To second chances

It's one of those days my child,
When I look at your tiny face,
And remember another,
That I once knew.
You look like my mother my child,
And it's cruel that each time you hug me,
I imagine that those arms belong to her too.
So I have decided to take my revenge on fate,
I have a scheme all planned,
I promise to keep that tiny face of yours smiling,
For she hardly got to do the same.
This way I see her shining in your eyes,
Each time you giggle at my silliness,
I make you laugh and hear it like hers,
For she didn't have your luck.
I will protect you,
Like I never knew how with her.
And cherish you the best I can,
For life has given me a second chance.

For Shagufta

And then there were words,
Just ink blots on paper,
Just effervescent thoughts
Afloat on the silence of time,
Words have no power,
Neither do I.
Your words
And mine
Our words intertwine
But come to naught,
For all that I can say has been said before
And all that you suffered was yours alone
I can offer words,
To soothe what is not there
To alleviate what is now clear
Words have no power,
Neither do I

(RIP boss)

To See the Queen.....

The lure of  travel is a siren call no hard working middle class individual should heed. I am guilty for traveling and grateful to those that have funded me so far. So here's to all the raised eyebrows I got when I returned from a five day tryst to London. Yup! five measly days, oodles of cash handed over to airlines, hotels and restaurants. A sin, some might say. An investment would have been wiser others said. I hang my head but that is so I can hide the smirk on my face and the glee in my eyes. Nothing compares to the feeling of packing a bag. Listing the items each family member will need and then neatly sorting them into a duffle. Winning the lotto wouldn't give you the thrill one gets when the plane races down the runway and you hear it curling up its tires almost as eager as you to take to the air. Although I am petrified of flying but that is a fear I am willing to face if it gets me from point A to the very alluring point B. After seven hours in a sitting posture you alight to the daylight of a new world and you forget all the cursing you had done the night before when your head hit the hand rest as you accidentally nodded off. Even the sterilized, standardized, airport of a new country is exciting to us fools. Like a wine tasting, as you are driven to your hotel, you catch glimpses of passing scenery but you tell yourself not to gobble it all up, but to cherish it at the tip of your tongue. Well, it is not much different from Johannesburg where you went last year but hang on, is that really Mcdonald's in a red bricked cottage. Out comes the camera and you click like a crazy person forgetting to savor gently.

I am sorry....

I apologize profusely
For my history
I am so sorry
For Mahmud Ghaznavi,
For Tughlaqs, for Khiljis
For Humayun, for Akber and Sher Shah Suri,
I am sorry
For plundering your temples
For torching your library
I am ridden with guilt
By the army I built
to overrun all that I considered
Haram!
Forgive me
For Afghanistan, for Pakistan
For 911
For 24/7 all I do is dwell
On the torment a mother must feel
When my brother rips her son
From forehead to heel
Regrettably I admit
That this is not the end
No matter how many times I bend
My head and repent
They will continue to hunt and kill
My fellow humans who will
Not show uniformity
To their insanity
Don't point your finger at me
I am ashamed, for my religion,
To some it is a tool
To kill my shia friends
My nation's Christians, Hindus, Ahmedis, Wahabis, Ismailis
I cannot look them in the eye
For it is my brother that does deny
Having their blood on his hands
But mine are soaked
And with a sigh
I apologize......

End of Innocence

For the past decade any nationalistic feelings I ever had have been effectively doused. I have noticed that a lot of people suffer along with me in this vicious cycle of terrorism, inflation and lawlessness yet they maintain their levels of patriotism. Hats off to their tenacity. There have been several back to back incidences in the past months that I have considered the last straw, the continued and barbaric ethnic violence, the persecution of minorities, the apathy of the rich class depicted in continued rise in prices of goods that were only a couple of years ago, in the grasp of the middle to lower middle class. Yet what has recently transpired in the so called capital of this so called great nation has cemented my dislike for my own people. Apparently a mentally unstable individual takes his family for a drive, taking not just the essential car keys and spare tire in the vehicle but a few extra condiments. Ammunition. He decides that sight seeing is not enough for the day's agenda so starts to make a little noise and get a little media attention. We all know what happened on that fateful 15th of August in Islamabad. We saw the footage one hundred times whether we wanted to or not. Every one discussed the efficacy of Zamarrud's 'heroic' act, Sikander's lack of terrorist 'skills,' Kanwal's negotiation prowess. The entity that was left out were the kids. Sure they were collateral damage and were used by their 'parents' in the most abusive manner possible but what did the rest of us do? I am sure most mothers were cringing at the footage and every time the children were shown frolicking about such a horrific scene as the one created by this insane couple. It seems no one was responsible for these little lives. Not the media, not the law enforcers, and least of all their parents. It was like watching a morbid mime as Sikander ran his last lap, everyone opened fire while this little boy ran helter-skelter holding an umbrella. According to our new national hero Zamarrud Khan, his priority was the children. I think there can not be a more blatant lie. He was untrained (not that any of the other so called law enforcers around the area were any better trained), wearing formal shoes that slipped on the tarmac, and completely thinking of how glorious it would be to sink his teeth on the media frenzy. If children were his priority he would have negotiated on his behalf more vehemently and patiently rather than going for the jugular so quickly and stupidly, right in front of the children. I must say God still pays attention to our spit of land. It was a smiling fate that save the children that day not Zamarrud Khan!

On My Way

I will need inspiration, tenacity and buckets of encouragement. Just when my life seemed to have been running on a smooth, chartered course I have placed a challenge before myself. I do not know why one day I woke up and started to rummage through my cupboards looking for my transcripts. I found only half the proof of my education and headed out the door to fight for the other half. It seems I have won this battle for a reason. I have been given my degree and it seems life now says to me, "here you go stubborn ass now what will you do?"
So I am on a quest again. I have chosen to sit for my Masters in English this year. To some this means something they did and got over with a long time ago. To me it means I get to tell my grandchildren stories from Shakespeare, read to them Chaucer's Canterbury Tales and warn them of the pitfalls of being so full of yourself that you sell your soul to the devil. I get to put on my resume that I know what I am talking about when I stand before a class of expectant teenagers waiting to hear a story. I do not know if it will lead to me becoming an author some day but it sure as hell keeps me going each day. I not just turn the pages of Milton's Paradise Lost I lose myself in the words of these Greats and bathe myself in their knowledge knowing that I grow every day every way.
It can come to you at any age this thirst for learning. This is my Renaissance. A time to stand tall and prove to all those teachers who judged my carefree attitude as a youngster. I'm on my way to striving again, I'm struggling, teasing my brain cells and loving each second of it. So here's to Mr Bacon, Dryden, Shaw, Bunyan, Donne, Marlowe, Jonson, Pope, Wordsworth and so many others that now accompany me on my journey to self discovery.

The bicycle

Dedicated to Baqar, the 11 year old who made the mistake of going to the market when the devil paid a visit to Abbas Town

It was a Sunday
Preparing for school
Doing homework
Playing with neighbors
Suddenly I wanted chips
The ones Ahmed bhai fries
Each evening.
The smell beckoned,
With a pocket full of jingling coins
I ran down to get me a box
Of those sizzling, spicy fries.
Suddenly there were flames
On my shirt
In my hair
I thought to myself
How cool, I'm ablaze
But it started to hurt
So I lay down
I saw my home had been blown
Like a faceless monster
With gaping teeth
It looked back at me
It's eyes an inferno
So tell my mom
I cannot come home
It is not there any more
But my brother's bicycle
Is hanging from the terrace
Do take it inside mom
For when it rains
It'll get all wet.