It is only on occassions that I get to see you, why not for eternity (2)

Why do clouds float into the sky of my heart and not let me see you

The clouds of desires do not let me see you

The clouds of desires keep me blinded and do not let me see you

In flickering light, in the bat of an eyelid, when I do see you

I lose always, in fear always, I lose you in my eyes

My desire unfulfilled, I lose, Without even batting an eyelid, I lose

Even before my heart swells with elation, I lose.

How will I attain you, tell me, How shall I keep you in my eyes

Oh, where will I find enough love, my Lord, to keep you in my heart

What ability do I have, if you show not your mercy?

If you do not choose to come, none can keep you in their hearts.

I shall not look unto anybody else, I swear by my life

If you say right now I shall give up all desires and all materialistic pusuits

I shall give up all at your feet, without hesitation

I will give up everything, all in your love.

Translated from Rabindranath Tagore's 'majhe majhe tobo'

Life often seems very strange. Turning the pages of years that I have lived through, even though so little in number seem so vast...and I know pages will keep adding. In some places, I scribble side notes and some don't even have page numbers. Some have page marks...pages that I would like to go back to and some have page marks saying...stay away, you don't want to read what it says. And yet I seem to be writing the biggest novel of my life...life itself. A very close friend once said that according to her everyone is born with a purpose, mine being writing a novel. I rejoiced at the idea but little did she know or little did I realise that I already was doing it...I have been writing a novel ever since the day a stray sperm found an egg to hold on to. I am writing a novel even in those long hours when I am sleeping or when I am washing my pile of clothes or when I am cooking to feed my big stomach. I am writing when I am in University, fighting it out with people who call themselves 'Islamic scholars' or when I am chatting up with people who like me have nothing better to do in life. My novel has romantic moments when I am holding hands on a bike in the rain with the man I love. It has dramatic moments of door slamming and copious tears and hugs to parting friends. It also has moments of philosophical contemplation where I sit all alone over smokes and coffee reading Aatish Taseer or when I just stare outside blankly. If only...if only I could write it all down...sketch every movement of mine and of every character that I have around, playing their parts, being who they are. Would it not be amazing? To read after this major novel is over and done?

There is just one simple problem in all this novel writing. There are certain twists in the story that happen without my permission and most of the time they are not even to my liking. Sometimes characters get killed off randomly, characters I would keep alive till the end. Certain characters end up with the wrong characters. And things become messy. And no matter how hard I try, I cannot make my novel work my way. Then it feels like I am simply playing a puppet and someone else is the novelist after all. Someone whom I cannot control but who controls my novel all the time. Freaky. I write well. I could have written an extremely 'happily ever after' novel all by myself but no, this Someone has to have his inputs. Sometimes, I think this Someone guy is like the publisher...you cannot write what he doesn't like! Often, I scream at this Someone guy and ask him to let me write my novel my way. He hardly ever listens. People say he has his own plans. But his plans ruin my plot and I simply detest that.

I want an entire novel to myself, where everything would be the way I want...where Israel and Palestine would not fight...where Kashmiri Muslims and Pandits would live in peace without India or Pakistan's government playing dirty games in their land...where there would be no natural disasters...where not a single orphan will cry...where not a single mother will have to mourn over her dead son's body...where life would be green...where people won't be forced to study what they don't like...where people would be free...free to love...free to be happy....free from that Someone guy, who has gotten into this awful habit of doing things his way...

...where I will sit in your embrace to hear a soft 'I love you' till the last chapter of my novel is written.

Amen.

Yet another day awakens

To the Scarlet skies

Showering tiny, translucent

Droplets of Heaven

On empty, grey streets,

In shimmering light.

The street lamps

Stare wide eyed

Their eyes bright orange

From long, sleepless nights.

The wind sweeps

Dusty corridors

With sinful, closed doors

And windows blank faced.

While little pieces of Heaven

Fall.

Unperturbed, Untouched...

On to shadows

Of grey strangers

Who stand craving salvation

Beneath the Crimson skies

Cleansing...nurturing...loving.

While all beyond the sinful doors

Sleep...a dreamless sleep

In greed of a promised Heaven.

He sat aiming the empty plastic bottle in his hand like a gun at people around, quite unconscious of her observant eyes. The musty September wind danced among the freshly painted green, often shaking the wet haired trees into spraying the soft, moist grass with untimely showers of dew. She didn't like this innate streak of violence that he often displayed so effortlessly. In fact, it disturbed her to the core. And yet there was something so attractive and stirring about his calm face....his akward movements...his striking black hair against the white of his skin. "I like curly hair...soft, black curly hair" he mumbled still pointing his plastic bottle gun. She tucked a curl behind her ear without a blush. He just made her uncomfortable. He never made her blush. "Who are you trying to shoot?" she asked nervously. He put down the bottle and looked straight at her with eyes of coal that would ignite any moment. "Everyone". She looked away, not wanting to let him know how scared it made her feel. "Why do you keep telling people you want to shoot them?" she brought herself to ask. "My relatives were militants....this is all I have ever heard as a child." The matter of fact tone had a creepy feel to it that made her want to hug him and distance herself from him all at the same time. She nodded and kept quiet. There was nothing much that could be said to statements such as these. He seemed to sense her discomfort and the creeping, crawling silence between them. "The military occupied my house" he continued, as if the story were to end on a happy note. "We went to live with our uncle". She had not yet managed to say a word. She wasn't good at consolation and a 'everything will be alright' was hardly appropriate. Nothing had been alright for 69 long years. Nothing could possibly be. "My house is still under military occupation" he seemed to have again read her mind. For moments his house seemed to represent the entire Valley in its microcosom. He sighed and tossed the bottle away. "I couldn't take it any longer...so I moved out" he whispered before taking out pills from his bag and popping them in his mouth with a shivering, epileptic hand.

She mutely watched the devastation.

Love was too ashamed...affection too scared...humanity long dead.