Steamed Windows


The windows of the car were steaming up. The girl shivered. It was getting cold now. She switched the A.C. one step lower. Through the fogged windows, the world was a magical place. She could only see the brightest areas of the market place, which made the effect stunning. She could see the headlamps of a car speeding away, a motorbike trying to over-take it. She could see the street lamp across the road, spreading light across the market place. She could see the illuminated sign boards, with broad letters and perfectly square corners. All she had to do was roll down the window, and this magical enchantment would transform into a hot August night, bustling with life and noise, a busy market place where everyone was hurrying. She reached to roll it down, but then changed her mind. She had witnessed those scenes far too many times. The fogged window provided her with a scene from an enchanted land. A land that could be hers entirely… where she could decide what was to be and what not. She let her imagination run wild for a moment. Just a moment. Because the next second she was roused by the magnificent roar of thunder. Now she rolled down the window, at last.

A tired sleepy girl in a red velvet nightie just settled into her bed covers. It must have been about 11’o’clock and she was exhausted. The day’s events had been hectic. She knew also that the rest of her family were already fast asleep. It was a hot night. The windows were open and the fan was making queer sounds. She decided to call the electrician the following day. There was just so much to be done in the house before the guests would arrive.The guests would have to sleep in her room, of course. Then maybe she could sleep in her sister’s room? Yes, she would have to.

A majestic roar of thunder broke the chain of thoughts in her weary mind. She raised her head for a minute and scanned the outside through her window. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky for a split second. The girl sighed. A thunderstorm, she thought. Then she closed her eyes and muttered a prayer of protection.

The old man straightened his bent back with some difficulty. He made his way to his bicycle. He stopped, and with one hand took out a few hundred rupee notes from his pocket. He smiled. He had had a day full of hard work, and he had put in over time. This would get his daughter the clothes she needed. She was getting married. Most of the preparations were complete already. Though he did need to pay the electrician. And the tailor. He frowned. He mounted the bicycle with some difficulty because his arms ached. In the morning he worked as a gardener, then he would come to the market place and do the welding. Today, however, he had also been chopping wood. But quite simply, he was tired. It was 11’o’clock. He hoped his wife had his dinner ready. He was starving. He scanned the marketplace with weary eyes, searching for his son. There was a car parked under a tree, some distance away. The engine was on, and the windows were steamed up! How odd! He wondered why the windows were steamed up. A roar of thunder made him jump. A thunderstorm? He needed to get home quickly. He saw the window rolling down. A man was running towards the car. The window now revealed the delicate face of a beautiful lady wrapped in a green scarf. She must know the man, because she was smiling at him. And then a flash of lightning…

The window allowed the hot air inside the air conditioned car. It felt nice. The car was too cold. She looked outside searching for her brother. She didn’t have much difficulty. He was running towards the car. She smiled. She was actually getting anxious. It was getting late. It was 11’o’clock! But now she smiled in relief as she saw he had her art supplies with him. For a moment her gaze wandered to an old man with some hundred rupee notes in his hands. Then she saw his face light up first with lightning and then with horror. She traced his gaze. Her imaginings from a while ago were no longer imaginings. Without thinking her hands opened the door that creaked on its hinges, and ran to the now lifeless body of her brother, struck down by that bolt of lightning. The condensation on the window of the car found it to be too much, and the tears which should have been on her tears now traced the edges of the window.



When unaccustomed eyes meet the Light,

They either love it,

Or hate it.

Either you yearn for the Darkness,

Or you dread it. 


(Basically I wrote this when I went to the kitchen at night and I switched on the light 🙂 )

How do you think it felt?

Hey, remember how we all met that Sunday? Do you know how excited I was? Do you know how depressed I felt when I came back home?

‘Oh really, why?’

WHY? Why? Well let’s see, how do you think it feels to be sitting around all your friends and being left out?

How do you think it feels to be the only “sad” phoneless person who supposedly has “no life” because their not on social media?

You know of the three hours we were there, we took more than 500 pictures. AND i’m not even exaggerating. The endless ‘selfies’, ‘group pics’, ‘candids’ and whatnot. Honestly, we took more pictures than we talked.

How do you think it felt when EVERYONE was talking about their social media and your the only one who isn’t? “Hey you didn’t like my post.” “You know what she commented on this?!” “Add me on Instagram! Now! I need more followers!” I mean seriously, why don’t you all go and live inside your phones, somehow.

How do you think i felt when you, my supposedly “best friend” ignored me when I tried to make conversation of some meaning? Oh, right. We were meeting after such a long time. You didn’t want a heavy conversation. Or maybe you guys didn’t want a conversation at all? I mean we were either taking pictures or eating, right? I should have caught on.

And then I thought we were actually going to have some fun when you guys pointed out the seesaw. Like it used to be when we were in school. But can you understand my confusion after everyone deserted it after the posing-and-posting-picture-on-fb? I mean, come on.

And then I was confused when everyone decided to go out for a walk in the lawn-in the sun. Normally going in the sun would be a preposterous idea I mean who walks in the heat? But hey it was the ideal location for taking pictures.

It used to be more fun when I was a kid. At least I had some friends to talk to. Now the only time we talk is through WhatsApp and I’m so fed up of this texting business!

So just so you know, you guys have let me down. It’s been two weeks and you said you would read my blog and tell me what you think. And really I guess you’re so busy with stuff that you didn’t have the time. Like you were that Sunday. Yeah I understand going through your snap-stories takes time. I know. It’s okay, I guess. I didn’t feel hurt or anything, you know.It’s cool.


(The following is a rant. You can not read it if you want, okay? It’s only negative energy being expressed in a super exaggerated way.)

Sometimes when you meet a person for the first time, your very inspired by them. Look what a great personality! What charming manners! What a genuine smile!

But the truth is, there is no genuine smile. It is only an act. Because they are hypocrites.

I’m not saying everyone is a hypocrite. There are genuine people out there. But they are rare.

“Charity begins at home.” I wish people could understand this. I mean in Islam, even a smile is an act of charity… a genuine smile. But some people just preserve this charity for people who do not and can not know them. So the people who are in dire need of this charity, the people who are around them all the time, who live with them, are denied this.

Being nice to people who do not know you has no meaning if the people who live with you suffer.I know of people who are known for their ‘compassion’ and ‘sympathy’. I know for a fact that they do not care even a little bit for the very people who they “comfort”. The people who live with them cringe and burn but these hypocrites don’t care. Hurting someone’s feelings and being mean to them and then swearing you just don’t have the heart to be mean to ANYBODY on the ENTIRE world. Stop contradicting yourself! Not only are you confusing the person but your’e also hurting them even more. Then don’t complain if they don’t want to talk to you or appear to be annoyed or offended or whatever. Just give the person their space, let them heal the wounds before you hurt them again. Don’t give people the impression that you are someone who anybody can talk to if you simply don’t care. Don’t be a hypocrite. Because you can hide the ugliness and nastiness and the RBF from the world but you can’t hide it from your own blood. Be whatever with yourself but just give it a break, will ya? We get really sick and tired too, you know. I’m not saying I’m perfect, but just come down a notch! You are not above the rest of us and them. Stop complaining! Stop, stop, just STOP!

And i know i was going to write about hypocrisy and not about hypocrites but it just turned out that way, okay?



A few days ago, i wandered into the back garden, and my thoughts wandered back to 1947. I wondered about the events that took place, acts of such ruthless treachery that even now the older generation shivered at the mere thought. I scooped up some soil in my hand, and thought, was this once covered by the blood of a Muslim?

Did these trees, which I meet regularly, witness acts of unspeakable evil?

My imagination took me to the past, and terrifying events unfolded before my eyes.

I wondered about my great-grandmother, who had only ever recounted the story of her migration to us once. I remembered that day as we all sat in a circle, as her eyes flickered in pain, her face creased with the fear she had suppressed for so long but which had now taken hold of her once again. More than once she stopped, reliving the past, refusing to tell us some of the Sikh attacks she had endured. Her eyes welled us as she recounted the images of infants being torn into two pieces in front of her eyes. She told us that in the refugee camps other women urged her to suffocate her two-month-old child, the child that grew up to be my Grandfather. She was knew that in the event of the Sikh getting hold of her child, it would not survive. And she had another two year old as well. She smiled as she recalled a particular woman who helped her to carry her children barefoot, to Pakistan. On reaching Pakistan they found a place to live – a house of a Sikh who was about to marry of his daughter. The Sikh had fled, but the entire house was filled with her Jahez. To this day the two beds in her room are from that house.

I then remembered another particular morning, when i had been visiting my maternal grandparents. I had my breakfast with my Grandfather and  my sister while every one else slept. My Grandfather began telling us his story. As my sister hastened to write everything down, I simply listened as he remembered that the river Bias, which was near his village, had turned red, like the colour of the blood of the innocents it held. He remembered that his mother, a bold woman who could go from Burj to Ludhiana alone on horse back, was such an excellent swimmer that she could cross the river Bias. He remembered as his elder two brothers carried him, then only a seven year old, and his younger brother on their shoulders. He had been told not to look down, but of course this was inevitable, and he saw dead bodies cover the earth as far as the eye could see. He recalled that he would scream in fear, and that no words could soothe him. He remembered the lorry which took them to a Muhajir Camp, a Refugee Camp. The journey was horrible. With practically nothing to eat, and because of disease and injuries, the over-crowded lorry soon had to face a number of deaths. But with the danger of the Sikh, they had no time to stop and bury the dead. They simply stopped, hid the body among some bushes, and continued. And when they did reach their beloved homeland, to them it was nothing less than heaven, despite their extreme poverty.

To me, this is what Pakistan is.These are the sacrifices our ancestors made. My Great Grandfather had one sister, and she actually lost her sanity after these traumatic experiences. Pakistan was made with the blood of our ancestors. Lets not waste it away…

That’s why this day means so much to us.



If only I could be

Isolated, left alone, uncared for,

By all and no hypocrites

Should befall my path of misery

Then I should let the cry

Escape these lips with freedom

The cry of hurt and pain and grief

The tears should I then allow to drop

I would be at last at liberty

I wouldn’t strive for friendship

Nor would I be grieved at the loss of it

This air I could at last exhale

The eyes would be allowed to see

The body would move at liberty

The hands allowed to feel.

I would not be used

No hypocrisy should affect me

No feeling could control me

No person could arrest me

In something too powerful

The magic once charming would loose its charm

And I would be at last free!


If only I could be…

(Something I wrote when I was thirteen)