I am at peace. It’s a different feeling, one I don’t experience a lot. I haven’t said anything, not even to myself, but I realize this feeling is my heart in shukar. Gratefulness. It’s like I have conquered the world with my love. I could do anything at this moment, I am invincible. And yet, as a very sensible friend of mine once told me: Feelings are fleeting. I am so overwhelmed I do not even know what I can do to seize the day. It is a crazy, beautiful world indeed. I’ve realized I don’t look at people’s faces enough, although they are beautiful. I found myself trying to conjure up a few faces from memory and it pained me. I should pay more attention to the present, to living in the moment. So today I looked at all the beauty that is a human face. So many delicate movements, features. And all so entirely unique. It gave me a childish joy, as if time itself had bestowed upon me the revelation of the best kept secrets. I know for a fact that had I the opportunity, I could’ve sat the leaders of the world and sort their differences through nothing but love. Because what is love if not positive energy, and that is all we need.
“Ae watan ke sajeelay jawanon” by nur jahan plays in the background. And I look at old and new pictures. I am so entirely nostalgic. Perhaps it is because of the tears that flowed earlier today, they took with them all negative energy. I feel like I have been reborn.
Mere naghmay tumharay liye hain. Mere naghmay tumharay liye hain. Ae watan ke sajeelay jawanon…
love
Tales of a Sunset
As we were leaving Islamabad, it was almost maghrib. I had been dreading the long journey ahead. Tedious hours of just sitting in a car! Drivers everywhere, travelling, travelers, stressed about their destinations. The road between Islamabad and the M-2 was still under construction. For a split second, my gaze wandered to the sky. The split second turned into aeons. It was a watercolour painting. A perfectly blended painting; yellow gradually fading to pale yellow, pale yellow turning to a forget-me-not blue. Red streaks across where the clouds were closest to the sun, reflecting fury and rage. Grey streaks above the red, where the clouds were impermeable to the ferocity of the sun. A tiny silver crescent just beginning to peek out shyly.
Amongst angry drivers and big machines drilling away noisily, there was a calm. Amongst the chaos that is found on these roads on a Sunday night (as people return after the weekend), there was a sort of serenity spread out on the world. For a moment, I forgot my stress. Everything that had made me so tense this weekend, and that everyone had told me to let go of, I now realised was worthless. I “lived in the moment”, as my sister had been telling me to. Traveling never brought out the best in me, but today nature itself brought me relief. My face relaxed. Although there was no one I had to convey my joy to, although all this was just a feeling in the very depths of my heart, a tiny smile took over. Since winter departed two days ago, and spring had not yet entirely come, the trees were still dried up, leafless, lifeless. Perfect against the backdrop of the sky, a postcard.
We were now on the motorway. The red streaks were fading away as the blue slowly took over. Here, trees lined both sides of the road. The trees had leaves. Green fields spread out for miles on every side. It like was one of those expensive paintings one would expect to see in a huge victorian mansion. It was getting dark. The sky was always the hero. Trees silhouetted against a sky so intricate. Sometimes a hill came, sometimes a huge rock outlined against the sky, all seeking attention, all failing against a sky so beautiful.
Every second looking out of a moving car changed the scenery. Every second the sky and the fields and the silhouetted trees made a new masterpiece. Every second it showed the craftsmanship of the One behind it.
It was Him. Allah. He was the Artist. He was the Art.
The shy crescent now shone quite boldly. The red disappeared entirely, the wrath of the sun wrapped up by the gentle blue of the night. In the distance I could now see lights; villages and small towns located at intervals. Eventually the light blue turned to a rich, royal blue which had no place for yellows and oranges. Only the silver of the moon or the distant stars could conquer a sky so overpowering.
It was strange to think of this sky. The same sky shone over refugees, over starving, diseased children, over mourning mothers, over depressed and oppressed people. The same sky shone over crime, hate, injustice and intolerance. And yet, it was this same sky that painted a picture for me, for my peace, stretching for miles and miles across. It was this same sky that inspired poetry.
And I rested my head against the window; once again worries returning to my tired head, dreading all that was to come, the night clouding my thinking and wrapping around my head.
Brotherhood of the World
So this beautiful person nominated me for this award. I cannot thank her enough for all the support she endlessly gives me, such a gemđ Go follow her!
https://accidentallyinked.wordpress.com
Anyways,
The Rules:
1. Thank the person who nominated you and link back to their blog.<
. Answer the questions sent to you.<
. Nominate around ten bloggers.<
. Create your set of questions for your nominees.<
. List the rules and display the Brotherhood Of The World logo in your post and/or blog.
Questions from inky:
1. Which emoji describes your life situation right now?
The emoji is yet to be created.
2. When was the last time you read a book? What was it?
It was so long ago that I donât even remember đ I THINK it may have been âThe Forty Rules of Loveâ. However, this book has brought to my mind a very tragic incident that occurred today.
So basically a girl in my class borrowed it from me. Now, I am VERY particular about my books. For some reason, I decided to trust her. And then, after a long wait, it was returned today. With a very sheepish smile. She handed me the book and I thanked her (why tho?) and then she said she took REAL good care and I smiled nervously and then she said something like oh âexcept for this tiny stainâ. And in my head the word âtinyâ was the size of a full stop. And then I looked down, fearing the worst. But could there be worse than worst?! Yes. An ink spot. The size of a seal. In the centre of the beautiful cover. I couldâve screamed. However, you will be proud to know, I kept my cool. And, right then I said âOh donât worry about it.â
I was burning inside.
3. What advice would you give to someone who wishes to start a blog?
Make sure whatever you write, or, you know, whatever pictures you post, are original. If you write, it must come from deeeep inside you. I can see through shallow words (and believe me, aLOT of other people can, too)
Donât write something because itâs trending. Like these days depression is a trend. It angers me to a point that I canât explain! Itâs like mocking actual people who suffer. Have some respect.
What you write must be YOURS. And, your words should sound like YOU. You must resonate with the frequency of the universe in a uniquely YOU way. That is how the universe will recognise you. If you disguise yourself with another, comparatively better known frequency, your talent will be masked. Your own frequency wonât be picked up by anyone and that other frequency never accepted you in the first place.
4. Would you rather live without your phone for a month or live without WiFi for a week?
Idk…. without WiFi for a week?đ
5. If there is a new book and a movie of it, which one will you chose? The book or movie and why?
The book EVERY TIME. Because I am eventually going to try to read the book, and if I know the storyline already, you wonât catch me investing so much time into the book! Plus, donât movies usually ruin books? Iâd rather read the original words of the writer. It was the writerâs piece.
I am a rebel! Not nominating anyone specifically, but everyone generally! Let the love spread!!*
*Me being me, hiding laziness behind the name of the rebellious.
Pleeeease, if youâre reading this (which you are, yes! Yes!) attempt this. I know you are an amazing blogger. Because not a lot of people read here, and I know the ones that do, and if you do not, well, thereâs really not much I can do. Except send you a prayer? But anyways. Appreciate yourself. Thereâs no shame in that! Just answer accidentallyinkedâs questions. Thereâs two people who know that you (yes you!) are an amazing soul inside.
One of them is you.
The other one is me.
A Wish.
In a land of absolute normalcy, and nothing out of the ordinary, there was a girl. A girl who was completely normal, ordinary. There she was, in class that day, the 20th of October. The professor droned on and on, but her fragile mind was on other unnecessary and unimportant things. The girl was nostalgic. With her heart split across three continents, this wasnât an infrequent condition. There were smells she longed to inhale and voices she wanted to hear. There was a certain temperature of the air she wished was there.
She thought of waffles and shortbread. She thought of flavoured yogurt and freshly made finger fish. With beans. And sweet corn. And flavoured water.
She thought of a house that would be warm and comforting against biting cold winds. She thought of the maternal presence in that house. She thought of the last time she had hugged her. The way her short plump figure had completely encompassed her entire being in a split second. Perhaps she had not realised what she was to the girl. If she had, she wouldâve held on longer. She thought of all those times she had woken up from unpleasant dreams to find a familiar, comforting snore gently rock her back to sleep. She thought of all the times she had been fussed on upon, the many summer holidays spent in ignorant bliss. The way her grandmother had tried to make the most of the every meeting, to somehow cover the distance of an entire continent.
She thought of a tiny bundle of joy, blessed with the most beautiful smile, barely a year old. She thought of her niece, the way she giggled when she was thrown in the air. The way her smile melted the hardest heart, the way she spread love and joy indiscriminately with just her presence.
There came to her mind an old, fragile-looking man too, with endless grace and dignity. A man who was a living miracle (literally). A man who was the most splendid example of resilience, hardwork, determination, and above all, will power. A man loved and respected by so many, but she considered herself so lucky to be loved by him. A man she looked up to, her grandfather. Countless times that old wrinkled face had smiled upon her, as if her insignificant being was actually the source of his pride. A brown face, sometimes appearing in her memory sitting in an intense Punjabi sun, other times laying on a pillow, sleeping in front of the fire, cozy against the frost outside that so many Punjabis yearned for but never experienced. Most of the times, though, he was either dressed in a three-piece suit, or a crisp shalwar kameez, actively pacing about, never a dull moment. The best storyteller.
There were other memories on this continent, some personal, others not as much. Her wandering mind, however, moved to another continent, one she had never been to, but which contained a piece of her heart. A family, more beloved to her than belgian chocolate, if chocolate was a scale. A family she hoped to see again, soon. But the prospects looked dim.
Finally, the third continent. The continent she currently found her physical being on. A land containing almost all her memories, some sweet, some sour. A land where she was thankful to still have some of the people she loved and cherished. Her paternal grandfather, a man with unwavering faith in Allah. The most patient man she had seen in her life. Born to be great. And that was what he had achieved. Though not as expressive as herself, he had loved them in his own way and shown it. She knew him by the words: bravery, wisdom, chivalry, gentlemanliness, discipline, tolerance and trust. A man of endless dignity and grace, a man she looked up to. A man was respected greatly and deeply by everyone. A man who taught how to respect, simply by showing it. A man who led by example.
She was still nostalgic. She wanted to have everyone and everything within her grasp. She wished it was so. But at the same time she knew she could not be ungrateful for all that God had already blessed her with. So, she said a quiet, heartfelt prayer and thanked Him for all the blessings she already had.
The bell rung. She was forced back to Earth.
This prompt came along at the right time.
The Rock in the River 