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

Gone. Too far.

She's still hiding.. she still has her lips sealed.
.
.
Her own tale makes her shiver, how on earth is she to face the world.
The colors around her are slowly fading away..

away ..

The hair is all muddled up, the smell of the smoke is persistent.. Who cares, there's a major flame raging inside.

So young and full of running
all the way to the edge of desire.
Steady my breathing, silently screaming
I have to have you now.

Tic toc, the time is just dragging past. She mumbles to herself silently. " End this ruckus as soon as possible, Christ .. "

Don't say a word; just come over and lie here with me

'Cause I'm just about to set fire to everything I see.

His bloodshot eyes and his fierce gaze, everything's fresh in her mind, yeah, even the cynical laughter.

Her own lover, oh no, now killer.

The room is empty, but the window on the left is open. The oxygen's coming in, or is it ? There's a wider emptiness inside, her heart's been made devoid of any love, all by his deed.

A moment of insane lust, and her life was ruined. Gone, her self respect, her prestige, and he was gone as well.
Alone, isolated, she had come to the city, and then, they'd met. Had she known about him back then.. but what's the point, its over.

And she was going to be over in sometime as well, as she turned to the other side, and saw the slit wrist, with dark red blood oozing out, somewhere she felt a weird contentment. She hadn't just been raped, there was more, but who cared about the "more", she was a no one .. "They ll find my decaying corpse and dump me somewhere.. another orphan, does anyone care? " , she reminded herself.

Finally, the moment she desired knocked in. As the moon came up, she passed away ... the torture was finally over.

They said a world walked with her.

Nobody knew who her eyes were looking for,

The girl with the song kept losing her way,

The more she walked, the greater the distances grew,

Her dreams were her destination and her destination those dreams,

Ways lead to more ways,

And no body knew why the girl with the song kept losing her way.

An old memory stops her and whispers into her ears,

'How long will you walk? How long will you struggle?

Lets sit in the shade of yesteryear's,

Lets talk about the moment when a bud blossomed,

Lets talk about the moment when a melody was ringing in your ears,'

An old memory stops her and whispers into her ears,

'How long will you burn your feet in the sun? How long will you struggle?'

A world perhaps walked with her.

But there was pain inside her. Memories out flowing.

Sometimes the picture fades away on its own.

while some learn to stay happy with the new colors,

others reminisce about the old glory.

The girl with the song realized her guilt,

She dreamt of the swallowing the moon,

Bringing the sky on the land,

She wanted flowers to grow on stones,

She tried finding fragrance in thorns,

Prayed hail to give her warmth,

Tried finding calmness in the raging fire,

Her dreams were but a mirage,

The past is but buried,

The old conversations have to be replaced with new,

The broken thread only lost the pearls,

The beautiful have only learned to illuminate memories on their eyelids.

Some stories.

I want to fall in love again. Give my heart to someone, and not be concerned about what he does with it. I want to pour my thoughts into him, even let them overflow, and let my words glide in the atmosphere. Some of them calm, some of them full of gentleness, some of them full of a happy, content nothing. Nothingness, a feeling I've derived very recently. Sometimes it comes alone, weeping out solitude, bringing with it a shudder. This nothingness is different, it has satisfaction. It has a tinge of completion in it, like it has resulted from the finish of a greater good.

There are a lot of things I'd want to tell this person, like my fears, in numerous fears. Of turning into someone I am scared of confronting. The same old sharp tongue, the callous attitude, the pretense of not being concerned, when inside, every word of acrimony would cut you slack. Not being someone I'd never want to befriend, not someone whose sight I would be repulsed by. The fear of losing someone I cannot live a day without. Whose texts light up my face, who considers me a punching bag and who roams around in striped boxers in the coldest winters for no reason, whose constant sarcasm and insults to me are only a reminder of how adorable a brother he is.

Maybe I'd tell him of that which is gone, though its been long since I shared a whisper with the Past. The last time we conversed we ended on a sad note, we had nothing to say, because I have already given it a little too much thought, a little too much of my time. I'd reach it instantly, no time machine required. Back then, every time I tried catching my dream, it was but a mirage. There were too many people I had interacted and broken up with. Too many make ups, break ups. Some said I talked a lot. Still do.

You talk too much
Maybe that's your way
Of breaking up the silence

That fills you up

Anxiety ate my mind then and inhibitions had clouded my brain.The Past is buried. Well, at least I hope so.

I would share my joys. The tiny ones, about that dear friend of mine whose laughter I find infectious, after talking to who, my mind feels lighter. We laugh. We laugh a lot, and that is the kind of laughter I'd want from him. Easy, carefree, even a little obtuse and stupid. Or maybe the little moments of bliss, we'd have plenty. We'd live in a world where we don't live in hypocrisy, where each moment of our existence is not marred by make-believe, by words we never mean, by actions we are not responsible for.

Now things are different, I have more stories to share with him.

They're happier stories. Of laughter. Of moments whose sanctity and beauty words would spoil. There were times I realized I was only obsessed with pain. Aren't we all? We surround ourselves with a dismal, uncouth silence and solitude and yet pretend to be happy about it. Strange are the ways of the world. They confuse me, always shall I guess. The hypocrisy. It annoys me the most.

Now there is reading. A lot of reading. And the sheer joy it has started giving me. And writing too. The interaction with people has changed, though the constant fear of growing too close to someone, and losing it all still lingers. We hear of introverts and all the trouble they take in making small talk, and there are people like me, who're so talkative that they feel scared of becoming too open and vulnerable. This feeling has remained.

Coming back to the stories I'd share with him. There is soft laughter, merriment, coffee-stained pages, and a bear hug. We'd begin with them, and joy would follow. Hopefully.

Hey, soul sister.

She was 10 when my parents got married. 6 years younger than what I am now. We share the same birthday, 5th February. And more than the insanity for food and fetish for traveling, we have a deep, almost Karmic connection. However, that story is for another day.
Ma remembers her as the girl with gray eyes, filled with poignancy and a beautiful almost mystical glow in her eyes. Even when I look at her these days, I want to immerse myself in those gray eyes. They speak volumes. When ma went to Jaunpur after marriage, she was still there, with her two younger brothers. Ma recalls all of them to be her source of joy.
She was especially ma’s only friend, despite the age difference they had. A newly wedded Indian bride has much to keep herself occupied, doesn’t she? These three kids brought a twinkle to her eyes. After those lengthy, monotonous, days, she would lighten her mood with the innocents smiles and sometimes gasps as my mother, the master story teller that she is, always had something to tell them. Up to this day, when they meet ma, I see the close bond they have. Its something I feel enamored of, and almost scared to penetrate. Yes, they’re that close. The beauty of their relationship stirs me, and I see how ma’s face totally lights up when one of them calls and says, “Chaachi .. “ (refers to one’s father’s younger’s brother’s wife)
She got married to a Army man. He was one of the most pleasurable people to converse with. I've only met him once when they were staying in Ooty, and I remember how very well he took care of all the guests. Their house was located in a beautiful place, lush green hills, incomparable, astonishing beauty. And we were guests to beautiful people too.

They had a son who was one year younger to me. He was obsessed with video games and PSPs. Still is. And he always beat me at it. Technology and I have the most complicated relationship.
Anyway, I have only met her husband once, and sadly, that was the last time. The last I remember is my parents weeping through the phone when her husband’s death was announced to us. He had battled cancer and had sadly, lost his life in the battle. I cannot fathom the sorrow of someone who loses her/his spouse. How do they feel when they walk into an empty, silent house where at a point of time the sounds of someone’s loving words echoed? How do they feel when they look into the wardrobe and realize half the clothes hung in it, will never be worn?

But I have something to tell you beyond the innumerous questions lurking in my head. She is still strong as a pillar. Even today when I look into her eyes, I only find hope in her eyes, exclusive to someone who has not lost life’s battle. She has not given up, she has not turned a loser, she has not let despair, depression, gloom, misanthrope, or an eternal sorrow seep into her life. She is full of life, and even when you meet her today, you would only run into fits of laughter. Careless, flowing laughter. She is a charmer, and she charms me with her enthusiasm towards everything!
She’s my eldest sister on my father’s side and I am the youngest, and when I look up to her, I only wish I could imbibe an ounce of the fervor in her. The fervor to live on.

We used to fly.

I’d like to lift the veil off your face. But then there would be too many to be lifted for they cover too many faces, all belonging to the same person.
The gust of wind that barges inside the room brings questions to me along with hitting me like a pang on my bare neck. You’ve been like the cold wind, giving me pain and making me feel good at the same time. You taught me pain can be beautiful. Its amazing how long I survived and faced the pain, the sharp, intense pain. Pain can be bittersweet, it can be memorable. And we face it for those we love, and sometimes, the suffering is worth it. Mostly not.
Its astonishing how superficial people can be. Like the flytrap. Elusive. Get too close and snap, it gobbles up your insides. I had thought you were different. We’re best friends to the outside world, inside, why is it so hollow? Fair weather buddies, not. We’ve survived through the hardest times, been there, done that and come out alive, together. Now? We haven’t bid goodbye but where are we standing now? I am on a cliff which has nothingness beyond the edge. One more stab and I will probably fall deep, very deep, into an abyss of drudgery, monotony, a state of absolute nothingness.
The words dipped in sarcasm do not appear comical now, and the humour is so sharp and savage now that I feel someone is pointing a finger right at me. Only issue is I don’t know who the finger belongs to, blame the darkness that has been created around me.

You reside inside me,
Where else will I find thee?

But you are lost, somewhere. We are communicating and yet we are not. We are laughing and yet we are not. It is a light, fake laughter, not heavy and deep like before.

Change is constant. Its perhaps the only constant things in our monotonous lives. And I hate changes. Especially ones like these, which leave a vacuum inside your mind.
I am not a saint, I have my past, but if I watch my words, shall you not? Is expression of love an equivalent of posing for pictures, sitting pretty, attending blah bah parties that have no meaning?

If I scream, I am wrong, if I accuse, I am wrong again, and if I be honest, I could not have been more wrong. Its amazing how we drift farther away. Still are.

We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.