Wednesday, September 29, 2010

The Fairy and The Firefly.

Fireflies are mortals, they are destined to die
How come the fairy had expected it, to show the way to fly?

Trapped in the Cimmerian tunnel of despair and false hope
There resides a lost fairy who still yearns for the light
As the folklore depicts, a fire beetle in the tunnel
Had been once a source for her lambent delight

The fire beetle had its glow, its glimmer and its incandescence
That had radiated warmth and love for the lost
And the lost fairy had danced in its aura of radiance
With her soul entirely engrossed

Awestricken by its warm glimmer, the fairy had not realized
What the fate of a firefly could be
That a firefly may show a way to the wanderer
Or it could go dimmer or possibly flee

How naïve of her that she did not know
‘Tis a fatal attraction that won’t survive
The firefly would either die or flee away
Abandoning her in the middle of nowhere to strive

The fairy should have known better, what she not knew
Those fireflies are mortals, they are destined to die
She should have known that the fire beetles cannot
Show her the way to fly …….

Monday, September 27, 2010

Peeking Through Those Glass Jars..

During all these years of my virtual voyage spanning over more than two years of real time, I have come across many people who have influenced my life in one way or the other. A few of them came in my life for a season, a few came in for a reason while many made their way to the heart consequently becoming an inspiration behind my write-ups. One of such individuals is Raheel Ahmed, who I often address as the incredible hulk. Raheel has not only been a good friend but he is also a savior who comes to the rescue whenever he finds that I am having a writer's block. Having said that, let me share a small piece of writing today (I should have been sharing it on Sunday, though) that Raheel had shared with me sometime ago. Please have a read and let me know if the magic works..Here it goes..

It’s just another Sunday and the market is crowded once again with buyers who roam around from stall to stall, each carrying his wishes scribbled on a scrap of paper. Life moves on as an unstoppable train with stations unmarked. Those who board seem to have no choices of their own, their corpses then fall and the rail track appears crimson red. The sheen blinds the eye, but yet the hunger seems eternal.

He walks, his back hunched with age and his gait unsteady carrying his misgivings about the day. He settles on a mound to be prominent to all those who gaze at him with mock. He settles under a straw roof held in place by four withering poles of wood bearing cuts.

He finds a vacant spot and adds another one, “another day another death…” his thoughts wander… “how many more sons would irrigate mother earth with their blood – aimlessly - this is the last pole to bear my marks, I hope I wont have to return next week, for its about time I contributed to quench this thirst….”

Sitting cross legged, an uneasy weary smile adding to the wrinkles on his face, he sizes the crowd through his heavy set spectacles hoping to lessen his burdens he has carried for an immeasurable time. Untying the clumsy knot, he neatly spreads his precious possessions - his earnings from the times he has seen. Wiping each glass jar, attempting to lure people, he sets it all out carefully hiding the stains on the sheet.

He chants out loud “People, I don’t take money, I don’t need your wealth, I don’t want your kind considerations, I just don’t want anything from you but your attention… just for a few moments.” Necks turn around in the direction of the feeble voice that seems to ride on pain; ensuing are hidden laughter, starkly open laughter and surely a couple of concerned looks.

“He is the same old man, why doesn’t God relieve him from his misery?” a shout is heard from somewhere. “Look at him, there isn’t an ounce of flesh on his body, its bones yelling out ha ha ha!” another voice from a young man pierces through his ear drums. But he is steadfast..such chants are very familiar.

And so a young lad driven by curiosity walks up to him and asks “Old man, what have you laid here?”

Hope that had been driving him rekindles his senses and like a proud salesman he adjusts, looks up into the eyes, and finds the purity of innocence. “Such clear eyes, such a clean heart, I wonder how he still survives? Who is the lucky father that bore you son,” he asks in utter amazement. “I live downhill by the lake. I haven’t seen my father for many years and we roam the forest in the day. Night we spend by the fire eating whatever we could find during the day. I haven’t seen more than a few paisas together and my dress has no pockets. Please would you let me look at these jars?”

With moisture in his eyes, his heart swells with empathy as he gets a closer look of the boy’s heart. “Son, this shiny one is called vanity. I chased it in my youth and the rest of my life I spent repenting my choice. The golden one is called greed, and may be it still lives in me, I could never satiate myself. I ran, till my physical existence could no longer carry me. Its like a shadow from the sun shining from behind, you will never be able to catch it, albeit it may give the illusion of originating from you, but remember it would cling to your feet and pull at your heart”. An alien to these possessions, the young lad begins to appear enticed.

He yells at his companions and they all sit in a circle facing the old man. Memories of his time begin to flood his mind - Evenings when they would sit, enchanted by the words of the story teller thinking of realms where the fairy tale characters existed as realities. Only age told him how the tale monger had preyed on their minds leaving them bewildered and derailed in the lands of fantasy.

“What is this murky jar holding, old man?” Another innocent voice sends shivers down his spine. “Memories are my demons, how can I escape? Maybe redemption would salvage some peace for me; I should have left this world with this baggage, why do I have to die a death each time I look at it?” He musters up courage to reply.

Yes the jar contains truth, something they advised him to use carefully and so he did. Each time he exercised discretion his heart had felt heavier and conscious reminded him of sacrilege. “Son, this jar measures your brevity. It reflects upon the very fiber you are made of and it makes you distinguishable in a crowd. It liberates you from the shackles of slavery that this world has in abundance. They wont let you live without being restrained in their brand of freedom. It unites you with the sincerest friend that resides in you – your conscience.”

Amused, the young boy asks, “Then why is it in such a meager quantity?” “Less is more son! less is more. It’s entwined with your soul and you were sent to earth with it. Only that most of us forget to remember that they are born with it. Truth, son, is unlike its nemesis that resembles the beads on a rosary, one leading to the other and all in an unending circle.”

Suddenly loud shouts begin to supersede the aimless banter in the market and grown ups rush towards him. “Look at this old man; he is misleading our generation with his concocted tales. Let him not be spared. Who gave him a right to pollute these innocent minds?”

And there are many more disheartening voices, but the old man remains unflinching. He is peaceful today for when he walks back, he would have to carry lesser burden.

The boys eagerly accept their jars and flee. The old man gets up, beaming with a smile of satisfaction. “O God, thanks be to You, for I have discharged some of my responsibility today. My burden weighs less on me now. Please grant me one more such day and then call me back to You. I exercised my choices and I learnt my lessons. I was misled and I attempted to correct myself. Was I successful or not, remains Your judgment. When I would lie forgotten under a ton of soil, my soul would be with You, begging for mercy.”
The earth continues its revolutions; stars die, newer stars are born in an expanse indefinable by the term infinity. Our individual existence is synonymous to a grain of sand amongst billions by the beach. Yet the human soul, a supreme creation with grandeur surpassing all, roams freely with the power to choose. The discretion of making choices and the ability to redeem make us masters of our destinies.

Fate, we think has been written, and so it has, but the power to navigate and set our sails is still in our hands; and so it has to be passed on before the novices board the train of consequences.

Maybe its time to feel pity for all around who go on marching to the end as if they should, never realizing to think of the paths they chose and the decisions they took. Some stood on egos, some boasted pride, whilst others cherished vanity, whilst a few chose righteousness, and even fewer battled to maintain it…….

What about you? Have you 'chosen' and 'defined' the path ? Or are you just marching along? Pause and ponder..

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Eid-ul-Fitr Greetings: A Word to the Soul.

Let the divinity of Lord’s love penetrate your soul
As you observe Eid-ul-Fitr this year
Let yourself take a pause, and think and reflect
Beyond the ephemeral worldly possessions and fears

Let yourself comprehend the truth of Life
The cycles of pleasure and pain
Let your soul be aware of the virtues being gifted
Let God’s efforts bring you peace and eternal gain

Let your head be bowed before Him
In gratitude, recognition and His praise
Let the day shine through the test of time
Let your faith emerge stronger on the spiritual plane

Here's wishing all Muslims around the world a very blessed Eid-ul-Fitr..Eid Mubarak!

Saturday, August 14, 2010

An Ode to Pakistan; An Ode to my Identity.

Following is an acrostic dedicated to my beloved "Land of Pure" on her 63rd birthday.
Painted in purity, a state was carved
Adding glory to the global canvas
Kingdom was created after a struggle so hard,
Indefatigable and relentless
Soldiers and sailors, people and souls
Talented and blessed and fearless
All fought and toiled for a homeland and formed
Nation that is matchless
May Allah Almighty bless Pakistan! May He protect our identity!

Monday, June 21, 2010

I Love You, My Father.

My dear father, on this Father’s Day
Let me share an epistle that I hope conveys
The perpetual love that I have for you
The wishes that I always pray

There’s an abode in my heart where you always stay
No matter if you are here or a little far away
No matter how much we fight, disagree or affray
I believe you would be there as a best friend all the way

I know I have grown up into a woman with time
However, deep within my heart we still share those old ties
And I still need you, my dad to clutch my arms so tight
And tell me that everything’s going to be alright

There might be things, which you never say
There might be things that I hold within
There might be things I never understand
But all I know is that a dad’s a daughter’s best friend

My dear father, on this Father’s Day
Let me tell you something, let my heart say
I Love You, even though I may not be expressing it everyday
And my prayers are never complete unless I send wishes your way

My dear father, have a wondrous Father’s Day!

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Recollection: 1ST Annual Pakistan Blog Awards 2010

“To me, photography is the simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event.”
___Henri Cartier-Bresson
Following is a video containing photographs of the blog awards event being held at Regent Plaza in Karachi. The one-of-its-kind blog awards event being organized for the very first time in Pakistan certainly holds significance for the Pakistani blogosphere and the bloggers alike.
Have a look!

And for reading a detailed coverage report of the entire event, you may visit the following links:


Happy Blogging!

Sunday, May 9, 2010

My Mother, Above All Others.

It is said that the Heaven lies beneath your mother’s feet, which is undoubtedly true as there is no other place than a mother’s lap where you lie down your head in happiness and in times of blue. Her love is incomparable, invaluable and unforgettable. Over the years, a number of poets and writers have expressed love for their mothers in various forms; however, there is always more left to be written and left to be pondered about the God’s greatest creation. My mother, like every other mom, is a perfect woman when you look at her through my eyes because she knows me like no other. She isn’t only a woman who gave birth to me and reared me up but she’s a sculptor who has carved out my personality. Being my closest ally who has always been there during my tough times, she’s the one who always puts me to sleep hushing the demons in my head and she sings the perfect lullaby. She is a tour guide showing me what ways to follow and what to avoid during the course of life. She’s a mind reader who knows what’s bubbling in my mind and before I may express, she comes to know of the whole story. She loves me for who I am even though I may not be a perfect daughter. I seem to have summed up my love for her in a passage of a few words that is too less but my mother’s love for me is unfathomable and limitless.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

The Damsel’s Morning Delight.

As the sun triumphs over the duskiness of the ebony night
Blushing the sky with colors vanquishing the deepest dyes
The damsel lying under the covers slowly opens her sleepy eyes
To the beauty unseen before; the purity of the morning delight
She reaches out to the window and pulls the curtains aside
Listening to the melody of the chirruping birds outside
And somewhere back in the memory, there’s an echo of a distant guy
Whose abode is the neverland and who travels to the wonderland each day to cry
To cry out to the birds in the wild blue skies
To play the divine symphony for the damsel and to fly
What a day it is! She thinks and she shyly smiles
Is this a new dawn, a reality or a fable that would soon die
The dewy tears run down her cheeks, she wipes them off and sighs
Leaving the riddle unsolved and open
The riddle behind the damsel’s morning delight!
This poem is dedicated to a wonderful friend (also known as the incredible hulk by his loved ones) who inspired me to write after a long hiatus. And let me thank Kerrie for allowing me to use one of the beautiful images from her creative collection.

Happy Reading!

Thursday, February 11, 2010

A Melody, The Memory

All the notes in time make the melody
Hold me and sway into the moment we share
Where we can stay so attached to the memory

A Melody, The Memory
------- Performed by Mae

As I traveled down the memory aisle today, I tried gazing at the everlasting and ageless masterpieces of time through the gifted mind’s eye. Painted with laughter, tears, and agony, each of it was an emblem representing reality that exists no more. I felt being an artist for a while putting up and playing with coats and colors that camouflaged my present time. And I also felt being a ballerina dancing to the tunes of time.

Following are the lyrics of one of the melodies by Shayan Italia, which stirs my soul and takes me back into the Utopian times.

Lyrics of the Reflection by Shayan Italia

Believe, that is what you are,
Rushing through the soul, steeling my faith by far.
Creation, words are for you only I write.
Flowing through these hands, sun by day, and moon by night.

And I've tried, to survive.
let it go, lead a normal life,
but from you, I can't escape.
Whats feeling me inside, feelings I can't deny.

I'm trapped within the rhythm of love,
something I just can't get out of,
I'm scorn to be, a passion never to be.
And I'm holding on to something not real,
A mere existence of my world, fighting to face,
one day you'll be gone.
and I've tried in every possible way, to keep you beside me not fade away, into the pieces of a broken glass, into the pieces of a broken glass.

Worship, things are only for you I pray, running through this heart,
steeling my strength every step of the way.

And I've tried, not to cry.
let it go, lead a happy life,
but from you, I can't escape.
Whats killing me inside, emotions I can't deny.

I'm trapped within the rhythm of love,
something i just can't get out of,
I'm scorn to be, a passion never to be.
And I'm holding on to something not real,
A mere existence of my world, fighting to face,
one day you'll be gone.
and I've tried in every possible way, to keep you beside me not fade away, into the pieces of a broken glass, into the pieces of a broken glass.

..More melodies/lyrics to follow.