We are seven, ten, twelve years into the future. I look out of my window and see a ghost town alive with the smell of rain and birdsong like I've only heard in the deepest of woods. I close my eyes and it is nothing but muscle memory that takes me back to the balcony we used to stand on every morning. It was where my brother looked at me like I alone made the sun come up, where my sister held my aching hands, where lifetimes were spent in silent glances. It was where he told me he knew I was made for something bigger, something not here; and it terrified him. My mother would stand quietly and we would all pretend not to see each other's tears. Later that night I would hear my parents whisper softly to each other about poetry or mechanical engineering or the rising prices of milk, I don't know. They just looked at each other so softly it made me want to burrow into that conversation and rest my head on it. The truth is, we were never a soft family until we all started dying. It was wonderful and clumsy and dark, dark, dark. We were never a soft family. Period. It was always all metaphors and long-dead uncles and unsaid apologies. It was always messy even when it was nothing but love crying with the song of a thousand thrushes. It was melancholy filled to the brim with all the colours of the rainbow. It was magical, and that magic had rough jagged edges that left me with trust issues and a fear of every person who got close enough to notice that I had a dimple on my right cheek sometimes. It was Fahrenheits and jigsaw pieces. Lost bottle caps and graffiti after 3 pm on rainy nights. It was in sentences that finished too soon, broken off by a sudden thought as your favorite song on the radio is broken off by an air raid warning. The only thing I am certain of is that even when it was landmines and double-edged swords, it was us. Us in the rawest form, and that was all that mattered. That was all that mattered.
"Yes, I need you, my fairy-tale. Because you are the only person I can talk with about the shade of a cloud, about the song of a thought — and about how, when I went out to work today and looked a tall sunflower in the face, it smiled at me with all of its seeds." #Nabokov , Letters to Véra
i. If someone is giving you instructions on something you already know, you don't have to cut them off and say, "I know". They're only trying to help. Not only is it disrespectful, it shows a lack of basic etiquette on your part. If someone is telling you a story they've already told you, don't point it out. It only means that it means something to them. You would learn so much from people if only you stopped interrupting them. Be nice. It's not that hard. ii. Sometimes you tell yourself you'll never trust a certain person again, but when the next time comes around you forget your own promise to yourself. You'll keep falling for it forever. There's something about these people. You'll never be able to tell, but there's something. iii. I can only write with a bitter taste in my mouth. I do have happy days. Days of sunshine and a light heart. I need to document them more often so I can remember the noor my life can be filled with at times, and remind myself that it will come back soon. iv. It's easy to believe I'm permanently happy. It's easy to joke light-heartedly about stress when you feel like you can handle it. But if my dad asks me how I'm doing, I feel like a drop of water ready to shatter. It's strange how fleeting happiness can be even if you've started believing it's here to stay. v. I've been out of touch with photography same as I've been with writing. Here's a bad monochrome photo of my bedroom window. Have a nice day, loves.
(you are) running out of cello tape. . . again, again, again. I see in you a reflection of my last endeavor One other I loved (or pretended to) And left in my rearview mirror receding, receding, gone Don't get this wrong, she chased the lights for miles But I was dead already. This, my love, is a letter of caution Beware my changing heart, for I will love you and then I won't, simple as that. Don't chase after the dying star, amor it's gone, it's gone, it's gone. . #blegh#idkwhatthisis#imsickbye
At this month's literary meet, someone said that as children we all had that one character from books or TV that we wanted to be like. For me, that 'character' was my father. He was the hero of all my books and champion of all the battles in my head. So when I first heard that we would be talking about books from our past, my immediate choice was this wonderful piece of work that once belonged to him. It's a vivid narrative of fifty battles that changed the way history was shaped, and I studied these battles with all my 11-year-old self's enthusiasm. This book was a part of me in the days that Baba was teaching me all he knew about world history, especially our own Mughal history. More than the actual material of the book, what makes it nostalgic for me is the feeling I associate with it. Getting to sit with my hero figure and hear him talk about fascinating events and even more fascinating people was, and still is, the highlight of my days. I still remember the little scrapbook he had me make, which included a picture and a select few lines about each of the Mughal emperors. This also included Razia Sultana (or as she prefered: Razia Sultan; for she was herself a warrior, not the wife of one). These are all things I wanted to say at the actual event, but I'm shy on stage now, apparently. I was never like this. It's so strange to go up there and not know what to say when all your life you've been the one to volunteer for it when no one else would. There's one thing I need to work on. Another honorary mention (that I also forgot to speak about at the meet) is To Be A Ninja by Benedict Jacka. It was lent to me by a friend during MCAT and it carried me through those stressful days. It's a children's adventure story set in Japan, about three siblings who escape an abusive father and find refuge in a ninja training facility. The adventure, the pace, the storytelling - it was all so reminiscent of the books I loved as a child that it became a sort of beacon of calm for me. I could read this book after a 9 hour day at the academy and feel better again. So to add to everyone's MCAT ke dinon ki books, this one was mine :D #KELS
Lately I feel like my heart has been somewhere else. I feel nothing, want nothing, do nothing. It's like that song that goes, "I feel like a 6/10". 40% of me has taken a short leave of absence. This 40% included the friendship and socialization center, unfortunately. So I would like to apologize to everyone I've been pushing away, and ask you to understand for a little bit until I can get myself back. I'm trying to make my living space less depressing, which should be quite the mission considering the hostel I live in. But I've got good roommates who understand the need for personal space and I am grateful for them. Let's hope I can focus on what's important right now and get my priorities back on track. It's not easy being socially active, happy, up to date with coursework, and up to date with family stuff at the same time, especially not when your heart feels like a small scared child cowering in a corner. But this is not an excuse. I will bring myself back and I will not let my messed up brain affect those around me who care about me. Tl,dr: I've only been a ghost of myself lately but I'm getting myself back soon. Thank you for being patient. Here's a picture from a day when my outfit sucked but I had fun. Also, listen to "You Was" originally recorded by Dean Martin and Peggy Lee.
Last night I fell asleep holding my mother's hand. This morning I had breakfast in my dad's office before we visited Bulleh Shah's tomb and spent three hours just driving around. I only have two more beautiful mornings at home before I go back to my 8-2 routine and a suffocating little dorm room. Still thankful for the opportunities I have, though. If people only ever got what they deserved I would not be here today.