Nature calling

I am drawn to the seas

That are peace and that are terror

Cleansing earth with every wave

I am struck by the sky

beauty of the stars

Lighting up the night 

I am mystified by the mountains

standing tall and ominous 

Witnessing our lives

I am watcher of the trees

Swaying to and fro

Dancing to songs of the wind

I am toe deep in mud, and in

Specks of colored sands

Making you and me

Word to the wise.

I love words. Is it strange that I love words? They fail me many times.

2014 in retrospect

The year 2014 ought to be written about. It needs to be flushed out of my system for good. Most of it anyway. Ever since 'happy new year' greetings started popping up all over the screens, I've been thinking this better be a happy new year. Last year was one crazy ride and there aren't many occasions I would like to go back to to relive if in the future time travel becomes a possibility.

Dia de los abrazos (Day of the Hugs)

The last day of the fellowship went smoother than I thought. I had given prior warning to my students to hold back their tears for I would not speak to anyone who would cry shamelessly at my farewell.

Take a break! (a poem)

Pull apart the curtains and let the sun shine through
Let it surround you with its bright yellow hue

Fall back in bed and look at the skies
Without a worry of magnanimous size

Stretch your arms out till the muscles strain
Let out all the trouble and pain

Run out like the finish line is near
Don't look back, only chase after the fear

Kick off your shoes and tiptoe the sea shore
Bury the things you don't need anymore

Feel the ocean breeze toss back your hair
Fill it with salt and sand layer by layer

Cartwheel and jump and dance
Make animal shadows with both of your hands

Throw you head back, topple over with laughter
Have not a thought about what is to come after

Turn yourself around and give it a shake
Somedays all you really need is a break

Ten minute journaling: Morning time

6.25 a.m. aaaaand go! The plan was to do five minute journaling right after fajr, watch the sky change colors, the birds come alive from their slumber.

Reunion: The Last Chapter

He squinted across the park at the vaguely familiar face of the child who was now climbing effortlessly up the slide. There was something about those deep brown eyes that he couldn't place. And the hair? He had a very faint memory of wrapping those tendrils about his wrinkled fingers.

Loss

I fear forgetting the sound of birds in the cacophony of traffic, generators and aeroplanes. I fear not knowing the feel of rain on my face; raw and unfiltered.

Joie de vivre

Fireflies. Gajray. Crow's feet. Glitter. Laughter that originates from the pits of the belly. Sharp pencils. Yellow. Motia flower. Sea. Potatoes. Kittens. Winter. Braids. Mehndi. Cheese. Breeze. Rhinestones. Raspberry scents. Trinkets. White. Sleep. Notebooks. Writing. Intellectual humour. Little boxes to collect collectibles. Clean feet. Table tennis. Nighttime. To do lists. Weddings. Nail polish. Pencil boxes with magnetic strips. Airports. How it smells after the rain. Badminton. Babies. Socks. Rubik's cube. Horses. Lassi. Rings. Ramzan. Sunrise. Story tellers. Tall tales. Books. Physics. Greenery. Surprises. Immersion in water. Genuine people. Dahi poori with meethi chatni. Reunions. Veins. Basketball. Pashto. Afro. Running. Dreamers. Fancy pens.

The shoes on his feet

It is unbelievable the train of thought a pair of shoes can initiate.

She was in the office again, for getting caught skipping class this time, and her father had been summoned by the principal. Nonchalant, she pushed at her cuticles and played with the loose strands of her hair. She was restlessly tapping her feet at an imaginary melody when her father arrived with a concerned expression on his face. Their eyes met and she smiled, to which he did not respond.

Acid

It is a shame really. The way kids are brought up one way and once they grow up, all the opposite ideas are force-fed to them.

We grow up as nationalists, being taught to always serve our country and countrymen, the poor, the desolate. Reciting Iqbal's dua everyday in assembly till we knew it by heart. 'Ho mera kaam gharibon ki himayat kerna, dardmandon se zaeefon se mohabbat kerna'.

Psycho detective mode.

Three episodes of Castle and I've turned into a squinty eyed detective myself, doubting the authenticity of stories other people have to share.

March to October- Much ado about nothing

Detached is the word I've been looking for. A few weeks here, a few months there. I no longer have an emotional attachment for my students. There's no more a sense of belonging when the hard truth of my temporary presence is known to me. Half a year later, I'll be gone from here too and though my students might feel sad (well, they claim to) I know for sure I won't be able to reciprocate the emotion.

A change in schools earlier this year brought me to an all girls school at quite a distance from home.

Ramazan

Drudging through sehri. Filling up without pausing to savor every bite. Missing the sehri some days. Praying everyday at the appointed times. Working alongside. Traveling to and from work. Watching people pass by. Patient smiles. Helping hands. Watching places pass by. Gola ganda gali. Fruit vendors. Smells of pakoras, samosas and jalebis drifting through the air. The sound of Holy verses and naats in the air. Blaring through mosque loudspeakers. Or coming beautifully from the lips of blind beggars. Nighttime tarawees. Listening to the Quran and its meaning. Nodding off to sleep at times. Standing as equals in rows during prayer. All differences aside. The soft rainfall as we fall in sujood. The cool night breeze blessing the hottest summer days. The last minute Eid shopping. Crowded roadside stalls. Blue, yellow and green strings of lights. A city so adorned.

The month of Ramazan has its own feel.