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.


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.)


Passion (in 7 sentences)

One of the best things I’ve read in a while. ❤

David Snape and Friends - The place to show off your hidden talents

Pride in yourself to be the very best person you can.
Achieving life long ambitions after loads of sweat and hard work.
Successfully conquered your greatest fears and enemies.
Sacrificing the things you love to drive forward.
Imagining what it feels like to be top of the world.
Operating your mind and body to stay focused and true.
Never has this passion become so immediate, it’s worth it.

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Anthony Trollope · WRITING

‘There is no freedom without boundaries’

‘I was once told that the surest aid to the writing of a book was a piece of cobbler’s wax on my chair. I certainly believe in the cobbler’s wax much more than the inspiration.’-Anthony Trollope.

For those of you who are reading this for the love of this title, let me enlighten you with the fact that it’s just an inspiration.
I heard these words while attending my English class. My teacher couldn’t have uttered them on the right time. We talked about inspiration that day-just when I needed it. Actually, not entirely inspiration but whatever it was, it was enough to drive me to an epiphany.
It was the first time I heard about Anthony Trollope. Needless to say, I was absolutely intrigued by the writing skills of this prolific writer, may it be just a few lines I had read. Becoming a writer takes probably what it took him. While explaining why he never had a writer’s block, Anthony expressed his disregard about the way people wait for inspiration. Considering myself for instance, I gave in to write this morning. I have always been excited about writing in the morning-rush hour for the school children and working adults. But that’s also when I hear the birds chirp, leaves rustle and my mind talk. Isn’t that enough of an inspiration? Apparently, yes. People think a writer is all about broken mirrors and colorless horizons, I wouldn’t infer it that way because even while the birds chirp and the leaves flutter, I don’t know what I’m about to write next. I wouldn’t know what I am going to write unless I sit and stare at the paper. I haven’t written since the day I saw sunlight falling on some water droplets because that is my latest piece until this one gets posted. Does that mean I did not have enough of anything to write about? I saw the boy making mischief in classroom, the girl crying over her broken engagement, others being too insensitive to care. But my mind seemed to have been waiting for inspiration. If that’s not anything to write about, I wonder what is.

So that’s what it has come to-obliviousness. Perhaps I have been too oblivious to my own mind talking lately. Had not my teacher said those words, would not have the keys beneath my fingertips been jittering right now? I certainly don’t think so. It was probably my mind that heard itself talking and here it is, producing words I never knew were hiding within its walls. When it comes to writing, I think it’s the mind that’s stubborn. I think all we need to do is pay heed to our mind and the words battling within are soon going to rest on the paper.

beauty · LOVE · Nature · quitsmoking · rain · smoke · smokelove


He stood there. An unfathomable desire crept through him. He realized it was the first time in days that he had felt his own lips curve. He felt his smile widen and the dimple on his left cheek deepen. It was a lusty morning. This was the right time. Late dawn was generous. He felt the light weight in his pocket and then… trembled. No, he wouldn’t smoke today. But he was craving it, ever so sorely. The clouds gave a thunderous howl and there he was, under the pouring rain. He ran as fast as he could to save the tiny rolls from getting spoilt.
Heart pounding in the chest, feet thumping on the damp earth, he ran until the pavement took a turn. Something-he would never know what-stopped him.
A soft laugh sounded in the distance and he was immediately drawn to something too uncalled for, something that a heart of a tempted lover had no place to welcome. Had he not moved forward, he wouldn’t have known the source of that pleasant noise. Someone with a pair of spry eyes scrutinized something in the distant; body lying aimlessly on the grass, hands raised high, and palms facing the sky. He grew impatient or perhaps impatiently curious?
The meadow was entirely at the mercy of those persistent water droplets. What was it that had propelled her out of her comfortable bed that morning?
It was not until a drop of water fell on one of her eyelids that he heard the sweet laughter again. His pockets immediately began to droop. With an alarming gasp, he turned out the demolished box of his pleasure. The music stopped interrupting his thoughts and he wondered why. He met her probing glance as he raised his eyelids which now lazily blinked. Indolence turned into aggression when she smirked at him and thought he might explode when her eyes turned back to gaze at what seemed to be so indulging.
Time passed and for a momentary lull he thought he saw lightening falling on her. Was such a thing possible? The thought was maddening. He felt his feet hooked to the ground. Was it also possible to experience such treachery and look on? Perhaps, it was. And this was confirmed when it struck him how utterly intrigued she was with the way sunlight turned those harmful water droplets into beautiful electric sparks that ever so tenderly fell on her. Had he really been running from such a pleasurable experience?
He never sheltered his tiny mates again, never carried even one of them.


How a Walk Prompted Me into Writing

The water sprinkles

The roar of a nearby car engine did nothing to break my reverie.

As I walked down the muddy track, I was motivated, inspired and determined. It was a fine walk. I, absentmindedly, went on. I don’t take music to my walks. My voice is my music. Know why? Because I write as I walk. The fragments of everything that I see around me, I write.

It wasn’t always like this. It started when I took the initiative. Minutes passed while walking and suddenly, out of the blue, I could hear my own voice. I spoke about the soft wind that made no effort to move the dark leaves on a distant tree. I spoke about the cars that went by. And then, the wind finally blew away that little girl’s hair. I got more to speak about. It went on…

If you are reading this, chances are, you are on a quest to find your muse back. Are you afraid of scratching the tip of your pencil on the forlorn paper? Don’t be. You might just end up scratching your head instead. Writing is a lark that prompts you to say something when you hear it’s song. Writing is not a beast that you ought to run away from.

If you wait today, make sure you do that every single day of your life. Sometimes you got to break the queue and take what you want. Or you might just end up heading back for home when everyone else has had their fair share. No, we don’t want that for you. There are two reasons you don’t write today: you’re probably in love with the tap of the keys as you write or you are dead scared to read what you write. Remember: A crooked road always seems better than a no road. You need somewhere to begin with!

Look around you, write about that woman on the bench-perhaps she’s waiting for someone? Perhaps she’s only pondering over her past? Oh, look! The gardener is watering the soft morning grass! What do you see? See how the splashes of the water wreck the mud. The sprinkles sparkle against the early sun. How do I put it? There is beauty but no one to admire it.

I am ready to bleed against the paper. Are you?

art · drawing · skills

Are you afraid of your skill?

One of my friends is an amazing artist and below is a drawing she  made for an art competition at:


Can any of you interpret?

It doesn’t matter how you interpret something.Each of one us is different. If you are the seeds of a watermelon, I might be the hard crust. It’s different, really. All that matters is that we welcome the difference.