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. 

Time Chunks

Sometimes when you think about time, you forget that it consists of days, hours, minutes, seconds, and those little ticks of the clock we call moments. 'Moments' that signify just so much in their infinitesimal smallness.

Humans love to organize things around them and lending terminology to a concept makes it come alive all of a sudden and 'real' in a sense. Something within the reach of our minds' computing powers. We love to segment time into chunks as time spent here or there, with this or that person, doing something or the other. It's always the bigger picture with a term all its own we define our lives by.

But in all this process of compartmentalization passed on to us a gift of evolution, we forget that time, indeed, has a segmentation all its own. Something unnamed, undefined even in Particle Land.

We forget that to pass special chunks of difficulty we have to live through each grueling moment in its entirety, hear each sound of the fingernail screeching on the blackboard, tear your hair at every pit stop, fall to your knees  with pleading and regret and piety altogether, hear the shattering of glass as you stare at your own tear-stained  face in the mirror.

You forget that you will be trampled upon by the very people you care the most about, crushed in the stampede like a beetle, scrunched up till you begin to hear your own demons screaming in your ears, hear your own fears scream back at you and you begin to cower inside a shell you think exists but is in fact only a hologram, a projection of the scared mind.

You forget that there is a vastness beyond the faked color of life, that there lies this vast empty barren terrain you to have crawl through on your own. You scream out for help but there isn’t a reply. The distant mountains echo back your cries for help to mock you and just push you further into the positive feedback loop of despair.

And what option do you have then but to resign to the abstractness knows as Fate and just throw your hands over your head and run, run, run as fast as you can?

Time is nothing in physical terms.

But ask about its reality from someone who is living through the rough patch.

All Physics will be shattered, for even 'E equals m, c squared' cannot be balm to all those dripping wounds.

Squished Frog

Some days ago I spotted a dead frog lying on the road. It was a dusty shaded green and the tyres of numerous cars and motorcycles passing over it had nearly camouflaged it with the asphalt.

It was quite disgusting to look at yet I bent low for a closer look. The frog was lying face down with legs splayed out in the same posture as when the car responsible for its death had hit. The once pink tongue was poking out from its pointed mouth, greyed by the passing time and blowing dust.

Reading its story was quite easy since most of us have felt the same at some time or other in our lives: coming into the world, cared for by mama and sometimes baba, then thrown out mercilessly into the world to fend for ourselves. We have all felt happiness, seen the good things, and then experienced them being snatched away from us in a whiff. No mercy shown by fate. All the pieces on the chessboard of life's game tossed away with a rough motion of the hand without a thought. We have experienced the goodness of life, and then suddenly been thrown off our very kilter.

We always knew what happened was bound to sooner or later, yet we didn't fathom the day would come so soon. When what we feared most would finally come true. Our very worst nightmare staring us right in the face. And back in middle school we thought RL Stein's Goosebumps series gave us the real shivers!

For the frog, being run over and dying so unexpectedly was the ultimate nightmare. But for us humans, numerous nightmares come before the final blow: death. Things you were trying to overlook in the hope they would go away despite reality finally hit you. Hard. Directly on the face. Not a slap, a pinch, or a punch. They hit like a hammer blow and send you reeling back in absolute shock.

And leave you feeling like the squished frog.

The Door That Was Shut

There was once a time when we laughed carelessly, without thinking about what it meant or if it was even supposed to mean anything. We talked and created meaningless stories and dreamed of projecting them to the world, all the while knowing we wouldn't actually be doing anything.

There were times when we made hilarious plans and discussed the most bogus things on Earth and smiled at each others' stupidity.

There were times we cared about what the other felt and lent a helping shoulder whenever it was needed, without being asked.

But then it all ended, just like everything else. Just like all is meant to be.

There appeared a door all of a sudden through which I was being pushed out, shoved by an invisible force. I fought and resisted but the force was stronger than I could ever be were I to even duplicate my strength. It pushed and I resisted. It shoved and I kicked back. Until suddenly, in the blink of an eye, I found myself in a hallway lined with many doors and a key in my hand. I looked back over my shoulder and right there, behind me, was the door: open yet but with nothing visible inside.

There are some things programmed into our very DNA, such as when we are faced with the certainty that the doom we feared is finally upon us, or how we instantaneously know when we have met that special someone we know will henceforth be the focal point of our lives. The same way you know when the door to a room you once belonged to has to be shut.

I continued staring at the key in my hand, wishing the very act would make the moment slip away and transport me back to where I was before, inside the room, at harmony with myself. I kept hoping to at least find an explanation from the inscriptions on the key for why what had just happened did happen. But the moments only kept stretching and the key grew heavier and heavier in my hand.

It grew heavier, yes, till it became so heavy I couldn't keep my hand suspended in the air any longer. So I sank till my knees touched the floor still unwilling to let go of the key, or to do what I knew I ultimately had to. I sank lower and lower but refused to look up, still hoping to at least know why all this was happening to me, why I was being forced into a choice that really didn't present me with any options. And then I felt the tears come out. My eyes became blurry with the salt water and I couldn't even see the inscription any more. I shut my eyes as the realization hit me that this was the moment, this was when what had been destined had to be done. I squinted them tighter and made the decision: I was the keeper of the key, so I would also be the one to lock the door before it locked me out. I slowly got back onto my feet and the key kept getting exponentially lighter. I raised myself to full height using the wall as a support, turned around and grabbed the doorknob, yanked it forcefully to me, stuck the key in and locked it in a frenzy of anger mixed with saltwater. The door didn't resist as if the hinges didn't exist at all. I pulled the key out and staggered on my feet, the world so dizzy around me.

It took me some time to be able to stand straight again for not for one moment did the reality of what I had just done leave my mind. I continued sobbing silently. Hoping the tears would wash away the cruelty of the act but they didn’t.

Ironically the key remained in my hand throughout like an object I had befriended. It quivered in the palm of my hand like a Quidditch ball waiting to be released, wanting me to open the door again. To try once more to get back in. To try to be a part once more of what I had been pushed out of. But I knew going back was one of the greatest mistakes I could ever make. For things change. Everything changes. Everyone changes. Once you have been pulled out of a loop there's no going back since the very configuration of the loop is no longer the same as when you left it. Turning back would only increase your sorrow and pain and make you lose your sanity in an already insane world. I pocketed the key and walked on and on down the corridor of endless doors till I couldn't walk any more, till my feet gave in and I fell face down onto the floor that turned into a clear blue liquid and engulfed me. Covered me completely. Consoled me that this is what was meant to be, and that I had just been an instrument of destiny for which I should be proud. The fighter within me continued to scream at the unfairness of the situation but soon I was too tired to even object to anything. I let the blueness surround me. I gave in.

The key lies in my pocket always.

I sometimes take it out, place it on my palm and think about all it means. A rush of nostalgia overcomes me but I know deep down I can never go back. Can never open the door again.

The key wriggles but I draw my hand into a fist.

Pocket it back in.

And walk right on.

Dreams

Dreams.

What are they?

Chinks of your thoughts? Figments of imagination? Paths to be followed?

Everyone has their own way of looking at dreams. There are interpreters who are of the belief that dreams hold the key to our lives directly and are signals from our subconscious about 'us'. Then there are people who dismiss them as being pure melodrama and holding no meaning at all.

Some of us daydream about things we should or shouldn't be thinking about, depending upon what the subject is.

Then again there are dreams pertaining to what we want to achieve in life. What we want to see ourselves as. What we want to be. What we want to be seen as. The person.

The opinion on dreams varies from a culture to another with people in my country mostly dismissing them as being rubbish and not worth a thought.

Whatever we think dreams to be, the truth is we all have them both when we are asleep and about our lives in general. Some of us want to pursue them to the end and turn them into reality. But as the general trend goes most people want to ignore their dreams as being too higher tier and unachievable. We want to give up on them because that makes us feel like our own heroes to have 'sacrificed' a part of us when it's no one but us who stands to lose. This is not real sacrifice at all: all it is, is insulting your own subconscious.

Sometimes we think we would have nothing to look forward to once our dream has been fulfilled and that there will be left a gaping hole in its stead. That we won’t know what to do with our life any more since the thing that was most on our minds is now done with.

There is also the fear of failure itself: the feeling that if we fail to achieve our life's goal, we wouldn't be able to face ourselves in the mirror anymore, not be able to look into our own eyes with shame.

Dreams are a gift from God. They are sent to us for a reason: to discover ourselves.

They are meant to be followed to the end since that gives us a sense of purpose and something to channel all our energy towards. A true dream is not an end to something but the beginning of a new venture. The start of a web of linked stories.

For dreams are a part of who you are, and all of us are a story personified.

Yin-yang

Yin-yang is the Maoist symbol for two opposing but inseparable forces.

We think of ourselves as 'single' persons when we are actually always a 'double': the yin and yang. There is always a +ve voice in our head and another that urges us on toward the -ve. There is always a battle between the 'yes' and the 'no' in our heart and mind. When the heart gives you the go-ahead but the mind struggles to fit in 'logic' somewhere, fix in 'rationality'.

If you have ever had conversations running in your mind, you know there are two persons, two parts of you, present within a single anatomical shell. There is always an argument going on, always the black versus the white. A part of you urging you to take the step, be bold and say it, do it, act it while the other part holds you back, asks you to dip that toe in the pond before you jump right into it. In the meantime is confusion and tension as the tussle goes on. Sometimes this is momentary but on days when you would rather shut everything out than face anything, the struggle becomes red-hot active. There is so much running through your mind at once that all 'you' do is look around. Maybe put on music to silence the arguing yin and yang, to drown out the voices. Sometimes you succeed too. But it's not always guaranteed.

There is a voice saying that red is the best option: bold, sharp, bright.

There is that other voice saying pink is the better thing: softer, quieter, more subdued.

There is constant war between the two parts. One wants you to slap the person making you angry right away and make your point while the other tries to put a lid on the boiling pot. One asks you to smile when you would rather give someone a snarl. One makes you want to jump up and enjoy and have fun while the other is constantly reminding you that the moment is not permanent. That once it is over, it is back to the same old state.

This two sided version of ourselves is the reason sadness always accompanies happiness and there are occasions when the line between the two is blurred and they merge together.

Sometimes you are looking directly into someone's eyes and the voice makes you forget you shouldn't. The other voice jumps up to caution you but it's too late, the damage is done. The yin has momentarily triumphed yang. This is not supposed to happen. Yin and yang are inseparable, they totally fit in.

But when one trumps the other, that is the start of magic. Pure magic.

The start of mini apocalypses in your head.

The start of stanzas and stories and tales that go down in history.

The Gift

It was a small box. Hand painted. Gathering dust on a shelf in a small, shabby shop on a hillstation.

An unremarkable box, too small to hold much. Painted in hues of the bluest blue and some beige. Swirls of a golden leaf encircled the circumference and a swish of blue petals.

It was indeed a small box and something that would go unnoticed when looking for a handicraft to buy. Something you might just glance at and then shushh away in your mind's eye, rejecting it's potential to be bought for any reason. Move on. Next item please!

But when you are given this tiny thing by someone with perhaps a little something else coiled tidily inside, it begins to take on a whole new meaning.

For a gift is a gift no matter how small or tiny. It is the 'reason' that makes a difference and all of a sudden you feel special, flattered. Like you matter on this planet and that perhaps all is not a lost cause.

You unpack the little box and finger it, enthralled by the gentle bumps of paint as they spell out the painted vines. Bring it up close to your eyes for a better look, admire the sheer labor spent on creating the object of beauty.

Open the box, peer inside. Take out the little something and look in again. It is empty now of course yet you continue staring at the blue inside. Feel it with your finger, trace it with your thumb.

You look at it for a while, smile, and then gently place it back into it's wrapping. You are gentle with it to prevent the smallest abrasion on it's surface. Perhaps it sounds stupid but you save the wrapping as well.

For the sheer goodwill it was given to you with is heart-wrenching.

In that small box is stored a wealth of music and other things melodious, words, poetry, smiles and perhaps a touch of resentment, some stories and webbings. Lots of memories. The expression when it was handed to you.

A gift is the way to make someone feel special.

And that to me is purely beautiful.

Sponge

What does the word remind you of?

Maybe the smiling face of the pretty girl on ScotchBrite®. Or perhaps SpongeBob ® for those of you who like watching cartoons. Both these are smiling reminders.

But if you look at a sponge closely, it is actually a sad little thing.

The way it looks solid at first glance but reveals holes, pockets of air when you zoom in reminds me so much of us, the people. We are just the same: solid and courageous on the outside yet the same cowering beings inside, all of us, shrinking away silently against fear, the feeling of not being 'wanted' and 'needed', of not being 'loved'; the insecurities, the jealousies we try our best to mask during the day keeping in view 'people skills' yet can never fully escape because they WILL resurface no matter, seeking out our darkest moments to become their brightest.

Just like a sponge we absorb what is around us. Hold it's essence only as long as things are proceeding the way we want them, as long as we are masters of the grease we are made to wipe and not it's slaves. We absorb it so much so that we begin to drip the essence.

But along comes either a change of scenario or a bad incident to throw us off balance and we get 'squeezed out'. Back to the original hole-d condition.

Sometimes when you begin to feel things, being reminded of instances and begin to think of something more than you should, it feels like  you literally ARE a sponge: so hollow, so weak and malleable, so dispensable. And why not, since the brain itself is a sponge soaked in blood, the fibres of which are formed of as many neurons as are stars in the universe?

And then sometimes, you feel so light like a sponge too, ready to lift off your feet and fly up into the sky feeling like the luckiest person around.

And the lightness comes also when you feel  horrible, those days you feel like a prisoner trapped inside your own head.

Classic paradox for you.

Just like a sponge you sometimes feel used in a bad way, enough to make you lose respect for either yourself or the other person. Unsure if it was you who was stupid enough to not realize, or the other person just so mean on you.

Life is strange and it is said in modern Biology that biological sponges were among the first living things to come into being in the form we see them in today.

Over the years the human race has switched over to synthetic polymer-based sponges.

But does it mean we give up hope in life, in feeling, emotion and prayer?

I think not.

You only have to look at the cheerful ScotchBrite® girl to see  that synthetic sponges DO come in pretty packaging too and that with care, it can last you a long time.

That is what you have to look for in life. Sustainability.

Moments of happiness. Of ecstasy.

Airborne

Experience travelling by air is as unique as any other travelling experience. Sometimes it is the excitement of a new airport and other times simply the exoticism of the place. And sometimes, just the very feeling of being seated in and 'experiencing' an airplane.

I love the sensation of the airplane lifting off, the grr-grrr-ing as the wheels are withdrawn into the plane's tummy while it simultaneously gains lift. The same way I love the feeling of the plane touching down: the feeling of butterflies fluttering inside your stomach, the gentle closing down of your eardrums and then them popping open upon swallowing, the grrr-grrrr-ing again as the wheels come back out. I love the sensation of passing by the sun, seemingly looking straight at it during the day, and the moon by night. One a beautiful disk of gold and the other a sphere of grey-splotched white. Looking at these somewhat closer than while on ground makes you sort of understand why civilizations of the past found them worshipful. Powerful. And why poets to this day dedicate stanzas to their beauty and use their effect to personify human emotion.

The weather on Tuesday was forecasted to be cloudy and rain was on the cards; turbulence during the flight was expected.

The plane cleared Pakistani airspace without much disturbance but passing over the Gulf waters brought some ups and downs. All of a sudden we found ourselves jolted up, and the interior suddenly became darker than earlier on. A strange fog became visible through the window where before the sunlight has passed through. The lady beside me (we were toward the window-side) literally jumped into the air as much as her fastened seatbelt would allow and then began reciting something under her breath, a prayer for salvation and to keep away from any impending mishap. I should have done the same, my mind kept telling me: all those little precautions and dua's mama had taught me came to mind,  all those episodes of Air Crash Investigation I had watched on NatGeo began a replay in my mind's eye. But I was just too excited to recite anything, too caught up in the moment: for we were passing right through the clouds themselves! The total excitement as we flew through the white cotton looking so yummy it made you want to reach out and eat, like cotton candy. The constant up-and-down motion of the airplane only added to the excitement.

It felt heroic to be part of such turbulence, sort of brave to think of myself as a 'survivor' of something dangerous. The feeling that this was how the story of life had ended for many people in countless air crashes as the pilots lost control of the airplane. Maybe I should be feeling guilty for feeling this way in second-person tense. But I don't.

I understood so much of God and belief in those few seconds.

For, those moments in the cloud were, simply, beautiful.

Chuss (UET Taxila Special)

'Aik thi larki. Who thi Roots sai…'

Man, are we sick of listening to this prologue every day since last week!

It so happened that one of our friends aka Dhoabi and ZombieHunter carved out an elaborate story last week in the cafeteria: and fell into the trap himself!

Some people are born with the gift of philosophising, some with talking all professional. But some like my friend Bilal Shafiq are endowed with the special gift of letting off a 'chuss' every now and then and turning all red in the face afterward!

He is also endowed with the ability to sometimes say the most embarrassing things in front of just the wrong people and has a soft spot for all things (and people) French. Sometimes he gets so involved in this chain that a thread of totally random sentences (chusses) is strewn and we can't help but laugh our heads off.

We love to stand guard at the department entrance and talk manically. And often get caught by just the wrong teachers (and sometimes fall off chairs in a classroom, case in point). Sometimes we go to take classes that aren't actually happening when we make another friend Danish the teacher at the podium. And sit to listen to the fake-lecture (need I repeat what about? ;)  ) all giggle-y and jolly.

So to commemorate his heroic endeavors (and chusses), we have officially anointed him as our 'Universal Chussar' today.

We heartily hope that every new day brings a dawn of the brand-new-est chusses to your mind!

And may you actually find the 'Roots ki bandi' for yourself one day! (She can be an K/S, both are equally well!)

Chuss: Urdu-speak for a totally random and usually silly remark made

Roots: a British syllabus chain of schools in Pakistan

Information Attitude

'We live in the digital age, the age of information'. Such a cliché; not a day goes by when we don't read this sentence in a blog post, a newspaper article, or a simple Tweet.

But really, attitudes toward information sharing differ from a place to another. While all of us may want access to information, or in it's more raw form, data, we are not always prepared to be the ones to share it. Institutions in some countries are willing to reach out to a global audience and communicate the knowledge they have gathered over their lifespan: the most famous perhaps being the edX initiative launched by the joint effort of MIT and Harvard University. The Khan Academy is another such online initiative wherein you can, as their website says, 'learn anything for free'.

This is 'real' information sharing: sharing lectures, having discussions and even getting your queries clarified all in real-time is a mind boggling concept. And to me, nothing short of a science fiction projection-turned-reality.

But in countries like mine, the situation is totally complementary.

Simple things like discussing a university assignment is apt to get you raised eyebrows and a pretend-I-didn't-hear-you look. Ask for a little help in completing the lecture since you missed part of it for some reason (usually outdoor-sy) and people change attitudes like they never knew you.

But come the exams and things are totally different: open your textbook and a whole swarm of people come to check up on what you are reading, what if it's something they missed? Just a hint that you've got some extra points jotted down for memory's sake and they come like bees on a flower with puppy-dog faces, 'can I please please please see what you have written too? You KNOW my preparation is nil!'

Just be seen talking to a teacher and hey, watch out! All eyes and ears are on you!

It all makes me think: if you are so loathed to talking about studies in everyday life and just so busy pretending you were sleeping in class/don't open you books at all/haven't understood a single topic and what-not, why such poking during the exams then?

It is perhaps the fact that we have a third-world status that we are so possessive about the things we know. Always the fear that what we have is not really 'ours' and we don't really 'own' it, and that someday someone can easily take it all away from us. And make it their own.

What I want to say is that we seriously need to change this kind of negative attitude toward 'sharing'.

MIT and Harvard are just two examples from the large swath of international universities and institutions involved in creating a 'web of knowledge' . They have been none-the-worse for creating such a network of shared resources and in fact have prospered even more so.

There will be no harm if you help out someone with work. Everything in life is really not about getting 'returns' or 'benefits'. Sometimes you have to keep the base instincts aside and just be free to work with anyone in anyway you can. You never know how much your little time may have meant to the other person. Everything is not necessarily about securing good grades.

There is something we all know about but have to be kept being reminded of: the simple good.

edX: https://www.edx.org/

Khan Academy: https://www.khanacademy.org/

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall!

'Mirror, mirror on the wall, whose the fairest of all?'

I'm sure all of your remember this from Snow White. Maybe even ask yourself the same question every morning. And answer it with 'I'.

But have you ever felt like you didn't know the person you were looking at in the mirror even when it was just you in front of it? That uncanny feeling of looking at a shadow version of yourself, an alter ego? Like as if you were staring right into the eyes of someone else you didn't remotely know?

And it's always the eyes.

Zoom in and you begin to read thoughts in the head of the 'person' looking into the mirror, not quite you. Ideas, thoughts, feelings, anger, sorrow and all those things you had locked away in that secret box in your mind meant to store things to be untouched come up. All of a sudden they pounce on you all together and leave you breathless. Is this me, really? What have I become? This is surely the unME, isn't it? How can this mean selfish self be ME?

Then you begin to notice the contour of the eyes, the color of your irises. You lean closer and stare into the retina. And begin to think subjectively like an external observer. Forgetting it's 'you' you're looking at. The 'me'.

Then comes the mouth. You begin to notice the laugh lines around it. How the creases form when you smile. How your teeth show just a little as if playing hide-and-seek. How your mouth dulls in unison with your eyes when you feel sad. And yes, you are feeling sad, you realize all of a sudden. And you know the reason for that pretty well.

You look into the mirror again and the force of the reason hits you hard, real hard. You are thrown off balance. No, brain, how can you do this to me? Just when I was stowing away the reason into that secret box, how can you open its very lid? Reflection, why are you doing this to me?

But the mirror-you just stares back and you hear it laughing in your mind.

Then you collapse onto your knees. The genie is out of the box. There is no hiding now.
And then you weep some.

Changes: Internship

My 6th semester is almost mid-way done and the issue of internship selection is upon us. Is this place better or that one? Should we go in for multiple organizations or stick to unitary? Private or government? Defense? I'm Electronics, you're Power: can we work in the same company? These and many more such questions are the common lines of conversation in university nowadays.

I was recently applying for an ESI in a company and filling up their form. Almost toward the end I realized there were no fields to fill in related to parents. I mean, back at school we're so used to being asked parent's names, phone number, working place etc. But that has changed with coming to university. In my 2.5yrs of university life I've filled countless forms, serious and non-serious and none of them asked for parental info. But it was only today that I 'realized' this missing part!

All of a sudden it began to feel strange. So grown up. The dawn of new responsibilities. The feeling that we are moving away from what our parents have made us to this day toward an 'individual identity'. Like I'm in control of my own life, my interests. My career. My life.

It was a mixed feeling. There was the fact that it began to feel like I was finally stepping into the 'real' world but right there in parallel was a certain fear: cut-off from the always-sheltering arms of mama; mama asking you to eat and sleep on time, dress up for school proper, brush your hair neatly, don’t worry everything will be okey, had your vitamin tablets? Have a good time with friends, keep your prayers in check, don't forget Allah he's always there for you, sleep on time, want a new dress?; baba ruffling your hair and smiling proudly, talking to his friends about your achievements, telling you about his university experiences and taking everyone out to a midnight dinner in the rain.

The things will remain but the essence changes somewhere deep down, everything becomes different. All of a sudden parents talk you as an 'equal' instead of as a child in constant need of reminders on eating habits, sleeping times etc.

I had a sinking feeling, it was too soon to grow up!

The brooding continued for 5mins. Then the skies of my mind cleared.

I'm the same person, and always will be. The same girl who laughs totally carelessly with friends and siblings. So what if the forms no longer ask for parental info?  I will always be mama's and baba's girl. Always the kid to my parents, Aani and Chachoo.

I finished filling up the form. And started doing what afterward? Watching 'Courage the Cowardly Dog' on Cartoon Network with my li'll cousins and laughing ourselves crazy. Who cares about growing up? That can wait till another day deep into the future!

Nescafe: Joy or Joy?

I was talking to a friend from middle school yesterday. It was after a long time and the conversation turned to our Facebook updates nowadays; that's when we found our common passion for coffee! I was quite glad to have found a fellow coffee addict.

Somewhere in between she suggested why don't I blog on Nescafe and the coffee experience? I immediately took up the idea. Anything for Nescafe!

So today I'm going to write about the richness of a steaming cup of these ethereal beans.

There are people who love the experience of coffee, and others who dismiss it. Some have it just to get an edge during the exams by getting enhanced sharpness of the mind, while others have it purely for it's own sake. The first class of people treat as a kind of 'medicine' and prepare a cuppa in a totally mechanical procedure, following the instructions on the How To label. But for those like me and my friend, the experience is so much more 'personal'.

While the major steps to preparation remain the same, we are free to experiment. Trying out different high-grade chocolates to prepare a mocha, investing in a milk frother to get a cappuccino look-alike, especially buying skimmed milk since that gives the best milk foam is so us. Closely monitoring the temperature of the water as it heats up so it's just the right value for the ideal diffusion of flavor; setting the timer value to microwave the milk so it's neither steaming nor too cool; frothing it to get the desired foam consistency; adding in a heaping spoonful of coffee powder (if the instant variety) to the water and preparing an 'espresso'.

Then there is the whole business of choosing the cup to pour the coffee into; that depends totally upon the drinker's mood and strength of coffee prepared on any day.

Then pouring in the espresso and the milk simultaneously so they mix au naturel.

After the preparation comes, of course, the actual savoring.

You sit down comfy and bring the cup to your mouth. Inhale the flavour-induced steam and smile at the feeling. Take the first sip. Oh, it's just so hot yet, ouch!

The next sip feels like heaven. You let it roll around your tongue and extract the coffee-ness. It always brings the image of a Patchi store and a Starbucks seating arrangement to my mind somehow (does it to yours too Aliza?). And chocolate and coffee are quite inseparable in my mind.

After that you just give yourself over to the moments till you've reached the last sip. After which you groan and think 'Over so soon!? :/'

And begin the countdown to your next cuppa!

Now, I think adding sugar just spoils the taste. I personally prefer adding in some drinking chocolate powder if at all sweetening IS needed.

Some people pour in tablespoons and it just bugs me so much I want to ask them 'Do you want to drink coffee, really? Because it seems to me you just want the un-carbonated version of a coffee-flavoured soft drink -_- ! '

Do you share the same passion for this dark liquid?

Do leave your comments below!

Meantime, I'll just go get myself another cuppa!