Shifted

I've shifted my blog to Tumblr: http://mythoughtbits.tumblr.com/

Superman.

She wouldn’t really come across as being anyone. Just another nobody. 

Definitely not a Lois Lane.

She used the same benches as everyone, ate the same junk as everyone else. Sat at the same spots in the quadrangle, used the same stairs, moved along the same corridors, used the same lecture halls and pews and tables and chairs. No exceptions.

Yet she was a tiny world within herself: a world within the world. A breathing organism of talking thoughts and screaming feelings. She would come across as nobody yeah, but you only had to look into her eyes to know you couldn't have been more mistaken. Couldn't have been more blatantly tricked.

For there is a bug of coiled emotion at permanent abode in her programming center. A bug that just wouldn't listen to the chidings of her brain cells, the admonishing of her heart. A bug that chooses to glow dim or bright of its own choice. Unfortunately, Mortein® hasn't come up with a debugger for pests of this kind yet.

As with most things in life, only a small trigger is required to set links in motion. You never know which domino is  strategic in the line till you knock it over, unleashing a torrent of happenings -  the domino effect of destruction and construction intertwined.

A swoosh and she looks up to find him walking by. She is frozen mid-step, mid-sentence with her friend. The instant is frozen as her Superman passes her by. Her throat constricts and she realizes quite consciously that she is holding her breath. But she is afraid that exhaling might blow the  quantum-light moment away. Crackers go off in her brain and a string of fireworks is unleashed. She squeezes her eyes shut for she is not sure how to respond to the scenario. To him. She looks away pretending she hasn't noticed but the damage has been done. The chain has been set in motion and she can already sense how the day ahead is going to be.

It is over. He has left.

She sits on a bench to bring her knocking knees under control. Inhales. Exhales. Deeply.

Why does he always have this effect on me, she asks herself. On her the Nobody.

Random snatches of a milieu of songs play in her head. She finds herself wondering how it would all end, were her life an actual movie.

In a movie she wouldn’t be caught off guard every single time. Wouldn’t be thrown off the very balance of sense and sensibility just by a casual glance.

In a movie all this would happen just once; you are never shown those infinite moments between magic instances like life jumps in hops from drama to drama. You are never shown how the characters spend their time in the 'in between' moments and minutes and hours and days. You are never shown how they fall into the abyss every day and have to struggle hard just to face the world normally. Every single day.

In a movie a pinnacle would be reached. The director knows how it will all end. The characters know how it will all end. The viewers know how it will all end.

The gentlest fall and the slightest whisper as the curtains fall over the theatre.

She doesn't know how anything will work out or end or even start any more.

She presses her knees hard together and sends up a silent prayer. Looks toward the sky and that door wishing God is listening to her heart.

She smiles to herself.

And continues to wait for Superman to come pick her up.

For the red cape to engulf her and block everything out.

*Inspired by US singer Daughry's new single - Waiting For Superman

No More Smells, Please!

You wake up with bleary eyes in the morning for class, rush through the morning regime of brushing your teeth, shoving breakfast into your gaping mouth, thrusting on that pair of socks, slathering on a moisturizer + foundation + sunscreen + mascara + whatnot.

You reach the bus stop and find the bus already beginning to pull away. You make a dash for it and the driver thankfully sees you run up and screeches the bus to a halt. You whisper a phew! to yourself as you climb wearily in, fighting that leg cramp you can already feel creeping in. The driver gives you 'the' look that says huh, her and her late timing! I just don't understand w-h-y young people can't wake up 5 minutes earlier in the morning! And on the real lucky days when he brings the bus to a shriek halt, a string of expletives could very well follow.

Anyhow, the process of 'getting in' is done with and you relax in your seat and begin tying up your as-yet untied shoelaces. You smell something sweet, not edible. The smell of a hand moisturizer. You look at your own hands but its not the smell of your brand. You look across the aisle at the girl waving her hands expressively while talking on the phone and realize its coming from her. You roll your eyes, huh typical girl, and look away.

In steps a suited man and you smell his aftershave as he walks past, then a woman whose moisturizer you smell, then a couple of school kids smelling all of Johnson's ® Baby Powder. Someone's shampoo, someone's hair conditioner, a stupid body spray, cigarette  smoke.

Smells.

Your nostrils begin to get flooded with them. You try to open the window to let in some air and release the sticky feeling in the atmosphere. You try to look at the rolling hills and plains as the bus moves along the road in an effort to take your eyes off people on phones, people laughing, people drooling as their heads loll with sleep, people finishing up breakfast.

You freak out, just get me off the bus! Rescue 101, haven't you got some kind of a Smell Crackdown Team or something?

Finally, university is here!

You get off at your stop and the bus whizzes by.

Thankfully some fresh air at last. Your lungs give a little jiggle and you begin to walk confidently towards class. Open the door and step into the lecture hall.

Only to be met with a confused infusion of body sprays and moisturizers and..

Oh no, please no more smells again! 

The Book

Have you ever thought what it means to be 'you', the 'me' and the 'I'?

What it is you actually are other than an ingeniously crafted ensemble of flesh and bone?

I've asked myself these things many times and there is an array of answers that come to mind in the form of flashes and mental-picture-postcards.

Often there is something that comes your way and changes everything, simply e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. The A-Z of your being. You teeter on the brink of sanity and happiness and a tumultuous upheaval of other emotions. All a part of growing up you say, just the way you have been told things will and should turn out. That does not necessarily make it all any easier to handle of course. Just the warning.

We are all a walking, talking, book-and-pen set.

We are all an open book that starts out crisp and blank. The introductory page is filled out by your mama to initiate the celebration that is  your life. The page is turned and the book is left open for others of the world to come and start filling in and leave their mark.  Some of us are a plain open book with smooth, easy to turn pages. Pens come and scratch us at their will. We may want to scream and shout and ogle out words to that effect but we fail wretchedly. We let them scratch and scratch us till the paper tears around where they are scratching and begins to bleed. The ink soaks through the cracks and leaves a mark on many, many pages to come. And sometimes not satisfied with its occupied territory the ink decides to penetrate through to the last page of your life.

Some pen marks are made with beautiful ink of the finest quality and perhaps lightly fragranced too. They make you feel your happiest possible while the words are being written out. You cherish the moments within each moment. But as soon as they lift away and the writing is done with, you are jolted awake from sweet slumber. You stare around and wish and wish for the pen to come back. You wouldn’t mind if it scratched and tore you, if it soaked you in ink or if it ripped you apart. The fragrance is so addictive, the touch so smooth you begin to lose your head. You fall into a frenzy and whip your pages to and fro in infernal fury and frustration.

Perhaps the fragrance was opiated.

Some others are made of stiffer paper with tougher binding. The scratching pens come and try to spoil but the books hold, they will not be tampered with so easily. Made according to rules and built just for following them, these are the volumes that 'survive without unnecessary drama' and shut down every night feeling they have satisfied everyone in life even though their hearts have screamed against them the whole day. But someone inked in the Prologue of their book that life exists only to serve others, 'you' don’t matter to you.

We are each a pen too and we go about making our marks on other books every day, every moment of our lives. We sometimes linger before writing those words we want to in those special books. Think over a lot trying to buy time to decide whether or not we should write what we really want to.

Some of us do write them out and wait for a reader to come read them, for God to listen and answer the prayer you have written down with each letter shaped out with so much love.

Some of us pass up.

Maybe that is the reason we may never know if our prayer has been fulfilled.

Ashes

She found herself having flashbacks to a time they could have had together, but never did. It would seem strange to anyone hearing this for it is absurd, how can someone have flashbacks to something that hasn't even happened? But it is true. That is how her mind worked, building up real enough stories in her head. Portraying themselves as the persons she wanted them to be.

Reality did not matter and the dreams were wretched. They made her live in a world she knew all along was unreal yet felt like her only abode. Her only hope of retaining semblance of sanity. The bitter addiction of a torn mind. She knew the real world demanded her attention and there were things she needed to focus on. There was an urgent pile of undone tasks waiting to be looked after; discarded paper lying all around screaming to be read. Yet she didn't care, or in any case couldn't. Her mind wouldn't let her. Her heart was in a different realm altogether. Much as she forced it to come back she failed. Failed every time she tried. Failed harder and harder.

The endless positive loop of feedback.

It had happened before and she had vowed herself, never again. She had built up an elaborate, intricate structure to help herself climb slowly out of the imagined realm. Slowly and steadily. And she thought she has succeeded too, had finally won over the difficult battle. But she was no Caesar, she was no Columbus.  She was just a plain unknown girl and the new paths to forgetfulness were beyond her scope to discover.

And so it happened.

The slightest touch, the merest idea, the meekest glance and the structure she had shielded herself in came tumbling down. It melted right in front of her.

She watched it go up in flames, heard the fire crackling. Felt the heat in all its entirety.

And what could she do?

Just stand and stare and stare.

At her only shield go up in flames.

At her last defenses burn to ashes.

And she did just that.

'Excuse Me' Is Not My Name!

'Excuse me, can you please get aside?'

'Excuse me but can I please have your notebook for a while?'

'Excuse me but I think you know my best friend from school?'

We are referred to by 'excuse me' day in and day out. From morning till noon, and from Monday through Sunday, always called by an excuse me.

Take Pakistani government institutions for instance. Chances are most of your male colleagues (if you're female) and vise versa won't know your name at the workplace. Or so you assume. For what do they always call you by? Why of course, please Excuse Me!

Whether it is the guy behind you in class poking you asking for something or in a society meeting, always the two words to address. Sometimes when a person is sitting at a distance across the table from you and there is a cross exchange of 'excuse me's', you find yourself confused: is it Excuse Me#1 being called or Excuse Me #15? No one really knows in the medley of excuse me's and the exchange continues till the right Excuse Me# is found.

Alright I agree it makes sense for someone who does not know you by your first name to refer by an 'excuse me' accompanied by a nudge/poke. But with people who DO know you, it just doesn't make sense!

A lot of people know your name and there is never any harm in using it. In fact it actually feels good when someone addresses you by name, a feeling of importance and specialty.

Some people think using a name somehow has 'wrong' connotations and perhaps the person would take offence or something. That is not true by far.

So the next time someone calls you by the EM compound word, casually reply 'Excuse me, but Excuse Me really is not my name! Does it happen to be yours?'

Bricks of Life

The first impression you get from the house is that it is empty, perhaps even haunted. The blue metal double door with a set of crossbars to give strength and an aesthetic sense that makes for the main entrance is flanked on all sides by bougainvillea. It frames the door and a person entering would have to step over and onto it to make it inside.

Then comes the stone walkway. This is perhaps a grand name for the actual thing, for the path is crooked and made of bricks that were once whole but have now become discolored and broken around the edges with weathering of all kinds. They have braved the heat and the cold, the rain and the temperature. They have stood witness to the countless feet that have trampled on them as they walk to or from the core house: some rushing hurriedly, others shuffling and some lingering. The bricks have stood the test of time and been faithful to the owner of the house. The owner has never had to think about replacements or even repairs. Perhaps because the bricks are hardy. Or perhaps because he/she simply never cared.

Moss has begun to grow in the cracks where the loosely paralleled bricks join together at the sides and edges. But wait, the moss is not new as you are first led to believe. Bend a little closer and you begin to notice that there is not one but several layers of moss. The previous layers have decayed and provided nutrition to the new ones, which in time have given way to newer and newer layers. It is only then that you begin to notice the slight stench that surrounds the path.

The main wall stretches to a long distance but you can't exactly make out its length for various stacks of discarded household objects mar the wall at small spaces, spilling out into what, lets say, is the lawn.

You walk towards the core  which stands as if in the middle of a vast bounded space. On your way you stoop to pluck out one of the pretty flowers growing in well kept flower pots that line the walkway. You wonder how they are so fresh, for keeping them proper requires human hands. The color in them seems strange too for it is completely mismatched to the silence and lifelessness of the overall place. Not a single human voice can be heard for a distance. A bird chirps on to the bougainvillea and you turn around to look at it. But it flies away immediately for it is not used to many visitors. Or perhaps humans themselves.

A shiver runs down your spine but you keep walking toward the white door designed out of white painted iron and some net to let the inmate look out without letting insects in. Insects. You swat away the pesky fly that has been sitting on your shoulder for some time and whom you had forgotten in the mix of curiosity and fear in your mind stemming from the very place.

Open the door and step in. It takes your eyes a little while to adjust to the darkness of the room which seems positively pitch black when coming from the relatively brighter outside. Faint shapes begin to emerge. You notice large suitcases stacked up against the front wall and a small table you become aware of only when your foot bangs against it. You hear a light noise that sounds like coughing and look around you. It's difficult to make out the source so you step our of the immediate range of the doorway. Light immediately floods into the room and you see a heap on a jute charpoy. A coughing sound comes again and the heap heaves a little simultaneously. It gives you the idea it’s a living thing, a person maybe. You creep slowly and cautiously toward the pile, take the sheet by the edge and slowly begin to peel it away. A pile of wrinkles emerges and some silver string-like surface. You peel further. Now there is pair of eyes deep set in wrinkles and crow's feet, shut against the light, apparently trying to adjust to the seldom brightness. They slowly open while you stand paralyzed with fear and regret and pity and confusion and a multitude of other emotions. The eyes pop open suddenly and you are taken aback. They rove around your face to search the directory of names in the mind to search for yours. Something seemingly clicks for the eyes change into a faint hint of a smile. There is a creaking of the charpoy as a pile of bones enclosed in skin assembles itself into a cross-legged position. The sheet falls off the charpoy but you are looking at the face of the person, those swollen hands on stick-like arms, uncombed hair partly covered in a dupatta. The face smiles and calls you a name. A name that is not your own. A name that belongs to some distant relative you have in the village. You suddenly remember your manners and bend your head low to for the face to kiss you on the top while it clutches you at the temples. A stench fills your nose. A smell of illness. Of hopes long crushed. Of the son she waits for every day but who comes only once in a very, very long time. A smell of life gone by and spent longing, longing, longing. The smell of my great grandmother.

For she lives alone with just my great aunt in this house, cared only for by my maternal grandmother living nearby and nobody else.

She lies in bed all day waiting for her only son to come visit her, who lives in the next town but just can't be bothered. A son on whom she has showered all her love, depriving her daughters in the process. A son she has spent her everything on. But a son who just doesn't care.

And she? Reduced only to a pile of bones covered in a wrinkled brown canvas.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Like the bricks on the walkway.