Of the Everlasting Night

And with a breath,
I let it bleed.
I did not stop to watch it flow,
Stain the walls with a gentle glow.

In it’s wake,
It left a crater.
With every corner and every fold,
It left a streak of silver and gold.

And as I waited for it to die,
I could not help but close my eyes.
Just for a second,
The world was dark.
And with it’s last good bye,
A wretched moan and a bittersweet cry,
The light left the world.
And we fell into the void.


Food for Thought.

The world is pretty fucked up, isn’t it? I admit it, I am a messed up person who doesn’t know shit about life and pretends to be so wise anyways. But YOU have your faults too. I think people have started realizing that it is not too “cool” anymore to bully other people and they have realized they gain a large amount of respect for supporting discriminated beings, like the LGBT community or that boy at the back of the class who’s mental capacity is a little slow. They stand up for people being discriminated. Yes, those posts on Tumblr and Instagram and whatever else there is, are filled with reblogs urging people to support Fay or Adam, the people who are abused for having different sexual orientations. Everyone reblogs the picture of the tiny child with cancer, who probably won’t even make it to her 10th birthday. If only her post gets a 1000 likes, she may survive. And then, when they’ve left their laptop screens behind and put their smartphones on silent, they see the sour, bitter truth. Walking down the street, they see the guy wearing pink, with gelled hair. The first thought to come to our minds is; Gay. That’s that. Anything remotely girl is immediately linked to the man’s sexual orientation. And that girl with bald hair. We presume she has cancer. We don’t stop to think that she may like being different from others. And if indeed, she does have the horrid disease, she probably doesn’t even feel very bad about it. Of course, the disease itself is horrific, but that’s all it is; a disease. She doesn’t realize that people immediately categorize her as the freak. Until one or the other bitches come and tell her to her face, that she’s unwanted. Then she starts noticing that people are so cautious around her, so fake. And she hates being different, then. She just wants to be a nobody with a body that isn’t riddled with disease. And no matter how much we pretend to be good and understanding, there’s always a thought in our subconscious that reminds us that she isn’t normal; she isn’t the same as the rest of us. So, in a way, we are fakes. And that is absolutely ridiculous. Who the fuck are we to judge other people for their appearance, for their lifestyle, for their choices? Did we forget, in the haze of modernization, that every single person has the rights to be whoever the hell they want, say whatever the hell they wish to? And every human is different. The world would be pretty awful if it we were identical to our neighbors. And it’s agonizing to bear witness to the injustice of it all. Just because we’ve never known the pains faced by those who should be treated just the same as our friends, we don’t even try to understand. There was a horrible case that happened in a close relation’s workplace a few days ago. The peon who worked there for the last 7 years, a young man of barely 35, passed away. He ran errands around the office. He had just finished eating when he felt dizzy. Within minutes, he could barely see. He was taken to the nearest hospital. And would you believe it? The hospital refused to accept him. They wasted precious time in arguing that his family wasn’t present, so they were not responsible for the patient, all the while, in their minds, the thought: he is just a meagre worker, ran through. And finally, on admitting him in, they said they could not do anything as his blood pressure was too high. He’d had a brain hemorrhage. He had BP problems for the last 6 months, which he shrugged aside, not knowing it for what it was. He’d pop a tablet every time he got a headache. So one minute, he was a young man, with a wife and a son who went to school, just finished his lunch, laughing in the office. Within the next few hours, he was a corpse, lying in a cold hospital room, referred to nothing else but “the body”. His wife and child were devastated. And even though I never had a chance to meet him, I cried. And I hated myself. Because, if he was still alive and well, I probably wouldn’t even know his name. No one would treat him with as much respect as he got after he stopped being a human with blood coursing through his veins. I wouldn’t even notice him if I bumped into him on the road. And that is just so, so horrific. We really don’t appreciate anything until it’s gone, in this case, a life. There’s a reason why I’m so bluntly honest. It’s because I hope that somewhere, I’ve managed to make an impression and influenced you to be a better person, though god knows I could use the same advice. So, this has mainly been a rant, but I hope I’ve left you with some thoughts to consider. Don’t be so judgmental. And please, value what you have, and cherish the ones around you, before they’re all gone, swept under the rug and lost in the haze of humanity.


I wasn’t born as the cloud were. I wasn’t formed, drop by drop. I was not made. I was a part that was torn out from the main body. I was just a piece of the previous life, I was a mere Shadow. I hid behind trees and climbed branches, I lay under tables and sat on top of the highest bridge my fantasy could conjure. I was a shadow living in the void of other shadows, black against black, until the whole world turned dark. And you could hear the sounds of blood, dripping onto the shadows, and getting lost in all the haze. And however closely you looked, you would never find me.

Loving You

I remember you when you were Fourteen. You had paint all over your clothes and ink marks on your skin. Your hair was jagged, framing your face and sticking up at every angle. I remember the day you’d cut off all of your long, fine hair to defy your father. And the glasses you word were painted green, because you didn’t like blending in. You wore army shoes with the black dress your mother forced you into. Your eyes were bright and whole, never tainted with the pain. I loved you as a child.

I remember you when you were sixteen. He was your first boyfriend, you were convinced you were in love. You’d curl your hair and line your eyes with kohl like you were born to do this. The army boots were hidden at the back of your cupboard, and the glasses snapped in two. You preferred the contact lenses that made your eyes water and itch, just because he told you that he preferred you without your glasses. And your eyes were still bright, thrilled with the essence of first love. I loved you as a friend.

I remember you when you were eighteen. You hated the world. You would stay locked up in your room for hours, and when you came out, you would pretend everything was fine, even though your cheeks were raw from trying to remove the mascara lines. You barely got out of your pajamas, and the sun was a stranger. Your eyes were lined with red, sore and puffy, and they’d lost all their light. You thought the world had lost all of its glory. I loved you even when you were broken.

I remember the day you turned twenty. You had a new lover, yet again. You were absolutely certain about this one. You wore loose tee shirts and the faded blue jeans that you loved so much. You’d decided that looks didn’t really matter, and the chestnut mane of glory was gone, replaced by the same, jagged hair. You still put eyeliner, though, but it was green. The glasses were back, although these were black and big. You drank, but that only made you as much of the individual you were once. I loved you when you still behaved like you were 14, although you had faced much more than most ever would.

I remember the day he broke your heart. And you did not cry. You did not cry, because you knew that every tear that rolled down your cheek would be proof of the fact that you did care. I loved you even more.

I remember the day you turned twenty six, and you finally came running into my arms, knowing that’d you’d never hurt again. I loved you like I would for the rest of our days, until the waves drowned us all.


It is not the shape of the scar running down his cheek or the one lip that curves up, it is not the roughness of his hands or the burns on his chest. It is most certainly not his trembling fingers or his weak knees, it is not the large feet or the loose build of his body. His appearance does not affect me. It is his beating heart, his burning eyes with flecks of gold, his loving caress, the lips that trace my soul, the warmth of his skin, his loyal heart, his brave mind and his every thought  that makes me love him. His simple existence drives me to my peak. And I would not trade the pure soul and the scarred body for all the good looks in the world. Because in my eyes, he is flawless. Because his love fuels me and it makes me strong enough for the both of us. And we’ll stand tall till the end of our days, till nature herself drives to break us apart, and I know that even after death, nothing will be enough to keep me away from him. And he completes my soul.

Oak Trees

Someone asked me why I love oak trees so much. I told him, when you’re sitting under an oak tree, the jeweled grass littered with acorns, and the shadows of the canopy of leaves fanning and sighing to the gentle breeze, you find a new world hidden among the branches. The tiny squirrels that scatter as soon as they set their eyes on you, and the thrum of life, pulsating from the trunk make you fly with happiness. The stories that are etched into the ancient bark, they live on forever in the heart. And during Winter, when the tree is bare and cold, he manages to enthrall you with the white blanket that covers him. And when Spring comes, so do the fresh green leaves, the ones that will be a part of existence for the next year. And in Summer, the leaves turn a darker green, telling you that each leaf has her own story, and every story is worth being told. As Autumn arrives, the green is tainted with shades of yellow, and slowly, the entire tree has turned to auburn and amber, and as the winds rage, the trails of leaves can be seen floating in the sky, tossed from side to side by the gale. And you’ll notice the tiny leaves that cling onto the living tree, as if they will never let go, and you marvel at their strength, and when you visit the next day to shelter yourself from the biting wind, you are heartbroken to see that the leaf has given up to the wind, that she has let go and flown away, another leaf in the cloud of auburn that trails across the skies. The fact that oak trees are a symbol of strength, and for me, they symbolize a strong entity that refuses to be moved, despite the very nature that created it tries her very best to bring him down. And the oak will be there, fighting for himself, and the lives he holds within, and the stories that stay with him. But you come back during Winter, to find the beloved tree bare, and you still manage to love him, because he is so much wiser than you are, and he will remain standing then long after we are gone from this life, and he will remain to be the symbol of strength and wisdom to the lives that follow. And nothing will change the love for an oak tree, as long as the tree remains in my heart and in my soul.

Lock and Key.

If I was a rusty lock,
Would you be my key?
Would you wait for the flock,
Or fly alone into the sea?

Would you dive deep,
Drown into the ocean blue?
Would you truly weep
When you learned of the secrets I knew?

Would you love me when I cried,
Clutching me to your heart?
Would you stay by my side,
While I fell apart?

Would you drive away the cold,
Warm in with your loving gaze?
Would you have my heart sold,
Leave me in a stumbling daze?

Would you hold me as I bled,
Kiss the pain away?
Would you leave me for dead,
Let me be the helpless prey?

Would you stab me once again,
Drive your dagger deep?
Would you enjoy all the pain,
As I Faded into eternal sleep?

Would you be my key,
If I was a rusty lock?


Home is a far away dream;

Where the sun shines on the drying pickles placed on the verandah bench and the smell of freshly baked cupcakes wafts to the porch;

Where the gardens have no walls;

Where the trees are older and wiser, who we would climb all day in our youth and pretend to be knights just for a day, defending our forts from the incessant attacks from the mischievous monkeys;

Where we could catch a glimpse of the delightful crimson bougainvillea’s from the old tree near the gate that adorned the boundary wall of the opposing house;

Where the sounds of Grandma’s knitting needles clinking ever so softly could be heard all day long;

Where Gramps’ would sit in the sun with a Sudoku puzzle and a glass of milk;

Where Father would leave every morning for work on the faithful motorcycle;

Where the dog would snap at the wind and lick our feet;

Where the bazaars were crowded and bright with colorful stalls filled with stick fizzy drinks that made you fly;

Where the Kulfi-waala would arrive daily at 1 in the afternoon, never failing to produce his cheap, melting kulfi’s at piteous prices;

Where Winters meant staying indoors after sundown and early morning walks in the garden and when walking the dog meant wearing scarves at which he would snap at as the fluttered around in the icy wind;

Where the Summer sun could exhaust even the most restless of minds and there would be nothing better in those afternoons than a chilled glass of Grandma’s famous chaas and a lazy game of cards;

Where Rains meant pakoras that burnt your fingers and steaming cups of chai, running around without umbrellas and watching the dog go crazy at the drops of water, soaking shoes and wet socks, warm steamy kitchens and a good novel with a mug of hot chocolate, listening to the skies pour and reading the next fantasy that would occupy your mind for days to come;

Where everyone was so alive with the sheer joy of simple life;

Where there weren’t any apartments and every house was a mansion with moats and drawbridges;

Where dinners meant that every member of the house would come down and eat together, talking and laughing all the while;

Where telling stories at night with flashlights under layers of blankets was a daily routine;

Where life was good and mothers baking never failed to brighten up the darkest of nights;

And where we were happy swimming around in our fantasies and living in never ending


Come Back

“Ishaan! Come back here!” I yelled, running after the seven year old who had run away with my shawl. He giggled, running behind a tree. The day was cold, biting winds ran, and I felt a stab of fear. What if my Ishaan caught a cold? I ran faster, but my body wasn’t as young as it used to be. Finally, I caught up to him, wrestling with him as we laughed. This was my boy, my Ishaan, the apple of my eyes. We sat down by the oak tree, arm in arm. He asked me with his innocent voice,
“Maa, where is Papa?” I stiffened. He immediately realized his mistake, and bunched his eyebrows.
“It’s okay, Maa. Don’t answer. I’m sorry.” he mumbled, clutching my hand. I shook my head.
“It’s fine, beta. Papa left us long ago. He’s just gone to work. He’ll be back soon.” I reassured him, lied to him. No, his father would never be back. He had left us six years ago, left me alone to raise a child on my own. I was never good enough for him. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. I would not cry for him again.

I smiled at Ishaan, and just like that, the tension dissipated. He talked to me about school, and at sundown, when it got chilly, I gathered him in my shawl, and we walked home.
That night, while I was tucking him in, he told me he was sorry. I watched him sleep, as his innocent face relaxed. He was beautiful, with dark black hair and fair skin. He was my boy. I curled up beside him, and we fell asleep.
“Ishaan beta, wake up. It’s time to go to school.” I said as I crossed the room, putting his books in his bag. He mumbled a good morning, throwing back his covers and padding to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, I was putting his shoes on, as he complained.
“Maa, I don’t want to go to school today. I’m tired.” he said, frowning. I smiled at him, kissing his forehead, before giving his bag to him. He accepted defeat, as I walked him to his bus.
“Bye Momma!” He yelled, as the bus pulled away. I blew a kiss at him, and he caught it with his hands, as the bus turned the corner. I didn’t know that this would be the last time I saw him.

Four hours later, I was sprawled across his still body soaked in blood, as he lay silent on the cold floor of his school. Dead. My boy, dead. My little Ishaan lay still and silent, in a sleep from which he would never wake up from. His peaceful face lay cold and still. He was not breathing. I couldn’t think. I had no one now, no one to love, no one to care. They had taken away my boy, my little Ishaan, they had taken away my reason for living. His tiny body, once whole and pure, had gaping holes in it now, with bullets that stopped his life. Those bullets that made him no more. The bullets that took away my sun from me, leaving me in complete darkness. If he was no more, then what reason did I have to live anymore? My heart shattered again, as I watched his beautiful face, cold and white. I lay sobbing across his cold body, numb with disbelief.

“Maya.” someone whispered my name. I ignored his familiar voice.

“Maya.” He said again, shaking me gently and gathering me in his arms. I looked up. It didn’t matter that he had left me seven years ago. It didn’t matter that he had broken my heart. All that mattered was that I had someone’s arms to cry in. Someone to hold me as my love for the world died, someone to hold me while I lost my soul. I had someone now, to help me let go of my Ishaan.

“Ishaan, come back here.” I whispered in his arms, staring at the still body beside me that was once warm and happy and alive.

“Come back, Ishaan. Please. Come back to Mamma.”

Humanity Lost Her Last Chance

I think the world has become a little quieter, a little sadder in the last two days. Tuesday, 16th December, 2014. A day none of us will ever forget. The whole world was aghast as they sat in front of their television screens, wanting to block out this latest development, this tragedy, but we were helpless not to listen.  Silence in the living room, as we watched reporters crying, as we too silently wept, mourned for the 141 lives lost within the walls of Army Public School of Peshawar. 132 of these were children, happy souls my age, who lost their lives because of the sheer repulsive acts carried out by the Taliban. Today, I write in red ink. It is a reminder of the scarlet blood, burning the walls and floor of the school. It is a reminder of the blood of the children who struggled for their last breaths merely two days ago. This scarlet ink will forever serve as a reminder of the gut-wrenching day, a dark day for humanity. Do these creatures, the Taliban, have souls? Do they have hearts? Do the possess conscience, guilt? Innocent children, pure souls, massacred, brutally killed without being convicted of any crime. Not even a second glance was spared to them, except, maybe, to confirm that they moved no more. Not even a second glance was spared to the withering bodies, as they gasped for their last breaths, not even a ray of mercy was spared to these innocent souls. The Taliban have not instilled fear in us. No, we are not that fallen. They have proved that they are soulless creatures, with dark, black pits for hearts, ruthless and cunning minds, which devise new techniques for us to be repulsed by. They generate not fear, but disgust from the citizens of the world. Ruthless murderers on one side, politicians, leaders, rulers, army, religion on the other, and us, the children of the world, caught in the middle of this never ceasing war for power and supremacy. Every battle won sets off another battle to be lost, and in the meanwhile, harmless, helpless lives are lost for absolutely no reason. Children, innocent souls, left to fend for themselves, to hide from the shrapnel of war. Power can drive people senseless, for surely, only those without an ounce of remorse or regret can carry out such ruthless acts of carnage without a second thought. Tomorrow, we will move on with our lives, try to forget, and hope for the best. But I write in red to keep this moment forever engraved, where 141 humans died from the conflict of religion. Today, my tears won’t help anyone, but for once, cry, don’t be brave. Maybe all of our tears, our blood, will be enough to drive out monsters from this earth. It is not the earth which is a dark place. No, the earth is a bright place, but we, with our dark thoughts, our infectious minds, our weapons of terror, make the world this black. Taliban, who is going to face the parents of the dead, who will tell them that their own flesh and blood ceases to live? Who will console them? No amount of sympathy will be enough; no amount of tears will be able to bring back to life those happy children that were once the sun on a dark day. Kill us, the children of the world, kill us to enforce terror, but remember, once you kill us, the future, there will be nothing else left. Taliban. You have to answer to the heartbroken mothers, caring fathers, loving siblings, loyal friends. You have us to answer to, for whom those 132 children were living people who we held close in our hearts. And surely, there is no more hope for humanity. I think the world would be better off without religion, if this is what it takes. Can you hear the silence, the pain? Wretched men, the Taliban. How do you possibly think this is what your god wants? I am a child. Maybe, you’ll come to find me. It’s okay, you have a lot of people to kill, if you want to eradicate everyone who opposes you. I pity God, the guilt he must feel, for having the guilt of created such beings. It’s okay, God. You did nothing wrong. The disease spread from within us, you weren’t at fault.