They are the quickening parts of you That you bestow upon the world Beings that become Other people Independent. Adult. Then there’s the anxiety and tumult Of letting them go From the safe radius of the home from the proximity of your everyday touch From the protective circle of your sinewy arms Each muscle a testament To years of being superhuman A perpetual hero, a champion And now you also have Your own growing pains to bear Of them not being there As they make their start In places you can’t be Coming back to rest To lay down tired heads On other pillows, other beds Their childhood rooms Stirring softly with their scents But my dearest, don’t despair These aches pass, they morph They bloom into other things A kinship deep as all the seas A bond of care that is more even-keeled Conversations, confidences, the sharing of dreams
They are out there now Let them live and love With all their might You’ve done your part They know the tree The orchard, the seeds That they’ve sprung from Now let them go Let your fluttering, bursting heart Give them wings to fly Fly, fly, up, up high Into the vastness of the sky Let them laugh with joy Let them go Where the soul moves them Out into the brilliant world To take a little bit of it Love it, make it their own Let them imprint it With their souls and their minds Let them be quirky, let them be kind Let them be funny, let them be full Of passion, of hope, of tenderness Let them whoop and roar and also tear up At life’s beauty, excitement, its bruises and cuts Let them show all their own shades of loveliness Let them add to the shimmering throng Of all that’s vital, new and strong
And you, dear beloved With your empty nest Now filled with books Or paints or pets You who have begotten them Stand fast and true and wise Behind them. Cheer them on As they sing their own songs In the great choir of life.
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”.
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.
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
She carried a little bouquet Of golden-hearted nargis* Her face flushed, her eyes bright She was going to make a gift of them To someone special. The bus stop was empty Save the woman with the flowers And me. I had my phone in my hand She sat on the bench waiting Clutching her bouquet I stood nearby, holding my phone Watching her secretly Trying not to spook her But she was mesmerizing In the tender enchantment That surrounded her
The bus was late She sat there almost motionlessly, quietly But the thrum of her joyful energy Was taken up by the gay bouquet As it danced gently in the breeze She wore yellow shalwar kameez* With little white flowers Or were they stars? They were tiny, almost imperceptible So small I was sure even she wouldn’t know But they shimmered in her gaiety She smiled as she adjusted the stems The flowers bobbed back happily She sat there like a painting Full of joy and anticipation
The bus rolled in Carrying its load of passengers I lingered a while to see The recipient of this picture of love That waited brightly on the seat Together we watched people alight People go left and right Until the last passenger stepped down I climbed on, slowly, hesitantly I sat down near a window and looked out The bouquet now lay inertly on the bench Its sunny heart wrenched Where it had been clenched In the ardent embrace of a pair of hands Drenching it in the liquid warmth of love
They were stars, not flowers On her kameez, five-pronged tridents Piercing, lancing, shattering The perfection of beautiful things Hidden, Unbeknownst to her The fault, I was sure, lay in the stars.
* Nargis: Daffodil
* Shalwar kameez: the long shirt and trousers worn by women in Pakistan and India
A haiku is an unrhymed Japanese poetic form that consists of 17 syllables arranged in three lines containing five, seven, and five syllables, respectively. A haiku expresses much and suggests more in the fewest possible words. Trying my hand at the lithe and sinewy art form.
Some gladness, some strife Mixed in with some love and hope Faultless slice of life.
It opens again Haltingly, poundingly, my Newly love-drenched heart.
The light shone, my soul Soared. The monitor too glowed In final farewell.
The pane shudders, shakes In the wind. The pelting rain Renews, whets the pain.
The old men sit snug In their fortressed halls waiting Out the raging storm.
She lay down to rest The crickets were still. There were None six feet under.
The breeze kissed my face Whispering, praying we would Never meet again.
Tea with buttered toast A little sip, a bite, my Broken heart revived.
The wind pulled at him The kite pulled at his laughter Heart in hand they soared.
The morning glow touched its face The brick-faced house in the street It stretched out in the morning rays Hide’n’seek with some it played Its favourite morning treat
In the bedroom facing the east I lay in sleep’s placid arms The sun wore its morning beam As it shone into my dawn time dreams Oblivious of my late alarm
The house shook out its paint and bricks Its nooks and crannies too The mynah was already collecting twigs To fix its nest, repair the rips From last night’s stormy brew
The day wore on, the house filled up With daytime smells and sounds It shook and shimmered, belched and laughed As it held us all in its matronly arms Safe in its blessed compound
Evening came and with it the skies Turned a beautiful rosy pink T-41 too flushed with delight Its terracotta facade catching the light As it watched the twilight sink
The resident crickets began to perform Their night time symphony The house sighed softly gathering its form It seemed like tonight would bring another storm But inside its walls was warmth and sleep.
Mahvash Mohtadullah - The Roaming Desi 