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Something for the First Time

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“How cruel this season of unrest!” I reflected. Day in day out - the jarring sounds of catastrophic sirens, heinous carnage flooding the television screens, flashing images of mutilated bodies at every second scroll and those of disgraced selves at every third tap – the sorry state of humanity, it had my creativity enslaved. This demise of human virtue was broken one fine evening, as I was browsing through some art, by a promising pop up of a philanthropic organization. There are several academic institutions in our community, but there is hardly any that offers education and counselling to those deprived many who occupy the urban slums. I was destined to be a part of the movement; I urged to share my two cents. My orientation at “The Citizens’ Foundation” was less insightful than I had imagined. The primary concepts were laid by the speakers in a rather well articulated but somewhat rugged manner. There was plenty left for the future sessions, which at that particular point I s
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Smartage

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The tiny delicate blades of grass Selflessly grow o'er hills and dales, Enrich our world: enlive our breaths, Silently narrate much profound tales. The careful observants from yesteryears; Some scarcely existent even today, Listen to and learn and teach and preach These lessons, in hope for a better day! Neglectful many perceive this nature In vain, confined to six inch screens: Tap and share, we tap and share, Barely rejoicing the tune of greens.
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Soliloquy of a Monotheist

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From those dreadful days to these frightful nights, From that mournful incapacity to this woeful inability, From those neglectful spectators to these prudent observers, From that reactionary insensation to this mastered hyper-vigilancy: One constant - You, And yet all those voices You surround me with, And all those faces You ground me in, Question, sometimes Your existence, at times Your Love: Silently some days, on some others out loud! I shudder at the thought of that gradual loss of Belief, They express it right, I have turned proud.
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The Screams Are That Loud

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He was standing a couple of inches short of 6 feet with an aged pale dark skin drooping much like a weeping tree in autumn. A thick beard was neatly combed and the white of his entire attire was broken only by the red in the piece of cloth he had on his shoulder. Here I was standing before him and him standing before an embellished collection of Islamic literature. “You are comfortable with the floor seating or should I call for a chair? Hammad, Hammad? ...” I had to stop him there. I would much rather take the same seat as the person I would like to converse with. “So you said you had to ask me certain questions pertaining to Saaleh?” “Yes”, I continued as I made myself comfortable across from him in the small cubicle, “We gathered you gave him provisions for his way back that terrible night.” “He was a whimpering six year old raw flesh when I discovered him outside our madrassa. I asked him if he were hungry or in danger. He disclosed how badly he had been wrong
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Justice for Zainab

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My final screams: “Amma! Allah! Amma? Allah?” Who else is left to call? Do I have the energy to call? Aah ... aaahhhh ... aaaahhhhh! Can he hear the screams in my head? Is that why he is punishing me more? Amma said Allah never burdens His caliph more than he can shoulder. Am I really that strong? Can I take this pain any longer? My fragile self was shattered ages back when he slapped me to the ground and took every bit of my free will, leaving my wretched self sobbing, and then screaming for some pre-destined help. How much more could I kick, how much more could I punch? Perhaps Amma has been right all along about my bad eating habits: “you cannot grow strong if you do not finish your lamb and vegetables”. He tore away my shirt Amma. I was too weak to fight. He ripped the clothes you bought me last time we went shopping together. You said I looked like a princess. Is that the sin my Allah is punishing me for? Molvi saab said we should not look pretty. It can seduce the minds of m
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Passage to Desensitization

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The urge to be in control, The fear to be in submission: Subjecting your own self to harm; Knowingly, approvingly, directing self to pain: For it is this feeling - A feeling emerging after an age, Approvingly, knowingly, you desire to feel How it feels to feel, And then it builds: The burden, too heavy now To bear You surrender - Knowingly, approvingly, surrender to their urge, The pain doesn't cessate, Nay, it amplifies with every surrender - Approvingly, knowingly, you cease to be!
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Embracing Death

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Snow, white and faded, was not as melancholic as the cold. At -6 degrees Fahrenheit, even Wharf street was put to silence, just past sunset, by twenty two inches of snow the blizzard had dispersed all over Portland. The promising sun I witnessed earlier this day; shining radiantly over the Siberian Elms of Eastern Promenade, was taken over pugnaciously by Nimbostratus clouds. This snow storm had forced me to seek refuge at Sweetgrass winery. Three divine shots of "Mark of the Maple" later, I felt warm enough to face the wind chill. Tantalizing aroma of parmesan, rosemary and basil led me to its origin at Central Provisions. After digging into an entree of "Seared Casco-Bay Scallops", I reluctantly dragged myself to the exit. Repulsed by the sombre chill of Wharf Street I made my exit through the other door. Fore street; basking earlier under blue and red twinkle lights, was tumult now: the traffic lights swung about and ghastly wind added to the gloom. As I
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