Places, other than these

A collection of untouched memories and unwritten time,A tide to wash away stains from the past,

Some arrivals cease the darkness they say

Just like arrival of dawn through the grey of night

But take me to places, other than these


thought process

you always knew you’d do better than this, din’t you? anyway, rise up, a year has passed to the events you still keep thinking about

come on, there is nothing wrong with trying on those pairs of new sandals, they are never gonna stay new and tagged after this moment

walk in them, apply a lipstick, adore your image in the mirror and live up

or may be just go back to your old boring desk and start typing again

And we keep our windows shut

Because it was summer once

And the air was full of mosquitoes

We shut our windows.

Because it was winter once

And there was fog in the air

We shut them again.

We kept shutting our windows

Every summer and every winter

Until we forgot the memory of open windows.

We forgot that there were spring and autumn in between.

We forgot to look at the sky and breathe the air scent

We forgot to look at the creeks on the walls of our neighbours (and our neighbours)

And the marks that seeping rain had left behind

In the form of mud lines on a wall.

We forgot to look out of our windows and our rooms because we had shut them

Through summer, and through winter.

And we forgot to listen to the clatter of the construction around,

A school bus making its way through lanes of life,

A wife smiling at her husband as she wave him goodbye,

A mother looking lovingly at her children as they leave for school,

An elderly woman watering her plants,

We forgot to look at night, changing into mornings

A days sky changing its color,

As it travels from sunny to cloudy and back to sunny,

We forgot to look at the shadows of the houses on the walls on moonlit nights,

Or shadows fighting for their place on otherwise dark nights.

We stopped watching out of windows,

And catching glimpses of birds flying or sudden gushes if air blewing leaves or those first drops of rain on the surface.

We missed all the sounds and sights

And we forgot that we were missing them anyway.


We keep our windows shut.

You have to learn rebellion, Sometimes.

I was born a rebellion
When I was a child I would never buy pink dolls but superheroes// I was the stubborn child of the family

And If I wanted something

They knew there was no way out of it but get it for me
I was very determinant

And so



Learnt that no one comes in my way of determination
This is not my story

As much as I wanted it to be

It is not

And there is nothing much I can do about it
My story is:

I was very intimidated child

Always in fear of male figures

Always dominated by the powerful and the boys in the family
Slowly and gradually

I learnt to weep on my sufferings

To keep myself quiet

And I don’t know when that happened
I grew up to be someone

With thousands of dreams in my head

Sitting in a corner of the house

Dreaming these dreams all day
But I couldn’t face people, with those dreams on my mind

And tell them this is what I wanted

And this is what I like to be

And I got compromised
On my education

My wishes

My ideas and my dreams

I suffered in the region of that compromise

Dying every night

Climbing back to life every morning

Clenching my fists and my soul as I survived it

After living in the suffering for a longer period, one day

I realised

I can’t let my life pass like that

It needs to be changed

And so I spoke

Muttering at first

Wobbling words out of my mouth

Often producing unclear words and nasal sounds

And then,

Words started making sense

I still couldn’t raise my voice

But I was speaking

I could already feel the change

Each time I spoke

Against the wrong

For myself




So you see

Not all of us are lucky enough to be  a born rebel

A born genius

A born professional

A born behaved

And just like you learn all these things, you learn rebellion

And as much as we can complain about that story not being ours

We cannot change that

But we can change our life stories

We can learn rebellion against all that goes wrong

We can learn rebellion against depression and self doubt

We can learn rebellion against all labels that society puts in our way of individuality …. Against all wrongs against us

….. Against keeping quiet

….. Against the story we are born with

We can learn rebellion

We can change our story.


I remember loitering among those fields

I once had a notion that they belonged to me, to us, to humans

But no, they don’t

The air, the green, the soil and everything in between

It all belongs to honours, egos and names.

#stophonourkillings #pakistanneedseducation

In the name of honour

I heard those unheard stories

I saw on those faces

Toils of their life

Full of hardships

All put aside as if they never existed

Their questioning eyes

Asking aloud all the questions which were prohibited on their tongues

Enough of the rhetoric

Enough of the sacrificed lives

Enough of shattered dreams and souls

All in the name of honour

How many more daughters and sisters and wives do you need?

To fill those graves of honour

Emasculated identities and faces

Torn souls

Creases of face skin


Their eyes

Their faces

Their hands

Their numb bodies

And dashed down minds

Sighing out loud

Isn’t the number enough

In the name of honour?


Scars filled bodiesWounded hearts

And empty souls.

But don’t spread your hands

In front of someone

Because that is only going to get you more pain and longing hours.

Go back to

Where you came from

That’s your cage

Your corner

That’s where you belong.


But where would unattended feelings go?

Where would the unattended feelings go?
Would they be eased out in the cracking of knuckles or the shift of postures?

Would they be smoked out or consumed in the cups of coffee?

Would they be ignored in the aimless walks in the park or a drive through the city?

Would they be kept aside while talking to a stranger coming close or a closer one going strange?

Would they be watched out in movies or read in books or gazed out at ceilings and walls?

But the question remains, at the end of it all… Where would the unattended feelings go?