Is my face getting ugly ?

Uglier than usual

That is.

I have sinned

I am a monster indeed

I take full responsibility

Of my sins.

Redemption?

I cant offer.

I have nothing to give

I am insignificant

Unimportant

Not like a flower that did not bloom

But like a blunt thorn;

Can’t prick,

Can’t protect,

But neither can I die

Until the flower does!

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“The diary of a conventionally unconventional woman”

“Tell me again what exactly have you done to deserve all these comforts in your life?”, His father shouted at him-again. He was not sure for how many times he had listened to this taunt. He used to keep count but had long since lost it.
He ignored Mr. Zubair-Sir Zubair as he left the room. His father was a Professor at a University. Before that, he had been an associate professor and even before that, he used to be an assistant professor and preceding all these titles, he was a lecturer. What was he before that? Nobody knew! “Human”, his son Sheharyar would often jokingly say to his mother.
Mrs. Zubair was a nice woman.
Are you kidding me? Nobody is nice, nowadays, least of all a woman. She was shrewd, sensible, and as successful as her position in life would grant her permission to be. Nice people are never ‘successful.’ Anyways, her only mistake in life was that she had married Mr. Zubair. It was not exactly a mistake since nobody had asked for her consent. It was decided by her parents and she had to oblige. when she was young, ‘love marriages’ were not as common and she had not found the rare chance of meeting a ‘khwabun ka shehzada’ when she was an ‘alhar mutyar’ that a few lucky girls from her time would get. Although their lives would not be any different from hers except that they can sometimes revel in the happiness that they had played a major role in making the biggest and only decision of their lives.
Mrs. Zubair was past that age when such trivialities could bother her but she would often think that given the choice she would have married the ‘other guy’ that her father had rejected. The only reason for his superiority over Mr. Zubair was ‘money’ but then again that is a very powerful motive to do anything!
Zubair sahib was not half as rich but many times ‘shareef’ than him, which is a deadly combination! Therefore, her life did not turn out to be, as she would have liked. Nevertheless, she would not stop praising Zubair sahib. It was her duty and the only source of income. A woman has to worship her husband if she wants to be fed!
Besides, she had no hopes from her son. Sheharyar was a nice kid and all but, he was not made out to excel. Despite having great brains, the kid was never gonna go places as he was lazy and an idealist. He talked about stupid things. He was like his father, even worse. Mrs. Zubair often wondered why he could not be more like her. She was often amazed as he would claim to have dreams and talked of ‘one day I will do this…’ and ‘one day I will do that…’ Mrs. Zubair knew that no such day was coming and her son would be living hand to mouth with a wife and many children. This was another fault of her son’s. He was compassionate and emotional. She knew he could easily fall in love and the girls these days were quite sharp. Any young woman with a sense of a pea could easily trap him except why would she do that if she had any sense…
Although, she was severely disappointed by both the men in her life but they were the only people she had so she had no choice but to put up with them. Her only solace was in the praises she recieved ! Every person who visited them appreciated her sense and skill. They called her a perfect wife, loving mother, and a wonderful homemaker. How these little comments delighted her! She lived off these compliments.
All women are stupid, after all!

Fission or Fusion?

atomic-bomb

Hey you!

Yes you.

You ugly thing.

I know you.

You are the one who knows how to detonate bombs.

Right?

But that is only what you tell other people.

 

I know you better than this, to fall for your lies

Or not ?

 

You are the exact opposite of what you claim to be.

You are the one who meet people, to find their button-the one you claim can switch off their personal nuclear bombs.

For every single one of us is a bomb, dying to explode.

Anyways,

The innocent people, desparate for peace tell all their secrets to you-show you their jewels and even their ashes!

 

You see that red button and smile to yourself.

Let the party begin, you think.

 

Sometimes you just threaten

I am gonna press it

I am gonna press it

You chant incessantly

When the person is all ready to burst

I am bored, you announce.

And leave.

What torture!

 

But I know that you come back.

You always do.

You can never deny the little pleasure to yourself, of starting a nuclear war, given that it is at another person’s expense.

 

So your little, fat, and hideous index finger does its work.

BAM

Your hysterical laughs!

You leave.

 

What about the one facing the aftermath of your action?

 

Death

Destruction

Sorrow

Hoplessness

That is the first phase.

 

Remnants of nuclear war,

The second phase.

Broken things

Crippled heart

Twisted nerves

Genetic mutations

 

And yet they heal

The third phase

Time, the saviour!

 

 

Years pass

Eons,

Or mere centuries.

 

Other people learn their lesson.

They never fall for your hoax

Or show you a different lever to press

Some even try to return your favours

 

But not her

And you know it.

A thousand times you blow her to pieces

And yet she keeps presenting her broken, poorly repaired triggering button

For you to press.

 

Reason?

She knows you have no button

Of your own.

Someone stole yours

Ages ago

And left you only with

An urge to press!

 

Oh you empty thing

How she pities you

You have no amunition

She has plenty

So she offers you hers

It never runs out!

What Color Are You?

Icklings

fig-4-large

I was black

The darkest shade

Or so I thought

For one day I saw

an image flowing

In the dark river

The form and shape

Was indeed mine

But very very white

My eyes hurt

It was all too fine

So from then on

I was to be fair

I roamed around

Completely bare

I was light

Things passed through me

I remained unaffected

Or so i fancied

For one day I found

A number of things

Stuck inside

my beautiful wings;

“Controlled urges,

Pathetic emotions,

Impossible desires”

My anger surges.

I was neither black

Nor pearly white.

Perhaps grey?

I though with hope.

“At least one color

I would be

Even if its

a mixture of two”

Everyone I knew

Was Afterall

Some varying shade of grey.

I chance a look

Grey grey grey

I pray

What is this I see?

Not black, not white

Nor any shade…

View original post 41 more words

What Color Are You?

 

fig-4-large

I was black

The darkest shade

Or so I thought

 

For one day I saw

an image flowing

In the dark river

The form and shape

Was indeed mine

But very very white

My eyes hurt

It was all too fine

So from then on

I was to be fair

I roamed around

Completely bare

 

I was light

Things passed through me

I remained unaffected

Or so i fancied

For one day I found

A number of things

Stuck inside

my beautiful wings;

“Controlled urges,

Pathetic emotions,

Impossible desires”

My anger surges.

 

I was neither black

Nor pearly white.

Perhaps grey?

I though with hope.

“At least one color

I would be

Even if its

a mixture of two”

 

Everyone I knew

Was Afterall

Some varying shade of grey.

 

I chance a look

Grey grey grey

I pray

 

What is this I see?

Not black, not white

Nor any shade of grey.

 

My white is white

My black is black

No grey no red

Nor any color

 

I am a mosaic

Of black and white.

 

What color I show

When where and how?

I do not know

I do not know.

The Girl in the Mirror

I see my reflection in the mirror. I smile. I see white pearls carefully set in an open red box. It is my mouth. There are wrinkles around my eyes, two huge almonds. I take a step back and take in the complete image. A smiling girl stares back at me. It is supposed to be me but it just cannot be!
I do not smile, not anymore!
There was a time when I would laugh all day or so my parents tell me. I do not remember it. No matter how hard I try to imagine myself laughing, I fail. It had never happened, I am sure. It is impossible just as it is impossible that a man with a gun, killing innocent people, can have a heart. As long as they are devoid of hearts, I am devoid of a smile. My parent must be lying just as the governments and important people all over the world lie,when they claim to have hearts.
Killing machines may have power, glory, wealth, resources and even beauty but hearts? No! My parents are happy-well as happy as they can be after losing so much. I mean my mother often cries at night and I know she is thinking of her dead brother and father often stops talking whenever there is even the slightest chance that my sister’s name might come up. He changes the topic faster than bullets kill people in my city. By the way, my sister was raped right in front of his eyes.
And my city? I have no city. I am a refugee.
My parents are thankful. Maybe they have forgotten Amineh, Nur, Zeynep, Manjural Islam, Zaman and of course, Muhammad. They have forgotten them because all these people had hearts. People with hearts die and they are forgotten.
My parents are relieved. They have finally found a place to sit still. Who could blame them? after we have been rejected by various countries in the world; we were on the brink of death. I often felt like the first piece of bread that nobody would want and keep shifting until it reaches the bottom. Nobody in my family used to eat it and it usually ended up as crumbs. I would gladly eat it now except I do not get any, anymore.
My parents are happy to be that piece of bread but sometimes I wish I had long turned into the crumbs because the girl in the mirror does not smile!