Tag: Despair

VERSE | THE GIRL WHO NOW SLEEPS

On By Mahvash K. M.In poetry, truth, verse, writing3 Comments

Dedicated to the memory of all those young people who struggled to fit into the norms dictated by their communities and who lost that battle. May the second wind in your sails be glorious and joyful. 

LISTEN TO THE POEM BEING READ AT: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSde5UerP/?k=1
I’m going to tell you a little story
Of a girl who loved too much
Lived too much, hoped too much
They said, she was too much!
She was a queen, a young one
But she had that zest for life
That is so rare and beautiful 
That is also so ominous and direful

The story goes that she was born
In the wrong place at the wrong time
Nothing seemed to feel right in fact
She was told to be someone that
She wasn’t. She was taught, against her will
To be the clone of a fantasy
That had persisted for centuries

And so the queen crumbled 
Atom by atom, bit by bit, little by little
She fell apart like a young sapling
That has been buffeted and knocked about
By righteous winds whipped up
By those who were afraid of her
Of our queen getting out of the box
That they had so faithfully built for her

She finally broke into a million pieces
And she plummeted
She had once known how to fly like an eagle
To soar up to the top of the world
But that memory was gone, pounded out
And so she fell
Hitting the ground six feet deep
And that is where she now sleeps.
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VERSE | THROUGH THEIR EYES

On By Mahvash K. M.In poetry, truth, verse, womenwriters, writingLeave a comment 
She sits there selling bangles 
Set up in a wicker basket 
Some laid down on the grass
Every now and then she gently 
Sweeps off the dust that spreads thinly
From teeming feet that hurry past
Barely slowing near the woman 
Sitting on her haunches hoping 
For someone to slow down, to pause 
Her concave belly almost touching 
The basket that is tugging 
The life blood from her womb 
Every time that she moves 
Spilling it in little driblets 
Onto its precious load

The maternal bond of glass and blood
Unremitting, never enough 
As she sits car-caressing 
Sometimes fretting, sometimes fussing
Rearranging, caring, loving
Always loving, always loving
A tender smile hov-hovering 
Around her tired mouth
She is umbilical-corded 
To her treasures 
Resting in their bed of wicker
Willing them to cleave their way 
Into the hearts of passersby 
Willing them to shine so bright 
That it brings tears to her eyes 
The boundless world of plenty
In those bangles by her side

Behind her lie two little heads 
Heat-numbed and stupefied 
Little thumbs in little mouths
Doing their best to pacify
The endless hunger in their bellies 
Matured and rarefied 
Over lifetimes spent behind 
Their mother as she hums 
Little songs of gentle rain 
On golden fields of wheat and rye
Watching their little sisters 
Take all their mother’s time 
Resting in their basket
They tinkle and they wink
They watch their little sisters 
Gleaming, laughing in delight 
Suckling on the joyfulness 
That streams from their mother’s eyes.
NB: Image is from the World Wide Web. Artist was not mentioned.

VERSE | THE SHIFT

On By Mahvash K. M.In poetry, truth, verse, writingLeave a comment 
I feel it shifting 
The air around me 
It hums a new dirge 
In the rustle of the trees

It wafts through copses
Of almond and neem 
Fraught with scent-memories 
Right out of my dreams 

The Earth wears a glimmer
Like it’s pulled out taut
Resplendent, kinetic 
Like a tiger just caught 

I feel her eyes bore
Deep into my soul 
Flecked with vermilion
Full of phantoms and ghouls 

I feel her hot breast 
As she holds me close 
Pulsing, convulsing 
Her lifeblood in throes 

I hear it sometimes 
Her seized-seismic sigh 
It thrums in my head
Like death’s lullaby
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VERSE | THE SCREAM

On By Mahvash K. M.In poetry, truth, verse, womenwriters, writing6 Comments

Listen to the poem being read here: https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSdn6UdCw/?k=1

A storm is unleashed
In sheets upon sheets 
Of pouring rain
In a cacophony 
Pounding the ears 
Pounding the earth 
For a while 
The storm becomes a part of me
I listen …
I hear a howl, a primal cry 
I’m agitated, it feels so familiar 
I still my breath …
I know that voice 
I’ve heard it before
Finding itself 
In a tropical downpour 
As the sky tore open its breast 
Pouring out its glutted greyness 
On my world that was floating upon 
Even tides of peace and rest 
I heard it then, the banshee scream 
It swelled upon the torrents that 
Came down in never ending sheets
I heard it then as I hear it now
That voice that is screaming inside me

VERSE | HEARTBREAK

On By Mahvash K. M.In Emotions, poetry, verse, writing2 Comments 
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.

VERSE | THE IMPERMANENCE OF BEING

On By Mahvash K. M.In Emotions, hope, Humanity, poetry, verse, writingLeave a comment 
I wake up, my mind numb, my legs feeling
Like 10 kg bags of wet cement 
Have been tied to my ankles, weighting 
Me down, ripping a dent
With my name in the fabric of the universe
I think briefly of yesterday, it was the reverse
Of the state of my mind, as it ties and it binds
Me today as if to remind
Me that nothing ever is permanent - No
Nothing stays forever, it isn’t meant to
Charmed luck, joy, good health and peace
Hardship, tragedy, anxiety and disease
They come, they take their turns at the wheel
Some lasting longer, some just touch you and flee
I wake up, my mind numb, my body feeling like lead
But tomorrow I’m hoping I won’t feel so dead.

VERSE | THE ANATOMY OF HOPE

On By Mahvash K. M.In hope, poetry, verse, writing2 Comments 
It is feeling like the world has overcome 
You body and soul and then some 
It’s like drowning in a bottomless sea 
Gasping, gasping, trying to breathe 
Sputtering, choking reaching for air
Crashing, thrashing limbs everywhere
It’s feeling the whole world closing in
Vision blurring, darkness descending. 
It’s being sure that many endings are near
Of wanting, of living and even of fear
It’s feeling the numbness spread like a pall
Binding you, blinding you even as you fall
Into the swirling, whirling abyss 
Of dead emotions, of nothingness

It’s finally seeing the smallest of gleams 
Picking the darkness at its hoary seams 
Little by little the flicker grows bright 
Ever so slowly it pierces the night
Your leaden heart too warms in the heat
Resuming its vital, pulsating beat
You rise to the surface on a rip tide 
You’re thawing and warming on the inside
You break the surface of your despair 
As your throttled lungs fill up with air
Gasping, gasping you take in a breath 
Sputtering and choking you hold on to the thread 
Of the world coming back within reach
Hope on strong wings, has ended the siege 

She gathers you up in her healing arms
Anointing you with her soothing balms
Freeing you, steeling you so that you may walk
Another day with strength and love in your heart.

VERSE| I AM ALRIGHT

On By Mahvash K. M.In Faith, hope, poetry, verse, writing3 Comments 
You ask me if I’m alright ...
I am alright, but the stabbing ache in my heart is not alright.

You ask me if I’m ok ...
I am ok, but the stranglehold of despair around my throat is not ok 

You ask me if I’m fine ...
I am fine, but the icy grip of fear in my soul is not fine. 

I need to remove the steely shards from my heart, one piercing sliver at a time;
Even if a hole, an abysmal gorge remains, I can learn to fill it with other things, better things.

I need to loosen the malevolent grip of hopelessness, one hoary, gnarled finger at a time;
And learn to open myself up to the comfort of a quiet, gentle embrace.

I need to thaw the icicles of dread, one knifelike lance at a time;
and learn to warm my soul with the simple heat of being alive. 

I know that I need to learn to separate my angst from my being; learn to put the wretchedness to bed
So that every so often, I am able to feel whole, happy and free.

And so my friend, when you ask me if I am well
I say I am well, because I’m learning to take care of the most fragile parts of myself. 

I will be alright; I will be fine; I will be ok

OPINION|CHILDREN OF MEN*

On By Mahvash K. M.In Humanity, newspapers, opinion, Pakistan, TheNews, TheNewYorkTimes, writingLeave a comment

Our Earth, now home to almost 8 billion humans. Also home to 153 million orphan children. Also the nursery to 140 million new births every year. Empirical population statistics when you look at each one individually. But when you connect them via the human equation, one can see the bizarre manifestation of our humanity gone awry.

The need to procreate has been so essential to our culture, beliefs and even our biology, that to build a family unit without passing on our exclusive DNA to our progeny is unthinkable; even unchristian, unislamic. And so, we continue to go from generation to generation, bequeathing with unrelenting tenacity, not so much our values, ethics and a spirit of industry, but the genetic codes that cellularly define us. We proudly bring another nestling into the world, the amalgam of our essential genomic structures, while another child somewhere not far off, adds to the global orphan count. The latter faithfully, effortlessly remains a de-sensitised statistic.

Even organized religion has given in to its baser instincts; and via insidious cloak and dagger plots of familial temptation and intrigue, has summarily discouraged adoption. For how can an adoptive father not be carnally tempted by the fact of the unshared DNA; or an adoptive mother blame herself for her lack of love and care for the child who is in fact, not her child. These are the ugly predispositions that guide our belief systems. And so it has come to pass that some of the most devout nations on earth continue to have the highest birth rates in the world.

I don’t profess to being maternal. The sum total of my maternal instincts extends to my niece and my nephew (they’re as close to my own children as I’ll have), my team in my corporate past life, the support staff in and around my regular surroundings, and the animal world. (It would appear, there are vestiges of the instinct after all; just not in the customary manner of speaking!) However, I have seen many, many… too many snot-nosed little kids that have become a part of the crazy, conveniently distant tumult on our busy urban streets. And I have heard countless … heartbreakingly countless horror stories of the forgotten children that are manipulated and mauled in the same orphanages and sanctums of faith that avow to protect them. Somehow, somewhere down the line, we have forgotten that we, the human collective, are the nurtures and providers of all the children that we bring into this world.

I am also not a detractor of the traditional family unit. It is, in fact, still one of our conventional social constructs that constantly reminds us that we are innately compassionate, loving and tolerant. However, I am a detractor of every dogma, ideal and manifesto that equates those same human qualities with the sharing of DNA. I am a detractor of all the myths and parables that typecast the concept of adoption in anything but the most judiciously humane light. In our current existences where economic inequality is shamelessly rife, the right of every orphan to be loved and cared for, unassailably surpasses our own need to perpetuate our heredity. The traditional family unit has to evolve into a more conscionable, accepting and diverse whole. The patriarchal ego has to take a back seat as we gradually but steadfastly make the word “Orphan” obsolete.

We no longer have the luxury of compartmentalising the children of our planet into a hierarchy of care, based on genetics. It is high time in fact, that we rallied together like the proverbial village to raise all the children of our world.

“There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than the way in which it treats its children.” – Nelson Mandela
*Title inspiration from a 2006 dystopian science fiction movie thriller of the same name.

SHORT STORY|A BRAVE NEW WORLD*

On By Mahvash K. M.In Fiction, fictionlog, writing3 Comments

A tribute to the brave young men and women who battle everyday to come to terms with their identity and a perennially judgmental, dogmatic society. May each of you find the strength to be the truest and best version of yourself.

Geena woke up with a monster of a headache. She sat up slowly, disoriented, the neurons in her brain firing a piercing staccato. She held her throbbing head as the events of the previous evening flitted across her hippocampus in discordant technicolour… a night out with friends, B52 shots, Neelu was there, more shots, they’d talked, vodka shots, she was definitely the one, they’d danced, even more shots, they’d kissed…. The memories bounced around her head in weird harmony with the stabs of pain in her body, making her grimace. Geena, the fighter of causes, the Robina-hood of small but essential kindnesses, the dogged agent of change for others, was a frightened, anxious little girl when it came to herself. When did she become so weak? She frowned against the whipping, curdling flow of her boozy blood, arming herself with the shifty valour of self-suggestion.

Say it Geena! Just own it! SAY IT OUT LOUD!

Her head pounded harder, punishing her… for what? For what she wanted to say? For what she couldn’t say? She quivered with the effort.

She couldn’t voice it; her identity, her very being continued to hide inside her like a deep, dark, dirty secret. She crumpled, her spine bent, her voice as silent as the tombs of long forgotten conquerors. No, this wasn’t the day she was going to be her own hero.

Geoff came inside the house, tossing his keys onto the console table. He was glad to be home; it had been an unusually busy Sunday morning. He went straight up to Geena’s room and found her still in bed. She was asleep. He looked at her, at the exhaustion etched in her beautiful face, at the sweet innocence that still enfolded his 18 year old daughter. It had been another one of those nights when she’d arrived home drunk, angry and tearful. How he wished his wife, Ruwani was still around… was still alive. She had been the loving, grounding anchor for this now somewhat dissonant family. He sighed… Ruwani would have known how to handle this teenage angst. He had tried talking to Geena but had always come up against a wall as fortified as it was high; she wouldn’t let him in. He got himself a glass of ice cold water and sat down, mindlessly switching on the television. Anderson Cooper on CNN was saying something about America’s decaying morality…

Something was nagging at him. It was something about morality and uprightness. About righteousness. It was about family values, about being respectable and … being normal. There was an elusive element of normalcy that seemed to be missing from his life… from Geena’s life…

He shook off the strange, disconcerting feelings – like he always did. He’d have to talk to Geena about her drinking. And he’d make it a point to ask about that new boy he’d seen with her group the other day. He never thought he’d say this to her before she was 30, but a nice boy in her life would actually be good for her.

Geena woke up at past 6pm, splintery glimmers of her hangover still keeping her company. She took a couple of panadols to quiet the tumult in her head and lay back in bed, looking at the ceiling overhead. As the pain receded, she became aware of a faint little feeling in her chest… a feeling of something new, something spirited, something honest. It warmed her, tickled her, strengthened her. She smiled tremulously, blinking in the anticipation of the ultimate truth-telling, of a final release from her demons. She was going to talk to her father about it. She was going to tell him that she … she liked girls. She always had. She was a lesbian. That word… still awkward on the tongue and yet that’s what she was. She let the idea float around her head, felt it fuse with her thoughts, sensed it coursing through her body.

She grinned widely – hopeful, nervous, anxious… but mostly hopeful.

It was another Friday night at apartment TP-1.

Tonight though, there was the ragged aura of broken hearts. The truth-telling, the sharing of confidences, the spiritual reckoning had been had. A father sat slumped in his chair, wounded, silent. A daughter stood looking at him, shattered, resigned, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Despite everything, he wanted to reach out. Even in the abyss of her despair, she looked at him, willing him to reach out.

De Khudai pe aman

*A Brave New World: Title inspiration from Aldous Huxley’s dystopian social science fiction novel of the same name.