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 (Available by next week) - EXPOGRAPHICS (Available by next week)
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.
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.
ABOUT THE BOOK:
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”.
The last three stories are a tribute to that most ingenious art form, political satire.
These tales will make you laugh, cry and ruminate in equal measure while niggling at the peripheries of conventional value systems.
The Jallianwala Bagh massacre, also known as the Amritsar massacre, took place on 13 April 1919. A large peaceful crowd had gathered at the Jallianwala Bagh in Amritsar, Punjab, to protest against the Rowlatt Act and arrest of pro-independence activists. In response to the public gathering, the temporary Brigadier general, R. E. H. Dyer, surrounded the protesters with his troops. The Jallianwala Bagh could only be exited on one side, as its other three sides were enclosed by buildings. After blocking the exit, he ordered them to shoot at the crowd, continuing to fire until their ammunition was exhausted. Estimates of those killed vary between 379 and 1500+ people.
I’m wearing my yellow chunri today I look at my reflection in the mirror And I see a girl in front of me Her face is shining, her smile wide I look into her eyes and laugh I’m the happy lass today. That’s me! It was going to be a lovely week Of friends and melas and cream sodas Baljeet and I were going to fly Up, up into the sky On rose-festooned jhoolas*
I waited at the bagh* with bhai Jan* His friend was organizing something They were busy but I was busier still Absorbing everything From the smells in the air to the sights and sounds I bought a set of bangles Red, gold and brown For myself and some for Baljeet Emerald green with silver trim They would play on our wrists, tinkling
Mohammad Bashir bought me some moongphalli* He was bhaijan’s friend Organizing something at the bagh The sugary pinkness melted in my mouth I got kissed by a little breeze blowing in from the south I turned the other cheek Laughingly and waited for Baljeet For kulfa falooda* and gajar ka halwa* For nimboo mirch wali garam, garam challi* My heart soared at the thought I looked at the kites gliding above I closed my eyes imagining I was One of those magical things Floating, flitting on currents of air I felt the breeze play with my hair
Baljeet didn’t come that day Bhai Jan forever went away In front of me, while in my arms Bleeding, gasping for air There were screams and sobs There were gun shots I’d lost my voice; but inside me something broke piece by piece There was no comforting, caressing breeze To sweep the stabbing bits away
Silently I looked around My bangles were broken, there was no sound From there either There was a wildness of colour on the ground The red of blood spilling fountain-like The wet brown earth where life And breath congealed in the grass There in the April sun’s golden glare I saw fallen angels everywhere At the Jhallianwala bagh.
* Chunri: fabric pattern with little white specks on colourful backgrounds
* Jhoola: Swing in Urdu
* Bagh: Park in Urdu
* Bhai Jan: affectionate term for Brother in Urdu
* Buria ke baal: Literally meaning “old woman’s hair”. Colloquialism used for cotton candy/ candy floss in Urdu.
* Kulfa falooda: A rich summer dessert very much like ice cream.
* Mongphalli: Peanuts in Urdu
* Gajar ka halwa: A traditional sweet made from carrots
* Nimboo mirch wali garam, garam challi: salt and chilli powder doused hot roasted corn on the cob
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 winter mist is rolling in Casting umbras and penumbras On liquid walls conjuring Illusions of nostalgic things Like tapestries of sunny hills And shadowlands where valleys stretch Into soft concaves Of velvety darkness shimmering At their edges, glimmering In the halos of lit up orbs Glittering, pulsating Watching and observing all Like eager sentries making sure The invading mist Covets no more Than the silver kiss That it bestows On each doorway As it tiptoes In and then away Into the darkness further along All the while As it glides Whispering its vapory song.
We were talking About this and that The conversation meandering Sometimes off the beaten track Into more private realms Reticent spaces holding Secret reflections, introspection Ruminations that had rarely seen The light of day Hesitating, faltering, we walked along That path hewn on the cusp of right and wrong Where perplexing thoughts lay vulnerable, bare And then we heard the call to prayer
She rose with an alacrity borne of custom With velvety smooth liquid motions Like a babbling stream that has No more reason to be but because It can flow gliding in its bed of silt and stone She floated through the ritual Sure, secure in the discerning eyes Of her faithful world. On the outside She had done the needful, the right thing She came back to our conversation Her face shining with virtue, beneficence
But now the doors were closed To the questions that had peeked through The heavy, opaque veils of tradition and goodness Back they had sunk into the clenched depths From which they had inadvertently crept She looked at me with guarded eyes Lest I scratch that surface again Lest she forget what keeps her true and safe
I smiled and she smiled back at me “Have another cup of tea” She said bringing the conversation Back to the glittering streets Of the daily treads of teeming feet And I followed, leaving the track Lit up by mysterious stars and the soul-searching gleam Of the moon that now shone on our backs.
Mahvash Mohtadullah - The Roaming Desi 