Hidden – In Plain Sight!

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I

My lips are colorless and parchred,
But the drink I need is scarce.
And thus I march,
In the desert, that is our love!
I wait for the Oasis
To hit me up.

II

Oh my towering ignorance!
For the Voice I seek
Is found in the silence

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Tell me a Story…

Hello peeps!

Now as my ‘about section’ will tell you, I am crazy for stories. I read them, write them, adore them, inhale them, exhale them… you get the idea! For me life was going this way until kismet decided to do me a favor, which given my history doesn’t happen too often, and I met this awesome woman, Midu Hadi, who shared my passion for stories.

Long story  short (see what I did there =P), we became friends. One thing led to another and now we are here to further our dreams that every story-enthusiast will share with us.

How?

The aim is to tell a story! This is as simple and as complicated as that. However, there are no rules. It can be prose, poem, art work, or anything. As long as it tells a story, it floats our boats. This makes it that easy and that hard. Okay, I should stop doing that. Here is the deal:

We will be sharing a story, every week with our lovely friends here but with a twist. I will give you a link of her story before sharing mine!

Read what Midu has to say

And then perhaps find out what happens…

When a Heart Fails

Once I had a brain,

With various thoughtful trains.

It housed a guy called Cerebrum,

Who was aplenty quarrelsome.

He was a big shot

And had important jobs.

Thanks to him,

The sounds made sense

The colors felt dense.

I talked, and could interpret

Without a lot of fret.

He also had a Maiden

Whom he called Cerebellum,

Who was the Master of pose!

Made my movements flow!

There were some other players too

Who mostly connected these two.

They also had in their control

All my actions I couldn’t patrol.

In short, they all performed!

Then I met your wretched form!

Kaboom! It was the big bang!

All over again but nothing had formed…

The house in my head was now a broken home.

It was an empty dome.

The gray matter

Turned into gooey batter.

And it leaked out as poison

At the slightest provocation!

I thought I’d die of this depression

Instead, I met a myocardial infarction!

P.S: Don’t forget to share what you think about it.

 

The Secret Passageway

Jahandad Balkhi was wise beyond the few years of his existence in this temporary world. He was blessed with an element of mystique, which his disciples linked with his spiritual history. He belonged to a family of Sufis. If rumours were to be believed, Jahandad was 100 years old in reality, out of which only 25 years belonged to this world. He had spent the rest of his existence exploring the secrets of the permanent world — the one that preceded and succeeded this sojourn of a few moments.

Ever since his birth, Jahandad had received divine guidance in his dreams. Initially, the situation had terrified his mother as he could not narrate to her the subject of his reverie. Being a mother, she could sense the disturbance he was put through in his sleep.

Zulaikhan Bibi was a single mother as her husband had selfishly decided to die right after impregnating her with his seeds of fertility. Therefore, she had learnt to rely on her father for guidance in almost every matter. Baba Jan was after all a spiritual man as well as a figure of authority. Known to everyone else in the vicinity as Sufi sahib, he had the wisdom and knowledge to figure out the solution to every problem. She turned to him for Jahandad’s condition as well.

“My beloved daughter,”, his father had said, “You may not know but Jahandad’s paternal grandfather used to worship Ahura Mazda — the wise lord in Zoroastrianism but he had converted to Islam after his 40th birthday. He had received a sign and as a result of it, he had migrated from Iran to Balkh in Afghanistan.”

“You mean here?”, asked Zulaikhan. She adored her father. His company soothed her as she felt a calming energy engulfing her. She could believe the most unbelievable as long as it was uttered by Baba Jan.

“Your father-in-law was a spiritual man as well,”, Baba Jan informed her, “Mystique never vanishes, dear, it just moves from one vessel to another.”

“Jahandad is a vessel? My son is a vessel?”, She asked agitated, “What is he carrying?”

“That is for him to find. It is none of your concern.”

The meeting was over.


“Ma, the baby wants to tell me something but before it could, my dream ends.” Jahandad was not a baby anymore but his dreams were as disturbing as ever.

“This is somehow related to your stature, Beta. Your wisdom and spirituality create the most eloquent language I had ever heard. It is as if a supreme power is communicating through you.”

“Ma, I want it to stop controlling me.”

“Do not be ungrateful, my child. It is a rare gift.” The answer had never been able to satisfy him and it did no good this time either.

On Jahandad’s 25th birthday, Baba Jan requested Zulaikhan to shift from her humble abode to his Haveli — the place where she had spent her childhood. Jahandad’s two maternal grandmothers — Sufi Sahab had married twice — were to ensure that their stay was lavish and comfortable — a task they kept failing at but not because of lack of trying. It was only that Jahandad remained restless throughout his visit as he had a feeling of being haunted at the Haveli.

The two women from the Haveli were entirely different from each other. While Nano — Zulaikhan’s real mother was an ordinary looking woman with simple tastes, Bebe — the stepmother was a different story altogether. She possessed otherworldly beauty and was a woman of wit. Yet, the villagers claimed that she had lost it when her son was murdered at the tender age of 14.

For Jahandad, his uncle was just a character from Baba Jan’s narrative of the incident. It had happened before he was born and he had not even seen any picture of his uncle. Bebe had burnt every single photograph for some reason. Moreover, his mother could not tell him anything about his uncle either because she did not remember him at all. She was only 13 when the incident had happened. Jahandad had found it curious but there was nothing he could do about it since he was never provided with a straightforward answer on this topic.

Each night that he spent at the Haveli only brought greater discomfort to him. Then one night, the matter was resolved.

“Ma, Ma”, Jahandad woke up in the middle of the night. He was sweating profusely. Zulaikhan was confused. She could sense that the situation was graver than usual.

“Ma, the baby…” his voice was incoherent. “Ma, the baby was innocent… It was not his mistake, Ma.”

“Bete, what are you even blabbering about. There is no baby.” It only made her son more vehement in his claims that the poor baby was not at fault.

She knew she must take her son to Baba Jan but the west wing was too far away from where they were staying. She looked helplessly at his son who seemed to be possessed by a passionate frenzy that had made him raving mad. In her desperation, she remembered the shortcut…

“Come on, son”, she was dragging Jahandad now, “I know the secret pathway.”

Suddenly Jahandad was very still and then he asked her, his voice merely a ghost’s whisper, “Ma, who had told you about the secret pathway?”

“Why? Your uncle!” came the reply.

“So now you remember him?”

She looked stunned. Finally, she remembered… him… and everything else.

“Ma, the baby was innocent!”

Zulaikhan could see her world collapse right in front of her eyes as one session after another with Baba Jan played in her memory.

“You are being married to — ” Zulaikhan could see herself sitting across his father, clad in a bridal dress but there was no groom. Why was her belly so swollen, she was only 13…

Another scene came…

“Your husband is dead”, Baba Jan was telling her but the husband in question had never existed.

“Why is Bebe always worshipping Ahura Mazda? Who is he, Baba? Is he scary?”7-year-old Zulaikhan emerged in her memory.

“I will kill you, you rascal”, it was Baba Jan’s voice but different. It was scary and profane — the two things he never was! This time it was not his room and there were no sessions in progress but it was the secret passage way-her stepbrother had discovered for his secret activities.

Zulaikhan turned towards his son. There were no more memories left. Jahandad smiled at his mother. He knew that he was even worse than a bastard — the creation of incest!

 

This post was originally published on Medium

I think, therefore I am—Week 3, WRINGO-2017

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Hello again,
The week is about to end, and our philosophical ramblings have ended too. Yep! you have guessed right! This week’s genre was philosophy!!!

Big word, right?

That was what we thought when the dice rolled and forced us all to exercise our neurons a bit. Without further ado, I would like to present the literary accomplishments of this week.

Story 1: Seeing the Stone through the Eyes of Sisyphus

This writer certainly decided to go all absurd on us with this narrative. This is an attempt to tell the story from Sisyphus’ perspective, building on, refuting some, and accepting other ideas of the handsome Mr Camus (fan girling). Must we assume Sisyphus happy? Read on and decide for yourself!

Story 2: From Afar Watching Closely

Would you rather spend your life as a blind believer or would you like to question everything (sometimes just for the sake of it)? Choose your approach because someone is watching you closely, even from afar!

Story 3: The Failed Pursuit

What happens when two different stories with same philosophies intertwine? A tragic end or a happy beginning? Read on to find out!!!

Story 4: In The Midst Of The Forest…

Accept… reject.. accept… and the cycle goes on. A deep tale of finding one’s identity right in the midst of a forest of depression.

Story 5: A Lesson via Wraith

So you think it is gone? That hooligan… monster… your fear… your reality! It never leaves, you know? The only way out is to let it get inside you!

Yes, that is some amazing 5 stories!!!! You think we are done? We thought so too! But no!!! There was a 6th story, which was a pleasant surprise because we had no idea who the writer was. One thing was clear, though—it was none of the original 5!

The 6th Mysterious Writer:

I am obliged to give you a short background here. While there are 5 writers and one secret keeper, we also have 3 amazing readers.

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The hierarchy of Wringo

So as the theory goes,

“There is a writer in every reader”

we found a gem of an author among our readers! The 6th story was from the readers’ lot and it was AH-MAZING!!!

Read and enjoy this philosophical story of faith, spirituality, and sin!

For now, I will leave you with these beautifully crafted philosophical tales (since I need to brainstorm for the next week’s challenge—yes the dice has been rolled!).

See you next week with some more breathtaking stories!
Till then, happy reading =D