Hope.

I have mustered courage
To love you fiercely
Even though you are
Just a figment
Of the crazy world,
Inside my head.
But I will continue
to love
the idea of you.

Home.

I believe language is the most beautiful and precious gift that God has bestowed upon us. I also believe that even though every word we enunciate finds a place in our heart and mends some pieces of it, no word has ever been able to replace the word "home" for me.
"Home" holds many definitions for me. Home is different places, people and books that have given me shelter when I had nowhere to go. All these homes that I have built till this date have been given to me by Peshawar.

I have written innumerable times about this city and none of my words do justice to the beauty that this place is. I moved here from Lahore when I was a kid, when my parents had no money to even afford books, when my mother had to leave us toddlers behind so she could find some place safe for us and that is where my love for the city started. This love nurtured over time since we had to move our houses a lot to find a home and also because I had no one else to love. I grew up in this city, explored parts of it not known to many, appreciated the food and people of this beauty and cried with it when it bleeded. I saw Peshawar when it was completely draped in fog and only the lights of Balahisar fort were visible, I saw her sweating after a scorching summer day and I saw her kissed by sunshine after a rainy day. There are a lot of hues of this city and I am awestruck every time I discover something new about it but I have never felt so much connected to it as much as I did on August 30, 2015.

This is the day when I first set out to discover the Walled city of Peshawar. I have been to the walled city plenty of times with my mother but I never explored it.
We walked from the Cunnigham clock tower to "Mohallan Sethiyan" where we met Mr. Zahoor Durrani from Tourism Corporation, Khyber Pukhtunkhwa, one of those people who hold reservoirs of knowledge and stories within them. There were people from many backgrounds and cities but having a unique eye for what was around us.

We entered Sethi's house and I was stunned. It was like I had stepped into a time machine that took me back to a place where I had never been to and I could have never imagined. The place was exquisite, the kind of place you read about in books and fail to imagine, the kind of place that sends shivers down your spine, the kind of place you want to spend all your life in, contemplating mysteries of every object that exists there.

Copyrights reserved.

The walls, ceilings, stairs, cupboards, floor, everything speaks to you. You touch these picturesque walls with intricate art and you feel like they are talking back to you. Everything has a voice in that house, not a scary voice, but a sweet, melodious voice that makes you want to listen to it for hours. The house has magic, Every element existing in there holds your attention and you cannot just have enough of it.

Sethi's house is a paradigm of beauty and everything about it is captivating. The house comprises of three floors and a double-storey basement connected to each other by red brick stairs. There's a fountain in the middle of the house. The mirror work is intriguing and is hardly found anywhere around us today.

A view of first floor from the basement of Sethi house. Copyrights reserved.

I felt at home in that house, in the abandoned rooms, in the dim-lit stairs and in the dark basement. I imagined myself staring at the starry sky from the roof of that historical house and drinking the green tea that is a heritage of the walled city. 

After spending ample time in the house, which surely was not enough for me and my wanderlust, we set out to go to Gor Gathri, which was few steps away from the Sethi Mohalla. Gor Gathri is rich with the remains of different civilizations. British, sikh, muslims, everyone found a home in Gor Gathri. There is a temple too which is an evidence to thousands of relations and plenty of occasions. 

Shiva temple, Gor Gathri. Copyrights reserved.

Gor Gathri has the oldest fire brigade committee and the oldest steam engines. The place is enchanting.

The walk of exploration continued from Gor Gathri to Bazaar e Kalaan and ended at Chowk Yadgar a.k.a The square of remembrance. This is the most ancient trail of the city and the bazaar still reminds one of the life that once existed here.

The best thing about this meet was coming across people who share the same love for the city and are passionate to explore it. We are striving to erase the fabricated image of Peshawar by bringing out the actual image of Peshawar. We were accompanied by people from Lahore and Islamabad who travelled to this city to play their part in portrayal of the actual image of Peshawar.. 

Peshawar is home to many like me and it will remain one forever. 

Walled City Meet, Peshawar. Picture credits: Rashid Jadoon.

A letter to lover

Dear future lover/husband,

I know that this letter is going to be long and I know that people despise long letters but I also know that writing is my passion and you have to bear with me when I am in the middle of nowhere and I have no pen and paper to write because I can get very impatient and cranky at such times.

I do not know what led you to fall in love with me. I do not know why is it necessary to love or being loved. I do not require answers for my questions either because I am just like that. What I do know is that I have been needy for affection and care for long. I have craved a partner for long now to share my "darkest" secrets and my quirkiness with.

I am not an easy person to live with. It will take you years to judge me and you will still not be able to fathom who I am. Where my friends think I am kind and caring and enthusiastic, my family thinks I am rude, arrogant, selfish and dull. You will not be surprised after we have spent two years together that my 13 year old brother told me, "it will be so hard to talk to people with sweetness since you are so bitter". You will also not be stunned when you will find out the amount of my salary that goes out to other people.

Love, I am ambitious and adventurous at days and then some days I just want to lay down with my book in an ill-lit room and do nothing. But I promise to love you in all these days. I will bug you to take me to the highest mountain of the world in December and I will not listen when you will tell me it is deadly there but then I will not utter a word when you will take me to the nearest hill station just because you cannot hear me blabber about how you do not love me.  

I have dreams, crazy ones. People laugh at me when I tell them about my dreams. I would not want you to do that. I promise to accept the craziest of dreams you have and I expect you to do that for me too. I am passionate and I devote myself to my work if I love it, forgetting all about love, forgetting all about myself, forgetting all about the world. On times like this, I do not want you to forget me. I want you to bring me a cup of a coffee in which you forgot to add sugar because you are not much of a coffee fan and I want you to force me to drink it. I will do the same for you when you have a project on hand and the submission is due. I will also write all your journals, reports and make sure you do not fret over the load your boss puts up on you.

I take no shame in telling you that I do not know how to love. I also feel pride in telling that I cannot get any cheesier than this letter but I will give my best to our relationship. I will learn every recipe you like, speak all the languages that you want to learn and make sure you are okay. I will look out for you. I will hold your hand when you stumble. I will fall with you if you fall. I will sing the song I hate just for you. I will think of our home as our paradise. I will respect you and expect it in return. I have the most for my dignity and I would not compromise on that for anyone and everyone.

You have to get the plate from the shelves because I am short and I cannot reach those. You have to keep extra pair of shoes in our car because I usually break my shoes. You have to keep an eye on me because I am clumsy. I do not like to shop and you will have to help me get the best clothes and jewellery. In return, I will buy you suits and cute t-shirts. 

Remember that I will prefer chocolates and books over you on days but also remember that I will not let go of you. I will not cheat on you. I will not hurt your emotions and most of all, I will learn to love you every day.

Your hopeless in love wife,

Sidra.

Me.

The wind that brushes against my face,
the scars on my left hand that I trace,
And the mountains that I stand on,
Remind me of how courageous I have been,
Despite the hurdles, I have managed to grin.
Every word that I write shouts out loud,
"You have been standing alone in this crowd,
And never have you stumbled,
Nor once have you shuddered".
I look back at these words and smirk,
My poetry indeed has been a work,
of comfort and solace,
That I failed to find in this world.

Ps it got printed in Us Magazine, The News.

Scraps B.

Continuation of the previous scraps.

I still remember,
How I fought over
a sofa 4 years back
because I was attached to it
and my mother sold it,
And I remember how I cried,
For innumerable days when
My father exchanged his car
for a new, shiny one,
because I loved his car so much,
I ruminated for days
on how I broke up with a friend,
And now I wonder,
how I didn't once cry,
when you left, because
I always thought you were home
that I can come back to,
and home is solace,
but were you?


I was always happy
with second hand things,
But then I found out,
I wasn't your first love.


I've always felt old and weary,
Since the time they believed in fairies,
I count the wrinkles on my eyes,
But there are none,
So I ask myself, "If I really am old?",
Right then, the insides of me collapse,
And a fire ignites in my heart,
That spreads through my body,
And leaves nothing but a corpse.
The burns leave scars on my body,
Each line is a story,
Of the battles I have fought,
Of the peace that I've sought,
And the lies that I defy,
Of the existences they glorify.
There are innumerable tales,
Moulded perfectly into shapes,
Hence they're camouflaged,
And put straight inside my heart,
Which is why I feel weary,
This life indeed has been scary.


Fat girl bedazzles glitter on her skin,
Fat girl puts shimmer on her eyes,
Fat girl wears black to look thin,
But the mirrors never tell lies.
Fat girl cries herself to sleep,
Fat girl writes poem to sound deep,
Fat girl laughs all day,
But still finds herself on the edge of the bay.
Fat girl eats all the chocolates in the fridge,
Fat girl is afraid to stand on a bridge,
Fat girl loves how the black coffee smells,
At the end of the day, under her blanket she dwells.
Fat girl is scared of piercing stares,
Fat girl is a human, somewhere in there,
Fat girl doesn't always like cuddles,
Fat shaming only throws her into the puddles.


In an abyss of love,
Have I found myself trapped
with no way out.
Yet I am not afraid of falling,
Into the darkest pits
of this abyss,
But I am afraid of,
failing my expectations,
Which are no more mine,
But yours.
I've always feared failure,
but more than that,
I have feared
the horrid feeling that comes,
with the thought
of losing you.
I still cannot comprehend,
Why am I scared,
when you're not even mine?

Me and the archangel.

Some nights, when I am on the verge of breakdown and the tears cannot be stopped, I open the third drawer of my side table and take out the white box with a blue sticker labelled "Sleeping pills". I take a mouthful of these pills and lie on the white sheets which are synonymous with my empty and bleak life.
After dozing off for an hour or two, I wake up to the breaths of a familiar face. A face that never fails to astonish me. I am stupefied at the sight of such a monster being so close to me. But as it puts its arms around me, the fear goes away. The breath calms me down and lulls me to sleep. I feel it caressing my face, brushing my hair, singing carols that I once heard passing by the church. The ecstasy paralyzes my body, numbs my mind and I feel my soul being lifted to a land I'd always dreamt of.
I see the scenic and magnificent mountains covered with snow and the sun peeking through those majestic mounts. When I am taken away from that mind boggling place, I see humming birds singing the tales of this world to the flowers, and fish blowing bubbles of the only element that keeps us alive. The beauty that I see is inexplicable.
 I turn around, and see the monster smirking at me, whispering "I won't disappear this time, I promise".
"Who are you?" I ask. "Death", it says, after a long pause.
"Death?", I hesitate whilst asking.
 "Yes, death. I never thought someone like you would believe the absurd stereotypes and be frightened of me. I am death, an archangel".
"I didn't mean to offend you..", I try to offer a justification for my rudeness when the monster starts speaking again, "You did not, my child. Who would've thought death would be so kind, right? I am deemed as human's biggest enemy when it is not me but life itself. I am your escape from the heinous ways of life".
I am befuddled. "I know what you're thinking", the not-so-intimidating monster utters, "I was here because I felt like you couldn't endure the brutality of this world anymore". I nod my head in affirmative, still flabbergasted at what is happening. "But it's not true. You're not a quitter, my child. There's a shine in your eyes brighter than the brightest ray of sun. You've yet to discover the highest peak and the darkest eve within you."
"Within me?", I say, with questioning eyes that feel heavier than the burdens of my heart. Instead of responding to my question, death kisses my forehead and disappears with another dilemma, but this time with a few hints and a reason to live. In no time, slumber takes over me again and I am back from dormiveglia to the world of ordinary.

Truth.

His eyes scavenge a shadow,
There's none but a burrow,
Where once dwelt a weasel,
Who tricked a rabbit and killed it.

He deciphers this as an omen,
That the world only belongs to bad men,
Good men are supposed to die,
If not, then mourn and cry.

He pays gratitude to the weasel,
A mere animal who is a teacher,
But isn't this how the world has always been?
The rare ones inculcating to survive in life's run.

Cain had been through the same,
A crow taught him insanity,
And till now we can't be tamed.

Train(Of thoughts).

I feel dust in my mouth and some ash. It tastes like a bonfire, or maybe, a burnt conscience? I can't tell, or maybe, I am too occupied to tell. I scribble on the diary that my grandfather had left in the drawer of his side table, right next to his bed, under the piles of prescriptions and some poetry notes from his favorite poetess whom he used to admire when he was 48 and was tired of the worldly affairs that included everyday's drama of his wife complaining about the kids not studying and neighbors being rude.
I paint the picture of earth and horizon with alphabets. I write about the birds chirping on the trees. I write about the very trees that seem naked without viridescence. I write about the world's unfair judgment and broken hearts. But somewhere, I disguise my misery with fancy words and glittering lies. This is what all writers do. This is what I have been doing for last 638 days, 126 hours, 170 minutes and 394 seconds.
There's a constant sound, very sharp, but comforting, and a horn after every interval. Yes, my first train ride. To a destination I don't care about, with people I don't know anything about. The dust is from the nearby village, the ash from the coal burning in the engine with flames, like the urge to explore this world which burns in my heart. "Finally!", I scribble, "The thirst of travelling by train is quenched."
I hear the cacophonies from the forest, of birds and animals and humans who have no idea about my existence in this vast, unfathomable universe. As I write, I sip the tea which has somewhat somber color and smells like a lover's breath on a winter morning. I look around from the door of the train which could be decades old and try to find something(or someone?) in the emptiness of the colossal forest which is not familiar to me. I question everything around me. I try to untangle riddles in my mind. Slowly and leisurely, I find the answers about this world and its belongings, of humans and their obsessions, of animals and their fears, of trees and their unvoiced tales. And all of a sudden this oh-so-perfect and impeccable world becomes devastatingly woeful. It singes my heart, sears my soul, smoulders every part of my body. So this wasn't a flawless universe? The nebulae weren't just colorful clouds? And the stars, the stars weren't explosions of matter? The rivers? They weren't just beds of waters. I fathom that this world is everything but what we thought.
I'm lost, doing some calculations at the back of the mind, trying to mute an old song that I heard on radio when I was travelling to a hill station by highway in my second mind and being awestruck by the secrets revealed to me the same instant. In between all of these silent cacophonies, I hear a BANG. I try to decipher what has happened and conclude that the beautiful train I was travelling on has now turned into a catastrophic debris which is ravaging me. I discern all of the world moving towards me, singing its fibs and deceits and it stings me. A stream of crimson(I thought I'd iron deficiency??) flows down my heart, down to my wrists and trips off my fingers, leaving my ugly nails look like perfectly manicured red nails. I chant some religious verses I was taught in childhood but it doesn't cure the fire that has been lit in my heart. I whisper my first love's name, who used to sit next to me in Drawing's class in 1st grade, but it doesn't help either. I see a visual, a vision of something leaving me. It's dark like a nightmare, corroded akin to a heart that has never loved someone, desolate like a little child whose father leaves her before she even learns to spell his name. It is my soul. It is me leaving myself behind because I am not permitted to know the secrets of universe.