Salt Lamp

WhatsApp Image 2017-10-01 at 8.42.02 PM

“You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.”

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.”


Bosom of the dark deep earth

Belly of the hearth

Lies the rock that melts

and survives a million pelts


Unearthing  burns and bruises

Grazes the translucent peach purity

Darkens  the corners and greases

Of size and shape no surity


Coal and embers, diamonds or pearls

Or giant rubies from the sword of the Earl

Tiny salt rocks or petite round marbles

Paper rocks or dried wrinkly flowers


Fill the cradle with odds and tods

The stony lap remains unscathed

The gentle glow; eternal

Base in rapturous light; bathed


Salt: cleanses and reforms

Lamp: illuminates and heals

Ornaments are ephemeral

Yet sturdy the keel


Salt and Light: Core

Ordained for a pinnacle

Falls and fowls, abysmal pits inevitable

Yet a rising will come about

Each time, after every fall

The Salt is not to lose its saltiness

The lamp shall burn




Paints the lid red


Tendons on her agile limbs

A ten-legged cart wheel in the sky

Tips of her toes oozing blood

She paints the lid red


A whirl towards the sky above

A swish of white robes in swirls

With arms wide open

She paints the lid red


The comets crash

The shootings stars

Constellations collapse, as

She paints the lid red


She peeks through a crevice

The din of dusty existence

Before her wait and lie, so

She paints the lid red


The shower of un-reality

Is on the shore awash

She lays there still, as

She paints the lid red


*based on a lucid dream session

If you can imagine it, it must exist – Of wandering in Istanbul

Dream catchers and cashmere scarves, hung lazily in the smallish spaces, Istanbulites introduce as “scurry shops” or maybe what my eccentric, fiercely Turkish in her genes but rather dubious of that origin and a firm belief of having Nordic or maybe Germanic ancestors, calls them. What she means by scurry is not really the meaning an average English speaker would mean, even if English was not their first language. She means that these shops are overpriced and aimed at looting foreigners (creatures who are naïve enough to fall for merchandise just because it looks pretty and is not even representative of real Turkish traditions) while they are scurrying past them to reach Istiklal street. You can trust economists and creatures like them to take the magic away from everything, something I often find myself guilty for. But there is magic in dreams and a natural born lucid dreamer can verify that for you.

But is there magic in imagination too? I want to apologize for the nuisance value of the neuro-economist creeping in, but the fact that human mind thinks in images as well as the fact that research now claims that the human mind accumulates an inventory of images that it draws upon  and one cannot conjure up images that one has not consciously or subconsciously seen somewhere (I hope there is more development in this area) because during my state of lucid dreaming, I come across places and architectural details that I do not remember viewing ever in my waking life nor having read about it; except for this recent one where Paris and Istanbul are just districts in the same city and there is a concert in another that I am trying to get too. Extending the research on image inventory, neuroscientists and psychologists who specialize in dreams explain this by asking a question, “Have you ever encountered someone in your dream that you do not know?”

The answer would be no for most people. We either view friends, family, celebrities, famous people and maybe our secret crush. And from my own little knowledge about dream comes from the movie “Inception”, where the brain is actually capable of attacking foreign bodies in a dream. Scientists must be right about ‘no strangers in a dream’, then? Maybe that is why I feel more comfortable in my dreams because there are no elements being introduced and therefore no social anxiety. (I know those who know me personally will claim this is a sympathy seeking tactic on my part for I am forever present on major social events within my circle of friends and acquaintances, seem to enjoy company and commotion, and am available almost all the time for obnoxious early morning breakfast plan. And yet I admit to not enjoying more than one additional human being in my space at a time- hint that is why I do better in one on one breakfast plans). Familiarity is comforting to the human brain and therefore we enjoy the company of childhood friends, for at least an hour or so until we realize they have become a starkly different human being than you and conversational topics have fewer over laps in the Venn diagram of conversation? We also experience warmth and comfort when we listen to an old song that we were introduced to during our formative years (our romantic teens or melancholic teens maybe?) even if we hated or criticized from our core at the time.


From Trastevere to Testaccio in The Moonlight: Haunted by History and a Haywire Entorhinal Cortex

“Say Si guarda bene to any boy you find handsome, on the streets, in the bar, in the club, anywhere. I promise you, you will not be disappointed”, Max, my brutally honest and handsome friend hailing from the heart of Turin, said to me on skype, helping me plan my trip to Italy. This was obviously not the only advice he gave. He saved me a great deal on metro tickets and spared me from spreading my resources thinly over many Italian cities and told me to focus on Rome and Rome alone. I take advice from reliable resources seriously, and I intended to take Max (short for Massimiliano, which is like Mohammad or Abdullah in Pakistan) very seriously until I got this sample of his pick-up techniques.

“Max, I cannot just go around telling Roman men how hot they are! That is ridiculous. In fact, that is a very pindi thing to do”, I implored.

Some context though…

Pindi is short for Islamabad’s twin city, called Rawalpindi. Before Ayub Khan decreed that a new capital for the country is to be built on Potohar Plateau, the area was known by its old settlement. It embodies the old spirit and culture of the small town that grew into a city. Over the years, the shorter name was adopted for vernacular use. As Islamabad grew into a city of Bureaucrats and government officials with people hailing from all over Pakistan, moving to the capital and making up a culture of its own, Pindi’s culture began to evolve a certain distinctness. As Islamabad began to house diplomats and foreigners alongside the intellectual elite of the country, it developed an international flavour in the lifestyles of the inhabitants. Rawalpindi on the other hand retained its old culture reflecting the norms and practices of rural Punjab and Potohar.  

Thoroughly enjoying the silly confusion on his face, I went on to explain the phenomena of being Pindi. “Max, being Pindi is a state of being. It is a school of thought that I have discovered in many cultures of the world. It involves following ubiquitous fashion trends including the likes of pink trousers, parrot green t-shirts, paired with white rimmed sunglasses and yellow shoes.” I said so with a serious, matter- of-fact like expression, and the perplexity evident on my friend’s face was highly entertaining. I continued to enlighten him. “Max, Pindi is also a specie. It has male and female of course. But the male of this specie is worth special attention. The locals use a term Pindi Bwoy to explain this massively important cultural phenomena. A typical pindi bwoy will possess a few dazzling trinkets including obtrusive rings for the fingers, shiny golden chains (sometimes real gold) adorning the neck, some bracelets to match and if not those, some digital watch that one usually sees on a 10-year-old American boy/girl. This bwoy will ogle shamelessly at women, regardless of age, complexion, body type (must be praised for egalitarian values) and feel that it is their national duty to cat call women walking on the streets, sing songs for them, whistle and sometimes even touch inappropriately. Moreover, this specie travels in pairs or groups, so that they always have an accomplice for their social misdemeanours.” I could see Max shifting uneasily in his seat and smile even more uneasily before remarking, “Well in that case, enjoy the food?”

Food, I did enjoy of course. The ‘free dessert for the pretty ladies’ as a follow up to a hearty meal of beef lasagne, in a restaurant at Trastevere’s inner most streets, did a few good things for my self-esteem. It would not be an overstatement, if I say that the evening spent in Trastevere was one of the most satisfyingly enjoyable experiences of my entire existence. Trastevere: beyond the Tevere or the River.

All the nuts and bolts of my imagination were already running wild after a night time stroll around the Trevi fountain, a sculpture that made me feel time had stopped under water and Triton with his Trishul was rampaging the mighty waters of the Mediterranean. The rage on his face, the flair in his beard and moustache, the alacrity in the chariot riders’ faces alongside him, the adrenaline in the faces of the horses pulling the chariots, set against the backdrop of an architectural wonder, turquoise mosaic tiles lining the floor of the pool in which this sculpture was oozing out water- the sculptor had breathed pulsating life into a piece of stone. Already in a lulled trepidation from the awe that only a magnificent yet simple piece of art can invoke, we chanced upon Trastevere. A kingdom of fantastic and mundane, meshed intricately together, like that crevice between dreams and waking life. If you are the one to enjoy the simpler things in life and the finer threads of human vibrancy and energy, Trastevere can be the fountain of life for the seeker.

Street shows are common all over the world. Mime artists, musicians, ventriloquists, singers and varied assortment of talented people showcase their craft and get direct feedback from the public. The heart of Trastevere is just like any other happening place within a European capital, however, the spirit of the city is un-matched. A strange humility in the warmth of hospitality, a sagacity in the smiles and laughter of the chefs and shopkeepers, an awareness of the heavy past lurking in the air and yet refusal to let go of life itself. Trastevere gives you hope. Hope in the strength of the human spirit, its resilience, its ability to find reasons to smile, despite atrocities and desolation. Basically, jostle you out of your existential boredom

In the moonlight, the centuries of spectres hovered over the fairy lights and candle flames dotting the smallish tables lining the narrow streets sprawling forth from the Piazza Di Santa Maria, the central square of the district. The two of us loitered in the square, one calling out to the other in French and the other responding in Mandarin, not even English or Urdu, that came naturally at all other times. Such was the allure of the jhankar in the air (jhankar is an Urdu/Sanskrit word for the playful tender beats of delicate instruments). A captivating trio of street performers, draped in all black from head to toe, sporting bowler hats of the same dark blackness, flaunted their craft with the tools for an awestruck crowd, for it was not simply a juggling show, but a form of some dark arts where the juggled items were on fire and black cats prowled around the well-built, lean acrobats.  Us two, stood alongside the crowd, gaping at the muscular but agile men swiftly moving across the small but sufficient space they occupied. The unearthly music that filled the night air as the show came to an end left the whole lot present, silent. Slowly, the witnesses to this seemingly random act, began to come out of their reverie and the pitter patter of gentle claps turned into a thunderous applause.

Silently, we took each other’s hands and agreed upon the next destination, communicating only with the eyes, unwillingly to cast off the spell that bound us both with the soul that inhabited Trastevere. No words were needed.

There was so much in the air around us: laughter and giggles of the throng of teens, the spring in the step of the young women accompanied by their lovers, the slurping of the ice-cream cones by the toddlers as they held their fathers’ hands and sat on their shoulders, the swish of the elegant dresses worn by slightly older women, accompanied by friends and partners, the deep gurgling of gentlemen’s voice who had their chess boards sprawled before them and their wine glasses and beer mugs sprouting midst the chequered tables lining the edges of the streets, outside the restaurants that filled the market place, the flickering of the candle flames, ensconced in the different coloured glass holders, taking their royal place in the centre of the tiny tables.

The merriment and the glistening sadness in the goddess’s eyes as she sipped her wine and looked askance at the man sitting next to him, engaged in hearty conversation with the man sitting across him, warmth resonating from the edges of his angled chin, but cold steeliness in his eyes when he looked at her. Embers of coals from a raging fire earlier were glowing and dying inside her.

The ghosts of the slaves that laboured in lining the streets with pebbles and stones, characteristic of European towns and grounded in the Roman tradition. The wispy wails, so faint, audible only to the grieving heart.

The crunchy sound made by the slightly yellow leaves, on the ivy plants blanketing the ancient walls with life, when the cool breeze slithered through them in the night: echoing sounds of gentle kisses of amorous couples in the nooks and cranies of the old roman town.

The helpless agitation in the step of that cello player, who stood under the towering clock in the Piazza, smack in the middle of all the commotion and bustle, with not even a wandering dog paying attention to his craft. His foot tapping restlessly all the while his slender fingers touched all the sweet spots on the assortment of strings in his arms, for all the heavenly sounds that followed were a testament to his agility.

The tapping stopped as the gong in the clock tower began to resound loud and clear, drowning all the chatter and the heartbeats. The spell remained unbroken. The teens and the toddlers were now nowhere to be seen. Elegant dresses still flowed. There were no Cinderellas in the 21st century. The chortling and the clinking of forks and knifes had dimmed down. The only lurking ones in the square were couples and trios, nibbling in cheese, sipping wine and hurtling rings of smoke from the slender pipes in their hands.

The blood in our beings decided to settle in our feet and the two of us took our place on the steps of the Piazza’s basilica. The night sky was clear, tiny twinkling entities, confidently taking their usual place in the constellation. Phone batteries dying and a drowsiness taking over the mind and body were all signals that Testaccio must soon be sought out, but an unwillingness in the legs was overpowering.

Partly it was Trastevere’s captivating energy, and partly it was the hesitation to face one’s own skeletons in the closet, that chained our feet to the steps of the Piazza. For as soon as we would step out of the square’s boundary where the moonlight and the music had cast the spell of silence between us, but had impregnated the air with other potent frequencies, the façade will be gone. We would return to that grinding repulsion that comes with the un-proclaimed passion. The spectres of cruel words and weary soul would return to haunt the silence between us. Perfunctory conversation on the sorting the route towards our bed for the night in Testaccio, remaining data allowance on cell phones to enable Google maps, a brief cost benefit analysis on taking a cab to the destination; failed to remove the cobwebs from the connection that never needed words before. Some quick negotiations were done in the interest of keeping the lid in the kettle, lest the steam turns into a geyser that blows off the top. No cab, no google map and a walk along the Tiber were agreed upon.

For a good twenty minutes the Tiber and its Island, in the middle of the old town, kept some remnant of Trastevere’s magic. But soon the lul began to wear off and only exhaustion remained. The prefrontal cortex (PFC) its retirement for the day, soon after dinner had reached the belly. Upon some pleading from the amygdala, a flexible arrangement was made. A temporary sabbatical was permitted, for a complete retirement at this hour, in a stranger’s cradle was not the best of strategies. PFC is a reasonable guy and so while the Tiber soothed rocked it to a light slumber, the entorhinal cortex was out to work. The plan was to head towards the south of Tiber, while walking along its sides, and then cross over to the residential districts upon sight of the Piramides palm tree haven. And like all plans made with an exhausted PFC, this plan was doomed from its conception. Tiber’s sides had run out of walking space, but there was no sign of palm trees. There were some gloriously haunting trees surrounding some old church. Numerous nameless monuments after monuments lined our path. Another kind of trance came upon me, being one with the spirits of those before us, who walked the same paths, whose flesh was part of the ground beneath our feet, whose wails and cries were lost in the silence of the night sky that seems tranquil today but was rapturous in the days before our times. A heaviness overtook my heart, a sorrow came over. Mr. amygdala had decided to go cart-wheeling. However, I could sense the exhaustion in my companion’s voice, an indication of the near collapse state of the body. The unique mind in that exhausted body could talk to the PFC in the system and keep it awake while mine recuperated snuggly in her powernap, while the amygdala steered the course. The tension between a PFC and amygdala is always intense, but between those residing in two different bodies is paramount to biological warfare. I learnt it the hard way.

My entorhinal cortex (EHC)had decreed a cross over at a point on Tiber’s side, a bit too early. Walking westwards in search of the landmark pyramids near our BnB in Testaccio, we came across the museum of Cestius instead. Visibly distressed and running sort of patience, my companion was on the verge of a breakdown. However, careful not to disrupt the arrangement of our cohabiting skeletons, restraint was exercised. While the barometer for patience was going down, there was no remarkable different in the measurement of my EHC. It was certain that we were moving in the right direction and that slight detour was a necessary distraction. Demonstrations of restraint were generously dished out, as vocalization of my amygdala’s engagement with the heavy history soaking each and every brick in the city managed to engage my companion’s PFC. But an hour of walking and dallying with each other’s PFC began to dampen the resolve to maintain amicability. Just as the last bit of restraint was dissolving, my confident EC announced sight of familiar territory. As we strolled along the streets of the Testaccio district, walked past the bistro that had served us lunch earlier in the day, smiled past the large families taking their place in the long tables lining by the roadside, toasting and cheering, clinking their wine glasses and rolling the dice on the board games, the patience reservoir was replenished slightly. Alas, that damned wrong turn, just one street away from the BnB brought the house down. All the skeletons came crashing down. Stern voices, pierced the silent streets of Rome that night. Tears flowed, and walls sprung up. Higher than the walls of the Colosseum. Hopes sank, pulled down by the heavy specters of history haunting Rome’s corridors. All had gone haywire, before the moon could shine out all its milky brightness.

Islamabad: The Capital and its Q- Block ( From Dreams to Postcards- Chapter: Gruel and Growth)

Back in the day when opinion based polls became the fad – I say this like I was born a century ago but given the speed at which technological advancements in the means of communication is burgeoning, it is fair to say so- Islamabad was known as second most ‘unfriendly’ city in the world.

Islamabad: the administrative capital of Pakistan, a country infamous for its ‘terrorizing role’ in the comity of nations (obviously bombing countries for oil is less frightening than being Afghanistan’s neighbour).

The poll’s results were not too far from the truth. ‘A city of the working class’ is further away from the truth than this. Conjured up one day from Ayub Khan’s sleeve after he said the magic words, “let there be a capitol in the hills”, Islamabad took its place as the country’s capital city. The first sacrificial goats who had to move to the city- under- construction in the Margalla Hills, simply because they worked for the Government and Abraham had to prove his love for the Higher Being, now rejoice as the modern-day Isaacs. They not only inherited all the best of the boom, but also hold a prestigious place in the society as the pioneers of a new Pakistan. They have the enviable premium memberships in the city’s exclusive Islamabad Club. They have prime properties in the heart of the city, where in this day and age, it is inconceivable to buy a square foot of mud, unless of course you have made it to the exclusive Panama Papers.

But first, Mathew chapter four, verse eight: “Again, the devil took Him to a high mountain and showed Him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory.”

Even the devil had the courtesy to show Jesus what he was talking about before he made his offer to worship him and all that. It is, therefore, only fitting that some description of the city I am in love with, is revealed.

Let me take you to a high vantage point in Islamabad, Daman- e- Koh, literally translated as “heart of the mountain”. If you drive up about 10 kilometers up the Margalla Hills, on your right you will see a turn for something akin to an observatory, where people can just walk around and enjoy an aerial view of the city. It is a place rampant with the tiny monkeys and adorned with ever green trees, pines and firs, with patchy green grass all over and the only shade above your head, being the droopy branches of these lush trees that line the walking path up to the high point. A ten minutes’ walk up the steep path and a few flights of stairs, one can walk into a clearing, guarded with rusty iron bars and some stone re-enforcements, but not tall enough to block the breath-taking aura of the country’s Capital, the house of the seat of the Government, Islamabad.

Among the few planned cities of the world, Islamabad can surely flaunt its orderliness and serenity that comes with being organized. Looking down from the high point of Daman-e-Koh, one can see why those who acquire a taste for this city find it hard to appreciate other cities in the world. The entire stretch is visible to the beholder without having to turn their neck. On the extreme left one can see the Rawal dam, the city’s only water reservoir, silently existing within the landscape. Staying on the left but moving closer inwardly to where one is standing, it is possible to notice the brocade of the oldest high rise buildings in the city, whitewashed in paint, attempting to hide the garbles of age, lined at 45 degrees of each other, equally well arranged as the network of roads and service roads in the city. These are the buildings that have housed the offices of the highest order in the country since 1960’s when President, General Ayub Khan decided to move the Capital of the country from the scuttling Karachi to the heart of the Potohar plateau. They are nestled in neatly arranged compounds within what was named “The Pakistan Secretariat”, starting from blocks A, B,C,D on the left on the parabola that the compound is and ending with blocks P, Q, R, S on the right end of the ‘U’ the Secretariat makes. Each block houses a Ministry. From the Food Security, Climate Change to Economic Affairs, Planning and Development, and the Finance Ministry. But more on this later.

As the roving eye moves from left to right, one can see the pines and firs down below lining the highways and the smaller roads that connect to it. Smack, in the centre of it all is the Islamabad Highway that starts from the foot of the Margalla Hills at the end where the city’s iconic landmark, the Faisal Mosque rests, and runs all the way to its twin city, Rawalpindi. Perpendicular to this road, and parallel to the Margalla hills, is the Margalla Road, that connects the sturdy white buildings of the Pakistan Secretariat to the furthest end of the city where the newest, shiniest sectors of Islamabad, have now sprung up. The city is neatly divided in sectors, A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H and I. For the purpose of navigating the life of a public servant or any other citizen, the relevant sectors are, E, F, G, H and I. There is no justice like justice, if I don’t share the tritest most banal joke on the alphabets these sectors are jested for. ‘E’ is for the elite, ‘F’ stands for the filthy rich, ‘G’ for government servants, ‘H’ for higher education and ‘I’ for idiots. With this, I am aware I am giving away a snooty insider jest that the born and bred in Islamabad might hate me for, but it gives a fair idea of ‘town square’ jabber.

Each sector has its own ‘Markaz’ of sector centre, usually the market place for groceries and daily amenities. These market places are not visible from the highpoint and I am aware that I must not over sell the appeal of the city, lest I become unpopular among the locals who like their peace and quiet and have great distaste for rowdy southerners who are rampantly choosing to locate to the city in recent years. However, a famed ‘Deer Park’ is visible from Daman-e-Koh. Right at the beginning of the road to this sight-seeing spot, there is a Zoo and an old park where wooden swings and jumping castles and all sorts of basic entertainment for children is available. But the place is smallish and not challenging or attractive to children above the age of 6. I digress. Let us rove the eye back to the left.

Perpendicular to the Pakistan secretariat is the most serene drive of the city: the drive along the Constitution Avenue. Across the road from the Secretariat is where the government guest houses, named after each of the provinces are located. The Constitution Road is probably the country’s most important road as well. Apart from the Pakistan Secretariat, you will also see the magnificent Parliament house on your left, as you drive from the foothills of the Margallas, towards Rawal Dam. A few more minutes and the architectural delight of the sophisticatedly angled Supreme Court of Pakistan’s grand structure is before you. Cruising at the speed of 20 km/h is absolutely essential to be able to appreciate the opulence before you (it is ironic because Pakistan has only now moved to lower- middle income status and yet we obviously did not skimp on state offices).

Right next to it is the Prime Minister house with its light pink marbled domes and pillars. An expanse of about a kilometre long or so, it is one of the largest structures on the block. Across the road there are more state offices including the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which interestingly enough is not housed within the secretariat along with other ministries. The Federal Board of Revenue is also housed in a building across the road from the Prime Minister’s Secretariat. Right on the middle of the road is a roundabout. On one side are these state offices, and the other opens to a smallish stadium of sorts, that is popularly known as D-Chowk (yes this is where all the recently famous sit- ins/ Dharnas were staged). The view is nothing short of grand no matter which direction in the Constitution Avenue you are driving on.

No matter how many times you drive towards the Margallas from one end of the Constitution Avenue to the other, it won’t tire you. For each time, the sky above the hills will be different, and the lushness of the green carpet over the hill tops will be a different hue; emerald, viridian, juniper and pine. The breeze is a different story each day, a varied concoction of humidity and heat, cold and cloud. I have yet to meet a person who has lived in Islamabad, dispute this claim.

Now let me describe the security routine briefly, for my dear readers, for it is important to understand the current in the air. The Constitution Avenue and the surrounding buildings and areas are also known as the “Red Zone” among the law enforcement agencies and the security protocols at the highest offices. In recent days, the media has also picked up this word and now the entire world knows this area as the Red Zone. It is not literally red of course, neither is it infamous for any informal economy transactions that becomes active during the wee hours of the night. It is primarily because this area has the country’s most important offices including the Diplomatic Enclave where all the embassies have their offices. The security in this area is therefore, the most notorious for their detail orientation and gruff behaviour with anyone within the parameters of the place. Anyone who has no business being there is discouraged from entering with these barriers to entry. And I don’t mean the intangible ones’ economists talk about.

On each entry point to the area, there are heavily armoured check posts, with at least three to four armed policemen and army personnel. Apart from these, there are individual check points at the entrance of each official building and compounds in which they are house. The security team at the entrance of the Secretariat is just the start of a rigorous security check points mania. The compound where Ministry of Finance is housed has their own dainty little check post, with not so dainty looking men blocking one’s way. However, a car with a green number plate opens many doors, simply because extra scrutiny is not required for a government owned car, carrying a public servant.

The Q- Block. The house of the country’s treasury; the Ministry of Finance. The treasury of questions and quests. An old, elegant but simple structure with six floors, painted white from top to bottom, angled at 45 degrees to the P-Block just next door. A fair square tuft of grassy land faces the building, surrounded by char-coaled concrete paths, and a parking lot for officers just opposite the building. The bright yellow lines at the edge of the paths look rather striking especially on hot summer days, like that of 7th September 2015, the day I first stepped in to the office I’d be frequenting quite often in the coming years.

From Dreams to Postcards-Chapter: The Whimsical Jukebox

Falling into the bottomless pit, the abyss of ferocious figments of the self; dimensions are dissolving into each other; happiness and sorrow are one. The fleeting life of the corporeal and the weight of the heart exist in that moment, the 6 minutes of life?

She recedes inwards; giving up all the space she claimed for her being; her temporary fleshly existence. The self longs to dissolve into the system of things, into the circle of life and death where no identity is required, and just being is sufficient. She withdraws into her being, closing herself up for linguistic exchange, not willing to say words to make herself heard. This should shake the foundation of her universe because words were her arrows, her friends, and her strength and now she wants to abandon those. Words!

To whom shall they be spoken? Those words, those empty, human words; words that change their face in every language; words fickle as the stars appearing in the night sky; scarring forever but disappearing at the end of each dreamy night.

Her tiny victories in a day sound like pompousness to listeners, her little joys seem self obsession, her un-ending curiosity and her passionate planning falls on stony ground. There is no unwavering faith in her fiery passion, her never tiring energy on aiming big. There are no visionaries around her. But she knows that the rage inside is not a flame but a furnace that will only get bigger as she moves to the ocean and explores her limited being’s limitlessness.

She wants to stop making sounds; her voice is like prickly thorns to the bodies around her. They watch her speak but do not really hear her.  Their languages don’t not have the words she wants to use; their words don’t mean what she wants to say. So she decides, with the shortcomings of her mind and her misunderstood words that she must save them for the time when her language becomes known.

Where words fail, tunes will suffice; the tune of her raging passion, the tune of her curious questions, the tune of her adventurous dreaming, tunes of her unwavering spirit. Her being, a jukebox that plays a million wordless songs, flowing over the din of the crowded bazaar like a fragrant genie spirit, jostling midst the spice pyramids, the coloured muslin curtains where soothsayers caution waving their stone studded fingers, where rowdy parrots are sold by mischievous coolies, swinging their wares on delicately balanced head bands.

Dulhan Bus and Quarantines and sleepy anterior cingulate cortex ( From Dreams to Post Cards: Chapter Dreams, Emotions and Decisions)

Dulhan Bus and Quarantines and sleepy anterior cingulate cortex

It’s a rickety bus, seats covered with cheap faux leather, splinters of twisted metal frame, prodding the buttocks from underneath the worn-out leather, clutching the foam like there is no tomorrow. The four-wheeled liability is headed towards heritage site in the country. It is called the Dulhan Bus (the bride bus) because it is decorated like a bride, with all its frills and fillies. Bright paint and intricate glass work also commonly found on fabrics and cultural outfits, hide the weariness of the bus chassis. The many years of coughing out diesel are apparent on the pipes protruding from beneath the bus, like an old maiden, who knew many lovers and yet adorned like a virgin. There are seats in the front row for women only- typical of any public transport in the Islami Jamhuria of Pakistan.

She chose to sit in a corner in the front row for all she wanted to do was, get to the destination. The smell of diesel caustically making her nauseous. The leather seats making her sit up straight on the edge, mindful not to let the metal bits dig in too deep on the hind. Arms crossed, looking straight into her book without any acknowledgement of human being around her, everything in her posture, reeked of the sense that she wanted to speak to no one. She crouched on the edge of her seat, hoping that no one sat next to her so she can wallow and roll over the messy mud in her mind and soak in the earthiness of being lowly in thoughts. Her aversion to human company was not because of any disgust with human beings but with herself, for existing below the normal decency of human existence. The convoluted thoughts she was capable of, of wronging all that is good and of redeeming all that is evil, baseness her mind can conjure, repel her. She wants to not be touched nor seen nor felt lest she infects someone with the restlessness of the mind and soul. She wants to quarantine her being so she can keep those who are enjoying the bliss that comes with less convoluted thoughts, clear from the curse. She is even more careful since the last time she had found another infected being. She felt she can be around him for he is already affected. She could let him inside the quarantine she had built around her. But he did not want to come out of his quarantine. He felt his was more toxic than her’s. The same disgust not from people or her but from his own mind and its charcoal gray darkness. Through a glass door they saw each other, waved and smiled, but a dark look came upon both when they saw that between the glass doors there is a chasm, an endless pit of earth and mud. Crossing over to the other’s glass door is impossible, for there will be wallowing and rolling over in the mud and there will be no end to it. They remained behind their glass doors until she turned away from hers, walked in the opposite direction, where she could move cautiously among those that had no glass doors or muddy floors beneath. And yet once in a while she wanted a recluse to indulge herself the company of her thoughts away from the untouched people. A price had to be paid. The vertigo that comes with the meandering roads to the hermitage of silence of worldly sounds. Bracing herself for the ride, like Sita’s walking on fire towards a greater reward, she had just made herself in the container of self.

And there he was, entering the bus from the back door and spotting her, beamed full throttle, his joy half hidden in his controlled demeanour. She felt her body tighten and dread filled her, for her walls had just been able to dry in the heat of hatred. She could not allow that wetness of the soil emerge again and dampen the resolve she had so carefully reconstructed. And yet all her will and force of mind could not stop him from taking the seat right next to her. His face still lit up from the amusement his mind offered upon seeing her recoil as he put his arm in the back of her seat. The more he smiled, the more she felt the heat scorch the walls she had wrapped around her now. She smiled inwardly, congratulating herself for not melting away at the lack of distance between them.

She returned to her book, after glaring at him long enough to convey that she no longer wants to look through the glass door and smile, from near or far. No glare could wipe away that smirk and it made her blood boil but she took a deep breath and continued to go deeper into her own muddy little pool. He tapped her shoulder with two fingers. Another deep breath before she slowly but menacingly looked up at the tapper. Still the full beam and a pleading look in the eyes. Rolling her eyes, she returned to her book. Another tap. This time she chose to ignore. The bus began to cough and roar, a cringe worthy crackle resounding loud within, scratching the layers of its passengers’ sanity. Midst this commotion, she did not realize his arm slip from the back of her seat to her shoulders. Once the rock- a- bye bus had settled into a stable sputter, she became conscious of the arm gently clutching her to the side of the man she had been glaring at to keep him from extending any bodily contact. Slowly, a furious heat began to rise from her core, something she could not immediately decipher as anger. Her walls began to crack under the heat so she regulated the thermostat to a cooler degree. The regulator in her, her anterior cingulate cortex, must be top of the range, for the subsequent glare in his direction was full of ice and shivers. His arm quickly returned to the back of the seat. The glare continued and the arm moved from the back to the front; the front of his big, muscular chest. He folded his arms, but the circumference of his existence was too big for the smallish seats of the bus. His arm sat snuggly next to hers. This was more torturous than the ‘back-of-the-seat’ position. The only thing that kept up the quarantine was the fabric of her muslin white blouse and his chocolate brown Khaddar (thick cotton fabric from south of Punjab worn in summers) Kamiz (long shirt worn by men and women over trousers). She knew it won’t last but like a mighty warrior she will put up a fight as long as she could.

Her chief of army, her anterior cingulate cortex was slowly beginning to tire, as minutes turned into hours and hours extended into late afternoon, with the sun peaking at its hottest. The mud wallowing had to give way to the magnificence of the universe that came to life as some parts of the brain factory shut down, spurred on by the giving away of the body. Careful to not to give away her exhausted warriors, she leaned against the window of the Dulhan bus as she put herself in the safest quarantined position to sleep.

As the bus chortled onwards, her prefrontal cortex in all its entirety shut down. And in those moments of un-guardedness, the tiny thief behind her walls let the trap door open. Her head bobbed up and down as the bus made its way to the solace of silent mountains. In its bobbing, it landed on his sturdy shoulder. His tired beam returned. His weary eyes struggling to keep away slumber were finally rewarded. His quarantine was porous. He did not want her to mix the black dead earth with her red, fertile mud. And yet there was very little of his roots that were alive in the thickened, charred ground of his core, that he could possibly offer. But the moisture of her being had made tiny roots sprout somewhere in the hardened ground he had stopped nurturing. He could not let her see the charred roots just yet. Her rich redness was just so pure and raw. He did not have it in him to infect her just yet. He put his arm around her so her head did not bob up and down so much, not for her sake to secure her slumber so her mind and body could rest, but for his sake. For in her prefrontal cortex’s unguarded moments, he could bask in the richness of her soil without contaminating it. He gently kissed her forehead, careful to not wake her up. Sliding down a bit in his own seat for head to find a place to rest without having to bend, he settled into a position where the two could rest in peace.

The Tigress in the Sun (From Dreams to Postcards- Chapter: The Whimsical Jukebox)

Over grown grass, brown and dusty  from the baking summer sun, rustled as the wind bristled through the field. The damp shadows from the distant green trees were their own faraway paradise in the full afternoon of a wintry day. The landscape’s surrounding serenity is only a veneer; the prey is being watched from under the canopy of her thick eyelashes.

Her silky mane glistening with the gold of the sun-rays gently falling on her elongated neck and her eyes seem heavy with the drowsiness that comes from a full stomach, basking in the glory of the otherworldly ball of fire. But her graceful body sprawled over the corn-coloured grassy field was anything but slothful. The languid posture on the surface was masking a sanguine vigilance hinting at the thousand passions buried in her bosom. A throttling heartbeat, enough to silence any preachers on nirvana, a fiery gaze fixed on the distance horizon, seeing the yet invisible to the naked eye, piercing through the mirage of existence. A deep breath to calm the qualms of the unseen future, she let the heavy lashes fall on that damp crater above her cheeks and below her eyes. A few watery drops slid down the bends of her cheeks and the blazing glare of the predator in her dissolved within them. For once, she proudly looked down on her on coat, be-speckled with dark spots against the amber stretch of skin across her body and smiled. Closing her eyes again she raised her slender neck, towards the sun. With the orange darkness penetrating her eyes through her tightly closed but not sunlight – proof lids, she replayed the image of her own skin glistening in the sun and smiled with the pride of a goddess who accepts the darkness within her and airs it out in the sun so that the darkness does not mix with the dampness and spoil the glory that she knows she has.

As she opened her eyes, she was on the other side of the horizon, the glistening coat gone, replaced by a fluid fabric, synthetic, processed, reeking of industrialization. The flaxen flowers of the corn-coloured grass were gone and the urban existence reared its face. Yet she looked down proudly on her elongated neck, noticing a single spot near the collar bone, feeling the same assurance she did in the savannahs.

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