Anxiety

It’s that time of the year again. Summer. Sweat.

And anxiety.

I went to sleep really late last night — half one, or maybe later. Seven thirty I was up again, that weird feeling in my legs back again. The feeling I call anxiety. Oh well, getting up in the mornings is quite refreshing, yes? No. I spent the entire day wasting time. Plugging in my earphones, listening to nothing, wandering from this room to that. I didn’t even clean today, which is unusual. However, I did wash my part of the dishes. But that’s pretty much it.

There’s nothing I did today which would make me proud of myself, or even satisfied. I don’t know why I’m like this. I haven’t been reading as much as I’d like to, I haven’t been exercising, but most importantly, I haven’t been writing. Two weeks I spent in heavenly bliss, each day so inspiring I could’ve written fourteen books, but I was too tired. And now, I’m back home, washing dishes to fill up time, and I’m not writing? If I don’t write then I will forget, if I forget it will be as if I never lived, and that will take me back to depression. Not as a relapse as in the mental disease, but the seasonal uninspired me that visits twice a year.

Anxiety. Of what? Perhaps it is time for me to face it, and I do need an audience, so hear me out. Anxiety of the future. Someone told me not to think of the rest of my life, but just set small goals like five year plans. This, although wise, has triggered off another train of anxiety. What if, after five years, I am as now, a nobody? What if I never accomplish anything in my life? What if I never achieve the one thing I want most in life — influence? As stupid as this might sound, I want to change the way things are. My country has been through a lot, and we are trying to improve the “international image” but let’s face it. Things are far from ideal. We have a long way to go.

As I write this, the ex-prime minister of my country is being arrested at Allama Iqbal international airport. Can you see my point? A thing you should know about Pakistanis — we’re always on the roads. If we’re celebrating, the roads are blocked. If we’re mourning, we are on the roads. If we’re protesting, you get me. The mobile networks have been switched off. The entire nation is glued to the T.V. screens, where no transmission of the arrest is being shown. But we’re still watching, hearing the anchors say the same things over and over again. My country is in chaos. Security personnel everywhere, trying to prevent trouble, trying to keep the peace. There are protestors still, I can see the roads on the tv as I write this, but at least it is contained.

Two blasts have been recorded so far. One in Peshawar, leaving 30 dead, one in Balochistan, leaving 70 dead. I’m not particularly an Imran Khan fan, but something he said has stayed with me. Something along the lines of an increase in terrorist activities every time Nawaz Shareef is in trouble. 100 people in two (or maybe three?) days? 100 is, for us, just a number. A number so meaningless nobody is talking about it. Mubashir Luqman’s saying there’s approximately 7-8 thousand people in protest. Well, I’m glad. We prayed and prayed for this man to face the consequences of his actions. And perhaps this is it? Who’s to know.

What does the future hold? A question that might just give me a nervous breakdown at some point. I could tear my hair out, and not just metaphorically.

What does the future hold? The corrupt prime minister has been flown to Rawalpindi to jail, along with his daughter. So what now? With elections so close, I really do not know. Who can say? But please, please, dear God, make it something good, my people could use a break. Perhaps you’d like an insider view of what it is being Pakistani, in real life? I could give you one.

What does the future hold? For me, I mean. What will I do? A little girl asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I couldn’t answer. All I could think of was my dream of becoming a dictator, but could I really say that to her? I’ve tried talking about this with multiple people, but so far nobody can take me seriously. Lol. Perks of being me.

But now? What does the future hold? Will I make another mistake? Will I regret my choices (provided I get round to making them) for the rest of my life? Will this blog grow? Will people read this far? Who is to know.

Dear God, the world is messed up. My country, which is all I have, is messed up. Life is messed up. So please, please, show us all a way. Give us a miracle. A Quaid-e-Azam-Allama-Iqbal-type miracle.

If I’ve bored you, I apologise. But perhaps you will be excited to know that the Rock in the River went to the River with the Rocks? Not the river that inspired this blog, but any river is love. I’ll come back soon, I hope. But for now, send¬† me (and my country and the world) a prayer! We must not lose our optimism for the future!

In urdu we say, “Umeed par duniya qaim hai.” The world exists on hope.

I’m off to make some tea, before my mum takes off her chappal (I joke). Who knows, if all else fails, I might just open a dhabba! (Please we all know I make the best chai)

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Vacant Stares

The river, it flows

Reflecting images in its course

It gushes forth, every second

A new image

Images never seen by humanity

Images the river hides

Images. The rocks’ secrets.

Of everything that took place

But wasn’t ever seen by eyes

The eyes that

When witnessed miracles

Nature’s greatest

Blinked.

And turned away

Often looked down

At artificial screens

In the presence of Grandeur.

So nature, in revenge,

Feeling insulted

At something the Creator

of the moon created

Being rejected,

Took away their sights

So that they never saw

And all that remained

Were vacant stares


I know I’m not doing these prompts everyday, and BELIEVE ME I had some pretty cool ideas too, but I just didn’t have the time! Also, I love how they make me think! It’s so fun. If you haven’t tried this already, why don’t you check it out here? Also, I’m doing two different prompts at the same time. So you can check out the other one in the previous post.

Check this one out here:

https://puttingmyfeetinthedirt.com/2017/10/01/october-writing-prompts/

Faith 

The elders of the masjid sat down in a circle, and the old man they had chosen as their sarbarah (leader) sat at the head. The Masjid committee looked rather worried. It was jummah, Friday. On Friday they held a meeting, and opened the two charity boxes. The old man was old, but rather handsome, graceful in his white hair, a brown safari suit. Though his years had been rough, they had been unable to wither him completely. He beckoned one of the men of the Masjid to begin. 

The man started. “Our funds have finished. The renovations in the Masjid simply have to stop. We can’t afford it.”

The old man said:”The funds have finished? But how much money do you need? I’m sure we can cover the cost when we open the charity boxes.”

Usually, when they opened the boxes, they got fifty to sixty thousand rupees.

“Sahab, we need at least two lakhs and seventy five thousand rupees!”

“Let’s not stop the renovations yet. Look here everybody, don’t lose faith! Have tawwakul in the Al-Mighty’s ways. All we have to do is try. Leave the rest to Him. It is His job to do things. Let’s open the charity boxes for now. He will surley do something about this.”

All though not everybody was completely sure, they felt comforted at the old man’s speech. The boys were made to open and count the money. Out of one of the boxes, came out a taped and sealed package. They put it aside, and continued counting. There were sixty thousand rupees, as expected.

“What is that package over there?” Asked the old man.

“We don’t know sahab. We want you to open it.”

“Oh, hurry up. Let’s just get this over with.”

“No, no, we want you to open it. Who knows what’s inside.”

So the old man took the package and ripped the tape. It had several layers to it, but eventually, he got to the paper itself. As he ripped it apart, his eyes widened with surprise. Inside were new, fresh thousand-rupee notes. The committee was surprised.

“See, I told you. It is His job. All we need to do is have faith. Tawwakul. And look what he does!”

The boy were made to count the money. 

“How much is it?”    ” Sahab, it is two lakh rupees!”

The boys were then questioned. Had they seen anyone put the package there? No, but one of the boys had seen a person put a taped and sealed envelope. Did the package have any names or addresses or phone numbers? No. Then how did the package get in the box? Nobody knew.

It is strange, the works of God. The imaam thanked the anonymous gentleman who had done such a noble deed in his khutbah.

So I guess miracles do still happen. We just don’t believe anymore. Perhaps I should mention that the old man is, infact, my grandfather, MashAllah.