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They must have been really hungry for as soon as she set down the bowl, one of them-the brown one came jumping on its feet and started gulping the milk with a ‘plop, plop’ that indicated desperation. After what seemed like a few seconds, the mother made its way towards the bowl. Perhaps it was waiting for its kitten to satisfy itself first but the hunger was too much to be satiated in just a matter of seconds. The other one remained under the wooden table as they drank; walking, hopping, meowing around.

She stood there, waiting and gazing at them with the love of a stranger for yes; they were very strange to her. She had not looked at them and found herself filled with so much endearment before. And in an insane moment, there crept in her a desire to touch them. She had never touched them before nor had she ever wanted to. Turning her back to them, she breathed a deep breath-the kind she breathed when she admired nature. Embracing the early morning delicacies, she fell in wonder all over again at the crisp of the rustling leaves against the beautiful melt of the orange horizon into the blue and the gold. In a distance, she thought she heard a sparrow- the chirpy tweet that she relished waking up to.

It was not very windy that morning but she could feel the composure in the breeze; she knew there was some, for it had always soothed her. When she broke from her reverie and turned around, they were fast asleep. One does not like the tough cold porch floor for a bed. In that instant, she realized there was much more she could do instead of just reaching out to feel their fur. Calmly rushing inside the house- she dared not wake them up- she unlocked the kitchen cupboard beneath the cutlery drawer and retrieved a small basket which instantly made her cough. It was dusty and old and a tad too tiny for a family of three. But it was all she had. So she dusted it and spread her favourite woolen mat that she had once knit for she didn’t know whom back then. It was a blend of threads of different hues; there was a pleasant shade of purple, beach blue and baby pink. The borders were green and torn. It was lovely and all she had.

It is never gentle to wake one up as he slumbers. After pondering over the thought for a momentary lull, she settled the basket close to them beside her periwinkles which would provide a perfect shade from the afternoon sun. She waited and found herself silently wishing for them to climb up to her snug spot of affection. A peculiar feeling moved in her bosom when the white one woke up, started pecking at the edge of the basket and after realizing it was nothing to eat, it struggled climbed onto it. Not long had passed before the other two imitated its steps.

With a heart filled with warmth, she looked at them, her gaze growing intent with each blink. They were beautiful. A set of deep blue eyes opened into slits, reminding her of the small marbles she used to play with when she was six. They lazily watched her and soon tugged their owner into a deep sleep. She reveled in the sight like they reveled in the soft blanket. It was all she had but she had brought them home.

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‘The wound is the place where the Light enters you’-Rumi

Have you ever felt like something is going the wrong way yet you feel satisfied? I think one does or might once in his life go through this feeling. I don’t know what exactly it is but sometimes you just need to let life take its take on the things. Let the Purpose prevail. In the past couple of months, I’ve endured the worst and best  kind of feelings, I’ve also done things I’m not exactly proud of but then again, I it is the bad that teaches you because had there been no chill, how would you have appreciated the warmth?

Imagine if you stayed forever like you are right now. Although I wouldn’t mind staying under my cosy blanket with nothing but things to write with everyday, I think no one likes permanence of their state. Then why are we afraid of change? But heart is a vulnerable little thing. Right now, my best friend is undergoing some worse times of her life, I’ve never seen her like this. But i wonder why she’s afraid to go after what she wants? Perhaps she’s an egoistic maniac? Why so afraid of the consequences? You don’t know where the ship you sat in takes you. I wonder if my life was a story book, would I flip to the last page and see how things turn out for me? I might as well get killed at the hands of curiosity but I would dare not read the last words. As much as i’d like to read them, I think I’d like to utter them first. What’s more important than keeping your heart at peace? I don’t think it is ego that wins this battle. It never did.

Because only when I write a word today, am I capable of writing more tomorrow. No one ever sees dawn without dusk, a tree before a plant and a book before a word. I fail to understand what stops people from expressions and if it is mere rejection, then are animals better than us? There is a cat which keeps lingering around my house, and after I sometimes shoo it away, I wake up the next morning only to find it there again. She tries her best to steal an entrance almost everyday after getting kicked out of the house. If she doesn’t give up, why do you? Fear will always reside in you, you only have to calm it down. Calm it down with some of your wildest dreams. Calm it to the point that it has lulled itself to sleep.

Have a good night. ❤

 

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Five Thirty A.M.

My first post on my new fiction blog. ❤

whenthewatersglitter

When the voices of Azan- the Call to Prayers- elicit hints of ecstasy from the far ends of the streets and the wheels of the bicycles turn recalcitrant outside the Masajid, every being in the vicinity wakes up to the mesmerizing darkness of the morn.
It was not exactly an exotic view from where she sat but it was enough to make her not covet to move away from there. It was altogether too impossible that such little sparrows could make her feel something entirely too strong and uncanny for every time she lifted her head up to wait for words, she realized they came naturally just as the leaves on a nearby tree made no effort to move and were moved naturally. That was when she realized the power of morning prayers.
The chirps started subsiding and the sun waited to rise from behind the clouds. It seemed…

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I have a vested interest.

Tenure, She Wrote

In the fourth grade, I was obsessed with marine science and sonar technology, and I’d spend Saturday afternoons watching The Hunt for Red October instead of Saved by the Bell. That summer, I toured a Navy sub in dry dock– my first time! — and I asked the officer leading the tour when we’d be going to the sonar room. “Sorry, kid. It’s classified,” he said. Masking my disappointment, I replied that it was okay, because I was going to be a sonar technician when I grew up, and I could wait until then. “But they don’t let girls on subs,” was the officer’s surprised reply, as he looked at me as if I’d sprouted horns. When I asked why not, he told me I wouldn’t want to be stuck on a sub with a bunch of smelly guys anyway. My “Then…why aren’t there submarines for just girls?” got no reply.

So, I have a vested…

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I WAS ONCE IN A CAVE OF ANIMALS

Exactly what do you think a man might resort to just to grab the attention of a woman? Among whatever you choose to think, I’m sure you might never have come across someone so weak who out of his utter desperation would stoop to throwing a mere item of stationery at a woman just so she could turn around and glare at him. Whatever pleasure he gets out of it?

If you have ever been inside a cave of wild animals, you would know just precisely how insane it is to breathe with them. Recently, I have come across some people who remind me a touch too perfectly of such voracious animals. Tell me what would you call such a man? I don’t know how much he deserves to be called as such but there’s one thing I can assure you about: he needs help. Not because we sympathize with him-that, we never will. But because we realize how difficult it is for him to comprehend the fact that he needs to cure this sickening sickness.

And do you know what knocks us dead? That someone would even have the audacity to side with these shrewd men. Can you imagine the barbarism? Where I come from, I can because I come from this world: a blend of lusty eyes and bloody hands. But no matter how fiery a lion gets, it is an animal after all-an amateur, far from being able to differentiate between right and wrong.

I met a wise man once. He said something that made me laugh and I found myself caught up in clutches of inspiration. It however, saddens me to mention what he said here: I had always planned to use his words with more glee. ’An eighteen year old woman is ready to get married and have kids. An eighteen year old boy is ready to play football.’

Even as I write, I cannot help but revel in the feel of this very idea. Years of experience taught him that. Days of observation help me prove it. So whatever game those men choose to play, one day it will surely drive them to regret it enough to quit it because if they don’t have the guts to face us, they don’t have what it takes to be a man.

WRITING

Scratch or Clink?

What is in the scratch of a pencil is not in the blink of a cursor.

  I came up with these words about a few months ago. I thought I’d share them with you. Tell me what you think about it because I think no matter how advance this world gets, the sound of a pencil scraping in silence will always be more captivating than the keys clinking. I should probably tell you what we call it in Urdu-my native language. The sound a pencil makes when you write something, its called Sareer-e-Khama. (Thanks to my 11th grade Urdu teacher.)