A Conversation

"Heyyy!"
"Hi!"
"What's wrong?"
"What?"
"I said, what's wrong?"
"Why would you ask that?"
"Because it seems like something's not right."
"Well, yeah."
"So..?"
"So what?"
"What's not right?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because you don't look fine. I don't like seeing you this way."
"I don't look fine because something's not right?"
"Yeah. That's just what you said! That there's something wrong."
"You said that, not me!"
"Okay, it doesn't matter who said it. Just tell me what's wrong, already!"
"How can my telling you about it can make the wrong right?"
"It won't make it right. But I could help, you know."
"You can't!"
"You never know."
"I know. You can't."
"Try me?"
"Can you fix things?"
"Pretty much, yeah. Did you break anything?"
"How do you fix things?"
"It takes time, and intricacies. But the end result is worth it."
"How long does it take?"
"It depends on what fixing material are you using and what is it that's getting fixed."
"What's the best fixing material. The best you've ever used?"
"I have this fixing material that makes everything look as good as new. Not a trace of fault does it show!"
"Does it hide the marks or scratches?"
"Almost, yeah."
"Did you ever try to fix a mirror with it?"
"You broke a mirror?"
"You didn't answer my question!"
"Well, you can't fix a mirror. But don't worry, I'll get you a new one."
"You can't."
"Why? How expensive can it be?"
"It's priceless."
"Where did you get it from?"
"From life."
"Well, that's weird! Why didn't I ever get a mirror from life?"
"You have it. We all have it."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I broke mine. You don't realize you have it, until you see its shards picking on you!"
"I'm not getting you."
"That's sad to hear. Just an honest advice, take care of your mirror! It's very fragile. Not everyone is worth having it. And next time if someone asks you if you can fix things, think again before you answer that question. Now if you excuse me, I have some shards that need to be pulled out."

That Strange Little Lady

She picked the pen again today
Yes, I saw her
That strange little thing
Immersed in her desk
Lost in her thoughts
Fingers moving
Alphabet scrawling on the paper
Like a storm
Right on the paper
Right from her young heart
That strange little heart 
With pain, unseen
But not unfelt 
Just another day
What makes her stay
What makes her fray
The reason for her dismay
I saw her again
Drowned in her sorrow
Has she foreseen an empty tomorrow?
Immersed in the cup of her hands
No tears, no fears
What then makes her eyes look so hollow?
She's strange
That little lady
I wonder why
But if she weren't strange
She would never have
Caught my eye
And the sky
It sees her plight
Her very own might
Whatever caused her blight
If I could, I would've snatched that
But it's like her jewel
A precious gem
Never does she let anyone 
See its hem
A mystery in her own
A kingdom she runs on the throne 
Of her soul
That strange big soul
And that precious little lady
I saw her again
Strolling alone
In the fields, no merry
What a gloomy January
Is she waiting for the night to fall
So she could see the fireworks
Dance in her eyeball
Throw their spell
On her soul
Like she once told me
How much she adored them
Once.. 
When she was not a lost soul
Who screamed out through scribbling the words
That strange little lady
Yes, I saw her again.

To Whom It May Concern

I Love You!
And do you know what does it mean when you tell someone that you love them?
That you care about them.
And do you know what caring for someone means?
That you would never hurt them.
And do you know how would I do that?
By making sure that I never disappoint you.
And do you know how do I try never to disappoint you?
By respecting your hopes that you, wittingly or unwittingly, have associated with me.
And do you know how do I respect your hopes?
By respecting your values.
And do you know how do I respect your values?
By weighing them against my actions.
And do you know what controls my actions?
Your presence. In my mind, in my thoughts, in my heart.
And do you know why are you present there, all the time?
Because, I love you.

Yusra.

A Story

Today, I shall tell you a story, like a raconteur. But this story doesn't start with a 'Once upon a time', nor does it end on a '..happily ever after'. It's a different kind of story. Maybe it's not a story after all. Maybe the raconteurs have better stories than the one I'm about to tell.

It is a story, far away from an epiphany, close enough to an untold fact. While I was climbing up my initial steps of the ladder of my life, I was told a clear difference between good and bad. Truth was good, lie was bad. It was easy, if one day I didn't bring my homework, I knew it would be a good thing to say the truth. It was as simple as that. But as I continued stepping on the ladder, I came to know about the things that weren't told to us. It turned out that such things were to be figured out on our own. Like sometimes when people are telling you the truth, they are actually lying. It was so confusing to come across this realization. Everyone whom I met on my way, kept on telling me that I'm too innocent to differentiate between the good and the bad. I laughed at them for I clearly knew the difference between good and bad. But the joke was on me. They were right about the grey areas. I used to rely on the 12 coloured pencils set. It didn't have the grey colour, you see. I still don't know how to cope with seeing what's not there. Why have they made their lives so complicated? It used to be so easy. Why do, like they say, I have to look conspiratorially at a person who's good to me? Why does good has to be bad? Why does black has to be grey? They say I'm innocent? Does knowing about the real good and bad mean that I'm innocent? Wow. Why did they teach me about being innocent, then? I'm a bad judge of character. Tell me you're good and I'd believe you with this hope that you, like me, also know that same old good we've been taught about, when we were kids. Wait, does it make me a bad judge of character? Shouldn't it make me an honest judge of character? Wait, why do I have to judge, anyway? Who has given me the right to do that? I have a better substitute, I'd like to call it believing. I believe bad is just a messed-up good. I believe bad is for those who are ignorant about the good.

So I've been left in wonders since the day I've come to this realization about people wearing invisible masks to conceal the reality. What's even more surprising, that everyone else seems to know about this little secret already. Even more ridiculous is the fact that this secret is not a secret since everyone else seems to know about it but nobody says it openly because an untold fact is never told openly. I don't like untold facts. What's with being so puzzling? So this story, altogether, is close to a riddle. Either it's a riddle whose answer everyone knows, but nobody tells. Or, it's a riddle whose answer nobody knows and everybody tells. This story, like I mentioned above doesn't end here. Is this even a story? Because, good usually defeats the bad in a story. Well, it was supposed to be that way, I was almost about to defeat the bad by the mighty good, when they told me that the good is not actually good. They ruined my story. Now I can't really tell whether the good defeated the bad, like it's supposed to do, because the good could just be a camouflaged bad. I'm not liking it. 

I still believe in my version of good. I still believe in the old version of good. I don't see any point in the invention of the improvised version. Why is believing made so hard? I want to believe. I want to keep believing. Can I count on myself for believing others? Would this story ever get a 'happy ever after'.

I'm not a good raconteur.

The Vicious, Dilemmatic Circle of Her Life

I know a girl. She seems quite enigmatic to me, running round in a circle. She calls it the vicious circle of her life. I say, the vicious circle is her life. Her life is a set of dilemmas, intermingled into each other, making it more knotty and complicated. But she has a power that unties every knot of her life by just a single tug; the tug of forbearance. Just one tug and the thread of her life gets so smooth before her eyes. It's easy, she says. She tells herself that it does not matter, that it's all in her head. She tells herself that there is something special waiting for her. She tells herself that she has got to be patient. And that's how she loosens every knot on the thread of her existence.

But she can't avoid seeing doubt raising its head, everytime she soothes herself with the pills of forbearance. She can't help but wonder what if this whole journey won't be any good to her, in the end. What if the path she had chosen wasn't meant for her feet to tread on. What if she'd never get what she wanted for letting it go that easily. What if what she was expecting to become a gift, would turn out to be a punishment. 

But she wants to keep going. So she always tries so hard not to let doubt peek into her life. And this is why she is in a constant battle with herself. I see her battling with the matrix of thoughts that take her from the battlefield to the mountains to the paradise and back to the battlefield again. The problem is, I can't help her. The problem is, I don't think she needs any help because I think this problem itself would take her to where the solution lies. The problem is, I'm not sure if my solution to her problem is actually what she wants as a solution.
Her life is a set of dilemmas..

Money: The Right to Belittle

Picture..

A wedding function, happening in all its grandeur. Beautiful ladies, wearing shimmery dresses. Lads wearing classy suits. You being one of the spectators, enjoying the fun filled night. Colourful lights dancing on the dance floor. People eating food, sharing smiles, laughter, jokes. Among those people are the relatives and friends of the bride and groom. There are cameramen too, to capture the beautiful memories that would be cherished for a long time. Friends and relatives are coming on the stage to sit with the bride and groom, to give their blessings and presents to them. The cameraman is videoing the party. He's recording as the relatives are coming and sitting on the stage. Here comes another family and sits on the stage and showers money on the bride and groom. What a splendid display of money! One of the DJs, playing music for the wedding party, asks a kid, who's also with the DJ crew, to go and collect the money that was just given away for the couple's blessing. The kid, about 6 years old, does as has been asked, and starts collecting the notes lying on the feet of the guests on stage before somebody else claims them. As he gets nearer to the note sitting at the feet of the groom and draws his hand to pick it up, the groom hits him with his powerful kick. The boy rolls over from the stage and on to the ground. Before he comprehends what has just happened, he quickly runs over to his crew, bewildered. One of the crew guys pats him on the back and comforts him so that he doesn't start crying. The boy is strong. He is not saying anything, just staring ahead at nothing in particular and trying not to let his tears come out. This hasn't affected anyone. Neither the groom, nor his relatives and friends. They all are still smiling for the camera. The music is still playing. People are still laughing. Nobody has been affected. Nobody, but that boy. Because he has a self respect too that just got kicked in front of a throng of people.

What you just pictured was what I had actually witnessed. I was wondering what that boy was staring at. He was seeing straight ahead of him, but not looking at anything. He was probably thinking who has given anyone the right to treat him the way he just got treated. Why money brings such behaviour along with it? Either he was wishing to get as rich as the groom was, or he was wishing to never get that rich for the possible consequential changes it would bring along, in his behaviour.

While I was seeing all that, I was getting embarrassed for my presence there. I wanted to run away from that party but I didn’t, because I’m not as strong as that boy was who stayed there even when he was thrown away from the stage with a kick.
 I was feeling ashamed because he probably hated me too for being there, for being one of the spectators who just watched him being kicked but didn’t do anything.
I was feeling ashamed for sitting in the same hall as that boy, not because of my job, but with a proper invitation.

Suddenly, money started seeming like one disgracing yet necessary object, to me.

When did money become the authority to look down upon those who are stronger and nobler than the tycoons out there?
The answer came flying toward me: Since the advent of mortal life. 

Who are You?

Who are you, stealing my right to live away from me?

Who are you, deciding to take happiness away from me?

Who are you, I ask and I ask with all my might

Why can't I grasp you when you are in my sight?

Who are you, not flinched by the mourning of the innocent?

Why can't the crying keep you up all night, of the motherless infant?

Who are you, murdering people, killing peace, stabbing love?

I write this as I see the black smoke moving up above

Who are you, tell me oh tell me, for I really want to know

Human? No! That word is too pure for you, do you not think so?

Vulnerable - A Page from My Diary

That feeling creeps up all over me, once again. Unintentionally, they make me feel like whatever I do is, or going to turn into a mistake. I feel like a big chunk of my life has been eaten up, then. I feel like I cannot ace living life, then. I feel like a failure, then. And that is not even the last thing I’d ever want to feel. They give me a feeling that I don’t belong with this life. They, without quite knowing, are killing that part of my brains, where dreams are manufactured. They, without realizing, are making me weaker and more vulnerable to the evilness lurking around me, around us. Is it the price I have to give for being loved? I don’t know. But whatever it is, it is anything but that appreciative pat I’d like to receive for moving on toward the piles of dreams I have got right there before me. 

Trust, is it too much to ask for?

Turns out, it is.

Even a tinge of sadness is unavoidable. It’s like a drop of ink that trickles into the clear puddle of happiness, disperses there, and makes the pool cloudy, making its existence conspicuous.