Kind of quirky, a tad controversial, a little whimsical and chockfull of farce
Author: Mahvash K. M.
I consider myself somewhat of a serial corporate rut absconder because a sabbatical that was to last a year, has turned to eight, and I still see no end in sight. Before that, I worked in the Financial Services Industry. When I’m not writing, I’m fussing in my head, over ideologies of social justice and equality, with superhero twists! My stories and poems have appeared in The Rumen, Sequoia Speaks, Recesses, Every Day Fiction, Blaze Vox and Double Speak magazines. My poem, “Veins” was long listed in the Plough 2023 poetry competition.
Books:
The Girl with the Paisley Dupatta - (short stories)
Shimmering Scraps of Poetry and Madness - (Poetry and essays)
Curious Animals and Quirky Creatures - (Children’s Series)
https://www.facebook.com/Mahvash.Moht/
Dappled sunlight Upon my skin Warm, streaming motes Kiss my neck My arms, my face Whispering sweet nothings Caressing, comforting My shoulders drop The weight of the world That sits on them Like twin rocks I’m no longer Atlas Holding up the sky Shivering In its storminess Legs quivering Under its burden of sighs And tears and loss For now It has all melted away The coldness, the heaviness, the grey For now There is only a quiet joy A rainbow sprinkling Of dappled sunlight Upon my skin Thawing me, warming me From within.
Reading from my book of short stories, “THE GIRL WITH THE PAISLEY DUPATTA”. The book is available at Sarasavi, Barefoot, Jam fruit Tree, Expographics and Pendi in Sri Lanka and at Readings, Liberty Books and Paramount Books in Pakistan.
Many of the stories in this book are from outside the bell curve of our lives, embracing sensitive social elements that are spoken of either in subdued whispers or not at all: from the brutal vigilante justice dispensed in the name of religion in “The Gods of Fury”; to the harrowing custom of honour revenge in the “Sins of our Fathers”; to the patriarchal ruthlessness that so many young women are subjected to in the title story “The Girl with the Paisley Dupatta”.
Some of the other stories are of women and men negotiating life, love, friendship, careers and tradition in the sometimes tumultuous and many times limiting folds of their families and their communities: from the enterprising love affair of 61 year old Nighat in “Love in Rawalpindi”; to the shenanigans of a dancing queen in “Riotous Love”; to the complicated friendship between two middle aged unmarried society girls in “Days of Purgatory”.
There’s someone you see who can use your help Above and beyond the 2.5 percent That has been made obligatory on you By forces of faith, of habit now too Don’t think twice because you have done Your duty as prescribed by the One Go ahead, give some extra, don’t hesitate Don’t hesitate. Heaven can wait
You’re going on your blessed Hajj number two You’ve been good, devout and true But the farmer working in your fields He needs a liver transplant critically He looks to you for a helping hand Should you divert funds from your pilgrimage plans? You’re caught up in a quandary of faith Don’t hesitate. Heaven can wait
The colony that you pass everyday The one with the shanties, a riot of grey It’s residents are different, they don’t share your beliefs But you’ve spoken to some, you’re aware of their dreams Should you give of your blessed prestige To those who believe in a separate deity? God’s benevolence does not discriminate Don’t hesitate. Heaven can wait
When you feel pulled in directions unique That speak to your heart abundantly But seem to lie in realms that are On the twilit edges of well trodden paths Still your cacophonous heart, and listen To the flow of lifeblood in your veins Let it take you up the streams it creates Don’t hesitate. That’s where heaven waits.
This is a fond tribute to all the microscosms of colonial design and demeanour/ architecture and attitude that continue to faithfully roost in various cities across what was once the coveted Jewel in the Crown.
I’m having a day that’s making me feel More sterile than a beetle on its back I’m walking on the thin side Of breaking down, losing sight Of my psychedelic, privileged life I need some of the forgetting tonic That Pir Buksh so expertly whips up That makes me happy, schizophrenic With every sip and every glug I drink the potion, and I duly grow My Abs synth-esizing my lost bravado
Suddenly they’re all like flies On the periphery of my eyes They cease to make me wince and curse They cease to be a part of my universe I sit back, bark an order In Bloodhound, German shepherd tones Throw a carcass, throw some bones Throw a tantrum for good measure The club becomes a pyramid I’m at the top, the very apex Those hoisiting it upon their shoulders The club like a majestic boulder Matter not, they sit there Like a pile of boring underwear They’ve seen it all but you don’t care They keep it all precisely together The erstwhile jewels in their imperial leather
“One more!” I shout in thundering tones “Absinth me up quick bartender!” Before I lose the precious threads Of the delicate lace of elegance Pir Bukhsh gives me some more manna From the counter in the shadows And I swallow and I glide In the throes of happy amnesia The absinthe in the Ab-sind club Makes me feel so damn superi-a Heavens be praised I’ve had a day Like I’m lord of a castle in the UK Indeed, the last few hours have made me feel Like a hero in a Bollywood reel.
Are you ready? said he softly I was sitting and watching tv For what? I asked full well knowing The implications of that simple question
For your journey onwards from here He said quietly in my ear I stared ahead, I couldn’t look Into eyes that held the whole cosmos
I still have things to do I said Even as my heart filled with dread I still have dreams and wishes said I Even as I felt my mouth go dry
He waited watching me silently His shadow was now a part of me I took a breath and looked at him His eyes looked back serene, glowing
I cried, I am afraid to leave Even if I have always believed That one day I must walk away Wrapped in death’s final embrace
But that faith has always surrounded me On the outside, while inside of me Has grown a choking, gnawing terror Of the day that you would appear
He took my hand and held it fast My hand in his we touched my heart The blue-gray fear that sat in there Evaporated into the air
I felt my soul for the first time Floating, thrumming, humming inside I smiled even as the tears flowed Silver, sparkling, love-hallowed
I laughed, I cried, I laughed again Life was beautiful even at the end I loosened the strings bound to the past And closed my eyes as I breathed my last.
My book SHIMMERING SCRAPS OF POETRY AND MADNESS is now available at the following locations:
SRI LANKA: - THE BAREFOOT BOOKSTORE - THE JAM FRUIT TREE BOOKSTORE - PENDI - SARSASAVI BOOKSTORES - EXPOGRAPHICS
PAKISTAN: - LIBERTY BOOKS - PARAMOUNT BOOKS - READINGS
ABOUT THE BOOK:
The book is a collection of poems and essays, and as the name suggests, the contents of the 243 pages range from the sublime to the ridiculous; from soaring on the wings of ecstacy to struggling with overwhelming despair; from the capricious joys of matrimony to the dubious delights of singledom; from the profound ecstasy in a mug of steaming latte to the ardent disappointment in a less than perfectly brewed cup of tea; from the comedic to the somber and from the customary to the controversial, this collection of poems and features encompasses them all, and like a sore-throated bulbul (who also has some clear-voice days) I have sung them all for you.
My temples throb Like the devil has set up shop In their wefts of flesh and bone There he threshes His wheat and corn Brimstoned and fire shorn Screaming out his brutal song I’m enmeshed Tied inside my throbbing head Forced to see, ingest and feel The devilry Making me curse Making me keen In time to the pounding drum And the terrifying never-ending hum Of the devil’s threshing machine
I try to think Break out of the infernal links That tie me down inside my head My raging, aching, splitting head But the devil sings His strangely hypnotizing song And I stop Trying to slip Into my veins Away, away from the devil’s shop From that wretched, that exhausting pain And I stay The convulsions hold me in their sway Aaaa-gonizing me Beating, pulverizing me Crescendoing with my memories And I sit with my pounding head As the throb in my temples counts the dead.
My book SHIMMERING SCRAPS OF POETRY AND MADNESS is a collection of poems and essays, rumblings of the heart about the joys, the truths, the pain, the controversies, the funniness and the wonder that criss cross all our lives in one way or another.
The book is divided into five sections: Joy, Foot-in-the-mouth, Truth, Hope and Serenity. The Truth and Foot-in-the-Mouth categories are especially brazen and raw. As with most such uninhibited writing, the objective is to assail the sensibilities and even if just for a while, to look the truth right in its jaundiced eye. The other three sections are largely whimsical and uplifting very much like walking through a zen corridor, which I’m hoping, will also soften the sensory assault of the former two segments.
My book of poetry and essays SHIMMERING SCRAPS OF POETRY AND MADNESS will be available in bookstores across Pakistan and Sri Lanka at the end of December 2022.
FRIENDS IN SL can get their copies TODAY from the Jam Fruit Tree bookstore on Galle road in Colombo via call/ WhatsApp to 072-7268078.
Shimmering Scraps is a collection of poems and essays, rumblings of the heart about the joys, the truths, the pain, the controversies, the funniness and the wonder that criss cross all our lives in one way or another.
The book is divided into five sections: Joy, Foot-in-the-mouth, Truth, Hope and Serenity. The Truth and Foot-in-the-Mouth categories are especially brazen and raw. As with most such uninhibited writing, the objective is to assail the sensibilities and even if just for a while, to look the truth right in its jaundiced eye. The other three sections are largely whimsical and uplifting very much like walking through a zen corridor, which I’m hoping, will also soften the sensory assault of the former two segments.
The red roses were out In full bloom Riotous, cheerful, swaying in their beds Wearing their full petalled crowns on their heads I looked from afar Day after day As the roses danced and played In the not so far off distance Something was stopping me Something in my heart Was whispering, telling me that these flowers Were best adored from afar I listened and stayed away From that little paradise As it burgeoned with beauty Day after day But one morning when I came out to the garden I felt a lightness of being And so I strayed further afield To that joyful bed of red roses at play
There I looked at the perfect blooms Each one’s heart lay glistening in the sun The petals dancing in unison Around their pulsing cores And then I saw The soil below There strewn in little pools Of red, unravelled - unspooled Lay the fallen petals Fallen … resting … resting … fallen petals Some bruised, some new Some already a part of the earth As she hugged them close, each delicate edge Soaking back into her infinite depths The scene took my breath away Whisking me back to another day Full of bittersweet memories When I’d seen the same petals Strewn where you rested In earth’s boundless embrace.
Mahvash Mohtadullah 