A few stories. A lot of pain.

I only lie back and stare at the ceiling fan. It doesn't make any sense. Like so many other things. The lamp is flickering too. Its strange, incredibly strange. I think your surroundings depend on your mood. When you're low, the stars stop shining, the night seems darker, more threatening, and inside, a part of you is dying. And you know what, when does it hurt even worse? When you're a family and yet you aren't together. You're sleeping in different rooms. You're talking but not really 'conversing'. The words are hollow, they don't hold any substance, they mean nothing. Things are superficial. And life is dull. They're your parents, and their quarrels are driving you insane. You're giving them so much, and have been trying so hard to put things in place, and for once you're not wrong. You've tried, in numerously. You've been hurt, a little too often. You know the worst feeling? When you don't know what to feel. Is it numbness, is it fear, is it melancholy or is it an abysmal mixture of all of them? I wish I knew.

In another place, you're living with a void. There's no one to look over you. You're supposed to be the happiest git among your friends, and guess what ? Astoundingly, you're still smiling. Your mother lost her life 6 years back, and destiny came and hit you right at your face again, you just saw your dad breathing his last. You have a sister, she isn't married, and you're still supposed to smile and act all strong. Guess what? You're still smiling. A fake, superficial one at that too. There're no reasons to live, or so you think. You still have to fight, because they should think your're strong. Ingenuity, you've probably lost all of it, though its only momentary. And once again, you don't know what to feel. Is it revulsion, fear, terror, angst, anxiety ? Or none of them? Oh yes, you're supposed to be strong.

You know when it hurts even more? When these two stories are not your own, but of two people who're closest to you.

Is it a good idea to get back where you started from ? How wise is it to live tied in customs, traditions, all put under the name of a "value system" ? Some say, there isn't a future without returning to our basic values. I beg to differ, what about you?

The lesser known feelings.

I like going back to Delhi. I love the way it is a beautiful amalgamation of different cultures. And also because Delhi is where I fell in love. And for once falling in love was not synonymous with falling into a bitter nothingness.
He gave me incessant, carefree laughter and brought me close to myself. The real lover is the man who can thrill you by kissing your forehead or smiling into your eyes or just staring into space.

Our trip was planned. We were sure we wouldn't fall for each other, but today when I've worked so hard and finally pushed Farhan at the back of my mind, I have other things to say. I realized remembrance is a form of meeting and forgetfulness a sweet freedom. Not clinging onto something has been comforting, and has given me a weird sense of security.
Solitude used to be beautiful, and I cherish every bit of it. Then, I didn't quite remember the story of the pure, white paper who appreciated its own beauty and said that it'd better be burnt to ashes than touched by one so unclean. The ink bottle heard the paper and laughed in its dark heart, so did the multi-colored pencils, but neither dared to move close to the sheet of paper. Ofcourse, the paper remained pure and chaste forever, pure, chaste and empty.

He filled me. With himself. With myself. And instilled a new me in me.

While it lasted, it was a different world.

No Name Face.

Oh, you don't know who I am.

Because I put my name in the sand.

They have asked me about my nationality. Indian or Pakistani, does it change your love for me? Few even asked about the religion, would it matter if I was called Razia, Rachael or Rani? Is it relevant to you, a cut on my brother's body? Does it make you hate me if I tell you I condemn the cross? Do you fall in love with me more deeply if I were a Hindu? Does it increase respect for me in your eyes if I tell you I wear a hijab? Or does it make you loathe me like never before?

Will you stop reading me, believing in me, if I am an Atheist?

How relevant is my destination and location to you ? It maybe the city of blinding lights, or the city with machines, or them with hearts?
Does my not having a name bother you ? I like my namelessness, my supposed 'anonymity'. Because I can be anyone I want to. Those who matter already know that behind the facade, the charade, the masks is one person. I would like to Margaret for a day, and change to Benazir the other. And be all those women I revere, does it matter to you?

They asked me if I've been in love, and if not why'd I write about it? No, never, I haven't ever been touched by love. Its a bug, its a tranquilizer, I have no idea. Once more, I have imagined. Been somewhere I always wanted to be, headed somewhere I'd hate to be stuck in. I've sang a melody I didn't even know, and got the lyrics of a favorite song messed up.

They asked me about how young I was. Sixteen. And alive, breathing to be 17 in February.
But again, does it matter to you if I were a sixty year old woman in a 16 year old's body? Does it make me write any worse, think a little more futile? I would be Anne Frank for my life. Would it matter? Because I would still believe. In you, and in me.

Going off till Mid January or so. This year was good, and '12 will be better, Insha'Allah. Be good.

Because faith has wings.

Striking.
Calm.
Peaceful.
The call from the minaret.

Our eyes meet.
We smile.
Its never condescending.

Many a strangers.
Today, I know all of them.

For they all smile back.

I see him praying.

Alone. Solitary.

He is in black.

His face, has lines.
His face, tells me stories.

They say he is mad.
I think he plays on a different note.

There are devotees.
Some complain.
Some seek blessings.
Some, like me, just stay.
Immerse in the divinity.
Perhaps, they too soak in it.
Soak in the serenity.
Yes, there's plenty.

Nomads, I see in abundance.

Here, they find solace.

Here, nobody shuns them.

I stand by the window.

There is music.
A lot of it.
The music of a city calling back at me.

The music a city aches to play.
One not marred by fear.
One that is not full of gore.

The sky is a sharp blue.

The women look more charming.
The men a little more august.

The children have but grown in innocence.

The surroundings are a beautiful blur.

A translucent, peaceful blur.

I see pigeons.
I see flights.

Of freedom, of liberty.

For once, no one is tied down.
For once, they all breathe the same air.

@Jamia Masjid, Srinagar.

Some things I wish I didn't feel.

There are too many things I don't understand. I'm young, naive, experimental, stupid, and young again. But is that excuse enough to not understand things? I wonder.

I was reading Hosseini again. Khaled Hosseini, my favourite author. He's two books old, and he is a magician. His characters are painted in the primary colors of a fairy tale, and I have fallen in love with two of his characters once again because I connected with them like never before. Hosseini doesn't write about things I cannot establish a connection with. Bizarre stuff like glitzy vampires, too much vengeance. No, I don't relate to them, and avoid reading about them. I have gnawed and fed on literature and some books are just an insult to your intelligence. Sigh.

Happiness is an alien feeling. D lost his father on Monday. This comes after losing his mother in 2006. Its sounds like a film to me, and how I wish this were happening in a film too. I don't like seeing the most joyous person I know look so demented. He picked up my phone last night after some 30 missed calls. His voice hardly came out, for the first time ever our conversation was not full of insane laughter and pathetic jokes, for he only spoke in monosyllables. I didn't connect to my own brother for the first time, ever. I don't want to blame him.

I remember his ecstatic screams over the phone when he informed us his team from IIM-Calcutta had made it to to the top (well, almost) and they were all coming on Television. Dated 27th March, 2011. Vijay Mallya complimented him on being a very "enthusiastic young boy, with lots of potential" ON NATIONAL TELEVISION!

Yeah, D is a stud. ( He hates the word) He's charming, he's got the best hair, and he's too bloody intelligent. I envy him. And he has the best sense of humour. Though I keep teasing him that no body in this darned universe can be as perverted as him, he makes me laugh, and laugh really badly too. Though I love a lot of people, this boy has a special corner in my heart. His strength, I respect it. His intelligence,I envy it. His fervor, I adore it.

And I hope He is listening, because I hate seeing him like this. It drives me insane.

I've realized how ignorant we are, as humans, about our own needs. A character by Hosseini makes me wonder, why isn't it easy to scream out for love? You can scream when you're ignored, when you're pissed, but you can't scream out when you feel unloved. Not hated, mind you, just not loved enough.

There is soft music in my room. Life house probably. I'm unable to focus my attention on it, for once, even music isn't healing. For once, the calming voice of Jason Wade made no sense to me.

I just hear some broken lyrics here and there. Speak. Feel. Strength. Stand. You. Want.Everything.

I shut the book down and realized the time had whirled past. It was four already. The fog has entered my room too, or maybe its the grass working on me again, or the coffee. So many things I don't know. The fog is perhaps clogging my brain too. And D is on my mind, again, as I drift off to sleep.

So many things that I wish you knew

So many walls up I can't break through