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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Guardian Angel

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Forget about happy endings.

Happiness shouldn’t end.

Create a mosaic of moments,

Sad, happy, happy, sad.

Lend me some of those,

The thoughts you push back

Every time a fresh one arrives.

Your discarded ideas fall through a wrinkle.

Right into my lap.

Let me be the catcher of the dreams,

You had never dreamt.

I will preserve them in time and space.

For you to visit at your leisure.

Your deja vus are secure with me.

I am the keeper of your alternate realities.

Find me when you are ready

To escape to a new world.

 

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

The Man under the Tree

Man-under-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”

The funeral of a white rose

In a garden of red roses, she was a white one and her whiteness was even more pronounced for being singular in all the redness around her.

Yet, she did not derive her beauty from the striking difference of hers but it was of deeper material. For unlike her friends in the garden, who thought that after a period of blossoming, they all will die, she knew that before withering away, she must bloom!

Bloom,she must but not in a routine manner but like a princess, so that even for a second, but the universe must stop and admire her.

And it did.

For all the artists passing the garden, painted her, all the writers penned down classics on her and oh the poems…..

Yet, they were not about her bloom only, rather they were odes to her death!

This is why white roses are presented at the funerals, not because they symbolize death but because they honour it.

So you see children (and adults), when we live well, we die even better and in doing so, we live forever.

 

Disappointed!

20160311_044115All your life you’re told to look inside yourself. Well if not directly, then in some indirect way. Like for example, you are told to read books and you do that and end up learning about all the soul-searching. So years after that you somehow decide to do that,the soul-searching I mean.

You simply pause all the lalalalala going on inside your head,the dha dha dha in your heart and whatever thuk thuk thuk happening to your soul and there is silence. Everything is still, stopped, except your eyes! Your whole being gathers together as a pair of eyes and sets to observe your innermost self….your core! These eyes of yours do so, just like your worldly self goes to an art exhibition and examines everything, searching for something extremely interesting, thought provoking, shocking, even sad, in fact anything of substance!

But Alas!

There is not a single thing of interest and your searching eyes find nothing of significance inside you.

So you realize that you are EMPTY to the core!

Faith

A: do you want to know who your real friends are?
B: well, I doubt I have any!
A: yes, you may not have many, but still there is no harm in knowing.
B: how can you stop a person from saying what he has made up his mind to say?
A: that is the thing, you can’t!
B: spit it out then!
A: heh! If you want to know who your real friends are, get yourself in trouble.
B: what?
A: you heard me! Trouble and that also Loads of it. Then look around yourself and you will know what I mean.
B: oh! Sorry to disappoint you, but I have been in that situation many times in my life.
A: so did you see them? Your friends!
B: I guess so!
A: see! It works!
B did not want to kill Mr. A’s buzz, but every single time he had found himself in a sorry situation, the only other thing accompanying him had been his own shadow and that also very reluctantly.
I think his theory is right, after all. Who can be my best friend except myself? From deep within him a voice said, “You know I am your friend, a many times better friend than you can be by yourself”. Frightened, he asked, “Who are you?
The voice replied: you know.
And he knew. He believed. He had faith.