In memory of the children we all lost on 16-12-2014 (APS Attacks in Peshawar)
It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The pillow you rested your head on
The cricket bat against the wall
The book you kept open
That day you went to school.
It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The pain whenever I remember,
The tears that fall unbidden,
The people who look at me with pity,
The heavy-footed walk to your grave.
It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The posts on Facebook with your smiling faces,
The comments of remorse,
The shaking of the heads at your memory,
The sharing and re-tweeting of apologies.
It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The hangings in your name,
The songs of bravery and valor for you,
The debating over how wrong it was,
The indecision on who to blame.
It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The hypocrisy
The excuses
The games
The questions
It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The war has raged only in peripherals,
They have not learned a single lesson,
They'll never know what they lost that day,
It was not just a school full of children
It's been a year and nothing has changed,
Your murderers still lurk around my love,
They have taken lives in France,
They have made little children from Syria drown
They continue to snuff out innocence.
It's been a year and nothing has changed!
Thursday 10 December 2015
Friday 4 September 2015
Leaving home
This is dedicated to Alan and Galib, the two who only wanted to be safe. They were too young to understand this world is not for children.
Come sleep in my arms child
I shall rock you to sleep
Let me cover you in warmth child
my bosom is deep.
Come sleep in my arms child
for mercy is in death.
Leave this place for the cruel child
let this be your last breath
Come sleep in my arms child
I shall wash you ashore
there is trouble in the land child
it's humans they abhor
Come sleep in my arms child
for your mother needs rest
they have been running for too long child
and daddy doesn't know what's best
Come sleep in my arms child
or they will riddle you with guns
your home is their war ground child
they will ravage you in turns.
Come sleep in my arms child
shut your eyes, go to sleep
Play hide and seek child
And let them all weep!
Come sleep in my arms child
I shall rock you to sleep
Let me cover you in warmth child
my bosom is deep.
Come sleep in my arms child
for mercy is in death.
Leave this place for the cruel child
let this be your last breath
Come sleep in my arms child
I shall wash you ashore
there is trouble in the land child
it's humans they abhor
Come sleep in my arms child
for your mother needs rest
they have been running for too long child
and daddy doesn't know what's best
Come sleep in my arms child
or they will riddle you with guns
your home is their war ground child
they will ravage you in turns.
Come sleep in my arms child
shut your eyes, go to sleep
Play hide and seek child
And let them all weep!
Tuesday 18 August 2015
Old Pics
Recently a friend posted old pictures on Facebook. Nothing extraordinary about that. People always like to relive the past when the present starts to become mundane. A bunch of teenagers sitting around in their school uniform, seemingly with endless time on their hands and the spark of mischief in their eyes. Each picture was an encapsulation of incessant activity. Youth is energy personified. We looked almost bored with our vitality and apathetic to the blessing that is life.
Ever since I have laid eyes on those harmless posts there is a lump in my throat. Where has time gone? Yes, some of those uniformed friends would shake their heads right about now and remember me as the overly emotional one. But I cannot shake off the feeling that we should have done better. I do not mean in the future, in the now but we should have realized how very precious those seconds were, slipping through our careless fingers and we should have done better.
So many lost moments, where one could have told each other one more anecdote, another deep thought, if we had any back then, shared another heart ache, decided to walk away, decided to stay. As I gaze into the past I long for some to come back while I wish not to be reminded of others.
Those were precious days for me more so because I got to go home to my mother. She would wrangle with me to change out of my uniform so it could be washed. Every morsel I put in my mouth gave her strength as she sat watching me ungratefully guzzling the meal she had slaved over the entire morning while I 'hung out' with my mates.
One of those mates was taken away quite suddenly. He is in those pictures and I can clearly recall sitting in the school bus outside the closed gates of the building as we were told that there would be no studies as someone had been killed. I remember the moment of silence the following day. The feeling of disbelief yet the youthful hopefulness of the future. None of us were truly moved that day for not one of us truly knew the significance of death. The finality of it had not touched our souls. We were 'deathless' as the young generally is.
The many heart aches come rolling back and the regrets over relationships that, had one known better, would not have given a second thought to. What a waste of such precious gifts, tears, to be shed for someone who really matters. We all look so blase to each other when in fact there was such a keen awareness of people around us that we could put a cheetah to shame. Every sip from the coke bag, every twirl of the hair, each bungling step we took was for the attention of another. Such a waste of energy.
The pictures reveal the universality of youth, we could be just about anyone from any continent, any where in the world. Yet we took ourselves so seriously that we were unique in our own eyes and that separated us from all. How naive of us. How naive we were to think that we could sit on that stoop all our lives sipping carbonated drinks soaking up the sun. How insanely oblivious that we believed all that we heard and saw was the truth. How absurdly ignorant that we thought friends would stay friends. Straining to keep those close to us that did not deserve it while not turning a hair for those that would stand by us through thick and thin. Spending all our time with the wrong ones, leaving the ones that matter alone.
Perhaps my forty year old hormones have received a jolt having glimpsed what I was and realizing what I could have been but that lump in my throat is evidence that time passes by with such frivolous cruelty that you are left wanting in its wake. To be able to come home to mum, to call that friend who has been waiting for so long, to not call the one who couldn't care less, to spare the heart of the timid and the sensitive, to lash out in favour of the weak, to choose between company with wisdom and to throw caution to the wind when standing up for the truth. The smile on my lips, as I look at the pictures, is not for how similar I look to my past self, that is not true, we have all changed, for the mischief has been replaced with cynicism in all our eyes, it is for I know how foolish we all were,
Ever since I have laid eyes on those harmless posts there is a lump in my throat. Where has time gone? Yes, some of those uniformed friends would shake their heads right about now and remember me as the overly emotional one. But I cannot shake off the feeling that we should have done better. I do not mean in the future, in the now but we should have realized how very precious those seconds were, slipping through our careless fingers and we should have done better.
So many lost moments, where one could have told each other one more anecdote, another deep thought, if we had any back then, shared another heart ache, decided to walk away, decided to stay. As I gaze into the past I long for some to come back while I wish not to be reminded of others.
Those were precious days for me more so because I got to go home to my mother. She would wrangle with me to change out of my uniform so it could be washed. Every morsel I put in my mouth gave her strength as she sat watching me ungratefully guzzling the meal she had slaved over the entire morning while I 'hung out' with my mates.
One of those mates was taken away quite suddenly. He is in those pictures and I can clearly recall sitting in the school bus outside the closed gates of the building as we were told that there would be no studies as someone had been killed. I remember the moment of silence the following day. The feeling of disbelief yet the youthful hopefulness of the future. None of us were truly moved that day for not one of us truly knew the significance of death. The finality of it had not touched our souls. We were 'deathless' as the young generally is.
The many heart aches come rolling back and the regrets over relationships that, had one known better, would not have given a second thought to. What a waste of such precious gifts, tears, to be shed for someone who really matters. We all look so blase to each other when in fact there was such a keen awareness of people around us that we could put a cheetah to shame. Every sip from the coke bag, every twirl of the hair, each bungling step we took was for the attention of another. Such a waste of energy.
The pictures reveal the universality of youth, we could be just about anyone from any continent, any where in the world. Yet we took ourselves so seriously that we were unique in our own eyes and that separated us from all. How naive of us. How naive we were to think that we could sit on that stoop all our lives sipping carbonated drinks soaking up the sun. How insanely oblivious that we believed all that we heard and saw was the truth. How absurdly ignorant that we thought friends would stay friends. Straining to keep those close to us that did not deserve it while not turning a hair for those that would stand by us through thick and thin. Spending all our time with the wrong ones, leaving the ones that matter alone.
Perhaps my forty year old hormones have received a jolt having glimpsed what I was and realizing what I could have been but that lump in my throat is evidence that time passes by with such frivolous cruelty that you are left wanting in its wake. To be able to come home to mum, to call that friend who has been waiting for so long, to not call the one who couldn't care less, to spare the heart of the timid and the sensitive, to lash out in favour of the weak, to choose between company with wisdom and to throw caution to the wind when standing up for the truth. The smile on my lips, as I look at the pictures, is not for how similar I look to my past self, that is not true, we have all changed, for the mischief has been replaced with cynicism in all our eyes, it is for I know how foolish we all were,
Sunday 24 May 2015
All Bare
To the boy who bathed in the manhole
Not a stitch to hinder me.
Not a care but the rumble in my stomach
I dive into heaven
Bliss and nothing more
The stink invades my thoughts
Mouth shut, eyes clamped
Ground touches my toes
Cool after the burning
As though banished from hell
Sunlight beckons, breath runs thin
I must reappear
Must head back to the burning
Pushing with my feet
Reaching and breaking through paradise
Brother hauls me out
There is room only for one
In the hole that leads to heaven
But smells like hell
The pavement feels sharp
It pricks a thousand times
Into the soles of my feet
As I run to mother
To eat from the bag
Someone's meal from a few days
Wednesday 28 January 2015
44 days without you
To the children we lost on 16-12-14
I eat and sleep and pray,
Like I did everyday,
But I have not breathed properly,
Not since you went away,
The air seems thin and vile,
I cannot fill my lungs,
There are thorns behind my eyes,
Since the day you went away.
I bathed you and fed you and held you,
Each day that you were near,
But now my days are empty,
Please come home my dear.
I still remember the first time I kissed your angel feathers,
The day I had delivered you,
With pain, and strength and tears.
I wander to your bed,
I touch your pillow daily,
Can you feel my hands in heaven?
Running through your hair?
Your father always felt left out,
Ever since you came in our lives,
He has all my attention now,
But he doesn't seem to need it.
Can you see the culprit?
The one who made you bleed?
Ask him this from me please,
Has he a mother too?
I eat and sleep and pray,
Like I did everyday,
But I have not breathed properly,
Not since you went away,
The air seems thin and vile,
I cannot fill my lungs,
There are thorns behind my eyes,
Since the day you went away.
I bathed you and fed you and held you,
Each day that you were near,
But now my days are empty,
Please come home my dear.
I still remember the first time I kissed your angel feathers,
The day I had delivered you,
With pain, and strength and tears.
I wander to your bed,
I touch your pillow daily,
Can you feel my hands in heaven?
Running through your hair?
Your father always felt left out,
Ever since you came in our lives,
He has all my attention now,
But he doesn't seem to need it.
Can you see the culprit?
The one who made you bleed?
Ask him this from me please,
Has he a mother too?
Only in Pakistan....
The following are some of the things that will only happen in Pakistan in great abundance.
1) One out of every three motorist will, at some point of even a short journey, spit out their window. You may choose to look away but you cannot miss the expertise with which a glassful (no exaggeration) of liquid will spew from their mouth, miss a passing car, defy all laws of physics and splatter onto the newly washed pavement or wall. It's a form of sport that will soon be recognized I'm sure. As for now these 'spithletes' practice their art regularly and without fail. Only in Pakistan.
2) Whenever there is a need for a vertically straight line there shall be a horizontal gathering of humans. It is almost like an unspoken law in this country. We are just not built to make lines. Ask us to elbow, plough through, or generally disrupt a smooth process of 'first come first serve' and we come out on top, but make a line? Never! We can stand next to a fellow Pakistani, whether on their left side or right. We can stand in front of them, heck even on their toes, but behind one? Never! If there is a ladies only line and we are forced to stand behind a fellow human we will stand boob to back! You see it has been noticed that the rate at which the line will move forward is directly proportionate to how close we stand to the person in front of us.
3) If there is something interesting happening in the world it is meant to be ogled! A foreigner, for example, shopping for groceries is the epitome of entertainment for us. We will forget our own shopping list and start following them in the aisles. If not that we shall make sure we reach the check out right after them so we can see all that they have purchased. If they are in shorts, we are in luck. More foreign legs to see. Don't get us wrong we also indulge in staring at our own people. It is a national pastime really.
4) Crossing streets is for cavemen. We stroll, amble, plod, prowl, drift, linger, traipse across the busiest roads of our cities. You just can't touch this. And if you do, we can throw an unmatched hissy fit! After all it is our fundamental right to take our sweet time crossing a busy main road. Especially if we are ladies. A lady never runs, or even trots. Therefore, keeping to the code, we as Pakistani ladies like to take a nature walk down traffic laden lanes all the time. And let anyone tell us otherwise.
5) Talking softly is for pansies. We must alert the entire vicinity of our presence. If something has to be uttered it has to be utterly loud. Whether we are telling our husband's off or just our kids, it has to be done at a volume that grabs the attention of all and sundry. Even our whispers are done with fanfare. We have mastered the art of being loud and uncouth in public and therefore can be spotted anywhere in the world.
6) We become dyslexic when faced with sign posts. If it says 'do not spit,' it actually tells us that they have selected this very spot for us to spew our guts out. "Be quiet," turns us into a herd of banshees. "No smoking" reads "why not light 'er up." What you can't read won't harm you!
7) A wet toilet is the best toilet! That is the philosophy of most Pakistanis. Therefore the most hardworking of all our labour force is that lady or gent who stands inside loos in malls, at airports etc. They quickly hand you a tissue as you come out of the stall but little do they know that the stall has now become a flood zone, only after your worthy 'efforts.'
8) A dustbin is a Pakistani's worst enemy. We either choose to ignore the blatantly harmful thing or we taunt it by surrounding it with the stuff that it was made for in the first place. As anyone can see that due to our sheer hard work we have made Pakistan 'Trashistan.'
The list is quite extensive I can assure you. These are just some of the things popular among our educated classes. Imagine the achievements of our less erudite countrymen.
1) One out of every three motorist will, at some point of even a short journey, spit out their window. You may choose to look away but you cannot miss the expertise with which a glassful (no exaggeration) of liquid will spew from their mouth, miss a passing car, defy all laws of physics and splatter onto the newly washed pavement or wall. It's a form of sport that will soon be recognized I'm sure. As for now these 'spithletes' practice their art regularly and without fail. Only in Pakistan.
2) Whenever there is a need for a vertically straight line there shall be a horizontal gathering of humans. It is almost like an unspoken law in this country. We are just not built to make lines. Ask us to elbow, plough through, or generally disrupt a smooth process of 'first come first serve' and we come out on top, but make a line? Never! We can stand next to a fellow Pakistani, whether on their left side or right. We can stand in front of them, heck even on their toes, but behind one? Never! If there is a ladies only line and we are forced to stand behind a fellow human we will stand boob to back! You see it has been noticed that the rate at which the line will move forward is directly proportionate to how close we stand to the person in front of us.
3) If there is something interesting happening in the world it is meant to be ogled! A foreigner, for example, shopping for groceries is the epitome of entertainment for us. We will forget our own shopping list and start following them in the aisles. If not that we shall make sure we reach the check out right after them so we can see all that they have purchased. If they are in shorts, we are in luck. More foreign legs to see. Don't get us wrong we also indulge in staring at our own people. It is a national pastime really.
4) Crossing streets is for cavemen. We stroll, amble, plod, prowl, drift, linger, traipse across the busiest roads of our cities. You just can't touch this. And if you do, we can throw an unmatched hissy fit! After all it is our fundamental right to take our sweet time crossing a busy main road. Especially if we are ladies. A lady never runs, or even trots. Therefore, keeping to the code, we as Pakistani ladies like to take a nature walk down traffic laden lanes all the time. And let anyone tell us otherwise.
5) Talking softly is for pansies. We must alert the entire vicinity of our presence. If something has to be uttered it has to be utterly loud. Whether we are telling our husband's off or just our kids, it has to be done at a volume that grabs the attention of all and sundry. Even our whispers are done with fanfare. We have mastered the art of being loud and uncouth in public and therefore can be spotted anywhere in the world.
6) We become dyslexic when faced with sign posts. If it says 'do not spit,' it actually tells us that they have selected this very spot for us to spew our guts out. "Be quiet," turns us into a herd of banshees. "No smoking" reads "why not light 'er up." What you can't read won't harm you!
7) A wet toilet is the best toilet! That is the philosophy of most Pakistanis. Therefore the most hardworking of all our labour force is that lady or gent who stands inside loos in malls, at airports etc. They quickly hand you a tissue as you come out of the stall but little do they know that the stall has now become a flood zone, only after your worthy 'efforts.'
8) A dustbin is a Pakistani's worst enemy. We either choose to ignore the blatantly harmful thing or we taunt it by surrounding it with the stuff that it was made for in the first place. As anyone can see that due to our sheer hard work we have made Pakistan 'Trashistan.'
The list is quite extensive I can assure you. These are just some of the things popular among our educated classes. Imagine the achievements of our less erudite countrymen.
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