Red.

Camouflaged confidence and disguised wishes,
Scratched nail paints and sunlit kisses,
Hued lips and blackened eyes,
A battle of infinite tries.


But not once, the perfect color,
Or the right word to utter,
A lipstick, a majestic dress,
In constant attempts to impress,
The world, that differentiates.


In the fear of being tyrannized,
I hesitate, and paint my lips with lies,
Of colors I loathe, abhor,
Pink, sometimes orange, or gold.


Not once, red, do I wear,
Is it, but a fear?
Of labels so appalling,
Grotesque image, oblivious falling.


Someday, I'll knit a poem,
Untangle the hidden rhyme,
And wear, the bold of all reds,
Despite of it, being a crime.

I am sorry. (A letter to martyrs of 16/12/14.)

Dear 141 departed ones,

I'm sorry. I had promised myself to help all the needy ones. I had promised myself that I won't let anyone suffer if I am nearby. I promised that I won't let anyone snatch away someone's smile if I am there. Unfortunately, I wasn't even aware of this massacre when it happened, even though I was in the same city.

Dear loved ones, I'm sorry that I thought about my brother first and shed tears and didn't think about all of you. But there was a reason, he mentioned death before leaving for school and it left me numb for hours. I don't know if this can justify my selfishness. I'm sorry.
During all this heinous bloodshed, when everyone of you were going through excruciating pain, both mentally and physically, I was calling my loved ones to ask them if they were okay. But I swear, I had no detail about all of this, I was stuck somewhere in the middle, with no access to media. If I knew, I might have at least prayed for you at that very hour when I came to know about this brutality. I am sorry.

Little ones, I cannot sleep at nights thinking about what you went through. I cannot imagine the fear you faced when the called your friends, your teachers and your bench-mates over to shoot them right in the head. We both know how nervous we get when we are called over for a quiz. But none of us knew how it feels to be called over for death. I think you do know now. I still don't know and I would never want to know.

When I am here, packed in these warm clothes, the first thing that clicks my mind is, "Are they warm enough?". I know all of you have anticipated this winter. I know APSACS looks magnificent when all of those bushes, trees and playgrounds are covered in fog. You surely would've seen that beauty in the morning, whilst holding the hand of your very dear friend, wearing your majestic green blazers and sweaters, maybe caps too. But was it cozy in there in that auditorium? Oh no, I cannot imagine how cold the floor would've been. I am really sorry, I am not brave enough like all of you. I hope you're awarded with a prize for this bravery, for this courage. But would that matter?

They say that your mothers have been crying because you didn't take your breakfast. I can imagine your mischievous smiles when mama would be running after you with your socks in one hand and a sandwich(or maybe paratha?) in other hand just to feed you. But you, as usual, went to school without having breakfast because the samosa and french fries taste better in the recess. Did you even make it to recess? Did your friends in auditorium tell you that they were hungry? Did you have peanuts in the hidden pocket of your blazer? I think you had those, but did it satisfy the hunger? Or did all the hunger die when you saw those men in black boots? I am sorry, I cannot eat anything imagining that you all didn't eat anything.

I am sorry, I couldn't even manage to light a candle because my father saw 150 dead bodies and he cannot afford to see us like that. Because my mother saw those ambulances carrying your friends to hospital. And all I am made to do is to stick to TV screens and pray for your friends who are injured.

But I swear I will light that hope up. Dear kids of my city, I won't let this sacrifice go in vain. I'll bring the swords down. I'll bring the guns down. I'll try to eradicate hate. I won't let anyone else be a victim of such sufferance. You all were heroes. Every story is an evidence of the heroism. 15 year old went back in school to save his loved ones. My 14 year old brothers took bullets on their chests. 12 year old asked his friend to play dead. These stories will never be forgotten. I will write them down in history. I will make you heard through my words.
You all are my heroes. I PROMISE, like those other promises, I won't break this one, I'm not going to forget any of you. They will pay for your blood. They will pay for making your mothers cry. They will pay for making you lie on that cold floor in this intense cold of Peshawar. APSACS will rise and shine again. The lost ones won't be forgotten. The sacrifices will be mentioned in every event that takes place. I love you all. And I am sorry. We will send more kids to the school. We will build 141 schools in your name. We will give thousand pens for every gun that is made.
-Sidra

In the name of those martyred on 16/12/14.

We shall rise again.

These candles being burnt in Pakistan are not just in the memories of those who embraced martyrdom. But this is igniting a new hope. We rose up again today. We are not paralyzed. Everyone went out and lit those up. The donation of blood was so much that my mother told me people ran out of those blood bags. My kids, my brothers, who are seriously injured are not scared and are enthusiastic to fight back. Those parents who lost their kids are proud of their kids who didn't give in to these bunch of cowards who attacked CHILDREN of my home. You know, when you burn a home, everyone builds it up and still lives in it? Yes, Peshawar is OUR home. And we will rebuild it with flowers and colors and paint it with our love and bravery. In Sha ALLAH. We'll educate more of our children. People are scared of coming to my city of flowers, people call us terrorists for following our cultural values, we're portrayed as terrorists in every movie. But there's one thing I'd ask. CAN TERRORISTS FIGHT BACK WITH SUCH BRAVERY? No. They do such acts of cowardice that involves defying lives of kids. They play with blood of innocents. They take away smiles of those young roses. US? We do not. We the natives of Peshawar provide our kids with books, we light their eyes up with hopes, we inject them with bravery to fight these inhumane creatures. 

This is a request to everyone who is reading this, DO NOT STOP YOUR KIDS FROM GOING TO SCHOOL. Let's all regather to rise again. Let's bring the "ronaq" of Peshawar back. Let's join our hands so the lives of Sohail, Yasir, Mubeen, Bilal, Yaseen, Aimal and those hundreds of kids and also those courageous teachers including Ms. Afsha and Ma'am Tahira Qazi who were martyred yesterday and were injured don't go in vain. PESHAWAR SHALL RISE AGAIN.

Picture credits: Layla Khattak.

Did we know?

"Amma?" Would she have heard,
When she was making his favorite dish,
Or a pain would she have felt?
When those lips were shot,
With which she was kissed.
Did she see it coming yesterday?
When she washed his uniform,
White and green in her hands,
Now bathed in blood and was torn.
Was it revealed, when he drove him to school,
"Baba, this green blazer isn't warm enough,
Maybe, we should get one of another wool",
Had she felt, when he said "I won't come home"
Because baba didn't give him enough money,
for the DSLR and his new phone.
Did he know, when he came off that bed,
And as usual, put in mama's lap, his head,
And told her how much he loved her,
For one last time, he hugged her.
Did we know, that "Bleed Green",
would soon turn into "Bleeding red",
And the hopes, in the sky, that reign,
would turn into ashes and dust?

Was it all a lie?

Massacre? I don't even know how to spell it.

Angels to take me to heaven? But, I only know about tooth fairies and that I WAS THE ANGEL.

Heaven? But wasn't that beneath mama's feet? 

Bullets? But that was what was yellow and round. Brother used to play with those.

Bombs? Aren't those what we blast on the occasions like Eid? They do not kill. Mama told us they just hurt our hands.

Was it all a lie? 

I won't forget.

"IQRA" written in their school? What God did they follow that they couldn't read "Fabe-ayi-aala-e-rabikuma-Tukazzebaan". What God, I ask? The auditorium that was full of naughty and nerdy kids one week ago was nothing but gun powder and stains of blood which were washed down but still, how many blood stains would you remove? The lawn draped in fog where they took a walk in winters was now having patches of red blood every where. I swear it's hard for me to paint this hell here, but I won't forget. Unlike all of you whose "LIFE GOES ON", mine doesn't. You would've changed your dp from black to colorful. You might be playing "babydoll" in Saddar while roaming around with your little kids, you might get tired of these posts and unfollow/unlike the pages named after martyrs because after one week it will become "A stunt for likes", I won't forget. Because I have seen a mother who had to see hundreds of dead bodies(Mind you! Hundred dead sons) to find her son's dead body. I've seen the teachers cry looking at the debris which was somewhere a school. I have seen those bags that do not belong to anyone. Hundreds of notebooks, pencil boxes, lunch boxes, all remain there. I have seen the notebooks placed on bags in the same way I used to put mine before going out. But the difference is I came back. They didn't. A burnt computer lab, empty classrooms, staff room having no staff but bullets, the whole administrative block burnt, blown up by the bomber, with wooden logs from the wall somewhere to the body parts of the teachers somewhere. I ask all of us, is it not enough to awaken our conscience? Do we forget such easily? Oh and please do not come up with your crappy "We cannot spend our lives just like that" because those families will spend their lives "JUST LIKE THAT".
I'd like to rebuild my APSACS. Yes, mine, no, I was a PMSian and an ISLAMIAN, but still, APSACS is mine, for I owe my life to ARMY. I owe my family's life to army. I would do any possible thing to help those. Maybe not financially because I do not want to spend what my father earns, that is his money, or maybe financially because I will utilize whatever I can to earn money for them(The poor ones), physically by being there for them, making them smile, and psychologically too. I hope I succeed in my mission. I won't forget this. Never.

Scraps.

Idea of love:

We sabotage ourselves in the hopes of something that doesn't truly exist, but is an idea that's more of a delusion, "love".
We merely live the life, that's supposed to be lived, just because we find solace in this idea and hence, we are hollow souls with regrets.


Beauty:

If I am to write about beauty, I'll write about plucked roses, dead butterflies, scratched nail paints and broken hearts. Do you know why? Because that's what beauty was. And we couldn't stand it. We couldn't tolerate it. And thus we killed it. We destroyed it.


Heaven:


Too often she was told that she is a pessimist. That there's so much darkness she plays with and she lets negativity nurture in her bleak world. But was it true? Even a part of it? Maybe the former part was. But not the latter one. After all, her whole life revolved around making heaven out of others' hell, even though her own world was an inferno.
She was told that she should stop existing in the world where others were non existent. But what good did existing in the world where everyone existed bring her apart from trains of sorrows and woes?

Escape:

Yearning,
an escape,
from this cavern,
of woe and misery,
to a place,
where the sky is,
not dark,
but not too bright,
with fog as a periphery,
with no birds chirping,
but also, no gloom.

Cold:

The cold inside me just outdid the cold outside. Now I know what blue is.

Tweets:

You were a part of my existence that I hadn't discovered.
You were a part of my existence I was not supposed to keep.

You could turn nightmares into dream.
But now,
You are my nightmare.

The world wasn't our enemy.
Our love was.

I've lost you only to find myself.

Let's play, like old days.
You be my candle, and I'll be a moth.

I wish I was strong enough to see blood.
Hurting you would have been my favorite game then.

What art thou upto?

Translation of a poem whose poet is not known to me. All the credit of this poem goes to the poet and I am just the translator of this beautiful piece.

Thou perform the religious pilgrimages,
yet suck the life out of people,
And take away what orphans have,
To go to masjid and temple,
Heart of thine needs knitting,
But you wear precious cloth and gem,
Never dost thou question thy conscience,
And in the name of God, sacrifice the cattle,
Mould the purest nooks of hearts,
Into impure alcove of putrescence,
Long forgotten what thine duties are,
Thou succumb to supererogation,
Oh sire, would you utter,
What art thou up to?