakes swirl in the empty spaces of the disjointed memories. What could have been is irrelevant. What is, will always be our retort.
Eddie's domain 
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