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.
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.)
‘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.
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.
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.