“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!


Wither Away!


“Pressure makes things grow more”c7d314cd05de08c71c1733036643353f-2.jpg


Is a ridiculous myth!

That’s a terrible bore.

The flower could have

Lasted a little longer,

had the tools Blasted

the warmonger.

Instead, they played

Filthy games

With the hues and shades,

of the colorless petals.

c7d314cd05de08c71c1733036643353f-1The pressure to bloom

In fifty seconds.

Was on the bud.

For ready was

the suit of the groom.

And the flower on the lapels

was to be

the exact shade of Canadian Maples.

It was of course too much to take.

And as the huge cake

They took to bake

Something ugly happened.c7d314cd05de08c71c1733036643353f-3.jpg

The man blamed,

the half opened flower

because it died

before the ceremony

of the marriage.

But none could know

How had it cried!

In the solitude of night,

Before his eternal flight.

The Man under the Tree


I cannot be certain

Of how and what happened.

The other day,

or was it the night?

Perhaps a movie

with the old theme,

Of a Dr. Jekyll

And a Mr. Hyde!

or was it because

of the two pieces

of the cheese laden pizza?

I don’t know the reason

but it happened so

I found myself split in two;

a man who was a farmer,

And I in my home.

We were both the same

But different each.

How we reached,

each other’s thoughts?

I really do not know!

He said he was not happy

as he sat on the grass green

in the village

of his town

I was on my bed

In front of me, a TV screen

in my hand was a cup of tea.

I was happy that he envied me.

then he said he was sad,

I told him a poem to write

or a great picture to paint.

he accepted my offer

and drew the beautiful site,

Scattered around him

Too vivid and yet faint.

I felt a pang of jealousy

for I found out

a skyscraper hiding my moon

and the air wasn’t either

Free of pollution.

we talked and talked

till the night

passed on.

He told me he was hungry.

I asked him what he’d eat

he showed me fresh butter and cream

and soft bread as I could only dream

I looked  down at my platter,

dried beans, nutrient less meat

right out of microwave appeased me.


I told him

he was blessed

a man he was, free

standing under a tree.

for all my sources of shade

had long come under the blade.

My only protection

against the heat

were ACs.

he could not understand

and left me as he said

“you are indeed

a thankless weed”