Jab Sarhadein Saraab Hogayi.

Meri Piyari Jamhooriat-e-Shayri urf The Rhyme Republic ke merey sarhadpaar doston,

  Umeed hai k aap sub khush-o-khurram hongey. Aur kiun na hon? December ki ek sard sham mein mohabbat k khatoot hawaon mein bikhair kar barson ki lagayi hui kayi aag ko bhuja gaye aap sub. Aur kuch aise bujhaya k uss hee raat ko Karachi ke baaghat, sarkein aur aasman thandey motioun se chamak uthe. Bijli ki garj hui. Yun tau Karachi ki fitrat hee ghair-mutawaqqey hai; hashtag-super-unpredictable, par Mausam ne yun rukh badla tau jaise badltey huey dilon ki gawahi di. Hum ek hue December ki ek sard shaam mein. Teh-e-dil se iss baat ki khushi hai.

  India mein muqeem hamarey tamam aziz, Abhijit, Rachneet, Aseem, Anasuya, Shabnam, Shashank, Nida, Taikhum, Honesih, Naina, Sumit, Krithika, Manjot, Ebad, Asad, Sahil, Isha, Manil, Yigesh, Umanath, aur wo tamam log jo khaas hamare liye Connaught Place aye, aap sub ka pyaar hum tak pohncha. Technology ki hamesha qadardaan rahungi jo ana aur nafrat ki qail nahi, aur naa hee filwaqt kisi hukumat ki pairookaar hai. Hum sub kisi na kisi shobey se munsalik naukri-pazeer log hain ya parhai mein mushghool taalib-e-ilm. In tamam-tar masroofiat k bawajood aap sub ne iss maqsad k barey mein pehle tau socha, phir iss par kaam kiya aur apna qeemti waqt nikal kar ek maqsad ko besh-qeemti banane mein sarf kia, ye ek
be-misaal jazba hai. Ek khoobsurat safar ki haseen ibtida!

 Sub se haseen cheez merey liye tha hum sub ki various ethnicities ka chalakta hua rang jo hamare lehjon mein iss trha ghulmil kar mohabbat ki chashni ban gaya.
Kuch tabsara karna chahungi kuch logo k andaaz-e-bayaan par

   Abhijit sahab aap ki ye nazm mainey pehle bhi parhi thi par khud aap ki zubaani sun kar bohat acha laga. Karachi aur Delhi tau beshak ek se huey, saath mujhe Andheri, Bandra ki sarkein, aur Johu Chowpati ki kesar pista kulfi ki bhi yaad ayi. Woh kulfi naseeb se milti hai!

Anasuya ki shayri mein main kho gayi. Alfaaz ke intekhaab ka jawab nahi aur unke andaaz-e-bayaan mein "nostalgia" ka ek ajeeb sa khoobsurat  ehsaas tha, jo mjhey dus saal pehle ke Delhi-trip ki yaad dila gaya. School-girl thi main tab aur debates, writing and trivia ke liye ayi thi. Kuch sathi thheen Delhi ki hamari tub jo ankhon se speech karti thi. Aap ke andaaz ne unki yaad dilayi and a feeling that I really want to know this lady more!

  Shabnam, jaisa naam waisa hee paya aapko. Ruk gaye thhe Karachi walon k dil aapki nazm ki adayegi sun kar. Hum tau sub goya Jigras huey!

  Aseem Sahab, kia khoob chuna apne kalam k bayaan k liye Ghalib ki haveli ko. Ta'ajub ki baat hai k bantwara Ghalib aur unke sung humarey tamam shu'ra aur adeeb ko kabhi baant na saka. Ghalib apke bhi aur hamare bhi hain. Manto aapke aur hamare. Faiz bhi hum dono k hee. Aur aap ki shayri sun kar ye ehsaas mustaqil hota raha k beshak only words and verses hold all power to erase our borders.

 Taikhum ki Lahore ki talab sun kar aankhein num si hogayi. That's how powerful it was. Aapas ki baat hai main khud bhi Lahore nahi gayi aaj tak Pakistan mein rehne k bawajood. Bara guilty feel hua. (My fellas here I bet are like "whaaaat? ").

  Nida aap ki GOT se muhabbat k charchey maine sunne zaroor, aapko Urdu shayri prhtey huey sun kar aankhein dang reh gaeen. Phir apne aap ko virtual-chaanta maar kar "Why you stereotype, pagal? khud ko dekha hai?!" kaha. Iss self-conversation ne dimagh khola. Aap se milne ki ek talab hai! Ye sun kar apnahiat se mehsoos hui k aap Drogo fan hain. This conversation deserves a trip to Delhi and the right kulhar ki chai!

 Honeish ke Jhang-i jazbaat, kamrey ki mehak ne mjhey pehle tau rulaya aur phir unke ash'aar ne behud hansaya. Bara dilchasp andaaz hai afsana-goi ka!

 Shashank aap kamyab huey..
 Border ke iss paar bheji muhabbat ne apna kaam kardia.
 Karachi k kuch pal ko hum sub ne aap k naam kardia !

Manil Jee, jis wajhe se aap Pakistan tashreef laye thhe, kuch aise hee thhe hum aye Delhi Janaab
Jo apnahiyiat mehsoos ki aap ne hamarey haan, waise hee Delhi akar lagi  mjhey Sarhadein Saraab
Shukriya!

  Isha ki kaweeta ne mjhey aj Karachi ki sardi mein pyaar ki pashmina aur ajrak pehna kar garam kia. Is garmaa-ish ka beshak koi watn nahi.

Sumit ji ne akar aisa English-ghazal sun kar Delhi k smog-free hone ki duaen dil se nikli.

Ebad ki landscapic poetry mein basey jazbaat ka husn <3

Krithika aap ko dekh kar bhi khayaal aya ke Lucknow sheher ki har ilaqey ki har gali ko ye madhur awaz sunna naseeb hou tau kitna hee acha hou.

Naina <3 We are all indeed unaware of some of our own prejudices till we face them. Your poem hit home. I do not know about anyone else but this neighbour here would love to play hopscotch with you one day!

Umanath your words gave me goosebumps and I shivered with every word. Abhijit Sahab ki iss baat se itefaaq karti hun keh Urdu feels so satisfying aur Urdu rooh ko choo jati hai magar aap k Angrezi asha'ar sun kar rooh kaanp gayi; such powerful words and expression.

Sahil sahab k dard bhari kahani ashqbaar kargayi aur Yogesh ne border se juri har diqqat ko bayan kia. aur Manjot Pra tuaddi gallan tau rula ditta mainu! Sun kar duaen bohat ki iss dil ne k paros ana jana asaan hojaye.

Rachneet ... Main baar baar video ko aapki shayri par play karke sunugi. Itni mithaas aap ke lehjey mein. Hindustan ki khoobsurati uske kayi rung hain. Inhi rungon mein shamil hamari trha trha ki kayee zubano se bani rangoli hai. Aap ne jis dilkush andaz se Punjabi nazm ko prha, wah! Mere paas alfaaz hee nahi aapki adayegi k husn ki tareef k liye!

Sidra Ahmad aapko hamesha lively hee dekha, par us video mein poem k dard ko jis trha aap ki ankhein bayaan kar rahi theen, dil k kuch taaron ko choo gayeen. Nandini aap ki tasweer facebook par jb bhi nazar ayi tab jaise zehen mein aap ki awaz ka ek taswwur tha. Aur Sunday ko aapki awaz suni tau jaise us tasawur ko haqeeqat mein tabdeel hote suna. Aap ki awaz mein tau jaise purey India bus raha hai. <3

Neend merey insani wajood par haawi horahi hai magar is rooh ka dil aap sub ko milney k liye zor zor se dharak kar issey jaga raha hai.

Is khat ko ek chhota sa nazrana smjhein.. Again, thankyou very much for everything you all did and said for us. May the Rhyme Republic progress.

Some day you, me and Delhi shall surely meet <3

Apna khayal rakhiyega aur in tamam jazbaat ka aur un tamam alfaaz ka jo shayri mein piro kar pyaar ki maala k anmol moti ban jatey hain..

Faqat aapki behud shukarguzaar Parosan,

Hafsa Mahida.

Hawaon ke Rang - "Colours of the Wind"

Pocahontas k Roznamchey se Iqtibas (From the Diary of Pocahontas)

"Hawaon ke Rang"

Tu sochta hai ke hun main ek jahil wahshi
Aur tu ney dekhi hogi dunya bohat beshak
Tau Shayd hoga aisa zaroor
Par ek baat smjhney main hai jhijak
K agar wahshi hun main tau phir hai bohat
Jissey aap hain na-aashna huzoor.

Tu sochta hai k jahan qadm ranja hon
Woh murda zameen hai milkiat teri hee
Par main janun ke har shajr o pathar o khalq
Ki hai rooh, zeest aur shanakht apni

Jo deikhein aur jo sochein teri hee tarha
Khayal mein tere bus wohi log hai log, magar
Seekhey ga tau tu bohat kuch naya
Chal kabhi tau kisi ajnabi k naqsh e qadm par

Chaand ko pukartey huey bheriye ki awaz sun
Dekh hanstey huey bun-bulao ka ang
Ban ja Rangrez aye Angez merey
Bikhair paani mein hawaon ke Rang

Aa bhaag sanobar k jangalon mein
Aur chakh zameen se  shahtoot aur aam
Bus kho ja tu dharti ki iss dolat mein
Aur na soch ke kia hai iss ka daam

Chhoota hai woh darakht asmaan ko ya nahin
Kaat dalo gey tau phir na jano gey ye kabhi

Aur sun na sako gey bheriya ki awaaz
Na dekh sako gey bunbulao ka hansta ang
Ho doodh si chamri teri ya peetal si meri
Chal gaayen hum paharon ki goonj k sang

Hogi milkiat ye zameen teri
Par hogi teri mehez zameen hee

Tau tu ban aye Angrez phir Rangrez merey sang
Aao bikharein pani se zameen mein Hawaon ke Rang"

Aj tumhari yaad ayi tau ye geet bhi. Tum zinda hotey tau shayd ye safar aasan hota. London ka jo khaaka tum ne bayaan kia tha ,us ki haqeeqat aj apni aankon se dekh rahi hun.  Badshah James k darbar mein meri hazri hai  aaj, John. Tumhari yaad aj k liye meri himmat hai aur ye Angrezi libaas zaibtan karna ek majboori

 Mjhey ijazat, faqat tumhari
Pocahontas.

-H.M.

NOTE: I read the post regarding the dearth of new Urdu poetry submissions for an event. Sadly, my Urdu contrbutions are few as well but I did want to do something about it. This is a feeble attempt. This is my Urdu-modified-translation of "Colours of the Wind" by Stephen Schwartz from the Disney animated classic Pocahontas. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QstY2G9hRuc)

Pocahontas shall forever be the first Disney Princess I could completely relate to. She was fierce, fearless, had a restless soul, had major acceptance issues in the path of her happily-ever-after and made strong, brave choices.
"Look around you, this is where the path of hatred has brought us. THIS is the path I choose,  father. What would yours be?"- Pocahontas, 1995- Forever.

Words Fail Me

I once had words to describe a heartache

I knew precisely how it felt and to give words to it 

I think, before we met, I parted with them
When it was time for us to part, I had none 

So I pour out words in depth about world peace 

& none to describe the peace this heart longs for
I write words about borders, longing and love 

And none for those fences which if crossed
Would have given a love that vanquished all longing

I write notes on the living dead and their pain

None on how very alive am I & the pain I sleep with 

I argue, I fight, I heal and hurt others with words

And I wish I could say a few for the war inside me

I do try you know, for only yesterday

I was lost in thought of how our love sought infinity
And then of how this infinity we think we're seeking

Shall sometimes becomes the death of us
Like a crazy gene inside a human cell does sometime

Get a mind of it's own and thinks it needs us to live forever
Infinity it tries to reach preventing needed atrophy.
It avoids cell death, and when it does, it's unstoppable.

That search for infinity becomes cancer.
And then I realise how much that love of ours,
Thinking it sought infinity, became the death of us.

Then, I gather words to describe cancer and write,
And realise I still do not have the right ones for you & me.
I lament our parting of ways and I lament
How the right words to say goodbye,
Parted with me before that and I wish
I wish for them to return, but they do not
Perhaps knowing that we would not return

-H.M.

The Homeland Dear

I crawled in bed with Nani many a night

To listen to her many tales of a homeland dear

I held to her to escape my night’s fright

Of Her folktales and her childhood I would hear

Her delight she could never hide

With all those memories she would cheer

“What was it like Nani?” I asked wide-eyed.

She smiled and said, “Not like here.”

“Oh my child I wish you could feed

Upon the mangoes and melons we did

As large as my thumb was the melon-seed

The fruits of my Des were splendid

The fields were green and grass grew tall

Oh that scent of my Des in the rain.”

She came here and left it all

Her tales spoke both of longing and pain

My grandparents were both Gujarati

They boarded a ship and came here

From Junagadh all the way to Karachi

The ship sailed but their hearts did never steer

To them India was always Des

To them Pakistan was watan

And to us it was a confusing case

How they loved the two as one.

That love from them we did inherit

Were taught the Gujarati language too

I am a Pakistani , I did declare it

I loved English, and I romanced Urdu.

They passed on one more thing

They told me to never forget my roots

And to my roots I did cling

Yet, I did keep growing shoots

My parents of Pakistani birth held

 The notion that Urdu makes you strong

It enriches your soul child they said

And so to Urdu I did as well belong

I truly cherished Meer, Faiz and Ghalib

I learnt and sang their poems merrily

My love carried me to Urdu’s crib

And I did once walk the streets of Delhi  

My soul of a child grew, met someone once and fell in love

They called themselves Mahajir, of Urdu birth he said he was

To me that was of no concern, to me love stood all above

But our union was not to be, “nobody from non-Urdu birth” was the cause

And I pondered over life then all dejected,

That my grandparents were mahajirs as well you see

Yet only for a language-difference I stood rejected?

When in spoken Urdu he was not any better than  me.

Life moves on and it did at its good pace

Years went by and I did learn to love again

What I narrate now is a whole new case

Of two lovers across borders tied only by love’s chain

He was from none other than Urdu’s heart – the city of Delhi

He was a bit of English, a bit of India and a whole lot of Urdu

He was a bit of everything I did hold dear you see

And one fine day he said, “I am falling in love with you”

I said I loved him as well in return and truly I did like never before

We shared a companionship of letters, of calls, of music, poem and prose

He spoke of Delhi’s food, his life there and the capital’s grandeur

I narrated my life’s mundane details and a longing to visit Delhi again arose

I would smile and laugh heartily when he would rejoice correcting my Urdu

He spoke of my flaws in Urdu, “Lady, you don’t have a clue”

“It’s bahar not baahir. Don’t tell me you say mubarik not Mubarak?”

“Haan tau Urdu hamari hai , Gujrati bhi hamari hee hai, koi shak?”

We laughed and celebrated each other and it is strange how

The borders that were once made to divide

Were a reason we loved each other so much now

Cricket matches seemed the only problem on each side

And yet, the only problem these were not sadly

Love between India and Pakistan is not merely a matter of the heart

Love howsoever we may , love howsoever madly

And yet, it was mad to assume we would not be apart

I once sat, looking over at the Arabian Sea

Wondering why did my grandparents travel on it  here

When acceptance for us on this side either, wasn’t to be

Was it worth leaving the acceptance that could be there

Love knows no boundary, Love’s propellers are insides us

Why then did we let birth, blood and barriers guide us?

Like many dreams and tales ours too at the border died

The barriers caught up and pain did greet

We left each other with a promise to hearts inside

That someday, you, me and Delhi shall surely meet.                            

The Homeland Dear II

That love from them we did inherit

Were taught the Gujarati language too

I am a Pakistani , I did declare it

I loved English, and I romanced Urdu.

They passed on one more thing

They told me to never forget my roots

And to my roots I did cling

Yet, I did keep growing shoots

My parents of Pakistani birth held

 The notion that Urdu makes you strong

It enriches your soul child they said

And so to Urdu I did as well belong

I truly cherished Meer, Faiz and Ghalib

I learnt and sang their poems merrily

My love carried me to Urdu’s crib

And I did once walk the streets of Delhi  

My soul of a child grew, met someone once and fell in love

They called themselves Mahajir, of Urdu birth he said he was

To me that was of no concern, to me love stood all above

But our union was not to be, “nobody from non-Urdu birth” was the cause

And I pondered over life then all dejected,

That my grandparents were mahajirs as well you see

Yet only for a language-difference I stood rejected?

When in spoken Urdu he was not any better than  me.

Life moves on and it did at its good pace

Years went by and I did learn to love again

What I narrate now is a whole new case

Of two lovers across borders tied only by love’s chain

He was from none other than Urdu’s heart – the city of Delhi

He was a bit of English, a bit of India and a whole lot of Urdu

He was a bit of everything I did hold dear you see

And one fine day he said, “I am falling in love with you”

I said I loved him as well in return and truly I did like never before

We shared a companionship of letters, of calls, of music, poem and prose

He spoke of Delhi’s food, his life there and the capital’s grandeur

I narrated my life’s mundane details and a longing to visit Delhi again arose

I would smile and laugh heartily when he would rejoice correcting my Urdu

He spoke of my flaws in Urdu, “Lady, you don’t have a clue”

“It’s bahar not baahir. Don’t tell me you say mubarik not Mubarak?”

“Haan tau Urdu hamari hai , Gujrati bhi hamari hee hai, koi shak?”

We laughed and celebrated each other and it is strange how

The borders that were once made to divide

Were a reason we loved each other so much now

Cricket matches seemed the only problem on each side

And yet, the only problem these were not sadly

Love between India and Pakistan is not merely a matter of the heart

Love howsoever we may , love howsoever madly

And yet, it was mad to assume we would not be apart

I once sat, looking over at the Arabian Sea

Wondering why did my grandparents travel on it  here

When acceptance for us on this side either, wasn’t to be

Was it worth leaving the acceptance that could be there

Love knows no boundary, Love’s propellers are insides us

Why then did we let birth, blood and barriers guide us?

Like many dreams and tales ours too at the border died

The barriers caught up and pain did greet

We left each other with a promise to hearts inside

That someday, you, me and Delhi shall surely meet.                             – Hafsa Mahida.

Memoirs of the Classroom II

"When we are travelling in our car or walking on the road, we think that the trees, sun or the moon  outside are moving, " Miss Z.I., my teacher from Class One read aloud, "but they are not moving."

  I looked up from the Nature Study book (science was called Nature Study in classes one and two). Those words struck a chord with me since observing the view from the car was something I held deep fascination for. Clearly, for me, the book lacked some explanation.

"Ma'am, but-" I began my argument and was interrupted.

"Raise your hand and then you can stand and speak." she corrected me.
I did as was instructed
"Ma'am, when I look outside the car-window the trees are moving. The moon follows my car for sometime before it's gone. The trees move and then they are gone behind!" my six-year old self tried to explain my point of view with whatever limited vocabulary and grammar she had.

The class laughed unanimously!
"Trees don't move, " A.T jeered and continued to laugh with the others.
 "Be quiet, A.T. Hafsa we only think that trees are moving," she politely tried to explain. "But they don't. Actually, we are moving."
 "Ma'am, I know trees can't move! They are different living things that can't move," I explained myself adamantly. "I know that my car has wheels. It can move when the wheels move. But in my car, I am sitting. I am not moving. And my window is just there. And I look at things from that window. In that window they move and then they are behind when the car keeps going. But if I stand on the tree-side I will see that the car is moving and the tree is not moving."

More laughter followed.
"I'm right! You have to see..," I spoke again and Miss.Z.I  raised her voice higher than mine
"Class! Quiet! Just sit down. They don't move. Let's move to the next line."

 The argument wasn't over for me. Did I ever believe the trees could move? No. I just did not have enough words to express my opinion. In the year that followed I learnt the word 'fixed' and realised it might have helped me explain that my window was fixed in my car but the view outside was not. Class Two Nature Study lessons explained that the earth was moving on it's axis to bring day and night , and it moved around the sun for a whole year and that gave us the four seasons- rotation and revolution. As I read through these, I couldn't help but hate the fact that they shouldn't have said "they don't move"  a year ago when in truth everything in the world was always in motion. There was a different movement in my car's window, though.

 Fast forward eleven more years that followed. An eighteen-year old me sat at her desk at night for her daily study hours in pre-medical, struggling with physics. More specifically, the mathematics in physics. It had been a tiring day like many others trying to make peace with my choice to go with the Intermediate track instead of A'levels after completing my O'levels.

"Do Chapter 17 and try doing the theory of relativity. Memorize its postulates." was the text I received from a friend when I told them I was no in the mood to "eat" derivations.

 I opened my book to Chapter 17 "The Advent of Modern Physics" and began casually reading. As I read through, I discovered then, that my car window was called a Frame of Reference and the movement of trees on the roadside was Relative Motion.  A six-year old inside me was doing a victory dance to "Raqs mein hai sara jahan". I could see that there were actual names assigned to what I had observed as a child and the notions I held were not non-existent as my Class I teacher had endorsed.

I stayed Einstein-obsessed for quite some time, happy to discover relativity and the fact that it worth never "moving" from my stance.  Yet, I extremely disappointed in myself to have come across this this late in life.I had never truly looked into his contributions before as I restricted myself to "course" education. My lateral-reading was dominated by fiction.
Then again, I did believe that our current systems cannot accomodate, understand and encourage a child's awe and curiosity. The world is beautiful and wondrous and children, in everything seemingly boring and pointless that they do, know that far more than us.

"The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education."  said Albert Einstein himself and rightly so.

 Needless to say, I read the rest of the chapter with delight and discovered the types of frames of reference. I filled my diary with all the mnemonics my head churned (it does so at a greater pace during exams) and some analogous philosophies as the over-thinking mode took over. I romanticized the theory and wrote the following lines.

"We are a consequence of the Special Theory of Relativity
Distance contracts when we are far..
Time dilates when we are together..
Yours Truly,
Lorentz Factor"

- H.M.

Memoirs of the Classroom - part 1

  A composition 'About Me'. I feel a lot of our earliest writings can be traced back to essays bearing this title. I was a five-year-old asked to write the same. I wrote five lines and drew a picture of me next to them. To me, no piece of writing was complete without a picture. After I drew with the classic brown Goldfish pencil, i used it to colour me. My teachers came and stared at my composition. I looked above at them, seeking their approval.
"You have drawn a picture, " one of them said, "This is you?"
I nodded in reply.
"Why have you coloured her with the pencil?" she asked further.
"Because I'm dark." I stated and looked at them again.
  They looked at each other. I did not know what to  make of their expressions. A "no-comments" face I presume.
  The conversation did attract some of my neighbours too; kids, who gave me the very same look after eyeing my drawing. No words. One would expect different responses from grown-ups and children, but here the response was unanimous. As children everything we did to display, we did for approval. I believe this was my transition: learning to make peace  with the  idea that I wouldn't always receive it. Or did I? For, i do wonder what to make of those faces. Was being dark a problem? Did the drawing being coloured go against our school's efforts to encourage conformity? Or if one is to be optimistic, was a child's self-awareness something new?
   Later in life, I believe, I would look back at this   event and feel that those faces were better than the ones calling me names through  the remainder of my school life. It took a great college life, accolades and worthy friends to restore that five-year-old's self-esteem. It was tested time and again by a society holding double-standards, by notions that only fair is fair and fair is lovely,  by certain men who were still the same kids looking for parental approval and by the chai-trolley culture that would reduce a girl's sense of self-worth to her performance for mere two hours or less.
   I will never remember what were those five lines I wrote "About Me" but I'll look back and remind myself that not everyone has to approve  and that one can live with that and live well.
- H.M. Memoirs of The Classroom.

Faraar

 I made a bunk from work today. My mind is so cluttered and it needs a good long break. I am sitting at Chatterbox. It's usually quiet around here (ironically) here but there are two ladies on the table next to mine and they are uncomfortably loud. One of them created such a racket out of the fact that there was yolk in her omelette. A part of me wonders if this is such an issue next to all the wrong in the world. I chuckled at the thought because it  inevitably made me think about Barrister Huma's take on Sharmeen Obaid's apology and how there are just two kinds of divisions, the rich and poor. I choose to divorce myself from those  thoughts. Enough of that. I begin to ponder over my restlessness. I'm so badly looking for an escape, I think.

  There are urgent matters to attend to and I abhor the nature of their urgency pressing upon me. The HR file which I conveniently avoided submitting because I bunked, the article review for OHIP research, Zahabiya's sister's tray's doves, the exam i have tomorrow. My phone vibrates. There's a notification from facebook. My friend from the public library project has tagged me in a comment to bring me back to reviving the projects. I had let go of them in the past few weeks after someone in my life began to talk me out of the many commitments I had taken up. They had all the best intentions at heart. The prospect of one huge commitment seemed to have made the remaining ones seem heavier, and so I had allowed myself  to cut them loose. My library project was one such commitment. "And well, I would be needing your time as well", I remember him saying on the eve of the hashtag-sunday.  I remind myself that I'm no longer bound to that prospect and can go back to living my causes again and go back to my sanctuaries, until it dawns upon me. In the few weeks that we interacted I had allowed him to be part of nearly everything and everyplace I had taken up as a sanctuary, through conversation or actual participation. Chatterbox for one. I looked at the table to my left. We were sitting there and chatting away about religion. Real conversations, good real conversations stick with the soul, primarily because they are a product of the soul itself. Sigh. Chatterbox, NYC, and my mere spirit of discovering new places; I had chosen to share. My eyes met with the tears they were holding back. I feel vulnerable and in need of a new sanctuary. The urgency to seek one presses upon me.

   I picked up reading Origin and immersed myself in it.. I finish reading the prologue and it's great. I pick up my phone to text him about it and then I pause. This is my Me-Time but I want to tell him about it, I shouldn't. I put the phone down. Relax, I tell myself, have this time to yourself, you need it. I had ordered coffee for myself. The cappucino had a pretty coffee lather pattern and they had given an "Aztec" chocolate with it. My mind/heart was still conversing with him; telling him about it. Why? Cause we had touched upon everything mundane in those few weeks. And what do you think life is filled with? Definitely not the extraordinary .. there's a reason it's "extra". Life is largely mundane and we had touched upon everything mundane. There's something extraordinary in the mundane. What a paradox! I shut the book.

  This cafe is filled with a sense of the past. I submit myself to it and backtrack my trail of emotions. I call the cab and pay my bill in the process with a clear sense of where I want to be right now. I board the cab. My heart is going back and forth on all it felt... My conversation with another friend on my resentment and how it wasn't fair to me and that i deserved him trying harder than how much he did was not enough, even if it wasn't going to work out. I then realised what he said "at least you have something to hate". Did I? No. I couldn't hate. Who could with the knowledge that To Him We Belong and to Him We Return and the knowledge of what that could mean. He seeked mercy from the same Lord I did, the same Who had led our paths to cross and the same Who held our hearts. My eyes met with the tears they usually fight off. I wanted to break down with somebody. I wanted to cry and wanted to be held as I do so. I was crossing my days budget to spend and I knew that I ought to save but that would be another commitment pressing me. Why I was chosing to go ahead with this ? Because at the end, I am the only one picking up pieces of me. I let go of my moment of self-pity and shook off the thought. I am buying my happiness or peace, I know because I'm the only one who's been there for me. And it suddenly dawns upon me. Allah has been there for me. He has taken care of me. I prayed Surah Fatiha and took a deep breath.

   We are all seeking His Love. We get attached to humans because we can see and feel humans responding. Allah's responses are very much there but we feel they aren't direct. Our love for one another is also part of His way. For all the love and mercy He has put in our hearts.. Overthinking. I stop and direct my mind to where the cab was heading. We were near my dropoff location and then finally there. Lo and behold, of the three names of this place was "Faraar" (translation: Escape). The others are T2F and Peace Niche. This shall be my new sanctuary.

   T2F or The Second Floor is a cafe. It's a part of Faraar and the Peace Niche, all initiatives of Sabeen, a liberal activist who was shot dead for the views she held. As I entered the place I couldnt help but feel grateful to her. The ground/first floor is a wood-panelled studio-ish large room with a cornered library area. The cafe is upstairs on the second floor. I had heard and read a lot about this place but never been here before. As I walked upstairs admiring the interior and it's creativity I kept thinking about "What you seek is seeking you". Every inch of this place truly was and every nook shouting "Freedom" out loud. I enter the main cafe. It is so blissfully quiet. Let's write. And as I sit down to do so, a part of me wants to tell him about it. But the louder, inner voice saying "My time, my sanctuary" takes over. Later, perhaps :)

   

Paper Boats

Oye fit! Barish" he exclaimed. She responded with a confused smile; clearly failing to keep up with his enthusiasm as it began to rain. He narrowed his eyes.

" Don't tell me you don't like the rain," he said, "I mean yeah, the city is a mess but one can't hate rain."

" I don't hate the rain," she clarified and smiled, " let's say i have mixed feelings about it."

"Can we just not? I mean, for right now can we just overlook the messy-roads and just adore the rain?"

He was out to have his way.

" Oh sure! Especially since you've got to drop me home and I'm not the one driving on the messy-roads"

   He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes with both amusement and disapproval. She laughed and then nudged him.

"Acha na! Well, its not the roads. The rain.. Well the rain would ruin my .. My paper boats"

"Your paper boats?"

"Yup, when I was a kid I'd make paper boats," she sighed, "And I would let them float on puddles in the rain."

"Sounds nice," he added, slightly confused."so?"

"Well, the rain. It would give me puddles to put my paper boats on but it wouldn't let my paper boats float. So after a while, a short while, they'd topple, they'd get drenched and then they were no more."

He could sense the pain in her voice but had no idea what to say, so he half-smiled and let silence prevail. Some moments passed. He watched her looking at her tea cup intensely and then the surrounding colourful array of truck-art adorned tea tables, lost in thought. There was something beautiful about her recollection. Her childlike innocence that cared for something so seemingly  insignificant and yet the matter-fact-tone of a grown woman. Before he could lose himself to his thoughts, he cleared his throat and spoke more slowly.

" So did you think about umm.. About," he struggled to string the words together, "about us.. What I spoke of the last time"

She raised her head and looked in his eyes and spoke with hesitance.

" I did" she said and dropped her gaze back to the tea-cup

"And? "

She looked in his eyes again. She was not sure what entirely held her at that moment but it felt familiar .. She was suddenly scared. In the depths of those black dots were her toppled paper boats. 

~ H.M.

Mocca Mocca

I'm not a food-blogger. It's crazy there is a plethora of bloggers out there; to an extent we need to categorise and classify them. I write, yes and I happen to be extremely inconsistent with that. So, what did spark me to get to blog again? Good food at Mocca.

 I'm coming to believe that my abstract yardsticks for a lot of elements come from my family. I do feel my parents would love this place. The interior is white! Not just that, It's well lit, largely by sunlight. I love spacious places that are filled with daylight. The wood in the interiors is something between natural beige and English Oak. Don't judge my choices yet. I love dark wood too but I equally cherish the "good-morning", breakfast-ish appeal of of this place.

 What truly set me to just prop open my laptop here and start typing was the food here. It's different and I meant it. I love pastas. I just thought today, that since I order pasta everywhere I go, I might as well accept that they're my thing and start documenting them. So, here we are.

 The Fettucini Spinacci at Mocca it's simply  delectable. I always say, doing spinach with pasta is an  art few have understood. Mocca comes close. The flavour is well-balanced. What's truly unique is that it is not at all too saucy. It's usually impossible to eat merely half of your serving at most places because the sauce is too heavy. I intended to treat myself today and the fettucini did just the job.

 Shamelessly a foodaholic that I am, I obviously had dessert.

'Do you have apple pie? Then apple pie it is." says all my insides craving for it.

The apple pie again has it's novelty. It's lined with a marzipan base instead of crushed biscuits or pastry. The apple filling tasted a lot like my "channey ki daal ka halwa". Do not misunderstand me. Alhamdolillah I make great halwa, so this pie was great too. Baked apple slices on top were the cherry. The fact the filling was halwa-ish made the entire dessert cake-dry unlike somewhat juicy feel an apple pie has to it. I've decided to settle on the fact that it was all in all good and different. But it mustn't be excellent since I miss the succulent saucy feel of the pies.

I like Mocca.. bus yehi kehna chahti thi *shumaila-bhatteeish voice*

Reflective January (1)

It has been quite an eventful month: both good and bad. As I look back, I see two solid years of my life turning things completely 180 degree. I believe in so much I never did and learnt a great deal I never had the patience to. I've met people who have taught me some beautiful lessons.

- Trauma is the biggest catalyst of change

- Life and it's components will add to your difficulties and complicate things anyway. Just make sure YOU are not complicating your own life or creating and choosing your own difficulties.

- Opinions don't always matter. There is no way mine is right over yours or vice versa. We think we've got it all figured out, we haven't. We are not gods.

- Empathy is a gift.. one I wish we were all born with

- Allah is not just yours or mine. So before you wish someone ill just know that He is on their side too.

- We claim to love Him and we often tend to hate people. Quite a contradiction. How can we claim to love Him and not love His creation?

- Forgive quickly and easily.

- Pain that people inflict us with or we cause them is the most difficult to eradicate. There is no solace in our prayers, fasts or any act that claims us religious if we have no sense of someone else's suffering.

- Spying, not minding our own business, listening to somebody's private conversation is not the same as "staying alert or informed" picking up pieces of the story that only benefit us, not admitting our own fault, deriving joy from somebody's pain, taking pride in revenge are not the same as "standing up for or defending your rights".

- Everyone loves a good show and a story. Love all, show everyone kindess but know who truly feels your pain.

- You are not just a doctor or a dentist. He has made you far more than that. Those of us who seek our identity only by our profession will somehow always be tunnel-visioned

- There are five phases of our life and amongst those the phase of consolidation matters the most.

- It's important to expand the empire of our achievements, conquer new domains, learn new things yet it is most important to CONSOLIDATE the empire. Alexander failed because he never consolidated his empire in his passion to conquer more lands. Likewise, we will gather experiences, achievements and abilities.

to be continued