The land of Metaphors

Oh welcome! After so long, finally you got the time to arrive here and hear my plaints of grief and loss!

Daikh kar pooch liya haal mera                                                                                          Chalo kuch to khayal kartey ho…

As you sit by me here, on turning around do you observe these taciturn, sapphire mountains entwined by the silver becks, do you feel the hazy gusts,  blowing from the Peer Panchal ranges ( so many names and legends), slashing at your faces, do you hear its agonized sighs, aimlessly wafting around in the troubled air. These lofty, Himalayan peaks, that silently witness the turbulence in their folds, are tired of heralding the legends and tales that once marked this happy valley;

Lot jaati hai idhar ko bhi nazar kya kijiye                     
Ab bhi dil-kash hai tera husnn, magar kya kijiye

They say I have a legendary provenance, so my children do you now contrive for me a hostile end? You will hear of the names and legends from every corner, every bend, if only you all listen! My dense and lush meadows, the azure lakes, that once were mirrors, the numinous springs, the tuneful falls, the deep woods, that echo the verses of the saints who loved them so much, and the sanctified Vitesta, that you also call Jhelum  (so many names and legends, I tell you), it was a revered flow of harmony to exorcize evils, though profaned now, and as I look, I can’t help but weep, drowning my own existence, yet being a mother, I designed that haven on Taqt-i-sulemaan for you (so many names and legends). The H’ari parbat (so many names and legends) bears the testimony, that I welcomed every faith with open arms, generation after generation, I epitomized composite cultures and rich traditions (some have put that in records too, for which God be praised!), and those kings that made me proud, such spirits they breathed in my burly arms, that for centuries together you had them as celebrated legends, that was a time!  And I remember having taught the sages and pupils from across the borders, long back. The saints who practiced penances in my entrenched caves, holding my hands, how they travelled and prayed, and blessed me as well and may be that is why I am still alive, with my tulips and roses and Chinars and embers.  And did you learn of those tales about the women, they were not just women, they were pious souls, who loved to divulge all their sufferings to me, although they never complained openly. I remember the poets of their lands, and their verses in that language of peculiar vowel intonation, that no other language has. But peace is a harbinger for inexplicable turbulence and I always apprehended that. My anxiety made me to weep, and bawl each time, and there were times when my tears dried up, I was too tired to cry, my parched body, and the cracked crust, huh! You ask me what makes me sob now:

Shaher-e-dil mai ye udaasiya’n kaisi                                                                           Ye bhi mujh se sawaal kartey ho?

But it is not the anxiety that makes me weep anymore. I feel forlorn and sad now. How did you allow others to drive a wedge between you all, why did you part your ways, are you not ashamed of the segregations? Has the festival of unity declined? Have I lost my healing touch? So, I am not surprised by any sell-outs now. After blazing the shrines afire, you attempt to murder me too, I am not surprised!

Dil ki takleef kam nahi’n kartey                                                                                   Ab koi shikwah hum nahi’n kartey

My clammy soil smells of blood, now my waterfalls are turbid with ruby clots. Only I know how I had to enshroud slaughtered hearts, fractured bones, and carcasses with marks of slugs, such blood bathed carnage of innocence! I ask you, has anybody tied the threads at the shrines for peace lately? Will you all let the names and legends die? All seasons look plain to me, for you do not welcome transitions now, hence I weep in every season. I had cradled you in my lap, humming the melody of morality and now, I see you decorating the hearse for me; is this something to see, that with the fading breaths of mother, how the children rejoice! After silently witnessing this profanity for near about a century should I not cry now? Your reflections have rendered my tears murky and I feel helpless.

Muntazir merey zawaal ke hain                                                                                     Merey apney bhi kamaal ke hain

With my shroud will you bestow the honour of martyrdom upon me, or is that too much to ask from you. I was called Satisar once, the world calls me paradise on earth, I am the land of Sufis and Saints, and with each name I baste a legend, because with each name, I am subjected to a new ordeal since centuries, and I still have the strength to endure, for I lead by example. Every corner in me, has a name stitched to a legend and has a story to narrate, I am that legend no one can disclaim, and all my names are no longer names, they are the metaphors, yes -the extended metaphors, that bespeak the beauty, humility, gratitude, humanity, love, unity and peace garnered by me, and then divisions, trials, torments, strife, pain, loss, endurance, fortitude and tenacity impelled upon me. With every martyr touch, I am martyred again, and my arm though frail now, will yet embrace the destiny; see how, each time I burn and rise again from my own ashes like the phoenix. Thus, I am the morose but proud land of metaphors, not just in legends but in history, for I am kashyapmar (ka-shimeera), I am the Kaspeiria, I am KaShi-Mi-Lo, I am Cashmere, I am kasheer, I am Kashmir:Yes- I am Kashmir…..

The day we were born

Blowing off the flame of my yet another precious year, I slash asunder a piece of my ecstasy from the rest of my life, organically manifest by the cutting of this three-tiered chocolate cake, amidst the resounding claps of the people flocked around me in this large festooned hall. The guests come up to hug me, shake hands with me and invariably smother me with expensive and lavish gifts, congratulating me on my birthday as they say. Letting out a wistful sigh, I try braving up a genial smile, in the depths acknowledging my own endurance, having crossed another year of trouble, agony and pain; perhaps the most difficult year of my life would be history now.  The sickly sweet gathering of guests, busy in pompous show of their accessories, with none clad in anything less than a classy brand from head to heels, the rush of the waiters carrying the platters of exotic savouries, the flashing chromatic lights on the floor, the pulsation of the loud music, the fancy buntings adorning the vibrant ramparts, the glittery optical fibers, embellishing the giant pillars and palisades of stairways in the hall and the constant natters of the crowd, cannot be a pleasure to the heart that craves for solitude, longing to be left alone- entirely alone!                                                                                                                          Tired of floundering from one place to another, deprived of the inner peace, on my birthday, today I decide to give myself the gift of solitude or rather loneliness. Nudging my way out through the crowd, I with difficulty manage to get out of the crowded hall, into the adjacent balcony. And here I am- out of the profligate clique of people, now finally alone, with the blazing sun, which is preparing to sleep in the lap of night. The scarlet ball, painting the canvas of horizon with chromatic shades of red, is allegorical to the oblivious carnage of hearts. I breathe in the fresh air, as the placid breeze gently blows against my cheeks, wafting some message, in a muffled tone that perhaps will never reach my ears. I observe the stretch of swaying grass in the verdant field before my eyes, as if acclaiming my presence after such a long time, weaving the ambience of inexplicable delight blend with remorseful despondency, drifting my senses in the state of awe.
The natural aura, lingering in the air around me, has the similar semblance of that bright evening when my eyes first caught your sight, and now as the curve of my lips widen on recalling those memories, symbolic of a smile, is not because I am happy standing out here alone, but because this loneliness has still reserved for me the right to reminisce and inspirit our treasured memories, that lure me into that dear old game, where I still lose in spite of a win, hence today, is such a day that marks your absence for my realization.
Just a year ago, on this day you were standing by my side, nostalgically counting on our promises, errors, reconciliations and happy moments, although since we first met, every time it was I, who had to remind you of my birthday, as your presence was my best gift for this day. It is really funny to see how fate can change the entire pace of life, not only perceptions but dimensions of the life as well; and therefore, I soon found myself wretched in just a night. It was like a steaming volcano that finally erupted to destroy the beautiful city in its fold, without any warnings and the next day-it was all desolation!

Abaadi bhi dekhi hai, veerani bhi dekhi hai                                                                  Jo ujdhey aur phir na bassey dil voh nirali basti hai

I regret not our estrangement now, but my insensibility to foist you in the realm of dilemma, from where even I could never return. I now have discerned that signing some stamped documents in emerald ink can finish the bonds but never the feelings that garner those bonds. So yearning for the impossible, all that I have been doing since a year is befooling my heart and ironically my heart has grown sensible enough to understand that it is being fooled by me, but for how long! Lolling my body over the banisters edging the balcony, I contemplate that how a rose, so alluring to the heart that loves it so much, can hurtfully prick the fingers on being plucked out in oblivion. Why do the intangible feelings, that unite the minds after being blindly bonded, later on allow the prudent minds to question over and again, after pushing the sublime souls in an abyss? And as only the rational minds are left to recuperate the wounded hearts, they work in to diminish the abstract feelings to nothingness.
How I recall, each year you always forgot my birthday but I remembered your birthday, yet you kept on proving the sublimity of our bonding by celebrating everyday with me like a birthday; like our special days. Honestly, I never expected you to remember my birthdays, for I was not so touchy about it, nor did you ever ask me to celebrate your birthday, (Though, I would always pop up at your place with a cake) because somewhere deep down, we both knew, that our love rose above the superficiality of the “days” and the “formalities” that followed, rather it rested on the foundation of a committed feeling of concern towards each other. But when a dream made of glass is broken, whom do we blame- fate, circumstances, void in compliancy, etc, etc; hence, every celebration down the lane of memories is ransacked to a street of desolation, spared only with the cracked windows of pain, the empty cupboards of grief, and the smashed doors of separation.
Enviably the sun never sets alone; for the night will console it and comfort it in its lap- but the expanse of darkness, after the sunset, corroborates the proof of the emptiness that the sky will be impelled to gasp. Although the clouds do not enfold the sky this evening, thus apparently the sky must be smiling as it silently witness the sun leaving its country, but this never means that the sky is not lamenting the separation- The sky must have been tired of crying every evening, just like me. The sky has realized that excessive tears bring only floods and devastations that harm those around us; hence we put up a brave and warm smile that at least will not harm anyone, even if it annihilates us from within. This smile, not only epitomizes the level attained after such an arduous struggle, with which I have reconciled as any other normal occurrence, like the sunset, but also anything below this level will be sheer insult to the degree of our grief, loss and parting.

Ujaaley apni yaado’n ke humarey paas rehne do                                                         Na jaane kis galli mai zindagi ki shaam ho jaaye…..

After you parted your ways with me, many people of great calibre extended hands to hold you firmly, I felt like some queer creature, which on being exiled, had to harmonize with the veneer of the other world. And in this exile, a crowd of familiar faces appear strange to me; so I can’t be consoled now and I am at peace to know, that this strangeness with the outside world will drive me nearer to my inner self. For some time, now I have been looking for the rainbow you gifted me with- the miracle of that rainbow; in one instant cry, bawl, weep, and shout, the next instant smile, smirk, and sigh! The sands of our memories, is gradually shifting loose and may be the tide of time will wash it away soon and I will watch helplessly, as it will be done.

Mat pooch kaun hai; kyu laachaar baithey hain                                                  Mussaafir hai, safar karney ki tamanna haar baithey hain

I wish the best to the lonely night sky, with the stars mocking at. And regrettably, I will have to break my soliloquy, as I see the guests leaving now.                          

After the commotion dies down, my dad calls me to see the gifts I got, as they are unwrapped by the butler. I sit on the chaise lounge, across my parents who are dressed in the daintiest manner. With each gift unwrapped, they sigh in wonder while I maintain a constant smile, hardly looking at the gifts. My gaze shifts to the side table, which supports a pretty net basket, with large sized greeting cards shoved inside it. I pull out one card, and on opening it, a loud birthday tune fills in the room, as everyone is taken aback. I keep it aside in disgust. I pass my time shuffling the greeting cards, reading out the sophisticated surnames of the guests, written on the envelopes. One envelope did not have any name of its giver. Tearing the envelope out of curiosity, I lug out the card. I open the card to read the message inside it. Surprising, rather shocking my senses, I read the name of the person written inside, on the corner at the bottom of title line- a simple card that read just this: WISHING YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Regards……her name.
Lo abhi jalney ko kuch baaki tha….                                                                               Aur hum samjhey; vo aaye’n hain maatamgiri ke liye
Yes- it was her name! I almost fumbled, feeling all choked up and messed up again; I remembered, that I did not wish her this year on her birthday and she instead had wished me on my birthday, contravening the usual trend! I swallowed! I was confounded by all that I had just read, seen and felt. I felt numb and to be honest, my current position failed any reaction. Standing up, holding the card firmly, I start advancing towards my room upstairs, in a half-absorbed bent of mind, asking my parents to excuse me. I enter my room and dive on my bed, reading the card again, rather that one line again… Tears start to stream down my face and I want to shout, but that rainbow! The next moment I feel inexplicably calm and peaceful. Clasping the card (My best and worst gift that I ever received) close to my chest, feeling morose for the unthinkable that just had happened, I close my eyes on hearing the clock chime at the stroke of midnight, which marked the end of the day we were born!                                                                                            

                                                                        --BY SANA SHAH

A Blank sheet of paper

(First published in ‘The Indian ruminations’)

Being in the prime of my youth, not able to think and contemplate vividly, never was I to be blamed for this. All day locked up behind the doors of my room, trying to discern and comprehend the words of my text books, mistaking information to be the genuine knowledge concomitantly mindful that knowledge transcends the very brim of human reasoning! Knowledge never ends, thus I closed my books and reclined against the back of my revolving chair. Some kind of inner call resonated within, all day long, all night long, while I worked, while I slept, while I dreamt.
Some abstract and intangible questions were tolling my mind over and again. Perhaps thinking; a departure from me would pave the way for the arrival within myself. Being a recluse, demanding constant solitude, sitting alone in the crowd of millions was of no avail, until a journey was to be taken up within the depths of the soul, yes it was like jumping into an abyss without any solid end that my apparent insensibility would land me into!
What baffled me even more, not generalizing though, was the question that will this ever tangled materialistic world, spinning in disarray allow the extraordinary ambience to unveil the ordinary mind. Ambiguity grows in a journey without a preset destination that could ravage the very human existence, which is akin to more of a deep sea oblivious of the treasures hidden in its depth.
Self-contemplation, self-introspection, self-realization; perchance are the concepts of high philosophy, not meant for a child who has not even learnt to walk properly, but closing the eyes, just to believe that, what you see is not there is like a trick devised to delude the illusion itself.
Sitting all day long, not being able to focus and yet focus on something that hardly exists, staring at the walls, cramped up in the chair, hearing the tick-tock of the wall clock trying to douse some invisible fire all in vain, transcending the mediocrity of information crippled in the definition of “knowledge” might be of high relevance and aesthetic sense to some, will yet suffice to spark the excruciating pain, making me to scream helplessly but in the language of silence, if only someone would just listen, someone would just help…..I let the seconds slip into minutes and minutes aggregate into hours. With the gradual darkening of the room, at dusk my eyes open to find myself cramped up in the same surroundings, those same books that I left untouched, that concrete sturdy wall, that peculiar sound of the wall clock indicating something that is running out, connecting the bridges of my identity, explored if not today then tomorrow, I let out a wistful sigh!
With the first light the next morning, those same questions haunt my soul, pounding against my mind as I somehow manage to leave for the jobs of the day in my vehicle for a short journey to my work-place, well mindful of the actual long journey that I am in, a tiring yet a refreshing journey in a way.
To the people I confide in, I ask them those questions that perplex my being, even though knowing that none would be able to satiate my wants, no one can quench this thirst of mine which is not known to them. But yes- the only thing they could do was to distract me from the distraction, may be that was the best thing to do or may be that was the only thing left to do! As the day progressed, I searched for my answers on a map devoid of directions and the best answer I found to my question came just before the closing hours, from one person that led to the articulation of this narration, not accurately forced upon the hearts yet in a way imposed upon human minds, not a piece of blasphemy yet challenging some faith yet to be established, to which we all have reconciled with, incorporating it as an integral part of the answer-seeking temperament of humans.
To all my queries that answer puts an end, yes; she bluntly said to me, “Stop thinking so much for a while!”

Hence I reflected upon……….. I, in a half absorbed bent of mind walked to the main library, believing that all the questions would end if only I would stop thinking for a while and start writing in that while and was I not pondering about my identity, thus my question reduced to only one line: WHO AM I?
And as I entered the library, on the reading table I found before my eyes- a blank sheet of paper!

(For someone who has taught me that over thinking at times will kill you and on my own I realized that it might kill us at times but ironically it might be of help to others. ;) )

--SANA SHAH
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The meeting with his director

He walks in the air conditioned, deluxe room of his opulent apartment again, that stands tall in the soaring building in one of the posh areas of the country. Slamming the door behind him, he halts in the centre of the room, his gaze keenly scanning every corner of his plushy bedroom. He nods, as his glance passes over the oak ledges that circle the textured walls of his room; and adorning those ledges are his numerous trophies, medals, accolades and shields that stare at him perpetually, somehow reminding him that he had everything, yet deserved more and more. He habitually feels that inexplicable uneasiness on realizing that he is being contritely stared at by those typical, familiar eyes, which unravel his concealed, voracious plans under illumination of the dimly lit up room, reflecting his gorgeous looks and elite grace, which the world craved for. He murmurs to himself that if he looked so stunning, then why did not his mirror compliment him ever; and are those dim gaze that stare at him, set to shatter his pride tonight and break his heart to a million pieces again, just because he is impelled not to break it. The parallel image, which is so known to the world outside still, was unfamiliar to him. If he waved the right hand, why did this man waved the left hand against his will, if he was alone, was this man in front of him also lonely, deep down in the heart...or wait- Did he have a heart? If he was the hero for the world, was he then a villain for this man? With the brightness of his eyes, will this man perceive a world of grim darkness...or wait- Did he have a vision at all? Through his moist blue eyes, did this man plot to flood the world? When he did not ask any questions to this man at all, then why did the man impose his answers on him, he never wanted to listen at all. At the junction of fates pretence vanishes, so did that mean he lived in pretence, so was this man original? Did he not once encourage him to rule the world or was he trying to cage him in himself? But he did physically exist and this man did not! He had no dilemmas at all, he was at once decisive, so then was this man confused? The world eagerly awaited his arrival and this man in front of him always loved his departure; Then why? Then why did he always return to this man? Perchance this man was innocent, and he was his criminal, yes- he, a criminal, whose crime can never be proved in any court of justice and no court could ever summon him, let alone convicting him. This man had his own laws, own rules to shatter his existence again. How could this man shout at him like this, when he did not utter a single word? How could he allow this man to summon him, when the rest of world yearned for his appointments? How could this man keep him wide awake the entire night, when the guards outside his room kept a watch for his peaceful slumber…peaceful?
No, peace was a word so alien to his soul now. But he had everything for an ideal life, for his utopia! That is what all kept on telling him, then why did peace evade him. He had a huge bank balance; he owned grand estates in almost every continent, his wallet was invariably ballooned with cash and cards, in the garage he was greeted by the stretched line of lavish cars of all types; he felt he had everything and did not wish for more. He had a job fetching him fortunes, but he wanted to retire, he had friends in outlandish taverns to cheer him up, but he had none to console his miserable instincts. He had a small family across the oceans to make him feel cared for yet could not make him feel missed or loved. And may be that is why peace continues to play ‘hide & seek’ with him.
Hence, this man glaring at him, continues to antagonize him, with his sinister smile…Oh, why on earth, did he not talk to him properly, settling the accounts once and for all, what else should he provide him with, he thought. He never liked to quarrel, but this man instigated that demon in him, when he had entitled himself to the faith of humanity.
Was he an envious lover? But this narcissism irked him and not fascinated him. He was confident enough to conquer the world, then why did this attractive man created barriers for him. Did this man envy his success, or did he envy the peace this man had. If he made this man, then why did the man wish to ruin him? With a broken heart, he was already grief-stricken, and now the little that remained will be shattered to shreds soon, by this man who plotted to bury him alive…alive? Everyone said, he lived the life on his own terms, but he never had any terms or conditions…or they fooled him for the ‘business clause’. And enviably this man, unlike him, was free of any conditions, not expected to follow any ‘business clause’; he was not alive and yet he lived like he never could. With the incinerating sensations, did he not feel his pain?
So what should he do, given that his surroundings, the smothering crowd that flocked around him, the limelight thirsty monsters around him and the snobbish soothsayers entering his house freely, will never allow him the chance to satiate the needs of this man standing in front of him; they will never ever allow him to be driven out of the glum whirlpool. Does that imply he is helpless? No, how dare this man pen down such a mutual consensus without his consent; how dare the man reflect, what he did not emit?

No, no, never…no, no, nooo…noooooo!!! And CLANK, then CHINK!!! A light clattering sound filled in the room
Oh- he again allowed this man to be multiplied to infinity, now he shouts at him from every corner of the room, from every direction possible. He contrives to meet his eyes from everywhere; the peace of the man increasing a multifold- he had a heart, now he reflects the heart; stop, he must. He was everywhere, while the man was nowhere and now, he is nowhere, and this man is everywhere! Just when he was about to finish his meeting with this lean man forever, damn! He hears the creaking of the door. He turns around.

“Sir, the director is waiting outside in the foyer, it is time for the meeting, sir”, his stout and meticulous secretary informs. He slightly nods his head and charily moves towards the closet in the room. Heaving out the designer leather jacket from the wardrobe, he then collects the keys and documents lying on the polished teak-wood study table in a corner of the room and starts advancing towards the door. Reluctantly he walks, lost in some deep contemplation, at the same time well mindful, that he will never be able to end the meeting with his director. His secretary holds the door open for him, as he steps out of his room. He pauses for a moment, looking at his wary secretary, “As soon as I leave, ask the management to send in the sweeper to sweep up the scattered shreds of mirror, all over the floor”, he flatly orders his secretary. Giving a brief nod, the secretary slams the door shut behind him, as he sprucely walks away to meet the director.

                                                                                -BY SANA SHAH

...And she smiled

‘And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation’
                          --KHALIL GIBRAN (The Prophet)

The aura of sadness dawned in once again with the rays of the descending scarlet sun, invading the room through the front window at once in a stroke. The sun, once again shifting its imploding face to illuminate the other hemisphere, rendering us hopeless yet again, adding to her listlessness. The lambent rays on her forlorn face would not comfort her in the least, instead it appeared as if her face was glowing to incinerate with the gleam of the setting sun, as she inertly lay in her bed.
Sitting next to her bed on a swivel chair, I could spot her watery eyes, suggestive of the itchiness caused by the direct exposure to the shaft of light. Standing up from my seat I walked to the window, drawing the curtains over in order to block the entry of light, wishing earnestly that could it not be possible to block death in a similar way, with the shifting light could I not shift the appointed time.
Taking my seat I looked at her troubled face, her infuriating eyes, debilitated body exuding warmth beneath the fluffy duvet, exhausted of floundering from one hospital to the other for over a couple of years now, battling death, she allowed her excruciating mental distress to physically impair her, dominating her physical well-being and now the doctors too had given up all hope, declaring her terminally ill.
Just a few days before on her repeated importunity we had to shift her back from the hospital to her apartment where she had willed to spend her final moments, after all this was a place  she could  proudly call her own. This maisonette, that she had with utmost  care adorned intricately over the years with the hangings of memories , wind-chimes of laughter, panoramic joviality embellishing the vibrant walls, now only this was her prime consolation for her retiring soul ; moreover the doctors did not find expediency in keeping a ward of the hospital occupied for such a conjectural indefinite time period only for a ‘hopeless’ and ‘irremediable’ case, precisely  apt veritable locution to delineate her existing predicament, for how could any drug, pills or herb, no matter how efficacious be of any avail to cure her when she herself did not wish to live! For what appeared as a ray of hope to us, seemed to only ignite her yearning for death, as if enraptured by the tryst she itched over the chase. And now she was on her death-bed, waiting with alacrity for the final moments that would lead the steps for the ethereal transition into some arcane world that would ease her off the acute pain and relentless suffering of this world that she had been accustomed to, after that cursed night of estrangement that had rendered her wretched and harshly dejected.
As all the doors shut on us, one after the other, the only sensible thing left for us to do was to allow her depart in peace, and thus we also appointed a nurse to look after her needs. Her bedroom metamorphosing into more of an ‘ICU’ (Intensive care unit), had been equipped with contraptions and machines to monitor her cardiac activity, pulse rate, blood pressure, body temperature and respiration rate. On her side-tables lay scattered piles of medicines, syringes, nostrums, analgesics and certain anti-pyretics. Next to the upper corner of her bed, stood a long iron stand for clamping the drip-feed that was being administered directly into her blood, as she had refused ingesting any solid foods.
All day she would snuggle in the bed, muffling up the fuzzy duvet around her body. She would recurrently alternate her glances between me and the door, perhaps this was the only movement she made, that would suffice to divulge her last wish in her beseeching eyes for me to read.

Burning from high fever since a couple of days, her cerise body enervated in a way yet her heart had reconciled with her inevitable fate, her sublime soul wanting to set free from the ravages of temporal transience. As I caress her rubicund cheeks, I am amazed at the intensity of heat exuded, perchance the heart has engrossed a vast desert of passion and suffering, annihilating within, that prompts me to recall that peculiar, eerie night when I was sleeping on a couch in the ward in which she had been admitted. And breaking the covenant with her slumber, she suddenly got up in the middle of the night, hysterically uttering something abstruse for my mind to comprehend. She then went on to narrate the apparition she had that night, about her nearing end, all the while perpetuating an idiosyncratic grin with a hint of mystifying exultation, flickering deep in her eyes, which of course was disturbing that for an instance my blustering rationality had been fuddled and I was cold for some minutes. But regaining my composure somehow, I lulled her back to sleep, undermining her premonition for some bad dream.
But that night a part of me was convinced that she did not long to live or as I put it: she did not have a purpose to live.
But who could make her senile parents to discern that their beloved daughter was going to forsake them soon. Her parents had emptied their bank balance on travels to many counselors, doctors and priests and now after such an arduous venture that yielded no result ,they preferred to sit penitently in the adjacent room, refraining from seeing the pitiable sight of their only daughter, suffering from such torturous tribulation. Her mother snivelled day and night, while her father consoled her with false hope but somewhere both realized that they would soon lose their ‘Apple of the eye’ in a matter of days or may be hours, promptly accepted or not, was hardly any clause of stipulation in the divine ordinance, given the helpless yet self-assuring nature of humans.
Not that I did not want to save her but she is too good a human to bear this ordeal that is destined to slowly steal away her breaths. She always deserved a life of honour and dignity- yes, she could have started fresh all over again, if only she would have listened to me once- just once!
Now as I reminisce her life, how exuberant and contented she looked with him. Both were extremely devoted towards each other, cheerfully radiating the warmth and tenderness of their strong bond. His adorable face glimmered in her ochre eyes and her laughing timbre resounded in his speech; both looked perfect but together! Then one fateful day, he walked away form her, distancing himself from her…. forever and everything changed; the world turned upside-down for her and since then she has never been in fine fettle; the estrangement shattered her to the core, forcing her into abysmal trauma and she never recovered.
The vehement passion of wilderness enfeebled her that even today as we count on the seconds, all that engraved on her heart is his memories and she is vulnerable to nothing but to his requiting love, for she has been too much used to this separation now, more than that, the requiting acclaim from him that she hopes for in her silent reverence, merely a self-delusion to avert from despondency, to this day passively consumes her from within.
With such endearing love even the cruelest heart will melt like wax, but he did not. Thus despising her burning fervour, she longed for death believing it for a better choice than that of scrambling with a life void of him.

Being half absorbed in these thoughts, my self cogitation was ruffled at what appeared to be a fretful sight when I looked at her face. Her forehead had just started to glisten with sweat bead seeping out and in a matter of seconds she was sweating profusely. Anticipating my apprehensions of the presage, I immediately called out to the nurse who scurried in the next minute. My raucous screech was enough to hassle her parents, who dashed in the room before the nurse. The nurse perusing the screen that monitored her cardiac activity nodded in disapprobation, clicking her tongue, she sighed.
In the next blink her breathing grew heavier adding to our anxiety; amid all the bedlam as I was set motionless, I noticed a drop of tear slip out of her distended eyes, smoothly trickling down her face, perhaps finally a comfort for her smouldering cheeks, manifest from the peaceful, mystifying and everlasting smile that concomitantly prevailed on her lips, indicative of some last wish that had been just fulfilled finally as she unremittingly stared at the door, her eyes fixed, did not blink. It felt as if time protracted to eternity and some cherubic, placid air filled in the room bewildering my senses to stupor. Naturally following the direction of her gaze, my head turned towards the door. As I shifted my gaze towards the door, my mouth fell ajar and my body froze, entirely benumbed by what I saw rather whom I saw.

Yes- it was him! He stood at the door as I let out a wistful sigh, glancing at his complacent face; in the backdrop, I could hear the repetitive beeps of the monitor and the nurse conversing something with her parents. But in harmony with her focus, my attention too was fixed at his face. The fraught insurgency soon abated his complacency and the next second tears trickled down his face- possibly her fire had been watered and doused now. But on his face too that mystifying, placid, gratifying smile, gently blossomed like her. I again turned my face towards her, and she smiled…. she was still smiling at peace, her one hand in her mother’s hands, her father standing besides her, stroking her disheveled hair, their eyes moist.
The inexplicable blend of emotions was confounding us.
I firmly held her other hand, she was cold now. Apprehensive of the appointed time I glanced at the monitor and the nurse’s words resonated in my ears, “She is sinking!”
Tears streamed down her parents’ face in a surge.
“The blood pressure is dropping”, said the nurse.
The ephemeral speediness at which everything was happening made it difficult for anyone to move. I rubbed her hand in a vain attempt, at the same time on tenterhooks I alternated my fleeting looks between him and her; he had not moved an inch inwards, standing still at the door with moist eyes but the same enigmatic smile persisted on his lips like her; yet his tense face was the answer to her prayers and requital of her patience.
The uninterrupted beep of the monitor grasped my attention the next moment, as I saw the green wavy lines dwindle and subside into a green flat line.
“She is gone!” the nurse vociferated as if we did not fathom the moment.
A distinctive ambience of silence pervaded in the room where just before a minute she was gasping for breaths.
He fell onto his knees, as a clamorous wail ensnared the room. I looked at her cadaverous, pallid face, relieved off the agony and pain, as tears rolled down my wan face and she at peace- still smiled!

Uss aakhri nazar mai ajab dard tha Munír
Jaaney ka uskey ranjj mujhe ummr bhar raha
                —Munír Niyazi

   “That inexplicable melancholy flickering deep in that final gaze
    The poignancy of that valediction so ensnared me for life!”
                                                
                                        -SANA SHAH

Confessions

                                          

               Writing the heart wrenching admission as your errand
               Unspoken sentences, so you festoon with reticent words
               Each heart is smothered with nostalgic memories and
              Undermining their woes, you aver your grief as worst!
             
I just read somewhere that- we see day by day nothing changes, yet when we look back we find a lot has changed. Well, may be this is the ultimate philosophy of life, that we are not our past yet we tend to leave a part of ourselves in the past, something the memories of which continue to linger on in a little space in our hearts and may be somewhere at the back of our minds too, until of course those dark moments, that every human encounters, design the tapestry of our time and again we recollect those memories of our past that lead us to the ephemeral world of nostalgia.
And now when I look back on my life, it is not that I have crossed decades together to shape up the word called experience, yet in a way enough things have happened that make me reflect; I could have done certain things a lot differently and in a better way than how I did them in past, I wish I could travel back in time so to reveal to myself those consequential things of life that I know now, I could have restrained the bouts of catharsis to myself, that at least would not have hurt people in my life. Yes, the word “hurt”, something that we inflict as a reflex action at times, spontaneously without caring for the ramifications and consequences and of course we end up regretting, harming and hurting ourselves more by that ulterior giant of regret that feeds our guilty conscience, and then comes the point of how we decide to act further. Do we rectify our mistakes rather blunders or instead do we go on to add more to the list of the blunders. We all realize this- that being humans, everyone has their own self-esteem, dignity and integrity, yet invariably in a bid to prove our self defined imaginary hypothesis about human psychology we do not fumble a little to go out and start experimenting randomly with the emotions and sentiments of the people around us just to satisfy our own ego and think high of our own selves, concomitantly forgetting or deliberately overlooking the fact that human beings are not the chemicals in any science lab that react as per some universal laws and yield the exact product, rather human nature is unpredictable and  different people react distinctly given the circumstances, and has it not happened that in such a fit we end up hurting the ones that make us , that support us and whom we hold more dear to us than life itself. So how do we justify this….act of vengeance, revenge for the scary and bumpy roller coaster ride called life! I believe the scene would have been much better if instead of experimenting with and predicting the human nature and actions we rather try to understand the humans.
Not generalizing though but yes, I too have committed mistakes after mistakes, concomitantly conscious of the blunders I was up to and even now as I write all this just as another form of catharsis, I might sooner or later think of this as another mistake. I am not a very good artist and so bad being my canvas of the past, with no proper landscape or perfect proportion of vibrant colours to make that canvas aesthetically beautiful enough. But then I console myself with the thought that there are others who are even bad artists, and some cannot even hold the paint brush properly. So what is the remedy I ask? Do we stop living life or finish our existence which is so blotted with the stains of sins, mistakes, indecisiveness, remorsefulness and dilemma. Or will we ever switch to the old precept that we first learnt in our life- “Think before you speak”. Are we prudent enough to consider that others are so greatly devout and saintly to forgive us each time or are these notions that we use to delude our misgivings a fine example of our foolish disposition? Should we expect others to act wise enough to overlook our blunders and pardon us, resting our last hopes on: ‘To err is human; to forgive divine’. Do we take pride in giving others a chance to prove their divinity while we consider ourselves innately bound and obligated by the human psyche, and if so, then for how long are we going to evade our responsibility of acting wisely considerate or divine enough towards others also?
Ruined dreams, diminished hopes, lame excuses, shameful temperament, sleepless nights, restless days, and yet expecting people to understand our behavior, and adjust with our swing of temper is another folly to the long list. I am not wise enough or even experienced enough to lecture on life and humanly committed errors, and I am well mindful of the fact that we all are at times compelled, impelled, moulded and shaped by our circumstances that are not always so pleasant and we all know that life is not all milk and roses, but what I have seen over the years now owing to the circumstances around, that in spite of realizing that life is not all milk and roses, yet each time instead of accepting this we tend to make life all milk and roses as if we are God! And that is when we humans derail and commit the greatest blunder. I am not saying that we should give up on the endeavours to make life a better affair for ourselves, but all I assert on is that, in this process we need to be careful enough not to build our mansion of dreams with the bricks of the wistful sighs and throbbing cries of others and never to further repair or replace the cracked windows of such mansions with broken hearts.
I am no psychologist or an expert of human psychology, but just as another human on the journey it is my duty to inform the other passer-bys to be careful of the puddles, ditches, craters, thorns, boulders and abysmal holes that await you on the way, and it is not essential that every time when you fall in them yourself, only then shall you believe or learn what the other itinerant souls had warned of, instead take the precautions and act with alacrity, a little care won’t do us any harm, will it?
And just before the closing words, I accentuate another dimension to which I also have been the victim, as well as the criminal; the old blame-game, the ready tool for our defence rather the ready weapon for assaulting the innocent souls, and only later do we realize that how treacherous it is of us to indulge in such games of harm and hurt as if we are the only ones with the license to hurt that too stamped by the God Himself. If we are so interested to reverse the attack or blame on others, so better be if we join the game of wrestling because their you have the right to reverse the moves for your defence and moreover that is how you win, but in the tangible life it is an attempt to vanity, because neither will the person nor the Divine count it as a deed good enough to the accounts of rewards, you might be able to acquit or save yourself temporarily, but someday we have to face our reflection and I am sure we don’t want our mirrors to reflect how ugly we look and how in profanity we bathe. So what should we do, another illusive solution-break the mirror or rather the mirror will commit suicide itself in trauma (Trauma is the ultimate killer after all!) Haha! And that is something again humans cannot do because we did not humanly create this mirror, but yes we can only polish it to clarity, glossy brilliance and refinement at the same time being careful enough not to become narcissistic, but as close as being untainted in the eyes of those you love, and being true to your own self, which is always the first obligation for a righteous life.
I know as I earlier said that I have no right to preach such principled scruples for I confess that all the above errors at one time were integral with my being and that cost me a lot, to be honest. Perpetual identity conflict, not being able to channelize the sentiments, going on a rampage and at the end of the day not being able to believe and reconcile with the fact that it was really me who behaved like a ravenous ogre in the day ( surprisingly, I become more human during the contemplative nights, funny!).Then bursting into sobs, panting for breaths, resolving to mend the ways yet breaking that resolve with the utmost grace the very next day, again giving into helplessness, relying on the ‘To err is human’ gospel, asking God to forgive and again the identity conflict……..the vicious cycle goes on and feeling ensnared we give up. What an assassination of our conscience! But the most important question: does the conscience ever dies? Ask your conscience, it is ready with the answer.
As I confessed that I am not a very good artist, but with every canvas that I paint rather blemish and smudge and blotch with incongruous filling of colours I learn that at least I can now draw the landscape with much awareness as to how and where to draw, what and which colours would look best though I might fail miserably to fill in the colours with grace, but I do not give up with this hope that someday I will perfect the colours on the canvas that I paint in my mind and who knows- it well might turn out to be a masterpiece- the canvas with colours inspirited with values, forgiveness, emotions, concern, truth, sublimity and inspiration that can make the viewers love the canvas of life a little more with honest contemplation, people may not be able  to buy that canvas, however who knows they might be enthused, stirred and encouraged enough to paint such canvas for themselves and that too in a far beautiful and elegant way and not to mention- some are born artists!

           It has been an era since I have been venturing this road
          Neither my destination I found, nor did I change the way!
            
             ---SANA SHAH
         

                                                                                       

The abandoned library

Published On:Tue, Mar 17th, 2015
Current/Daily/Poetry| ByThe Vox Kashmir THE ABANDONED LIBRARY
Tags|kashmir|Sana Shah—

By Sana Shah

With the established connection,Seconds after switching on the monitor
A notification popped up informing me
About a new mail having the address of
An ancient Library abandoned decades before,Not known, not visited by any human
In this land of metaphors.
The review apprising of the veiled rooms
Of that venerable library, having:
All archaic records, antediluvian magazines,
Antique scriptures, precious books;
Ledge after ledge compact with volumes of books
Cabinet after cabinet packed with lost documents
All but now beckoning my existence:
A question of identity- displaced or misplaced!
Overwhelmed with the venue of my answers
I note down the address of the library
But who else shall with me dare
To peruse the giant library
Stocked with millions of books and
Scrutinize the grimy shelves that with difficulty
Shelter the unheard cases, longing to be settled,
That once would fit into the headlines
Magnified in black ‘BOLD’ italics.
Who will dust off the history
On the sanctimonious lessons and organize
The fables of saints?
Who will arrange the symbolic manuscripts
Parallel to their genre;
GRIEF HAS NO GENRE; YET IT SURVIVES AND STILL THRIVES
So the missing pages from the tales of grief
Will be finally found there;
Soaked in blood, those lacerated biographies
That all publishers repudiated.
Thousands of journals defying curfew
Lying  imprisoned with the memoirs
In the drawers, manacling the hurled stones and broken glasses piled up in the walnut cupboards.
The ominous ambience of rumours in those
Timbered lockers, knocking and claiming
Their rights to be recorded in form of stories;
The paeans and poems of the anonymous poets
Alluring the readers that no longer exist.
The aura of inexplicable despondency
Minimized in words yet maximized in font.
And will I discover the log of that
Impassioned revolution, that once had danced
To the tunes of the ordained rhythms.
So many books, so less the time;
Who will accompany me to that place
Now a refuge to ghouls, spiders, cockroaches,Mice and silverfish; all avidly waiting for
Someone, anyone to open the iron gates that
Enshrine the crevices for entry into that
Sacrosanct hall of books now only
Vulnerable to human touch.
The dilemma confounds my sensibility-Those records should not be divulged -to All,Only to the prudent minds.
Hence, will not my visit to that ancient hall
With fresh history pave way to those-Waiting outside the iron gates,Engaged in complicity all day long
But my anthology of objectivity lurking in
The shelves behind the veils must be brought back
Safely by me…but at the cost of?The other books destined to be ravaged with
The entry of the first streak of light.
And then…The paradoxical slogans will ensnare the vale
And this ravening pillage of identities (once secure)In the library shall beguile the revolution that
I, received in my inbox and again the pages will
Be left blank in the books of history!
Hence, I must behold, and think and ponder
Before I reveal the address, before I write
I must think before I discard the mail,
Before I walk; and decide again for that journey
Into that arcane world alone, Yes- I must think
Before I jump into this abyss of complexity that
Out of sheer ignorance demands this sacrifice!

Author Bio:
Sana Shah is young aspiring freelance writer currently pursuing bachelor’s degree in humanities. Sana tries to encapsulate themes based on current events depicting the identity conflict in a state of perpetual trouble at the same time accentuating the humanistic values from the perspective of ordinary into the extraordinary dealings of the metaphysical questions about the human existence and the attached values thereof.
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