Chuckles are best enjoyed when shared.

Time for Judgement

I felt cheated. I had lost her. Stolen, she was shrouded, distanced by choice and closed to my differences. It wasn’t fair because she was the one who had changed. and perhaps accepting difference works both ways but in this case, in a battle of tit for tat I wasn’t going to accept hers not only because she wouldn’t accept mine but because we were us first. She was like me, first. She changed.

I am stubborn, but she called me recalcitrant for all the wrong reasons. Now I don’t know who she is and I’m not sure who’s fault that is, anymore. Should I blame the world that brought her to kneel in such a self-sacrificing fashion or myself for some unnamed act, or comment or lack thereof at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Or shall I blame my favorite God, for letting her slip away, in His name. For being all-knowing, all-seeing yet open to interpretation in such a fashion that people find happiness in assuming he wants to turn homogonous sacrificial lambs out of His free-willed (highest of all) beings destined (in my unseasoned opinion) to be diverse. For letting people use and abuse His name for power, hate and cowardly acts that are meant to deliver them from the womb of their pain and suffering into an immortal life of bliss. Are people really abandoning all logic in their absurd interpretations of Him, or are such interpretations possible and hence valid? I intend on finding out for myself. Whatever the answer, I refuse to believe in an un-accepting God, in a judgmental God, in a demanding and callous God. In a vengeful God who waits to strike upon indulgent and tolerant people. In your human-like God.

In the meantime, there will always be a void in my life and a hole in my heart, where you once were. Memories of your unfaltering courage, careless laughter, and careful rebellions; the ease with which you reflected me when i couldn't see myself, are now faded relics, buried in darkness and absence. I’ve tried to ignore it, fill it up with others and deny that this void, this hole, exists. But from time to time, it stares at me, quietly whispering, testifying to its being…. And all the while I wonder if I should wage this losing battle, for you, with an open-to-(mis)interpretation-God.

obsessions and such

Death is an obsession with the antithesis to forever. Considering the nature of forever, I find the number of people inflicted with this obsession almost shocking. Perhaps people confuse foreverness with stability and comfortably lodge themselves in it’s crevices- reassuring places they feel tumult wont find them.

These crevices are dangerous places where fools find peace in the illusion of stability. Dark things lurk in these depths – like other peoples fears. Why do you continue to dwell in your blindness, forgetting that one day water levels may rise, making you the puke of the earth. The walls will close in on you, to block out that narrow strip of sky-salvation you are convinced will be your redemption. It is only a matter of time before these crevices become gorges and you plummet to your death, intriguing, mysterious – not half as bad. Considering your love for stability perhaps even better, how much more stable can you get than when you are a static victim of the great leveler?

It is not the illusion of stability that is the problem with foreverness, for illusions may be shaken off. It is the very never-ending nature of never-ending-forevernes that kills you over and over again throughout your search for that static stability that you ultimately find in what you run away from – your death. When your obsession with foreverness is actually an obsession with its illusion of stasis, why then this fear of what will ultimately and irreversibly still you forever?

Stop making mistakes and your love for second chances will disappear, with it your obsession with immortality.

there's a boy
i know
he's the one i dream of

looks into
my eyes
take me to the clouds above.

khush ?

Crimson Afternoons

(a short story)

The time has come. Today I will prove to my mentor and my family that I am ready; ready to fight for the freedom of my ------ brothers, ready to fight against those who disrespect life and marginalize others. For four years everyday I have prepared for a moment like this, Idris has finally chosen me for the task, what is the task you ask? Quite simple, I am to kidnap the minister for interior affairs, he represents the anti------- sentiment in parliament and in response to anti-refugee lobbying by local unionists is urging the prime minister to close borders to ------ refugees. To help his cause he has been cooking up propoganda against the ------ refugees blaming them for everything from water shortages to terrorist attacks. I sit outside his office and wait for the clock to strike one and with every second I hear Idris’s voice – a reminder of my purpose.
“You must focus , you must not falter, you must believe, must not let emotion overpower your strength, you must not allow fear to be your weakness, weakness controls you and a man is not a man if he is controlled by weakness. Use your fear he urges me; use your anger, learn to command and enslave it. Recall your rage and use it to fight injustice.”
The day I lost everything, Idris found me and gave me something to live for – a cause. He took me in, I am his son and his student, he is my mentor and my family; to him I owe my life.
It is one; Shah Nawaz Mahmoodi is to come out of his office at any time, I am to silently follow him; resolutely but gently point my gun to his lower back when he reaches the foyer and ask him politely to walk towards the navy blue parked sedan across the street; past the pidgeons content at picking their food off the ground. My hands tremble, swollen and wet from anxiety, I remain calm and focus. I hear Idris,
“don’t waver, you are ready for this he says; you are a man he says. You have been preparing for this, your time has finally come.”
I look up and see Shah Nawaz Mahmoodi exiting his office and calmly begin walking toward him. With every step I take I focus on what idris has taught me: “
They killed your family, you must defend your honor, you must fight for your brothers. My boot crunches gravel, show them not your weakness but your rage, your rage at their injustice, use it to guard your honor and your dignity. These people represent those who killed your father, it is because of people like these that murderers are protected. Your father died asking you to take action. He wants you to avenge his death.”
I am 17 and ready to show them.
I find myself standing right behind the minister, all sounds around me magnified, my ears attentive, my flesh breaks out in goosebumps, my eyes keep track of every move around me. I place my gun gently but resolutely on the ministers lower back and for a split second I feel the lost confusion springing from the chill of cold metal against sweating skin that he feels, my spine goes numb and I falter. I hear Idris’s powerful voice and feel his spit on my face,
“ Do you remember how they killed your father?” he asks me roaring like an agitated lion, the pidgeons to my right shuffle.
The pidgeons are in my backyard and my mother gets up to feed them; I am thirteen and playing with my marbles. The sun burns and the afternoon is still. My father reads his paper and looks up from time to time playfully at my mother while she watches T.V.
“did you hear Amna? They caught a ------ robbing a house in Ashrafia.” Says my father, less like a question and more like a statement.
“Ashrafia is a wealthy neighbourhood.” is my mothers’ reply.
“They’re giving all us ------‘s a bad name, just like the Taliban are ruining the name of Islam and giving vent to their rage calling it Jihad.”
My father indignantly returns to his newspaper.
“I heard there was trouble in the factory neighboring yours” My mother questioningly looks at my father.
“Yes local union leaders have been threatening ------ workers because they agree to work for less, replacing the locals; the foreigners aren’t even paying us minimum wage because right now they can get away with it and the ------ refugees are getting grief from local workers for agreeing to work at that rate.”
A marble slides under the table and I follow in quick pursuit.
“its’ better than no wage. Murtaza try not to get involved in any of this, I know you like to go looking for trouble, especially now after you were threatened in the street the other day.” is my mothers voiced after thought.
“We cant go on living like this, like we don’t belong, we must take action” my father replies.
From under the table I hear a loud collective fluttering break the stillness of the afternoon – the pidgeons flee and before silence is returned alarm rings in my ears and for a split second we all share the same fear – the fear of an outsider entering our home. Three pairs of black boots attached to faceless legs enter with urgency. I am still under the table clutching the marble tightly in my hand, it might as well have been my heart which was deafening me with its overlapping beat. The sound that follows silences it, I cover my ears and close my eyes, i hear bullets fired in perfect succession, I think of the pidgeons fluttering they’re wings in free flight – happily belonging nowhere. Silence. Seconds go by like hours, hours go by like seconds, its hard to tell how fast time is moving but my heart refuses to slow down; I hear the sweet melody of the ice-cream man and for a split second familiarity is my friend, I open my eyes; my father stares back at me – his head in an uncomfortable angle lying in a messy pool of crimson. I crawl out from under the table, on the wall, written boldly – also in crimson –
“Go Home,”
the words mock me as the ice-cream man continues to play his music lazily cycling by. My fingers lose their grip and the perfectly round glassy marble slips out from under them, the glass hits the tiled floor, it makes a sound somewhere in the distance but I don’t hear it.
I grip the gun tighter, gain focus and return to the task at hand. Its people like these who are responsible for acts of violence against ------ refugees; people like these who blame all crimes – even the ones they commit themselves on the ----- making them the outsiders; Idris has taught me well. I ask the minister to make his way to the navy blue sedan and his life will be spared; he doesn’t move. I press the nozzle of the gun harder into his spine but the minister continues to remain calm. I look around and am struck with a moment of panic, a tall man I had previously thought to be an innocent bystander points a gun in my direction, he stands directly in front of me at a two meter distance. Confusion sets in and my face begins to burn. I point the gun directly at the ministers head and shout at the top of my lungs for everyone to lie face down on the dusty floor. I open my mouth to speak and hear not myself, but the voice of a powerful man, loud hoarse and alien; they obey and I like it.
Panic grips my throat and I am unable to breathe, my heart pounds persistently in my ears as I try to think. I hear the ice-cream man in the distance – the residue of a memory perhaps. The music gets louder. Time stops; I am thirteen again, merely a child. The sun is burning and the afternoon is still. I listen attentively for any movement, any sound, goosebumps ripple across my flesh and the silence is broken by a sudden shuffling behind me; I turn aiming my gun in its direction gripped with fear – ready to use it, ready to be a man. My fathers last words prompting action resound in my ear. I see movement and pull the trigger. Countless pidgeons loudly flutter some in preperation some mid-flight, a girl dressed in a crimson dress with crimson bows around her pig tails falls to the ground, her head hitting the pavement with a hollow thud, the cloud of grey pidgeons flies away. In the distance an ice-cream man stops unsure of what he is witnessing, he thought he had seen a little girl in a crimson dress run towards him. My world collapses.
I have managed to escape. I am sitting in the thicket behind Idris’s house, it would be too dangerous to openly visit him. I am thirsty, I have been shot in my left leg and it continues to bleed profusely. I have been running for the past four hours, guilt-ridden, trapped. I don’t belong anywhere and my freedom doesn’t belong to me, i feel it drenched in the blood of a crimson colored girl. I look at my hands and am unable to comprehend what has happened, I wait for darkness and I pray for death. I feel shame, shame for killing a child, shame for not being able to carry out my task, shame for letting Idris and my father down.
Darkness descends around me and I see three figures making their way into Idris’s house through the back door, a minute later Jamali appears and stands on guard. I make my way to the guarded backdoor behind bushes and signal to Jamali, he asks me to wait and disappears inside. A minute later he returns and ushers me in. Idris stands in the lounge, the door to his office closed behind him; he greets me with a pat on the back, a hug and a reassuring smile.
“We’ll look after you.” He says.
“You said there wouldn’t be any children in the area.” I look at him desperate, angry and ashamed.
“It is a small price to pay in the way of the greater good, innocent people always get caught in the crossfire but in the end a greater number of people benefit from acts that draw attention to and seek to resolve collective strife.”
His matter of fact manner helps my guilt take a backseat.
“Lay it low for a while, take care of your leg, get better and stronger for now,”
advises Idris.
“Tell Jamali to get Saif, he’ll take care of your leg,”
he adds turning around and disappearing into his office closing the door behind him.
I continue to stand there with my bloody agonizing bullet-wound. I feel anger at the minister, I blame him for the death of the little girl – if only he had complied. I feel bewildered and hurt but above all I feel alone. The girl in crimson comes back to haunt me; it was a price that had to be paid – a sacrifice for the greater good of mankind or as the U.S. calls its’ war casualties: collateral damage. I was once collateral damage, caught in the crossfire of a war that those concerned never fought face to face; forced to flee my country because of the Soviet invasion to a place I didn’t belong. The light around me dims and I can vaguely make out Jamali’s figure entering, I place my hand on his shoulder and he helps me to sit down, he brings me water. I must not be weak, I must regain my strength, I must use it to fight for my people, wage my own war with my family against the forces of injustice and evil. The guilt returns like a fresh wave of nausea, I have failed. I fear Idris’s dissapointment and feel it on my shoulders, heavy and persistent. Jamali tends to my leg and I drift off to sleep.
I wake up in the room directly opposite Idris’s office, the lounge separating the two, sunlight funnels through a gap in the drapes piercing my brain. My disorientation disappears as a dam breaks in my head and the events of yesterday flood into my consciousness. I feel nauseous. My door is slightly ajar and I hear chuckling from across the lounge, I slip into the lounge as silently as possible, make my way to Idris’s office as quickly as my sore leg will allow me and stand with my back to the wall adjacent to his door. Idris’s door has been left ajar and I hear two voices, one belonging to Idris and the other vaguely familiar yet alien at the same time. I squint my eyes in an attempt to sharpen my hearing and catch a snippet of the conversation,
“Don’t worry” says Idris, “he wasn’t going to harm you, he had been given strict orders to kidnap you and ensure you were brought to me alive.”
As I peak through the opening my knees turn to rubber; surely my eyes have failed me because what I see is the impossible. The minister for interior affairs replies,
“This is going to do wonders for me in the next election, an attempt on my life ensures an overwhelming number of sympathy votes,” a note of content in his voice.
“The ----- are getting restless, you should really do something about your border control interests unless you want a real assassination attempt on your life,”
I continue to listen as the minister replies,
“That’s all talk for the election, you know its pretty much impossible to control the ----/---- border, even if the government goes ahead with the proposition it will be an arbitrary closing - at best - in order to appease the (local) people as well as the Americans.”
I hear my fathers voice:
“we cant go on living like this, like we don’t belong, we must take action” echo through my hollow being, I see two pigtails with crimson bows and the little girl they belong to, I see my rage, it is hard and solid and it paints my blurry vision red. I am being robbed of my family. I barge into the room and grip the ministers throat, he begins to choke.
“What are you doing?” Asks Idris’s loud voice,
I feel the fear out of habit from such a reproach but allow my rage to guide me.
“Liars! you’re all liars!” I Scream in Idris’s face maintaining steady pressure on the ministers throat.
“Kamal, calm down, lets not make any rash decisions here. You must not forget the reason you are standing here today is me, you wouldn’t have lasted a day in the streets of ------, I clothed you and fed you and picked you up off the street, don’t forget who you owe your life to.”
I look into idris’s stone cold eyes
“You lied to me! I want to fight for my people, for their rights here, all you wish to do is play political games and use me and others like me as pawns. You use us all to threaten politicians and to help them depending on whatever pays more in that moment - satisfying your lust for money and power! I want justice.” Is my decided reply.
“You want revenge for the death of your family that’s all you want.”
The minister is turning red in the face.
“No one can give me my family back – or my country, but I will fight to make sure anyone who tries to steal a -----s’ home will think twice.”
“Where will you go? You have no home but the one I give you, have you read the papers lately?”
Idris points to his desk. My eye catches the headline on one of the newspapers,
“Member of ------ militia kills 8 year old girl striking terror.”
The other one reads “Attempted assassination of Home Minister and brutal murder of seven year old by ------ Terrorist organization.” I relax my grip on the ministers’ throat after which he breaks into convulsive coughing fits. I am defeated, trapped with nowhere to go.
“Now if you wish for my continued support, you must follow my orders without question. You must believe everything I am doing is for your best interest and those of the ----- people. May God give you the strength to see past small setbacks and to focus on your goal. Kamal you must understand we share the same goals, the minister will help us in our purpose, see, you win some you lose some, its always about give and take; always about compromise.”
I nod in agreement, but in my mind I despise Idris for treating me like a gullible child – I understand perfectly his “goal” but am helpless to disagree. I will wage my own war; I will take Idris’s place but for now I will remain silent, he forgets I am now a man.

In the Sun

by Joseph Arthur

I picture you in the sun wondering what went wrong
And falling down on your knees asking for sympathy
And being caught in between all you wish for and all you seen
And trying to find anything you can feel that you can believe in

May god’s love be with you
Always
May god’s love be with you

I know I would apologize if I could see your eyes
’cause when you showed me myself I became someone else
But I was caught in between all you wish for and all you need
I picture you fast asleep
A nightmare comes
You can’t keep awake

May god’s love be with you
Always
May god’s love be with you

’cause if I find
If I find my own way
How much will I find
If I find
If I find my own way
How much will I find
You

I don’t know anymore
What it’s for
I’m not even sure
If there is anyone who is in the sun
Will you help me to understand
’cause I been caught in between all I wish for and all I need
Maybe you’re not even sure what it’s for
Any more than me

May god’s love be with you
Always
May god’s love be with you