I feel like cobwebs have grown in places Where once there were gleaming surfaces In the sunshiny spaces of my mind It’s getting harder and harder to find The memory of that warm glow I felt when I went about my day It had lived on the side table Near the vase of poppies and the picture frames Now it’s gone, lost somewhere I can’t find it in the haze in there
I can’t find the memory of the eagerness That cloaked my every enterprise That memory sat near the poppy vase Both fractured, broken over time
I can’t find the memory of loving so hard That my heart felt like it would burst I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face The cosmos would thrum in my chest and my throat
I can’t find the dream where I ran down a hill And then went soaring up into the sky On wings of quick-silvery lightness Laughing; whooping with pure joy
Now that room of memories in my mind Is shabby, desolate, decayed I sometimes squint beyond the haze Looking for reminders of earlier times But the cobwebs grow in thick wedges And empty frames stare back with cracked edges
I woke up today, I’d had ten hours of sleep A mixture of guilt and satisfaction rolled around In my frontal lobe. Yesterday had been A tsunami of secret sights and sounds So much covert activity to process My neurons had scrambled like spooked racehorses With a glass of water, I sat still until I reached in my bag for my bottle of Advil
I finally went to bed, it was 3 am I had to switch off, I had to get to sleep I had to be a part of the human condition I closed my eyes and began counting sheep I lay in the wakeful throes of identifying The multicoloured sheep that went flying Across a rainbow stile that was ten feet high …! Who was I kidding! Wide awake I opened one bright eye
Now when daylight stabs my eyelids with its beams A cosmic alarm clock to wake up to and be spry Even as it prods me in the haziness of my dreams I snooze it three-score times, as I waken by and by The Advil and the sheep remain my special twins One bleats its lullabies, the other stills the din So I go from day to day and from night to night Sometimes it’s tumultuous, at others it’s alright
A fond and fun tribute to all those who live in close quarters with Money Deols. May the universe keep sending you little kindnesses to make up for the relentlessness of your days 😄
I had this absolutely delicious dream Of floating amid pocketbooks laced with cream Dollar bills and five thousand notes Were sending their special bouquet up my nose
Morning came and I had to resign Those exquisite dreams to the tides of time But ever the optimist that I am I know I’ll dream of riches again
Today after breakfast I meditated On my bank balance in the United State-es My heart skipped a beat, I had to be cautious But oohhh! All that dough! So Expialidocious!
For lunch I had a sandwich and a coke My mind wandered into another nook Yes it was lined up and down with money bags I was so overcome I almost gagged
Tea was a peaceful affair as the day waned As I dipped in a biscuit my thoughts roamed again My prime real estate and other things like it Made each sip sweeter, each bite iconic
By dinner time the perfection of my day Was marred only by the distance that lay Between all my riches and my two hands That lovely bond only wealth connoisseurs understand
My prayers were modest as they always are: God please don’t ever take me far From my beloved’s legally tender embrace I bow to you, I request your benevolent grace
I then lay me down for another night Of gilded dreams and green backed sights I slowly drift off on precious wings Made of savings certificates and treasury bills.
I laugh unabashedly, from the belly out Someone has said something absurd They all watch me in derision and doubt This woman who shouldn’t be seen or heard She speaks! What social license does she bear? She’s no debutante, she’s no political heir Yet she comes to these exclusive soirées And instead of blurring, fading away Into the background, this upstart lets down her hair
I walk out gaily, dressed like a queen I bump into my neighbour, the virulent Sameen Her face already garbed in a smug smile She says “Where to Maha? So dressed to kill?” I laugh loudly, her smile falters a bit “Just to the market, to get some things A shirt from Sapphire, two thootis* of kheer* A tub of it’s-none-of-your-business-my-dear Is there something you would like me to bring?
I’ve been alone these twenty five years But I’ve never been lonely, I decided that early I surmounted my doubts conquered my fears It wasn’t easy, it took a few years It took some lonesomeness, some vanishing acts From folks I called friends and even family who cracked Under the pressure of seeing me break out Of the box built for me by the socially devout But I dug in my heels, I wasn’t going back
Now there are friends and well wishers anew In all that chaff, I found these gems too They give me hope, they let me be me It’s been food for my soul, this honesty I know who I am and who I want to be And it’s not a reflection of what society Has plotted and planned for someone that swerves Through fate or design, outside its bell curve I’m contented, eccentric and oh so happy!
* Jawab-e-Shikwa: “Shikwa” (Complaint in Urdu) and “Jawab-e-Shikwa” (Response to Complaint) are poems written by the poet Mohammad Iqbal. They are known for their lyrical beauty and depth of thought
* Thooti: a small clay saucer in which some Pakistani and Indian desserts are sold in order to keep them cool and fresh
I’m alone … but I’m not really alone In all the ways that don’t matter That shouldn’t matter, I’m never alone In all the ways that I need someone In all the ways of being human I’m alone. There is no one.
It wasn’t always like this, this lonesomeness It came on slowly as time went by As I transitioned, nay devolved Dislodged from the blessed marital fold From a wife to a wretched divorcee From a daughter to a social deportee
I couldn’t be the woman he’d conceptualised His wife to be. Already fantasizing He was in heaven itself, spoilt for choice By the virgins lined up in waiting For him to pick one or four to be his own I got picked first, then I got disowned.
I’ve been alone these twenty five years Fading ever more into the background As time trudges on with heavy treads My aura fades, my voice has no sound I tried to talk louder at first to be heard But the booming voices of the world Were louder still, my voice was drowned
Now I sit alone marking time For when the cosmos sees fit to smile In a new welcome; in a final decline I see people but they see me not They saw me only when I came out Of the box, against the tide of tradition Then there was outrage, there was derision
I don’t go out anymore nor do I Try to be bigger than the box fitted for me I sit in it quietly, patiently Lonely oh so lonely … but not really In all the ways that shouldn’t matter Im not alone. They all watch me In all the ways that would make my heart sing I’m alone, waiting for the final curtain.
He says they’re a bunch Of thieves and thugs Who have looted the nation Of its tea and its mugs They took the dregs of the Earl grey too! Those boot-polishing, lily-livered brutes!
They say he’s a nut job with lunatic illusions Of grandeur and psuedo-pious, Dipped-in-angel-dust delusions He’s not a statesman, he’s an unbridled curse! Our friends across the pond agree that’s what he is This has-been sportsman with his peerni* and tawiz*!
The citizens bewildered and confused Are wondering with whom they should side The saga plays out again, sly and crude Where the nation is taken for a frenzied ride The horse has long since become a lame ass Feeding on national common sense with a side of grass
The Paya* and Diesel Management says a lot The Dharna* Skipper flourishes his “Absolutely Not”! The repartee continues in savage tones We watch from the relative safety of our homes Then the power goes out and all is dark The slate is wiped clean, we are back at the start.
* Peerni: A Muslim holy woman
* Tawiz: An amulet worn for good luck and protection
* Paya: A specialty dish in the subcontinent, the main ingredients are trotters cooked in various spices
She looks at me hesitantly There is something on her mind I feel her turmoil, her anxiety But I’m also aware of the impropriety Of looking straight into her soul Uninvited, I can’t make bold Enough to let her know That I know that something is not right
She looks away, I continue to read The label on the jar of cream in my hands Luxury Hand Lotion it says Lilac and English lavender I am acutely aware of her disquietude Intensely, minutely even as I Focus on the object I cannot put down … She finally speaks to me with her eyes
Have you ever felt unlike yourself? Like it was not you who was experiencing The pain … the loss … the tragedy … Like you were on the outside, just watching? The jar of cream breaks free from the spell As I face her with all of my being It now sits on the table flat and still As I look at her, letting my heart speak
I know, dearest one … I can feel your hurt Talk to me, or don’t talk at all Let it all out or just set it free In the secret spaces of your soul Listen to your grief, speak to it too Until the throb recedes a notch or two Then let me in, let me hold you close Let me share your pain as I sit with you
I’m in the throes of such exhaustion At all of this deception This shameless commandeering Of the resources of our nation This unbridalled corruption This lewd and shameless arrogance This swagger, this ostentation Like a monstrous pile of steaming Shit!
I feel so much frustration Such griping exasperation At this propaganda, misinformation At our barefaced prostration To the lords of subjugation. At our global commoditisation At all this brazen exploitation Like the hapless one who’s used to hearing Checkmate!
I’m looking out through my balcony door The glass gleaming - I never miss that That sheen itself is a pleasure to see The gloss, the shine makes my heart glad
Then I look outside at the city lights Some glimmering others sunny bright I look beyond at the skyline that now Boasts a few high rises above the eighth floor
My mind telescopes into some homes But please hold that thought, don’t let it roam! It’s not a voyeuristic enterprise of the mind It’s reading the drive behind the grind
What makes that man who lives alone In a one room apartment on the third floor Wake up day after day after day? What makes him go out his front door?
What special dreams has he woven with time? Which ones has he decided to leave behind? Is the light in his eyes still glowing bright Or is he just stolidly marking time?
That woman who is holding down Two jobs in two different parts of town What is she hurrying and scouring for? What makes her oblivious to her aches and her sores?
That young boy barely into his teens His moustache is yet to take place of state On his young, adolescent face What is he doing out on the steets so late?
The young girl who sits up late by herself Stitching joras* that must go on the shelf Of an elite boutique. Do her dreams still speak? Or are they now mute wraiths of themselves?
In the pit of my stomach lies a spot of guilt The quickening of my heart tells me the truth Of the relentless grind, the killer odds But I tell myself - what can you possibly do …
The gleaming door now to my back I look over my balcony railing this time Beyond is a world that is dusty and raw My own pleasure wanes in the shadows of night-time
* Jora: In Urdu, a set of clothes, usually shalwar kameeze.
I’m in Karachi after two and a half years of Pandemic gridlocks, and it’s been a whirlwind of a homecoming. Besides grappling with the major and minor curveballs that my micro and macro environments tend to throw at me off and on, I have also been able to indulge in some nostalgia: found my little book in which I’ve put down a few poems that I’d written in my teens. Even at that tender age, external stimuli hit hard! 😅 Below is one of my verses from my adolescent days.
I was walking through the woods one day With my thoughts in a turmoil Oblivious to nature was I - To the trees and the grass and the soil
I was attempting to decipher The meaning of strife and war Was it political agitation For the enforcement of a law?
Or was it as I believed the cause Of a moment’s disarray Of a value old as age itself - The simple Human Way
Where was the compassion that Bespoke the worth of one? Had the shield of dignity and love Been replaced by the gun?
Where was the pride in good deeds Where was the humility? Was everything really shrouded by The veil of frailty?
Frailty of causes And frailty of sense Had the once true noble values Become a mere pretence?
I was looking for the answers I was seeking a refuge From the grief and the confusion that Had overcome me like a deluge
It was then that I heard whispering The soil, the grass, the trees “You already have the answers Now you only have to see
When man was made a brother Unto the other one The moulding of a sacred Tradition had begun
So when war threatens to break this bond Their spirit shall hold them fast For that was always meant to be Unto the very last”.
I feel a rage It’s not the flaming, blazing kind Nor is it the hating kind It’s disappointment mixed with hurt A betrayal mixed with cheerlessness It’s a whipping, bruising buffeting It’s a faded, jaded trustfulness It’s a crashing and a burning Without smoke, without fire It’s the turning into ash Of something held so close Of something tender and so dear Of a precious, precious thing Of a pearl old as the years.
I feel a rage But in its manifestation There is no acid hotness Only a painful heaviness That sits mostly in my throat Huddled there, straining to emerge In tears or in words I’m capable of neither. Even as it squeezes me Choking, asphyxiating me In its throttling stranglehold I’m hoping for some peace and grace Hoping even in the throes Of this weary, bleary rage.
The Roaming Desi 