Broken Conscience

The air is hot, stale and nonexistent. Seems like every breath you draw in, is a struggle, a mouthful of nothing but emptiness and fragments of polluted oxygen. Overhead the fan whirs in aimless lazy circles even though it is set to maximum speed. It does nothing to help the suffocating atmosphere as it lethargically stirs up the thick warm air. The sun seems to filter right through the thick dusty curtains that stand still and undisturbed, heavy as if with longing and despair. A musky smell fills the room, saturated with sweat, fear and loss.

A limp hand falls off the edge of the rickety bed, every time someone turns in it it creaks as if taking its last breath. The hand hangs there, the fingers opening and closing ever so slowly, clutching through the thin air. The pillow is a chaos of thick brown hair, combed away from the face and neck, matted with sweat that also glistens on the face and leaves dark patches on the clothes that cling to the body. The chest rises and falls, struggling for breath through excruciating pain. The air wheezes in and out in a futile attempt to nourish the body.

She stands in the doorway; eyes weary and body slump, her eyes fixated on the figure in the bed and the constant whisper of a prayer on her dry chapped lips. Her hands hang by her side in a defeated gesture; as if there's nothing more she can do with them, her legs shaking ever so slightly. As the light recedes from the room, the room doesn't cool.

In the early hours of the morning she turns, averting her eyes from the bed, her feet shuffle towards another door, not so far away, which leads her outside. Her tread is slow and painful, as she walks through empty roads. Eventually her feet give away and she drops down on the pavement, on an unfamiliar. Overhead, the clouds rumble as if with anger, making the little light at this hour look rather eerie and unusual. Her eyes scan the empty roads, the stationary cars and the dark houses, suspending her into her worst fears.

The sound and the dampness brings her back, the rain falls slowly at first. The heat rises from the hot road, pushing its way up, escaping in the tiny puffs of dust that rise as drops pelt down harder. It comes down hard, so hard that it burns her. It feels as though it will cause depressions and groves in her paper thin skin. It hurls down at her as if it were the sentiments that she's lived through, as if it’s the abuse and loss she's suffered through life. It breaks her down bit by bit, cracking the shell, bruising her flesh, her existence, her conscience.

-Momina.

Styrofoam cup and souvenoirs.

The tea splashed a little from the sudden jump and she swallowed hard against the bounce. The scalding tea burned her chest with sudden heat that eventually subsided into a pleasant warmth. Hugging the teacup close, she ran her tongue over her dry lips, shrinking further into the tiny space she occupied. Her weary eyes scanned the scenes that ran past, through the window; the familiar territory and landscape slowly fading, merging into the unfamiliar and desolate surroundings.

Between the throng of people and the constant bouncy ride she sat stiffly, clutching the disposable cup that was, now the only souvenir she had from the land that she had left behind.

Every now and then she would be pushed right to the edge of the seat due to the gradually increasing crowd and her hand would jolt up fixing her scarf on her head. She didn't spoke to anyone neither did anyone bother with it.

Vulnerable and lone, she picked up herself when the bus stopped this time. Holding on to the cup with one hand and the front seat with the other she waited for the bus to stop. As the people started leaving while an equal amount of people barged in, she stared fixated at the small styrofoam cup in her hand. After much thought as she was pushed by people vacating and hogging seats she pushed the cup under the seat and stepped off the bus.

She never turned back but as the bus started moving the cup rolled out from under the seat and a little boy promptly picked it up and threw it outside

-Momina.

Suspended

She’s melting away in the white room,

Turning to stone while the quiet grooms.

A sole hammock hangs in a white painted room. Stark white and devoid of everything with the exception of the white hammock and a thick white carpet that covers the floor corner to corner. The carpet and the white walls are so perfectly match that at first sight you are unable to decipher as to where the floor ends and the walls start. There are no windows and only a single door. The room is efficiently illuminated by light bulbs such that there is little shadow play to hinder the dream like reality.

A pale hand hangs down the edge of the white hammock that seems to be floating in the air. The frail motionless figure whose weight presses down on the hammock is not asleep, rather absent from reality and dream altogether. She stands at the mutual edge of the both; confused as to where the reality ends and imagination begins much like the story of the carpet and the walls of the white room she lays in. There is no hurry though; she’ll stay until a state pulls her either way.

For now, everything is peaceful. Somehow right even though incomprehensible. Carelessness assaults her mind. She hasn't moved from her place on the white hammock in the white room. She has been there for a long while and she’s there to stay for a little while more. 

It gives her a feel of floating, her state and the hammock. Of drifting without moving, of defying gravity with logic. Or logic with insanity. Time lapses away; seconds, minutes, hours. A crazy energy drives her, fueling her with the strength to stay. To hold on; to her peace, to this incoherent mix of reality and dream that she is enjoying right now. To not be happy or sad but peacefully satisfied. This is her middle ground.

In the depth of her mind wild blooms,

There is red on the floor of the white room.

-Momina.

As The White Broke Through

Chris Carter Abstract

She was sprawled on the slightly damp grass in the wee hours of the morning; the time between dawn and sunrise, when the sky is a dull blue with white peeking from behind. Everything was silent, there was no chirping of the birds, no rush of vehicles or any sound of life. Sometimes in the back ground there was faint groan of an air conditioner or an occasional hum of a generator.



She lay there staring at the few stars that still twinkled in the sky. Her bare feet resting on the tingling grass, her knees bent. One of her hands ran through her hair that spread out like a coal black fire with blades of grass poking through it. The other hand stretched out to the grass, plucking out wisps of it. The world was just a blur of color through her partially closed eyes, like a water-color painting with one color merging into the other without a specified border.

The red of her dress contrasted sharply with the fresh green of the grass in the dull light. The red geraniums bordering the garden made a beautiful border of swaying red flowers. There was a serenity that flowed through the atmosphere. For once no fire burnt in the core of her being, nothing froze her bones till she was a fragile skeleton of ice. Rather, it was the first time she felt humane. There was no tug of war of love and hate but just an aura of joy and contentment that whipped up genuine happiness on its own. Somehow it was touching the light that was the ultimate solace that she had been fighting for.

There was a looming darkness that rang warning bells of doom and despair for her numb senses. And there was the dark past trying to suck her in, intent on creating a vacuum in her present. But then there was this; this happiness, satisfaction, bliss.

This was her final fight. Her mind urged her to stress upon these thoughts, to draw strategies and sense to secure her but the aura of her surrounding (or was it the light within?) It drew her into a slumber of its own. And she floated like a flail bird, resting, drooping lower and lower into an estranged stupor. For one there was no concern of all the deaths suffered already, there was no wake of fear for the future.

She slept in solace as the white broke through the blue, the east swelled with pink and peach hues and the golden shined upon her as people rushed about where she lay in peace.

-Momina.

Maybe We Need To Stop Living Among Metaphors.

A single puff of dust swoops up from the ground as if conjured by a magic spell. Between the dust that now settles back onto the dry ground, the droplet that has caused this tiny hazard is long gone; already soaked into the depths of the thirsty earth. Gradually the whole space starts being bombarded with such tiny dust bombs, and the burning plane drinks it up as quick. The heat rises evidently out of the ground as the water droplets pick up speed; it trickles out of the ground, prompted by the cooling rain. In no time the rain spell grows in intensity drenching the parched land, the thirsting flowerbeds, the burnt grass, the dry soil. It subsides even before it can trickle down towards an unknown path. 

The drowning sun sends golden waves that glint off the raindrops that cling to each surface. There is a general relief that drifts through the air, soaking people along with the rain. The air resonates with cries of happiness and prayers being send heaven wards. Between the beautiful chaos, that is the rain and the mayhem caused by everything around, she’s caught in the moment. Despair and satisfaction run through her, somehow together. 

The light from the setting sun filters through the window, being the only source of illumination in the gradually darkening room. As if it’s trying to show her the light but she was too much of a coward to break through her cage. Or maybe it was just the light slowly seeping out of sight. Maybe she just needed to stop living among metaphors. 

Between the profound desolation and satisfaction other emotions fluctuate, creating an incoherent tangled mass of feelings that looks like a twinkling star, fading and glowing, and fading and glowing. The satisfaction she was feeling, encased by time in that moment was an oddly familiar sensation. Although, how it sustained with the growing feeling of melancholy and despair was awe engaging. Maybe she had found bliss in her sadness. Or maybe sorrow had become home, the place where the heart was. 

Amidst all this, there was never an ounce of emptiness. The despair was not hollow, neither the silence nor the loneliness. Each was a part of her own, entwined so strongly with her backbone, knotted with her nerves and melded with her blood. She was them and they were her. She weaved her anguish in patterns and found happiness smiling in the folds of it. Why did people assume she was unhappy? She was not.

The monotonous despair had shown her so many colors of life and it had taught her well, too. Everything was there and she was the one revolving in the middle, touching despair, sparking happiness, dying a little while she lived each day. Being a part of everything, everything a part of her. 

The grateful exclamations start afresh as the rain comes down in full haste. The light has all but left her now darkened room but she doesn’t flips the light switch, she doesn’t moves from her place for she is content while watching the hues that dance within her; as her realizations take shape.

-Momina

Among Candle Flames

The flames of the candle danced in the darkness. Not one flame but three, although the candle was only one and a single wick inside it burned. The candle was one, the reflections two. And together they were three, brighter and better but from a single source.

She sat very far from the candle, among the shadows that had not been driven away by the brightness. Her eyes, however, were locked on the candle flame, following it’s every movement. The room was enveloped in silence, light and darkness. She moved closer to the candle, out in the light as her shadow grew larger behind her. She raised her hand to cup the flame, enclosing the room into darkness again. The only thing that now glowed was her palm at one side of the flame and her face at the other; intent eyes sparkling mischievously. Moving her hand closer she touched the flame, clenching her hand to a fist capturing it, the light. And then she let go, all too soon as the light scalded her hand.

She slid down her hand, holding it firmly, lighting the room once again. The hot wax that melted close to the flame slipped past the mouth of the candle, sliding down, gathering onto her hand. Stinging and burning. She whipped her hand away in pain, knocking the candle to the floor. She fell back in fear when she looked up from nursing her hand, as fiery arms rose from the burning carpet. Now a new kind of light illuminated the room, the reflections even this time two. Rising spoke, flaming claws; she fainted in the now lit shadows, wasting away in silence and the hissing of the burning room.

-Momina.

Are you looking for beauty or finding faults?

Love is a very simple thing, and we tend to complicate the simplest of things. It’s unnecessary to go in the details of everything, to discover its chemical basis, its origin… the first story. I don’t feel the need to do any such thing. Even though love can be quite vast in its meaning, it’s really not that difficult. We make it difficult though, categorizing it and sizing it up. Why? What’s the point of falling in love with a single person when you can fall in love with so many things, over and over again?

We’ve all heard the about the difference of loving and being in love. Why? Why can’t we fall in love with everything? Why can’t we sincerely like all the things that we want to? We can, but we don’t. We don’t because there is this general hype about falling in love with one beautiful person.

I do not believe it. I fall in love with so many things, people, deeds etcetera. Not love them, but fall in love with them. I fall in love with words; random words scrawled on walls, on paper, on blogs, on social sites, by people I don’t know and I might not ever know and I fall in love with them.

I fall in love with poetry, not necessarily famous poets, like Whitman, Plath, Yeats… no, everybody loves them. I fall in love with poetic verses that bloom out of nowhere in the minds of random people all across the globe. They jot them down and forget, but so many people fall in love with them.

I fall in love with deeds; a tiny gesture, a smile. A stranger smiling at a stranger, a scene I only witness, a scene I am not even a part of and I fall in love with it.

I fall in love when I see two people falling in love. I fall in love with their love. I look at them, once practically strangers and know so close and dear to one another. How can I not fall in love?

I fall in love with the nature; clouds, a sunrise, a glimpse of the dark sky where only a single star gleams, an eclipse, the expanse of water stretching out till the ends whilst I float in the middle of it, the promise of land beyond. I fall in love with them even though I know that they won’t come again as themselves. The next sunrise would be different, the sea will be taken by a tide, and the clouds will change form. Everything will become a new something to fall in love with, only to change again.

I fall in love with art. All sorts; decorating the corners of a notebook, painted on walls, an incoherent mix of color in an adolescent’s sketch-pad. I fall in love with laughter, echoing from the house next door, the table beyond ours; people reveling in their own personal and private jokes with laughter echoing out as one.

I fall in love with so much more, and each time I do, I fall slightly in love with the people associated with it. And you do, too. You are falling in love, too, not just once but over and over again, with people you don’t know, things you don’t understand, stories you haven’t read… you are falling without categorizing, you are falling in love genuinely without thinking about the consequences.

The world, you see, is a beautiful place. And it’s filled with so much love that if we consider it, we can take over the hate. Fall in love with it.

-Momina.

Reflections In The Paper

She sat down dejectedly in front of the mirror with her sketch pad turned to a blank sheet, the pencil dangling from her fingers. What had life become? 

Swallowing back the lump in her throat and clenching her eyes shut to will he tears back into them, she picked up the pencil, holding it just above the blank expanse. Composing herself she began to sketch. Her pencil dragged on the clear paper leaving a grey trail behind as her eyes moved to and fro between the mirror and the paper, sketching herself. She did not have to worry about expressions; she pretty much wore a single expression now. She watched her own reflection and her hands as they held the pencil that scrawled on the paper, bringing to life there a pair of hollow eyes. 

After an hour of the tenuous job, she was done. The sketch had a hint of a forced smile; an awkward curl of one corner of the mouth. The person in the sketch was so familiar yet a complete stranger. She gazed at it for a while, altering her observation again between the sketch and her own reflection while her mind wandered off into a completely different alcove. After a while she picked up the abandoned pencil again and began to shade. 

She shaded half of the face into the darkness of the gray lead. She then looked once again at the sketch, this time in satisfaction, at the dark and bright side of the sketch, the truth of the human face.

-Momina.

Visual Satisfaction

She puts the glass to her lips and leans her head back, letting the last few drops slip inside her mouth. She places the glass back and leans against the sofa back, landing her feet on the table. She hits the remote, and music begins to flow through the stereo at the corner; beautiful wordless music. She taps her foot and nods her head slightly, with her eyes closed as the melody strikes in high and low notes.

It is a fact that the peace of the moments never lasts as long as you want it to, and as the phone rings, it jostles her awake, she hits her foot on the glass at the table, as she gets up. She hears it crash, a reverberating sound, and looks at it in disbelieve. It looks whole from her angle. She forgets about the phone and settles into the sofa, looking at the glass that rolls from side to side on the glass top of the coffee table, slowing down. The glass is broken. Quarter of its length, one third of its width has broken off, and it rests a little further away, whole.

How queer, two things so whole, yet together they are broken. She doesn’t register the phone as it clicks off. She puts the glass upright, leaving the chipped off piece further away. She leans forward, and runs her finger on the smooth edge of the cut glass. Smooth until it cut through her flesh, stinging and drawing blood. She sits still at the alien sight. She watches as the red drops drip, staining the glass and the coffee table. She snatches a couple of tissues and wipes off the blood. Pressing onto the finger until none leaks anymore.

She looks at it curiously, the cut has formed white edges, and red wells up deep inside. It is a sight so rare, so mysterious to her; the one who has always suffered unseen pain, with no visual aid to it, it fascinates her. She draws the broken glass closer, running her fingers over it, letting it prickle and wound, allowing it to coat it all red, finding satisfaction in the graphics of her pain.

-Momina.

That Moment.

Do you remember those moments when you were talking with someone and suddenly the walls went down; the walls that defined the middle lines between acquaintances and friends? Do you remember those moments after which it was all simple, frank? When you no more had to think before you said something. And when you asked without worry, and answered without logic. That moment when you were suddenly friends, do you remember?

What did you spoke of? What simplified it all? And does it matters, that moment? Or the moments before and after that? Were there circumstances? Did you want to be friends or were you mortal enemies? Do these things matter?

They do. For that moment you gained. That moment you changed. In that moment you were something special, for each other. Not just another person added into a friend circle, but someone you looked forward to speaking. That moment was special. Not because it was easy to talk afterwards but simply because you could talk without barriers. You could dare to approach a subject, to start a conversation, to point out a wrong, to level an argument.

That moment, was everything. 

-Momina.

Faceless Existence

She gazed back at me dryly with a piercing gaze that seemed to penetrate right through mine. Everything about her appearance was flawed; her weary eyes, dirty clothes that were badly creased, bits of nail varnish stuck to her nails, most of which had been chipped off. Her long tresses had once been in what looked like a braid, her cheeks were stained and swollen red. She stumbled on her tiny steps but her eyes were as piercing as before, unfaltering. The disturbing thing was that her eyes were as powerful as they were empty, there was nothing in them, no pain, no fear… no hope.

So I didn't knew why they had me smiling, we were like two strangely different people, connected in the crowd of unseen faces, through dots. No, I didn't know her, neither did she know me. We were strangers, unrelated yet somehow linked, something put us apart…together, but distant. As I smiled at her, a faint smile touched her dried lips, only for split second, after which it turned into a grimace; her eye brows knotted together in worry, her face distorted into anger. And within that very second she ducked her head and disappeared into the throngs of people.

She left me there, though, paused and alone while strangers blurred past. They were faceless, for me. I didn't search for her in that crowed space, but I stood there and wondered what I hadn't before, in the sole minute that I had felt a connection with her. I pondered about her unknown past and future as I stood there, alone, while she blurred past me. This time unknown. 

-Momina.

To Everyone, Their Own.

For all it was a curse, an unattainable destiny.

But then, maybe it was a blessing,

Bestowed on only a few.

For me it was joy, a reason to smile.

But then, for the rest it was just the sky,

Crying it all out.

For some it was a path straighter than any,

But then, there were bends further ahead,

When our road was clear.

For most it was claustrophobic and confined,

But then, for them it was different;

Where they were alive.

For us it was melancholy, sorrow and sadness.

But then for some, it was only then,

That they smiled.

-Momina.

Red Shadows

Her big kohl lined eyes peered from behind a pair of rectangular frames which were slightly askew. Her eyes were dark and intent, seemingly different and apart from the rest of her face which was distorted and twisted in pain. She breathed heavily, her mouth slack as she tried to utter words that were already lost.  Her hand clutched her side that was smeared with red, seeping through her pastel colored clothes, turning them dark and ugly.

Fear flicked through her eyes, her breath coming in jagged whispers. Hands gripped thin air _the wound forgotten_ splattering a few drops of blood on her clear face. Her hand fell back, all motion sudden and then halted, forever. Stillness and musk swayed in the air, pausing every movement and silencing every noise; except for the blood, that continued to gush from her side.

-Momina.

Unobstructed

http://www.facebook.com/Urbah.V.Photography

She stands still in the center of the park, staring somewhere in the distance, unaware of the way people eye her. Half wet hair, blowing in the breeze, the length of her scarf flapping around her neck. Yet, her gaze is intent, unhindered; settled on the single fluffy cloud that adorns the sky, so lost in its beauty that she cannot see the setting that hold my equally committed contemplation. My view is completely different but similarly beautiful. Our unwavering gazes settled upon the sole scenery that connects us. The only difference is that I am the sun, peeking from behind those very clouds.

-Momina.

The Drug of Joy

 I have been out in the cold for far too long, I cannot even feel the cold anymore. It seems like anything that can chill me now is perhaps warm air, as the chilly breeze-that is getting colder every minute- is having no apparent effect. Rather it's like a drug that is slowly working itself into my bloodstream, not hurting me except that I can't feel my toes and finger any more. I can't hear much either as everything is reduced to a hum that is slowly lulling me into a trance. Far off at the edge of my vision the lights blink in contrast and somehow they beautifully synchronize with the beat of the hum in my ears. Unconsciously my foot starts tapping along to the perfect scenery of blinking lights in the dark horizon. I sit there for what seems like an eternity fighting the urge to get up and shout aloud. My senses however refuse to obey the commands my brain keeps sending and I sit as if drunk staring at the lights, tapping…singing. My spirits are high but my mind numb, my body moves yet I feel naught. I want to trace the sky and leap for the hazy clouds. I spin around in circles giving ecstatic shouts, I want to glide down rainbows and more, all before this crazed fever runs cold, till then I want to let go…

-Momina.

The Bigger Picture

When among all the rights you do, a tiny bad thing done by you doesn't matters. But it does, not to you of course, for you think it's only fair that you attempt a tiny bad thing in your otherwise pious atempts but it's wrong and unfair to the one unfortunate person that is losing something. It's unjust to them. And it break them inside that you'd do the right with everyone, but wrong with them.

The thing about us is that we categorize. We favor. And we do it without taking in account the consequences. Without going in details, favoring the big picture. But that very picture is incomplete without the details. Stare a little longer and you'll see the missing patterns, the place where you missed it. The wonderful picture suddenly looks very very ugly. And that detail that you missed is often the reason some people break down deep inside. You become the reason, because you don't value. You value yourself. We can stop entertaining people for a material thing but we think a thousand times before we acknowledge a person over material thing.

We need to look at the bigger picture, not just a sweeping glance, but really look at it, taking in details before you act or add.

-Momina.

Over and Over, again

Wrapped in the veil of unwanted sympathy,
Wallowing in wisps of heartfelt misery.
Ribbons of reasons fading away,
Streaks of options turning grey.
Sneaking in and out for clues,
Dipping in disappointment, afresh
Acclaiming expectation that gnaw on insides.
Beaten down by confronting tries.

-Momina.

Packets Of Inspiration

You know what’s a weird combination? Cheese Parathas and Hot Chocolate.

Life is full of these weird arrangements, and these are the very thing that make life complete. The every now or then shocks at how perfectly or poorly two odd things fit together. Life filled with such and other queer analogies of life.But I know how often we encounter these tiny things that bear resembles to everyday life and this is not about that, or any other analogy of life. This is about how important they are, and how realization linked to them is essential.

At times we are so lost in life after a tragic incident that we forget what we really are, isolating ourselves we look for both, a piece of mind and peace of mind. We extract ourselves from our everyday life and fall into a trance of sorrow. But we forget, we overlook the fact that piece of mind and peace of mind are both what comes to us from out mere daily life.

Our every little action is a piece of mind for us; everywhere we look there are examples surrounding us. All we need to do is see them, really look at them, absorb them and they’ll imply themselves. They are tiny packets of inspiration overlooked on a daily basis. They are reminders of what will become of us if we rose too high, too close to the sun. They are tokens to tell us that however much we differentiate ourselves inside we are all the same and we all have the same place to return to.

Dividing one’s self does us no good, interaction makes us wise. Imposing certain limits doesn’t hurts, it does you good. Shutting up your past maims you deep inside; learning from it facilitates you a lot. Weird combinations are often the very answers we want.

-Momina.

Eye to Eye

The air was humid and I could barely see in the smoke that occupied the room. I clenched my eyes shut and kicked down the door to the next room; my partner and I barged in, looking around for signs of life. I moved a cupboard and that’s when I saw her, covered in soot and clutching something close to her chest. She trembled all over and looked at me anxiously with her deep dark eyes and as I looked into them everything muted, I could sense the commotion behind me, my mates shoving me away and taking the bundle from her. She looked down that instance and fear struck her eyes; fear that wasn’t there before, she shook her head vigorously, muttering something.

I went close to her in order to hear her, ‘my baby, my baby’, she whispered as my friend tucked the blue baby under his arms and ran outside.

I looked at her shivering there in the hot room, with fire all around us, urgently draped a safety blanket around her and told her the baby was going to be fine. Maybe it was the confidence in my voice that I was trained to keep, or she really did believe me because her eyes sparkled for a moment and a faint smile touched her lips, ‘thank you’ she said. And then her eyes lolled back into her head.

I returned her out and we resumed extinguishing the fire, usually I was too occupied to think of anything, but today, I couldn’t let go the expression in her eyes. It was not fear, she had been sitting in the stuffy cupboard in a burning house for God knows how long, and yet there was no fear in her eyes. No fear for herself passing over to the other side. But it was something I knew too well; she had seen death, felt it, almost been swallowed up by it. And yet, escaped it. I knew it, been there and I had never met anyone who had seen death up close like myself. Never found someone I could relate to, talk to. My life was purposeless and I’d taken this job where one was faced with death risks every now or then.

I looked for her after work and got around to the hospital where she had ended up. On inquiring I was directed to a doctor who told me she was no more, the baby had survived, she was too weak though. Too close to death itself.

-Momina.

Tread it Together!

When there’s not much to say,

And too much has been heard.

Regrets pile up along with each step

The road seems all desolate and dust.

Look for the tiny green sprouting up,

Around you among the dried up crust

Wonder, how in the deserts they mature?

When all tread it together you see,

It’s about time the earth goes soft and subtle

That’s where you are right now, child,

Helping in smoothing land for tomorrow. 

Momina.