Over And Over And Over And Over

What we do shows a side of us. It shows who we are or what we are and what we think. A man who can cook good is likely to make a good husband but that is just likely. He might not be married and still be a good cook. Similarly, a girl who takes good pictures might not be photogenic herself. Yet many would assume her to be equally of an art herself. Just by looking at a creation, we habitually assume a lot of things about the artist and that goes for the artists including poets, writers and painters etc. One artist is God. The perfect artist. We have never seen him, never heard back from him in our prayers, never met him yet. So just by pondering about what he has made around us, in us and the very us makes us imagine how he would be and so on. Almost always, we fail to see the ultimate reality itself that beyond the appearances is what the real artist is. A person with a camera is not a photographer, a person with great cooking skills is not a perfect husband(that is a long debate) and a person carrying a gun is not a murderer. Our mind plays such tricks and we are lured into believing what we see and assume. Hence a person with an SLR becomes a good photographer, a person with a pen in his hand becomes a writer and a good cook is taken as a good husband even though desi legends say that husbands are never good and can never ever be either. A creator or an artist must have an inner mystery that can churn art out of them. Otherwise even I have a DSLR camera and I can cook too. But neither am I photographer nor a husband, a good being out of question!

There is a painter I know just through his works that he posts online. The fact remains that he can paint real good. Over the years his work has improved a lot. Each of his brush stroke shows an evolution from what he was some years ago. As I have already seen him so I never needed to imagine how he would look like. He is an artist beyond his appearance with that much needed mystery inside him which is a must for any and every creator. Recently, he received a comment on his online post that his work has improved in the recent years to which he replied,

“We excel in anything that we keep doing over and over and over.”

His answer struck me. It made me think about love. Would we excel if we keep loving over and over and over. Love is highly controversial word for in the present age, holding different meanings in different souls. It demands an intricate dissection to understand it. If you want your mind not get confused, please stop reading here. Beyond this is a dark alley for many where you can not see and just feel.

Love is a mystery every poet from Baydil to Faraz has tried to unravel and failed. In fact they tried to lift the curtain of the mystery but ended in themselves disappearing behind it. Love is too divine a thing that takes a worldly man years, in fact his whole life to know what exactly it is. I got only one life in which I can live as me. I don’t have any time machine either which I can use to go back and step in someone else’s shoes just to know their perspective and lesson on love. So I read what they have said about love in the form of prose and poetry. It is like living their life. Just feel the mystery when Momin wrote

“Tum mere paas hotay ho goya”

The mystery never breaks who exactly was with him. For a young man it would most likely be a woman or women with a nice music in the background. For a veteran soldier who has lost everyone in the war and now sitting all by himself in his dark room, that “TUM” can be a mixture of extreme sorrow and rage who visit him when he is alone. This is that inner mystery that made Momin an artist and all creators have got it. This makes that divine love un-apprehended for a young fool. Love is a heavenly element the men of earth can glimpse once in a lifetime and that too not any sooner. The other shades of love are many. As a school boy, I used to fall in “love” twice every month yet here I am still happily surviving. Later I knew that it was not love but it tasted pungent enough to confuse me as love. Then the hormones settled. And so did the laundry bill. The boy changed into a man.

Doing a thing over and over polishes it but can it be applied to love? The ladies of sub-continent have always disagreed. They keep their fictions about love alive and feed them well hoping that love is a one-time phenomenon that we can’t improve ever simply by loving over and over again. For them it is not a game of archery one can master by practicing. The men of sub-continent would disagree to them. A man can fall in love more than once and he can improve by falling in love the second or the third or the fourth time. As they say love is an art, perhaps the most epic one of all arts, logically all the realities of art would naturally be applicable to love then. The ladies who might have read till here would disagree.

I believe that a man no matter what his age is can love over again if he had already loved in the past. But let me lift a curtain. We always seek an aroma in the air that our heart has felt in the past. In new love, the similarities with old one are desired. Love is so like a plaque. It never lets go off the walls of the heart. It penetrates so deep inside. So even if love has occurred once or over or “over and over” or “over and over and over” some traits of the old love always remain. Just like paint coming off a wall and beneath the new coat the old colors tell a story only if one sees close enough.

Short Story (Scene – II)

It was a warm day. The weather has begun to change. People were already welcoming this change. Who wouldn’t after such a long summer that in some parts of the country caused massive damage due to floods and in some burnt down the skin tones without much rain. I feel quite blessed being in the north of the country. The downpour had been a lot but summers surely left their mark. Today, however was a day which was not humid like rains and not hot like summers. It was September and the winds were carrying the feelings of my favorite season, winters. My life has been quite carved by the winters. From being born in winters to being married in winters and even becoming a mother to a little doll, winters have affected my life in every way. I was lost in these thoughts when a sound pulled me back to the real worlds, the sound which fills my heart with immense happiness. My one year old daughter had woken up and her movements against her toys made me dive into all those happenings that blessed me with her and the home every woman imagines. I wanted to finish all the chores by noon. Becoming a mother had made me more of a responsible person. I felt like growing out of a carefree damsel to a responsible mommy. It sounded scary when I was in school. But it was a life-turning moment. I still remember the happiness on the face of my father when he held his granddaughter. And now here I am, having vacations and eagerly waiting to be done with the households and talk to my father. He wants to see his granddaughter everyday. Thanks to the technologies in our lives, even being away he can’t remain away. Grandparents are always magnetically attached to their grand kids. These vacations have been kind so far. At least that’s what every person with a job and a long vacation thinks. I wanted to spend much time home with my family and that’s what I was enjoying. The king of the house however was on his duty. I hate doctors and shockingly fell in love with a doctor. Every marriage is a different story. My dad always says, “Marriage kills love” but that never happened in my case. He also says that a good doctor always has a bad handwriting. That too never happened. Love just happened and I love him more and more everyday, and not just him but his handwriting which appears on all the letters he sent me. Then love bloomed to marriage. Even though I have all a woman can wish for, I feel afraid. I don’t know what fate has written on the next pages of life for me.

Suddenly the phone rang.

The Tenth Semester

I still remember the day when a friend said:

 It’s the first semester, nine more. How will time pass!

And here today I am writing this and thinking of all the moments that passed in the blink of an eye. It was surely a long way but full of colorful bends, some wanted and some unwanted and all in the end have left their scars of memories. They should stay lessons for life to pass on. It was winters when I joined college and it is again the same season. I am drifting off to that time recalling all the minute details of how friends were and what they ended in becoming and how things progressed over time. A few lines and a few paragraphs can never do justice to the moments that I lived. My last semester in this institute just begun. I fell in love with this place. I have a hope to relive the nine semesters in this one over again assuming beauty on the ugly faces that were hidden in the early days and to create records of these memories in an amount that I can relive moments again. Someone told me that hope is a good thing.

Aamir Bilal

Romeo and Juliet

“I know a couple.”

And I know one half of the couple very well. Manners bind me to not reveal the identity of either half. So I won’t. Moreover everyone likes to cover the ugly parts whether they be of their body or their soul. Hence I would hide the uglier part of the couple, the one I know too well. They are two love birds, at least that is the illusion they have created for themselves and for everyone around them. I think they are more into infatuation rather love. How am I so sure? No, I am not sure. I am still more inclined to the science which asks to observe and create a hypothesis and then test that by carrying some experiments. I followed what science said, step by step. After all the possible and logical steps, I saw the cracks in their love. Based on my experiences, I know at least the fifty percent of the love pretty well – the man’s side full of phases.

He is a student. She is a student. But both don’t go to the college, I mean same college. The boy is “super” pulled towards the girl. I have seen the artful expressions of love between them, from praises to leg pulls and some good words on social media. She keeps complaining about the woes of her life which somehow pulls the hero more towards her. Sadly Romeo is blinded. He would be able to see like all Romeos do i.e., after getting through a bitter experience. I wish he writes what he sees just like me and keep the chain kindled. 

The Door

It was dark all around. And it was raining very heavily. I was running. I don’t know why. All I could see under my feet was the bricked path. The rain had muffled all the sounds. My heavy breaths and the thumps of my shoes were the only sounds I could hear. The think curtain of the darkness was continuous. I could not see anything except for a small light in the distance. I had a feeling of being chased or I needed something. There was a reason of why I was running. There was urgency and with every moment I was getting more breathless. The sense of pain accumulating in the muscles of my legs was growing. My throat was drying too. Somehow I knew that I had to reach that light. But a fear of someone or something behind me existed.

What if that light was a trap? What if someone knew I were reaching there?

But what if not!

And then there was thunder. For a moment I saw the path ahead of me. I picked up the pace and continued to ran. The discomfort had already started to climb up to my chest and crawling into my lungs. I didn’t look back and kept running. The distance was closing but slowly. The fear of the unknown was rising. Eventually I reached the light. The was a tall wall. The light was mounted on top of the door. There were no windows in the wall. I could not make the height of the wall because of the dark and the downpour. The door was bathing in the yellow light. Strangely there was no knob or any handle on it. It was completely blank except for some square patterns on it. Suddenly the wind blew stronger making the raindrops hit the door and the light above it. The steel shade covering the light made a sound as the drops hit it. Whoever or whatever was behind me won’t be far now and might reach here any moment. I stepped closer to the door and decided to knock. But as soon as I was about to, someone grabbed me from behind.

Utho Beta…. It’s iftaar time.”

I could still feel the water droplets on my face.

یہ دل کسی بھی طرح شام غم گزار تو دے





یہ دل کسی بھی طرح  شام غم گزار  تو  دے
پھر اس کے بعد وہ عمروں کا انتظار تو دے


ہواۓ  موسم  گل   جانفزا  ہے   اپنی   جگہ
مگر  کوئی  خبر   یار خوش   دیار تو  دے


ہمیں بھی ضد ہے کہاں عمر بھر نبھانے کی
مگر  وہ  ترک تعلق   کا   اختیار  تو  دے


بجا ہے کہ درد سری ہے  یہ زندگی  کرنا
مگر  یہ  بار امانت  کوئی    اتار   تو دے


تیرا ہی ذکر کریں   بس تجھی کو یاد کریں
یہ فرصتیں بھی کبھی فکر روزگار تو دے


تیرے کرم بھی مجھے یاد ہیں مگر مرا دل
جو  قرض  اہل زمانہ کے  ہیں اتار تو دے


فلک سے ہم بھی کریں ظلم ناروا کے گلے
پہ سانس لینے کی مہلت ستم شعار تو دے


فراز  جان  سے  گزرنا  تو  کوئی  بات نہیں
مگر اب اس کی اجازت بھی چشم یار تو دے


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Goodbye VOX

I would always feel attached towards VOX as it was where I posted by my first blog back in 2007. The generosity of VOX allowed me 2GB of space every month which I used primarily for saving images. My relation with blog strengthened when I used it as a diary and a note taking service too which stayed synced. On the 30th of this month (September 2010) VOX is getting closed by its parent company SixApart. Even typing this makes me a bit sad. I feel like a friend is on deathbed. I would always miss VOX. Always.