Kids and supermarkets are not a good combination. I make a quick mental note to shift grocery duties to my dear husband’s chores as I watch our offspring leap around the aisles like a hyperactive orangutan. Seven year-old Riya even has a couple of bananas in her hand, for some strange reason. Damn, I’d better rein my child in before we’re banned from this store as well. “Riya!
Date a girl who is broken. She’s the reclusive girl with a faraway look in her eyes, lost in thoughts & anxieties. She will tell you that she’s all right because she can’t put all the chaos in her head & the pain in her heart into words. She has not given up the fight; she has just grown tired of fighting without a cause. Date a girl who
It was just another normal day. Normal in everyway. Except, I didn’t know that it was the day the truth was going to drop like a bomb on my head. I got up a little later than usual. Perhaps because I was up late last night enthralled like always, by the legendary stories Maa told us. She always narrated with rich imagery and brought everything to life. No wonder
“Rani! Shut the window,” she shouted out to the maid for the second time. The window panes were rattling loudly because of the stormy winds. Irritated with the noise and tired of waiting for the maid, she got up to shut the window herself. The wind blew her hair as she stood at the window. Just when she was closing it, she felt a drop on her hand.
We stand, on the opposite banks of a river, We know not, how to swim, We can just stare, at each other, Longing for words, to come out, Of our forlorn mouths. There’s a ferry, Connecting the banks, The ferryman, a shrinking bag of bones, Takes turns looking at us. The fee he demands, Is not for us to pay, It’s too high, too vain. He demands acceptance,
I discovered an old photograph, lodged in the congealed folds of a forgotten book of poetry in a warm bookstore; sepia’d from decades of being unlooked at, hidden, and scalded by neglect. The blues were now green, and the reds bled through my fingers… A young girl stood, all of three inches tall in the picture, with her face towards me, hidden however in the burst of light of
To be honest, I’ve never given myself much thought. I live a boring life. There is hardly any color in my everyday affairs. No music has ever echoed here nor have fragrances lingered nearby. I just go about my business, waiting for no one. I don’t remember when I started my journey and I have no idea when I will stop. Such is my existence that I’m almost bored just
The duchess moon stands speechless, It inclines its mighty head over the rivulet of my tears, Beheading from my flesh the crown of memories, The stars, I assume, sing high, Her and my devastated folklore, To the children of the sky, And the comets, like flying lanterns, Flutter their feathers ever so hard, Knowing that even my forest has recently burned down. Why can I not see wrinkles on
From the garden of her memories, I picked up love’s few delicate petals, And crushed them between my lips. They left a fragrance behind forever While some twigs turned to ash, Some seeds fell on the surface of my heart, And from my eyes, circled a downpour, Helping the seeds bloom, Thus, love was reborn. ~ Khwaja Musadiq | Edited by Afreen Zeb Image Source