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.

As Long As Infinity

http://instagram.com/p/dlbcIcHoa8/

The sun has set and the remaining light is slowly receding into the approaching darkness. She stands under the cold shower, shivering and gasping for breath as the icy water hits her. She has been standing under the water spray for so long, all the hot water has run out and she has to make do with the cold water. Her unknotted muscles now contract under the cold water.

She twists the knob to turn of the spray and slips into a towel robe, knotting the sash tightly. Just as she steps out of the bathroom, the lights go out. She clenches her eyes shut and stands there, hugging herself tightly in defense against the demons that might lurk in the dark. They really just reside in the crannies of her grey matter, the demons. Her fear lurks as she stands there motionless. The light returns and she sighs in relief.

This has been happening for quite a few days. It’s probably just some electrical shortage that occurs in the whole area, because the darkness isn’t restricted to her house alone. She has been meaning to get it checked. It started with a few minutes a day and the dark intervals grew rapidly over the days.

The dark lapses are way more frequent today. It such a dark night. She blindly makes her way to the window and pulls away the curtain in search of stars only to see a night so black you couldn't even see the faint shadows hovering. Just pitch black and sometimes a faint spark of light so unreal that it could only be an illusion.

These periods of darkness grow longer, momentarily still and longer and she wasted time flipping the light switches in each room. The world just plunged into darkness for seconds that lasted for an infinity. This certain one was lasting way longer than the rest. She had a weird feeling that this problem was deeper than she perceived. There is an odd feeling gnawing at her mind; a sense of cold seeping into her bones, giving her a warning, maybe.

The bell rings and she hears as the faint thud of footsteps near.

“Whose there?” she calls out.

“It’s me, Ruth!” She sighs in relief, hearing her neighbor’s name.

“Oh, hi! Come over, why are the lights all out? I mean it’s been ages and not even a speck of light is in sight.”

“What? No honey, they lights aren't out. Actually I came to ask you why all your lights are on in the middle of the night. Is everything okay?” She could hear a worry in her neighbor’s voice but her words made the world stand still for her.

“No, Ruth. No. There are no lights. I can’t see a thing. I can’t see a thing.”

The air left her throat and she stood in her dark world, hand flailing in the still air around her. She felt someone clutch her tight, whisper something incoherent, reassuringly but the sound of her own screams were the only thing she could here. It filled the entire house, echoing back at her deafeningly, sounding louder in the darkness of her mind. The darkness that was not just restricted to her house, it had spread to her entire world.

-Momina.

Her.

She gets up at seven in the morning. She doesn’t have a clock, but her mental clock wakes her up at seven, daily. She still gazes at the empty side table the first thing after she wakes up, where her mother’s watch always rested, but it has long been broken; smashed into tiny pieces that never made their way back to the table or her. She silently walks into the kitchen and helps herself to a drink of water. The water direct from the tap is already too hot. It must be scorching hot already.

She dresses herself carefully and then binds her hair into a braid. There is a broken mirror behind the door but she doesn’t wish to look at herself any more. There is nothing that holds any attraction at all. What would she see anyway? Eyes that speak of hurt? A broken past and a non-existent future? Pain and sadness? There was no innocence left in her weak body, the innocence portrayed on her face was nothing but a lie, it had long been extricated from her in a series of events; every time life had thrown a pebble at her, she shed her innocence and cast a thick layer of stubbornness over herself. In her adolescent years she had barely anytime to think about playgrounds where she ought to be playing or the rain that called to her while she slaved.

She wraps her dupatta sensibly around her head spreading it diligently across her upper body, again without the aid of a mirror, before rushing out, but silently. She has already wasted too much of her time thinking. There is no time to clean the tiny apartment. She’ll have to deal with the consequences later. She was rather used to it. She walks swiftly with her tattered book under one arm. Her books were as tattered as her life, she wondered. What with a drunken and abusing unemployed father and two little siblings to support. There was no mother. There was but she managed to get away from here and gave up her children to a world of abuse and slavery for that. Were they supposed to be like that, the mothers? Maybe her mother was different.

She kept looking for some hope in the absence of her mother. Maybe she would come back and take them away. Maybe she went away to get help. Or for their security, maybe. All consolations were hollow of course but they were solaces at least.

The doorman opens the gate and barely gets to a side. He smirks at her. She holds her dupatta firmly under her chin and quickly passes through the gate, rushing to the kitchen door. She puts her plastic slippers in a corner and enters the kitchen bare foot. She proceeds to wash her hands and then takes a quick peek at clock. Too late. She draws out the bowl of kneaded dough and starts making chapatis: greased in fat. Her tiny hands work fast under the scrutiny of the mistress’s dark eyes. She keeps being bombarded with instructions and comments on her tardiness.

She cleans out the kitchen and then dusts down the rest of the huge house, sweeping out the rooms. If she gets all her work done before time the mistress might teach her the next lesson. She’s worked really hard on the first, as hard as she could in the time she has. There is a still a lot to do though. But if she learns all this she can even tutor the kids around her home. And she might grow up to be a teacher. She would teach lots of kids for free too. But she’d earn too and that will help them getaway, too.

Jewelry glints all around the room, where she sweeps, carelessly thrown around. Her mother stole some gold bangles when she vanished. She knew because she saw them shining under the hem of her dupatta which covered her wrist the day she went away. And her mother had never owned any gold. The wife of a drunken abusing man doesn’t get any gold. And if she has any it goes away and there is no use making futile attempts at fighting for it because they only get you more bruises and a sore body.

A slap on her jaw brings her back to the present. It’s the mistress. The tears sting but don’t leak. She is lecturing her about her daydreaming. And she pulls in her sluggishness in the lecture. She says she might cut her pay short. She stands silently with a clenched jaw, her head drooped.

Her father hit her today when she got home. She hadn’t washed out the only two glasses in the house that he uses for his drinking. He pulled her hair hard and had clumps of it when he let them go. She stood silently with a clenched jaw and head drooped low.

Everyone and everything is silent. Except the fan that whirs above. It makes more noise than it swirls air. The air is suffocating. It doesn’t matter where she goes, she always feels smothered. As if the air molecules around her have vowed to drown and choke her in her own sadness. It’s becoming too much to bear, everything. She is not responsible for her mother running away, of her father being an alcoholic, of the mistress’s house, of the penetrating gazes of the male bodies, of her doomed past.

She huddles inside her blanket and takes off her dupatta and opens the knotted corner. Inside are two rings. They are the mistress’s. Yes she stole them. They glint in the faint light. They are too pretty and intimidating. She’ll run away, she decides. Freedom clouds her vision.

She didn’t sleep. She held the rings in her clenched fists and waited for dawn. Once the light started to break through the sky, she got up silently. She goes through her usual routine of getting ready but it’s three hours early. Once she’s done with wrapping her scarf about her, she looks around the room. Her eyes meet the innocent sleepy ones of her younger sister. Innocence still prevails there. She whimpers and comes to hug her. Don’t go, she says, don’t leave us like mother. Don’t be her.

Don’t be her.
Is she not responsible for her siblings, she thinks, about her deeds, about the purity of her soul, about becoming like her mother? And how could she be something that wasn’t her. She wasn’t their mother. She wasn’t a hollow hope. Did she have to make her life more morbid and dark than it already was?

She thought while she sang her sister back to sleep. She went to the mistress’s house at seven. She silently put the glinting rings back. They seemed dull, now. All there sheen lost. She burned under the doorman’s gaze. She was degraded by the mistress. She violated her body by doing twice the amount of work. But when she proceeded for home, she felt more hopeful and fresh than she had in days. It wasn’t everyone’s imagination. The girl who had a solemn expression on her face for the past two years was indeed smiling today when she walked home with a jump in her step.

-Momina.

Your Insistence Is Adorable.

Everything in the vastness of space is in a state of perpetual motion. Every tiny speck and every gigantic object that exists because several such tiny specks came together... everything, is moving. Shaking. Hovering. Vibrating. From the tiniest electron revolving around the nucleus of an atom to a huge star in a galaxy eons away. It is all moving, gently and crazily. Silently. And I am sitting here, still; suspended in all that motion. Waiting to be lifted. Waiting to be moved or removed by an unseen force. I am the glitch in the system, the nut that refuses to rotate while the rest spin in wild, silly circles. I am right in the center of a moving world, stationary. Useless.

I can see you, sense you, reading me, following me around. Trying hard to decipher me and my struggle. Putting such great effort in thinking about my past and my future. And I don’t even know about my present. I see you trying to visualize my story, trying to adapt it, picture yourself in it.

“What happens? What happened?” I hear you ask yourself, incredulously, as you turn another page to my story, as you see me running from the horrors of an unexplained monster. Running in vain. I see you crease your forehead, run your tongue over your dried lips, change your drooping posture, so that you won’t get tired. So that you’ll be able to read a little more without interruption. Your insistence is adorable.

You are tired. You didn't sleep all night, you were so engrossed in reading me, thinking about my story and tweaking your perspective as you moved further, word by word. I was there with you, without you realizing. I was watching you enthralled by a story that wasn't even your own. So I asked myself why you did that? Why did you hurt yourself over someone else’s tale? Cry over another’s pain, laugh at someone else’s joy? Why do you sit here, your eyes following me, your mind wrapped about me, when your own story remains abandoned, unwritten?

I've chosen to be the glitch. To stop, to drag on so that you’d become agitated. So that you’d put me you aside for a moment and look around and see what your own world has come to. The ignorance of your own reality so that you can indulge in mine is flattering. But I realize I've been doing the same. Trying to indulge in your story, figure you out while you try to decode mine. I've been trying to stop you from interpreting me, all the while looking forward to your reactions when you finally unveil my end. All the while we've been simultaneously reading one another, embracing tales not our own. We are linked this way, you see.

So, when I see you handling me with such care, adoring the curve of each word, cherishing the way every scene of my story falls into the other, melding beautifully and unlocking a mystery, I melt. I see your eyes shining at my happiness, you cheeks wet at my sorrow, I never realized I became so much to you. And I never grasped how focused a part you became of mine. After all, without you I am just a dying script, drying ink that will eventually fade to nothing. But you never let that happen. You've treasured me, spending so much time with me and thoughts about me when I wasn't even there with you. You became the lips that spoke my story, the syllables were written but you sought people and shared them. And I have come to realize now that I fell in love with you every time you opened my story, over and over again just to share my repetitive joys and tears one more time. And each time when you held me carefully before giving the story to a friend and whispering a loving, ‘Take care of it’.

And I have fallen for you each time I heard your sigh of relief when you once again held me in your hands.

-Momina.

*This piece has been written keeping this in mind: 

Crazy Rambling #10

Lately I’ve been finding extreme fascination in withering flowers, roses, to be specific. I pluck them off from our garden a little before they are about to shed their petals, and arrange them into an oasis. Eventually they become limp and flaccid and dry out in their dropped posture. They are incredibly fascinating if you take your time to look at them, to really see them, not just a glance. They are untold stories, incomplete, yet they hold a charm far more precious than all the finished stories, all the happy endings. Even though they dry out, they are pretty, worth saving. 

I've never understood why people press roses between the pages of a book; there is little beauty in something you are forcing to die. And personally, I find nothing interesting in looking at a rose flower that is pressed until it’s flimsy and lean. It’s a full blown rose that darkens in color, that closes upon itself as it dies and dries that holds my attention. It’s beautiful, still intact. Somehow still living and fragrant. It’s the incomplete story of those roses that fascinates me, and I've always been a sucker for unfinished stories.

-Momina.

Locked Up In Fog

‘Always aim for the moon, so even if you fall, you can land on the stars.’

She played with the word of the quote in her mind while tears streamed down from the corners of her eyes and disappeared somewhere in her hair. As she stared at the bunk above her, even the stars seemed too far; past the two bunks above her, the roof, the second story and the limitless distance towards the sky. An impossible journey.

She looked at the hardwood of the bed above, staring back at her and wondered where her life was going. She was nowhere. Life had always been so perfect for her, the choices were never her own, just an illusion at that, but she enjoyed them nonetheless. She had honestly nothing planned for her future, and it wandered off in the forbidden lands of nowhere. But finally a decision was reached and she struggled with all her might to take it from there; she had an aim, a door to reach.

But karma, karma was a pain in the behind, the door of opportunity was nothing more than an illusion, a mirage in the dry dessert that she had taken to be an oasis, a disappointment that sent her crashing down, with all her spirits drowning in self pity and accusation. Before her lied nothing but a barren land, she had journeyed from nowhere to nowhere. At first she had had a goal to chase, that would have been her way out, but now there was no goal, no target. The planes of disappointment spread out vast in every direction she looked. They were limitless and she had no clue where to go and nobody to guide her.

Tears came stronger than ever as she realized the reality of her situation again. She considered calling her best-friend and spilling out all her worry to her but she had probably done all she could; she had helped her up after she had crashed down under the weight of disappointments and dusted her down, raising her drowned spirits. She had felt a lot better then, but now, weighing her options she had to admit that she was stuck, her mind clogged.

She heaved muted sobs in the dark room as the night grew longer. Eventually she fell in a chain of weird dreams that woke her up every half hour or so, every time greeted by the everlasting darkness. At sunrise she sat up in her bed with a throbbing head and stinging eyes that were red and strained as she contemplated on her series of dreams, they had felt so meaningful but now they just seemed like pointless gibberish. She sighed, but couldn’t bring herself to sleep again.

The days became unnumbered as she went through her daily routine. She felt bored out of her wits yet there was so much to do that the day passed away in a blur. The nights were the same; an endless series of little sleep and deep dreams that lost meaning as soon as she pondered over them. Her thought had attached themselves to her mind like a leech, they sucked all energy out of her, her state was all she could think of and it always left her with a numbing headache that sent shivers down her spine and flooded her in cold sweat. She was stuck in the dry planes of nowhere looking for answers while her life had become a struggle, a question of her existence, an effort to live everyday one after the other in a single hope that somewhere she’ll find a response, a sign, a guide. 

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.

Fair chances

As the car moved another inch forward I groaned inwardly. The short fifteen hour journey felt extremely tiring to my well rested body. The cars jammed on the single road, as every other person tried to take the lead; the result was obviously havoc. I tapped my foot constantly on the car floor while my friend calmly smoked a cigarette behind the wheel; I coughed hard deliberately, wanting to make a point. But to my utter annoyance he just shrugged and hit the button that automatically rolled my window down. I looked at him, disgusted as I the clean air wafted through the car. I had come to hate these little rolls of nicotine people relied so much one, they did no good other than leaving the person delusional; that on it’s on had another history, of course.

I wasn’t intent on lecturing my friend with my already infuriated mood so I turned my head towards the window, letting out a shaky breath. I looked on to the next car in the glow of the setting sun. A sole figure in the back seat turned its head towards the window. Her eyes were closed as if in deep slumber but her eyebrows furrowed as if the sensation of pain was teasing her, yet, there was so much peace on that face. It was so simple and ordinary that I could have glimpsed of it in a crowd and not look back but right now, it put me on the edge.

I shook my head and looked down as my mobile flashed. A text message, another one. I placed the phone face down on the dash board and put my feet up next to it. I looked back at the girl in the next car. How could one be at peace with pain? The thought bothered me but the face relieved me, it was ordinarily distinctive. I frowned to myself, what was I thinking? But I was drawn to the face again. I imagined getting to know her, befriending her and chatting with her, laughing at a memory…

As the cars edged closer side by side, her eyes opened partially and looked deeply into mine, in that moment I felt something I had never felt before, a jolt, a connection. We held each other’s gaze for a long moment, till her eyes fell closed again. Maybe she was dreaming, maybe I was dreaming. My friend jolted the car forward violently, over taking as he turned in for the airport. I didn’t bother looking back to look for her car, what good would it do? Strangers. Was I delusional without drugging myself?

I rarely thought about her as I said good bye to my friend and got in for immigration and all. Was it possible to feel something yet never be able to know that person? My mind was clogged with old memories as I went through the bag and security checks, memories I thought I had lost somewhere. I still held on to them, I guess, even after all this time. I gave the flight attendant my boarding pass. I was one of the last ones so she smiled and led the way to my seat. The window seat was already taken by someone who had their head turned towards the window. I stuffed by hand carry in the compartments over the seats and sat down next to the lady in the woolly shawl.

The flight attendant arrived again at my side with a glass of water and some pain killers.

‘Ma’am?’ she whispered and the lady next to me turned her face. I felt a jolt in my nerves as our eyes met, the girl from the next car. It’s not delusional; there are always chances to be taken. 

Out of Ordinary

For H, because you are extraordinary and so is this friendship.

The first time I saw her she was seething, and quite honestly I was taken aback a little. A young lady shouldn't be this angry, she should swallow down her anger and speak politely; so was what my mother said, but this girl right here was all that she didnt said, for she shouted at top volume and proceeded to snatch the chocolate out of her friends hand...

The next I saw her was very different though, she was sitting in the library with books around her, confused with her head in her hands and her forehead wrinkled. Eye-brows furrowed as she jabbed the buttons on her calculator whilst I twitched in agony of what the buttons might have felt, she consulted the papers in front of her and frowned again, near to crying…

I sneaked a look at her from the corner of my eye; she was bent over her notebook scribbling furiously. She suddenly looked up at the board and looked down again before her eyes suddenly sparkled as her hand shot up. She spoke a confident ‘I am done’ and then gathered her stuff before disappearing outside. I sulked at my own paper.

I heard a loud laugh and I turned to look, I wasn’t expecting it to be her but it was. She laughed loud and bold; eyes clenched shut and mouth open wide, struggling for breath. Several minutes later I overheard her conversing with her friend. She spoke deeply as she represented her case; she recalled who might have been hurt by something she did or said.

There she was, different and distinct in her very own way; hard over the top and soft inside. She had taught me lessons I have failed to recognize, she has shown me the world through a different set of eyes. She might not be what she looks like, but get to know her and you’ll realize. It’s where the beauty lies.  

-Momina.

Story: Burning Chaos

She’d been walking, dancing and splashing in the rain for hours, and to her utter delight the rain went on without a halt; sometimes drizzling and at times coming in heavy showers. Rain. She could stand soaking in it for ages and never once feel agitated or cold. The roads were deserted and yet she could here muffled sighs of people sitting in warm blankets talking over a hot cup of their favorite beverage. It often troubled her how ungrateful people can be; after long sought prayers of rain are accepted and the rain is poured down from the grudging grey clouds, hitting the barren land and driving little puffs of dust in the air. And yet those very people who pray for this blessing hide in their homes looking out through a barrier of glass.  Showing no gratitude. How could they not? She could go about rain forever; the way the ground smelled when it rained, the way it pelted her skin, the way the windows fogged up in the rain and the way it made everything look fresh…

A grin was plastered across her face as she splashed in the low floods brought by the heavy rain. Her clothes and hair were soaked in rain and she shuddered every time a cold breeze flowed. Some instinct kept urging her to go inside and change into dry and warmer clothes but she ignored it and instead walked over to the great ground right next to her house. It was not really a ground rather just acres of empty land, in the evenings kids used to gather there and play but it was said to be left for construction of houses. Beyond the vast empty land was the airport. It was quite close and the noise of aircrafts landing and taking off was normal. She laughed when their guests used to light up at this noise and rush to the windows to watch the planes pass.

The ground was flooded by the rain too, and it made her wish they had a swimming pool close by. She started walking to the center of the ground, taking a familiar walking route even in the dark. Her crazy instinct was forming into a bad gut feeling, urging her to go back, regardless she ignored it. unexpectedly and out of nowhere she heard a single cry of a bird, the sound so saddening and piercing that she wanted to turn back towards street-light illuminated road. But the noise above her head made her stop right in her tracks and gaze up at the sky. The noise was one of the harshest thunder, the kind that made your blood drain, and the kind that made you runaway to your mother’s soothing arms, the kind that made you suddenly cold. It rooted her to her spot and then she saw something big, huge and burning come crashing down on the ground right in front of her, with a horrid sound so blaring that it bellowed and sent her several feet away with a gush of extremely hot wind that knocked the air right out of her, as she landed near the road bumping into the ground several times, yet not registering pain. Her eyes locked to the scene before her.

She was stunned as the immense structure crumbled in the fire, too dazed to move, too struck to speak or yell. Her jagged breath soothed after several minutes yet the adrenaline kept pumping.  After numerous tries she got up, her knees were too weak and wobbly to support her. She couldn't even look about her, her eyes could do nothing but register the sight in front of her as she took small shaky steps towards the fire which had spread across the dry grass.  A huge grey cloud of smoke rose from the fire and as she got closer to the blazing aircraft the smoke stung her eyes, nonetheless, she kept moving only to stop a few feet away from the smoldering form.

The bird wailed again, this time more sorrowful and close. She looked up at the sky, now rapidly going grey above her as the smoke rose, and realized it was still raining slowly. All of a sudden the rain didn't seemed so nice, it made the air humid, suffocating and so thick that it made her cough  several times and rub her eyes to clear out her view. She closed the distance between her and the plane and realized it had cracked open and the other part must being lying away. She looked at the mess of ashen faces and burning mass inside, astonished and wanting to gag. And then her eyes took in something different; a tiny hand rose from the clutter of burning flames and she thought she heard a muffled cry, the hand shook slowly a fraction of an inch here, a fraction there and then all too quick the raised fingers went slack. Tiny little hand disappearing as the fire suddenly caught up with a snarl, sending smoke in her eyes and throat. She tumbled a few steps back and heard the bird screech a third time, all grieve and pain. She heard the din of screams and shouts from the road beyond her.

she cast her eyes over the burning chaos one last time then looked up at the sky as the bird went right above her head shrieking one more time, she threw her head back and wailed loudly alongside the bird; a sound of immense pain, grieve and sorrow.

-Momina Latif.

Story: From the Diary of a Middle Child.

The following is a story, it has no connection to the writer or any other person, living or dead. The work is entirely fiction; advice and feedback would be appreciated, not criticism. Thank you.

-I am simple. My life, I guess, is okay. It seems so. There seems to be less problems and troubles than those faced by others. Sure there are times when life seems to be crumbling down. Its real bad then.  Like the times when my elder sister would slap me right across the face for no reason other than the fact that she was angry. It’s happened more than once. More than half a dozen times.  Of course I don’t go whining to my mom. No, I prefer to cry in peace and not talk to my sister, or try to do so.

I am unusual. Different. I don’t drool over celebs or people of the opposite sex that others tend to find *cute*. I simply don’t notice them and I have no comment on them. Nada. No, I am not homo. I am weird.

I don’t like it when my little brother gets ignored. He is sensitive. It’s his right, he needs the attention. I try to make him feel better, he fails to gets it. But I try.

Why don’t they realize? Life has its problems but it gets better. A straight road is no fun, a curvy one holds all the adventures.

**********

 

-It’s not a joke. Life. It’s not a bloody joke.  No matter how much I try or what I do, she always stands right. Always. Haven’t I always done more for you? You have no idea what she says about you and behind your back. Or do you have any idea that it’s me always reasoning with her, putting sense into her. You don’t know. You hate me. Because she is your first and she’ll always be, right there number one on your list. No matter what I do or how hard I try. I am never right. It’s always them, always her. Why? Why me? Why do I face all the troubles? Even when I try to do the right always. I try not to break your trust like she has. I do not talk mean of you to others. I try to never think badly of you. It’s all useless though. When you don’t trust me because I’ll always remain wrong. I never believed the face that the middle child is neglected. You've proved me wrong.

**********

 

-There is a soft blurry edge to everything. It’s hazy. Everything  looks funny as if each item merges into the other. As if watching through a sheath of heavy pouring rain. As if it’s a mirage. Out of focus and bokeh-ed, forming into bubbles and then tipping out of focus. Moving; side to side. Unstable. They loose colors as if drained. Black and white. Then grey. A big ugly blotch of blurry grey. Getting bigger, darker. Swallowing me up, painlessly. Good. The pills are working.

  ***********

-Momina.

Silenced.

She sat alone on the lone bench; a silver head facing the outstretched yet empty gardens, behind her stood the old building where a dozen more like her sat. She could hear the endless whispers in her ears, calling out to her, even when no when was around.She was alone still. All her life she craved for solidarity and silence and now, when her wish was attained, she only shuddered in pain and longing, at all times.  Truly alone and trapped in isolation of her own body; unable to utter a word or hear anything apart from old murmurs. She saw their lips move, she saw them laugh and then she'd cry to herself, in her own solitary mind. Abandoned. Deserted. Shut away from all those around with a constant reminder that it was her own much desired wish, she sat alone on the single bench, facing the empty gardens, isolated in a world of gazillions, forgotten like a thousand day dreams…

smoked cigarettes

Staring into the eyes of the little girl in front of her, she was abruptly pushed back into her own childhood where these eyes belonged to her; full of fear and loneliness, craving attention and love. 

She stood at her bedroom door staring down into the hall of the great big mansion. The mansion, even though her home scared her; it was too big and too delicate, the opposite of a cozy home. She looked down on to the open hall her eyes skimming through all the people who looked similar to each other till her eyes landed on the one person she wanted to see. There were a lot of people surrounding her but she was nothing like any of them. There was a striking aura around that particular person that captivated the young child. Her eyes followed the figure careful not to lose it, she knew she'd loose her with just one blink and her eyes were already drowsy from sleep. The swollen bloodshot eyes that dominated the pale little face darted from figure to figure as she lost her mother in the party crowd. It was then that she realized the smoke from all the cigarettes and cigars was getting to thick, irritating her eyes and throat. Turning her tiny self away from the body she coughed and went inside, closing the door shut behind her, she opened her window and sat on it, wiping away her watery eyes and looking up into the dark sky she said a little prayer like every day and then called her dear old nanny.

'Would you call mama to come and kiss me good night?' she asked.

'I am afraid she's busy my dear!' the nanny replied gently.

'But won't you try, please?'

'I shall' she said although knowing that the mother won't come and the poor child would drift to sleep waiting.

--

It's late, very late, and almost time for dawn but she's awake sitting on the big arm chair gazing at her mother as if she was a diamond encrusted statue. Her mother though is unaware of her presence as she lies on the couch with eyes closed, smoking a cigarette. The little child doesn’t go near her mother afraid she'll push her into the table like the other day. She loves her but she wants her mother's love. She needs it. She looks at the carpet scattered with ash and ash-tray filled with cigarette butts. Her fearful eyes follow her mother's figure as it gets up and walks away leaving her behind alone. The poor child shudders at the hate she feels wafting at her!  She brings her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on them, letting her tears paint her cheek wet. 

--

Time has passed now but the scene is more or less identical. The endless promises she made to herself to not become like her mother have proved futile. She is the same as her mother, hateful, selfish and torn.  And the dear little child with exactly her eyes is her daughter, who even now sits before her with glassy pained eyes and rosy cheeks staring at her smoking a cigarette, very much like herself at a very distant time. It's another generation yet much the same. She has been ignoring the innocence of that child's face and she will be the one to make her like herself. As if hit by a revelation, she suddenly drops her half smoked cigarette that burns right through her beautiful sheer silk wrap that is lying on the floor and her white plush rug, normally she would have not let this go, even if her own fault, but right now it goes unnoticed.  The room is dark and dotted with candles, like every day. Light seem to burn her eyes so she lights candles in the whole house. In the dim light from the candles she can see as the tears slip past the six year old child's eyes. Involuntarily she, herself gets up and stands before her daughter, reaching out and grabbing her hand; holding on tight she gently wipes the tears  with her free hand and drags her along, walking the whole house with her. Blowing gently on the candles and saving that which should be saved, not just a candle, but an innocence for generations.

Momina.

from me to you, as a friend.

'So how are you feeling today?' I ask the figure reclining on the couch as I grab my note-pad and take my usual place in my cozy arm chair.

'Giddy' he says, turning slightly on the sofa 'I think'

I nod but he doesn’t say anything, maybe he's waiting for me to say something.

'That’s okay; you might be experiencing a dozen more emotions at this moment.'

'How many patients do you get every day?'

I hate it when he makes the conversation drift to me abruptly, it makes me uneasy.

'Depends, on the appointments'

'How many emotions do you feel daily?'

I smile 'a hundred, maybe a thousand'

'Hard to believe, your face is quite bland more than half the time.'

I frown now, although he is very much at ease.

'well, that is none of your business. I am the physiatrist here; I am trying to solve your issues. Lets get back to that' I say it in as a measured tone as I can manage. Something about him keeps me at the edge.

He laughed out loud 'of course, but don’t you ever feel the need to consult someone too? Don’t you let loose?'

I am on the verge of screaming with impatience but I carry on in the same even tone 'my letting loose, Mr. Haven is my problem but your problem I have been noticing is that you worry more about others and if you put that ounce of attention to yourself you'll be much better. Not everyone is looking for your consent.'

'Isn't that what you do too? Worry about others?'

'No! I help people who make a big deal about worries.' This guy is weird. 'Anyways so tell me, what bothers you deep down? Makes you annoying for others'

Thankfully we continue the session without anymore of his wandering questions and I get up alongside him after an hour. I take my coat and the keys and while he puts his own coat on, he eyes me warily.

'You are leaving?'

'Indeed I am, I have errands to run' I say and he nods. As I shut and lock the door behind us, I keep thinking about the session. At times this guy disturbs me. When I get down he's getting into his car, I signal him and walk over.

'need a lift?'

'no thanks, I have my car with me. I know i am your physiatrist and it's a very formal acquaintance but if you have thought of any past sessions of ours I just want to give you an advice, as a friend though we are not' I pause and without letting him speak first I carry on 'you honestly need to stop thinking about others more than you need to, it's time you start giving yourself time and let people know you rather than you try to figure everything about them. It's become a habit of yours, it will take time to subside but you'll manage. Think over it.' With that I give him a smile and rush back to my car.

As I start the car a glance back at him and I can see it. What all those sessions of endless conversations couldn’t manage a few words did. Sometimes you don’t need all these money wasting sessions, all you need are some honest words from a friend that will bring you back to sense. I wave at him as I drive by, he might not need another session after this.

Momina.

The game of fate!

the following piece is inspired by the 'the red thread of fate' theory. Thank you 'U' for sharing it, this ones for you.

She laughs loudly sitting in a circle of friends as she sweeps her hair out of her eyes with both hands, like a child would; her eyes are partially closed from the effort of laughing hard and her nose crinkled.  Whilst he sits at his home in front of the ever inescapable play station despite of his age, his hair is uncut and he doesn't care about half what going around. They sit miles apart at the moment yet they are destined to spend the rest of their lives together. For most she'd be passed as an average looking girl but for him then she'd become an enchanting sight; he would crave to look at, her laugh for him would become a brilliant melody  so captivating he'd follow it forever. And for her, for her his presence would be of enough wealth that she could ignore every other need or desire, for he'll become her strength. The red thread has been knotted to each of their little fingers. It may stretch, tangle or loosen but it would never break or come off. It will sustain till they find their destiny, till they find each other. Let the show of fate begin.

Momina.

Disguised

‘So that’s the girl who called me by the endearing word on thy phone’, he said to his friend.

‘Fret ye not boy, it’s kinda like her pet word so she says ‘darling’ to everyone. Don’t get over excited.’

‘Oh…’ you could tell that he was a little disappointed.

He walked over to where she stood looking nothing like the feminist she really was; she wore the same coveralls as them, faded and old. Of course he wasn’t expecting to see ball dresses but he wasn’t expecting the similar attire too. Hair tightly bound in a bun and feet clad in ugly boots. 

‘Here you are! I got to run, but Miss Johnson this is Mister Neeson. Mister Neeson, miss Johnson‘, a lift of his cap and colonel Dave was on his way.

‘Afternoon! We talked on the phone today.’ Up close he could smell a hint of flowery cologne.

‘I bet we did but I am afraid I don’t remember much. I’d prefer if phones came with videos. You get a fair idea of what to look forward to.’ She smiled a measured smile.

‘Indeed but in that case you’d probably get a few too many prank calls, I am afraid. But you do look quite into the future.’ He could almost smile to himself, almost.

‘Yes thank you!’ she looked away.

‘I have never seen women here before…aren’t you afraid? There are not many women in this kind of field, and frankly speaking I believe it’s a man’s work’s place.’

‘don’t you know that women are now doing as good as men’ she said the word ‘men’ as if she didn’t really like it ‘in fact, they are going much faster, I belief.’

‘I am familiar with that, but not in this field, it’s much too dangerous and women are far too…’ he swept a glance over her slim frame ‘…delicate.’

Irritated she brought her face close to his, ‘Not me Mr. Nelson’ she said irately and started to walk off.

‘It’s Neeson! Well I hope you know how to handle a gun then, Johnson.’ he called on.

‘Don’t worry Neeson I do, very well.’ She yelled back as she covered up her eyes with shades ‘and much better than most of your men’ with that she stepped out into the sun and away.

‘Good for you Johnson’ he whispered to himself looking at the retreating figure with a twinkle in his eyes.

Momina.