Once Upon A 14th August

Having been away and unable to write since for over eight months, I finally found something which intrigued me to sit and write. Or at least try.

Two things confirm for me that it’s August; one, the absolutely ravishing cloudy weather of Karachi, and two, the streets occupied with flag stalls and badge vendors reflecting shades of green. I however would still have let it go had I not witnessed a scene which triggered a memory and hence the post.

A couple of days ago travelling back home on an overcast day, feeling like heaven will pour but being a Karachiite completely sure that it wouldn’t, I spotted a girl on a motorbike, dressed in white with a green scarf loosely tied around her neck. The wind was blowing against her and I couldn’t help but notice how her hand would repeatedly go back on her chest to make sure that little Pakistan flag’s badge is there in place. She would touch it at intervals assured every time that it is there, her most prized possession. The picture was simple but it represented a very precious part of my childhood that’s long over...

Growing up, I was told my dreams, my destiny all belong with Pakistan. I grew up listening to the stories of struggle and determination that won us this land we call home. I fell deeply in love with every single figure I read and heard of who played an essential role in earning us independence. Back then things were simple. In the innocence of time when I could count my age on fingers, I grew up proudly announcing love for my homeland, never really knowing what it means. The stories and accounts sketched pictures in my head and I realized that Pakistan had not come easy. The realization instilled an unconditional reverence and respect for Pakistan and everything that came about it. Just like Ramzan and Eid, 14^th August too was one of the most awaited festivals. August wouldn’t even properly begin and we would start rehearsing for the grand celebration at school. From short plays to speeches to dance performances on national songs, I remember taking part in every curriculum. Although it’s been years, yet still whenever I listen to Ay Jawan by Awaaz the Band or Dil Dil Pakistan by Junaid Jamshed or Yaaro Yeh Hee Dosti Hai by Junoon, some very fond memories resurface and I still feel like a girl from class 3 jumping with enthusiasm to get on stage and do her best and look her best in her newly stitched white dress and green dupatta and silk bangles and matching ear cuffs and a prominent Pakistan badge pinned on her shoulder because hey, it’s independence day performance, you have to be at your best! Going by the silly but innocent notion of “whoever sings the loudest loves Pakistan the most”, I would sing Hai Koi Hum Jaisa by Strings and Jazba Junoon by Junoon and other golden songs like Jeevay Jeevay Pakistan,Hum Hain Pakistani,Mera Paigham Pakistan, Khayaal Rakhna,Iss Parcham Ke Saaye Talay despite not knowing correct lyrics with vigor and zeal. I would feel the shivers when together we would stand to recite National Anthem and chant “Pakistan Zindabad” afterwards.

The ritual of decorating the house with miniature flags was too solemnly followed. From bedrooms to corridors, from walls to windows, from the rooftop to the garage, the house by the 14^th of August was fully and proudly clad with green paper flags.

I find it very strange how we learn to love and admire events we never experienced and people we have never met just by listening to their stories? We (almost naturally) learned to hold the Pakistan Movement and the period of partition in immense respect and awe. We almost naturally feel emotionally attached to a man we never knew or even saw; yet we take offense if anyone ever says a word against Quaid-e-Azam. We criticize Pakistan bitterly yet fall in love with it at even its smallest achievement. The modes of expression have changed but the feeling despite everything is still alive. The traditions have certainly transformed over the course from putting a badge on your shoulder to changing your display picture to green on the internet, from singing patriotic songs in school and college to posting sound clips and videos on Facebook, but it is there.

I believe of the few things we inherit from our elders, stories are one of them. Those are the tales that define for who we are, where we are from. We have inherited the accounts of how Pakistan came into being from our elders. We inherited the dreams our ancestors dreamt; the dream Pakistan, a land of freedom and peace.

For what Pakistan has become today, it often puts a question mark to the patriotism and loyalty I grew up with towards it. In the country which was created in the name of equality, I face discrimination on ethnic grounds. The country which was meant to set an example of peace and harmony, has become a place where I am oppressed because of my religious beliefs. A land which was to be a symbol of freedom, glorifies clerics who label me an infidel. A state which was supposed to be a safe haven, remains silent when people I identify with are dragged out of buses and butchered. When school children are slaughtered, when Imam Bargahs and processions are bombed, it certainly becomes hard to believe in this country anymore. And those who give up thus ask, ‘what did this place give us? It took away from us more than it gave’. Certainly. I have lost relatives to terror attacks and sectarian incidents. I have lost friends to state backed genocide and its policies. Yes. It has taken away a lot from me.

But those who thus question, don’t know.

Back in school I never truly understood the reason when I would notice few of the older teachers shed a tear at songs like Chand Meri Zameen Phool Mera Watan and Hum Laaye Hain Toofaan Se Kashti Nikaal Ke, because I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know the struggle. Now I do. And so I deem it unfair to disregard the sacrifices of those who gave away all they had so we could be free. I find it offensive when people try to place the blame of what Pakistan has become today at the doorstep of a man who died within a year after he created it. Those who therefore question don’t know that I love, not the corruption and bloodshed that Pakistan is, but the struggle and sacrifice that Pakistan was. I idealize not the dupes of an overnight revolution but the unwavering freedom movement that earned us a separate homeland. I love, not the ‘strategic asset’ that Pakistan nurses, but the peace that Pakistan harbored. Growing up nostalgic for a past that I never lived yet experienced through the tales of independence I heard and read of, it is not the Pakistan today that I romanticize and revere, but the dream that it was. The dream which although was realized 68 years ago, but is yet to be fulfilled. I honor those who gave away everything they possessed just so we could have a free land we could call our own. Do you realize what a blessing it is to call something truly your own?

Coming a long way from childhood days of innocence, I no longer decorate the house or sing national songs on the top of my lungs. I don’t even change my display picture to green or share audio clips on my Facebook timeline, but despite everything, as clichéd as it may sound, I love this country. And I feel no shame when I get tears listening to emotionally overwhelming national songs. I still wear white and green on the 14th of August. I feel my heart swelling when I listen to Ay Raah'e Haq Ke Shaheedo'n and of course Ay Watan Ke Sajeelay Jawaano'n in Madam Noor Jahan's mesmerizing voice. My heart still skips a beat when I see the flag flying high in the air; the green and white reflective of the tears and blood spilled in the realization of a powerful dream, Pakistan. I still feel shivers when I hear the National Anthem and I am proud of it, for in that symphony rings the memory of will and determination. In it echoes the tales of sacrifice and devotion. I truly and unconditionally love the dream Pakistan I inherited from my elders. It is a dream I identify with, it is a dream to which I belong.

Euphoria: V

Read Euphoria IV here.

The weather was beginning to get better. It was early spring. The same days when the stage for her journey had begun to set. The air was fragrant with familiar scents –but it lacked the verve she’d felt a year ago. Three sixty five days around the sun; what had everything come to?

It began as a dream; a dream so fragile, it was bound to have consequences. And yet she set about to pursue it; fearful for what if it didn't work out, but overwhelmed by the idea for what if it did? Only hearts that are confident find romance in uncertainty. Hers was; and so all else mattered not.

It was a dream, a dream so fragile... She should’ve thought about it carefully before stepping in.

Tied in shackles of fresh memories; she was struggling feebly to find her way. It was quite some time now, and despite that she'd given up, not even a single day would pass when she wouldn’t think of him and his whereabouts. It was her need to belong that had had her living miserably. But no more would she look forward to hearing from him, who had turned away without saying final adieu. So much did she learn in his absence. The East Wind would often bring her a valuable maxim, a word of wisdom, carried in a voice she had grown up listening to. But a heart has always been a nuisance, it doesn't fall in traps of conditioning so easy. She lived in her melting numbness, somewhere between bearing in her the shock of what happened and an ache of what couldn't...

There were however signs of improvement. Her satin dress had dried by now; the red glossy color had faded. Her feet and palms still had dull traces of henna. She had removed the smudges of kohl from around her eyes, the gray impression however remained. Her hair that had grown messily long was now pulled back in a rough bun with uneven locks hanging carelessly. She had also begun responding to the voices that had been there whispering in her head. Something had however sunk so low inside her, she couldn’t find it anymore. A long journey awaited her. With a hole punched in her empty chest, a void left between her fragile fingers, she was to walk upon it. Alone. She wore what she was told to, a face which didn't suit her disposition. A mask, made of uneven, artificial emotions that never had and never can reach the heart. It was only now, that it came to her how this realm was no different from the one she had come from: how all notions are governed by same set of stereotypical customs that chain every young heart, consequentially suffocating dreams of each to a tragic death. It was only now that it struck to her how every appearance is a combination of irregular, misleading lies. Each carrying a story within and without.
A portrait of childhood that she left behind for new experiences: a memory of flying lanterns that she gave up in desire of capturing the brilliance of queen moon. A set of her own stories that she traded for his accounts: a bunch of joyful associations she let go to catch up happily with his melancholy tales...

It was only when life stopped being normal she began to appreciate it.

And wasn't it too late already?

It was no longer the place she used to know. All she had ever known in this journey was lost somewhere. She felt like a star, separated from its moon, thrown off to a distant galaxy. The Mighty Moors commanded the nature to mend her broken wings. They sent their inky clouds to help her find the lost pieces. But the more she'd try to forget, the better she'd remember. She remembered. She remembered how he had presented his final departure. She remembered what had happened after he had showed up, and gone, and showed up again. She remembered everything...

***

He had showed up again. After making clear of what he had come to say, after walking away back into the abyss, without a word of farewell, after a considerable amount of time, just when her mind switched to finding her way forward, just when she decided to dispel all the phantoms of past, he showed up again. No Muse invoked can aid with accurate words which would justly define the emotions that ran through her like wild blizzards. The array of dull, melancholic evening stars assigned to look over her, suddenly brightened and cheered. He heard her silent cry! He came to say adieu! It was a dream dreamt together, he couldn't leave it incomplete! He came back, to say, what she'd longed to hear...
This was, however, not the business.

There he was. Again. What brought him back, she didn't know. Neither did she ask. Such are the fears of people in love, they don't say what is needed to be said lest they be swept off their feet. Lest their fancy crumple into tiny irreparable pieces; oblivious for how in complete ruin it already is.

The expression he wore had the same color that had always had her pray earnestly for him. His voice had the same impact that melted her heart every time she'd hear it. The anger of despair that she was holding in herself since so long, evaporated with the first note of his voice that she was closely familiar with. How long had it been since she last wallowed in its warmth? It swelled her heart. It was love; an overpowering spell. But where the sapling of her young love was still standing stout and grand, the missing pieces and the numerous intricate wounds his absence had given to the heart ached all the more. How were they to heal all at once? There was no denying that he has been in pain. But she was in no less. And to tell the truth, hers was greater than his in totality; for she bore in her the pain of her brokenness as well of his suffering.

Of his disappearance, he said it was for good. Of his disregard he said it was her illusion. Of his attention he said it was divided and of his heart, he said it was in torment. Of her tears he said they were august pearls but of his suffering he said it was greater. Of his life, he said it wasn't easy but on its details he said he's vague. The new information didn't suit the previous; just as the previous didn't suit the prior. Just as none had suited the initial. He advocated to resume; but of silence and hurtful actions of past, he couldn't remember. He said naivety, of her suggestion to formally involve the sacred trees; but of his priorities, he said they're sorted. Of his love he said it was true; but of where she stands, he said nothing...
His words however provided only a partial insight into a much more complex story. The heart that had been so much in love however reasoned, that stories are all complicated. They are all dark in their own way. It was love, and love is anything but blind in nature. She had loved him in all her senses with all her genuineness. His words, like all other times, were heart warming; she thawed, like a snow flake liquefy on the tip of a finger. But she could also see and feel, how going back was not easy. What remained behind? The memory of days of bliss and euphoria with him on her side was overshadowed by that of torment she had spent all alone waiting for him. Must he not be told of every single day she had spent dying for him? Must he not be questioned for his faulty facts and contradictory statements? Must he not be informed of every question and every ridiculing remark that came her way over the course of his absence? He must; but he wasn't. And the heart suggested again, bringing up the same feeling of tenderness that had had her take his hand despite all his flaws -- it was of no importance of what he had been beside of what he said he will be to her. He was given a chance once; she was beginning to think of giving one again. But adhering to certain limits she was strongly bound to, she resorted to silence, which has always meant so much, if only it was understood. She was bound by the barrier of legitimate right. If he can put others before her and blatantly remind her the insignificance of her position in his life, what claim then, was she to make of herself on him? If he had walked away once breaking all vows; would he not walk away again? The battle of need continued; in the meantime however, her silence was only misinterpreted like every other time. He, who spoke of intimacy, was now suddenly accusing her. He, who had just returned, disappeared again. And the array of stars, lost its glow of self illumination...

And thus, love was lost; somewhere between not saying what was meant to be said, and not understanding what should've been easily understood.  Love was lost, somewhere between hiding the most important truth and projecting false accusations. He left her. Stranded. All on her own. And then came back accusing her that she wasn't there for him. Who knew, the kinds of love can be so shallow as well at times.

Euphoria was no more. All that little confidence of ever knowing him withered away with the dreary winds. The grey had gone from the sky. It was blank, yet occupied by the lustrous brilliance of queen moon who seemed to have won the battle of envy; for her nemesis was drained of all her radiance she had initially acquired in the journey. She stretched out her hand, hoping for the strands of silver to fall on her palms... But all she saw and heard was an echo; an echo of emptiness. Her hands were empty, so was her heart, so was her soul. Pain pricked - dejavu filled the air - and down came rolling her august pearls, which bore in them the deepest of her unanswered prayers. She had spent seasons waiting for something that was never meant to come. She protected with all her might, a promise that was given in haste only to be forgotten. She kept alive in her heart, memory of a love, that was tinged with lies. All in vain. Because it was love. And love is said to seldom reveal the concrete that lies beneath the ceramic.

And now it was time. To bury, what was not yet dead. And put an end to a soul shattering drama. Having sealed the letter with the moisture of her tears, she sent the Robins to convey it to him.

... She missed his last glimpse. Never learnt of what happened to him from then on, neither let herself find out; because over the course she mastered the art of keeping herself from all that'd add to her pain. In the nature however existed incoherent shadows of the caged birds he believed hanker after him, only somewhere in the pits of his fancy.

And it remained to be contemplated as a transient dream. Which was bound to fade...

***

She had loved, maybe not wisely, but ardently. It was love, and love need not be a punishment for those involved. It doesn't change with circumstances, it doesn't change with seasons; it only gets stronger. Love grows on the roots of faith, and faith can never stem from seeds of lies. That which doesn't make you a better person, that which compels you to lie can't be love; it can only look like it. But it was her love, and it indeed transformed her. It was love, and it did not deserve silence. It deserved, --since not a happy ending-- a graceful closure. And so it was given one. The words had evaporated with the hollow wind, and the only thing she failed to do was forgive. He showed out of nowhere, handed her a dream all by himself, and then ruthlessly snatched it away when it was just young and innocent, tearing her world apart. The realization that he didn't consider her worthy of the truth broke her heart. He betrayed, not only her, but an innocent rosemary bud too, who she would've loved just as much as she loved him, if only he had trusted her enough. Because it was her love, and it would've encompassed not only him but all who would've come along with him. He denied her the right to decide for herself. He kept her in the dark and told false tales. The pain had been incomprehensibly great; and forgiveness was too early to ask. It did not dispel the shadows of agony completely; it only lessened it. It did not remove the memory, it only concealed it. It would have been a betrayal to her past - though short, yet beautiful - had she looked at it with woe. For it was love, and it was true as long as it lasted. 

The soft clouds had gathered, sending down a soothing shower, that only came as a reminder of last summer when a powerful prayer was sent up to the heavens; when her journey had begun. It was the first rain of spring that had come to add final strokes to her unfinished portrait. She soaked it in her bones, feeling her soul standing miles, gazing at her in awe. Who knew, a heart so small can bear so much?

And this is only the beginning...

Adieu, 2014

It was a week ago while traveling through the cantt area an intriguing scene caught my eyes and remained in my mind for the rest of the day. It was a silhouette of crowns of smoke embossed at the amber canvas of evening sky. Rising from behind the bushes, trying to reach up, almost touching the burning sun. To grab and bring back what's been lost. So close... You think you could reach out and easily touch it; only to realize the elusive nature of the whole scenario. Each cloud of smoke would follow in the same trail of its preceding cloud, and eventually disappear into thin air. It is only if you discern the turn that they appeared separate, else to begin with, they were one... How I'd wanted to paint the scene on a real canvas if only my artistic abilities were limitless. It was simple, but the symbolism was striking. It's crazy how every year life brings us back to where we'd begun from a year ago. Simple little things that meant so much, but are no more. Amazing how your world can take a complete turn within a matter of three sixty five days.

This is the first when I don't know what my End Year's post must look like. This is the first when I have no coherent reflections on the year that's gone and absolutely nothing to look forward to from the year that's right around the corner. Winter has made itself comfortable. Cold fingers, frozen toes, and a numb heart. 2014 was the year I was at my most vulnerable. I lost my way over the course. It is so easy to lose your way, don't you think? One moment you are here, strolling through a lane you have so fondly built, so sure of where you're heading; but then the paths suddenly change and it is no longer the place you used to know. You are sighing in the quietest of nights, groping in the dark, trying to find a way. A way back. A way forward. But there's nothing anymore.

2014 was the most decisive year of my life. I completed my three year Honors program. Yep. I am finally a graduate. When I had entered university I thought it would be one hell of a journey. I wouldn't make it. But it's crazy, how we go out among total strangers, and little by little, we discover them. How they are, how they think, what they like, what interests them, what irritates them. And before we could realize, they become an integral part of our lives. Life is like that in many ways; only a lot more complicated. But of university, I made it. After three years of assignment pressures and exam anxiety, of early morning classes and boring Linguistic lectures, of hilarious laughter and countless tears, of petty arguments and heartwarming smiles, I finally made it.

In another news, my treatment finally ended. No more follow ups, no more medicines, no more hospitals. I feel... Free. Literally. November was the last time I had to go for a follow up. My fever lasted almost for more than a week and I thought here I go again. But thankfully, that was it. I cant believe I wouldn't have to take any more medicines. Not that I was punctual with them anyway, but yeah. It's only sad that my hair is now falling like crazy 'cause of the fever and antibiotics. I remember how I had given a million excuses last year just to avoid a damn blood test. Little did I know, that right ahead a whole series of pathetic blood tests awaits me. And this time I wouldn't have no excuse. Now that I think of it, I realize how I had spent a substantial part of my year in a hospital. The nurses and even the receptionist would recognize me, and it wasn't even funny.

I also, after much delay, at last winded up Euphoria. Winding up Euphoria meant bidding final farewell to a memory I was so scared to let go. I might also post a final epilogue, but that would be later. It's like my mind keeps suggesting ways of holding on to it, in whatever subtle way I could. I knew it had to end. There was nothing left of it, but the thought of putting an end to it was daunting. What would I hold on to once Euphoria is practically gone? It used to provide me a chance to revisit a sweet agonizing memory every once in a while. But I guess this is it. Would be throwing out the fifth part probably in a couple of days. 2014 took away my Euphoria which had begun a year ago. I entered this year with so many people. Not knowing that by the end I'd have to leave a few behind. My only regret is that I didn't even get to say goodbye and the last link was broken. And then it settled in... Isn't it insane, how things we haven't thought of since quite some time still have the ability to make us cry?

There are events in my past which look grander in my head than they really were. Fragments of childhood memories, school days, family time. And I didn't even notice when they were happening. But there are also certain events, which I knew were already so grand while they were happening. And I savored every moment. I always knew there is a consequence for every action, and you have to deal with it. But if 2014 taught me something, it was that sometimes you have to bear consequences even for someone else's actions. 2014 taught me that there aren't many sure things in life. I was living in a lie all this time. You know how you are mostly numb but then every once a while a wave of realization hits you and you know it's real. You know it deep inside your chest. In the pit of your stomach. From the crown of your head to the tips of your fingers, you know that it was real and it happened. And you've got to face it. I knew it's hard for people to accept their mistakes, and keeping myself in there I understand how it is like. It's natural to be scared and make mistakes; but you don't get to blame others for that. But people... Well. People will disappoint you. People you stood up for will not necessarily stand for you. People you defended all the while they were absent, will not necessarily acknowledge it. People will walk out on you having you believe that it was something you had done. It is plain silliness to even draw a limit and think people wouldn't go beyond that. Accusations, lies, blue, green, more lies, and what not. Just to save their faces. How I had believed in everything I was told. It's bizarre. It totally is. I also learned that all those sayings and maxims I grew up listening to, were actually very true. You can invest all your faith in someone; but when the time would come... It will all be ruthlessly disregarded. There is a reason why your elders claim to know better. Because they do know better. 2014 also taught me that time unravels everything. Everything. It is all to time that different instances, little by little, came to make connection all by themselves at the most unexpected places and then it all made sense. Only my reaction was late. I took time to completely register it. And then came a slow, melting realization... There was one of Imam Ali's quotes which I'd often come across. I never truly understood what it meant until now. Now, I don't know where the limits are anymore. I cannot differentiate lie from truth and truth from lie. I was denied the right to truth. I was denied my right to decide for myself. I have had ample occasions to think how life would have been had the nature of my choices was slightly different. But, I don't. Because despite everything, and contrary to what many around me believe, I don't regret my choices. See when you make a choice, you ought to stay by it. Your choices and how you deal with their consequences define you. Because dreary times come, and that is when you are being tested. I was tested. And while taking that test, I discovered So. Much. So much of myself, and so much of my life. In the silence and even in false projections, I learned one thing: that which requires you to explain yourself all the time, isn't worth it. I also learned that it is insanely easy to stay by choices you make by will; regardless of what people mumble. Because sure, people talk, but do they say anything? Hardly. I made a decision of which I was perfectly sure. And despite how momentarily I was let to live the feeling, it was beautiful. It was mine and it was true as long as it lasted. And I cannot let anyone take that away from me by repeatedly telling me that I was the one at fault.

In a more cheerful news, I dreamt my first dream after almost eleven months! (doesn't sound like a big deal, isn't it? Well, shut up. It is). A series of images after months of darkness. It does not matter what it contained. I kind of already knew what I was likely to dream of, if ever I dreamt again, the good part was totally in the fact that I dreamt again. And although it reflected images from my recent past, for once I had a sound sleep. No more falling out of slumber anymore. The same images continued for a certain period, but then it started changing. I don't remember my dreams as clearly now as I used to, but I somehow do manage to recollect enough details. And it has, thankfully, gotten regular now. I had completely forgotten what it is like waking up from a continuous, unbroken sleep. It is true that time happens to heal almost about every wound; but it cannot alter certain feelings or remove certain memories. It can only conceal. I cannot remove from my memory the three-month long period of wait I had to go through. And so, this year I learned, that there is nothing more tormenting than the act of waiting. The worst you can do to damage someone is to inflict upon them an unconditional wait. I was damaged deeply, but then I found my cure. In  Dua-e-Kumayl. It has healing powers. Literally. It brings you right before God and you realize how all that world's 'glitter' is nothing more than a dupe. It makes you realize how insignificant we, the humans, are. And that there is a Source who can exempt you off all afflictions. I may not be very religious, but I am very proper in terms of knowing who I am and where I am from. Hence, with that, I learned that it gets a lot easier to deal with the dreariness once you make God your witness.

A year ago I had a perfect picture of today and the days to come. Today? Nothing in particular. I had imagined two severe possibilities in my head when 2014 had begun. I knew this year will change my life. Either it will take me where I want to be, or it will take me where I ought to be. Right now I have two jobs in hand and a decision made. A week ago, I had none. It's ironical how the flames we particularly want to avoid in life are often the flames we eventually end up dealing with. I got a call from two places for work to which I had very randomly applied to. I never planned on working. But well. I have, however, decided something else: to continue my studies and begin with my Masters program. The story of this decision is an interesting one. It was a year ago when I had confidently announced that I wouldn't be coming back for Masters, entirely because I had my priorities sorted. I had given up my plan of studying further because I thought someone needs me more, and it can't wait. Or so I was told. I was reading into someone else's words. I wouldn't have to come back for Masters. But what do you know, here I am, setting about for my Masters in Literature. It's funny how life works out sometimes. Really.

Wouldn't it have been great, if every new year would've provided us with a blank memory like a fresh new page? No previous stains. Nothing. Like how a friend said, "new year, new beginning". Sigh. I wish it was that easy. You were tough, 2014. I will remember you. I can picture myself standing at my old terrace, on New Year's eve, sending up my earnest prayer and excited to begin with this year. It feels like yesterday. I don't know where did the time go. But I am not going to rant about that. Although this wasn't so much of a good year for me, I am still thankful, for a plenty of better reasons. We moved to our new house. Family members reunited. Friends separated years ago came back together. I thoroughly experienced the transition in life. So of 2014? Amen to fate's design. Amen to friends who didn't give up on me and family, which was ever so understanding. Amen to life. And amen, to the guidance Lights provided me with. The Lights accepted the inherent meaning of my prayer that night, even before I could even understand it myself. I learned only later. Only now. And of 2015? I am not sure what's ahead, and for the first time, I am not concerned. But no new year eve wishes this time. For a change. I will just be. I am no butterflies and unicorns right now. But I am OK. In fact, quite at peace. It feels like I have come a long way. So here, a very happy new year to all the beautiful, genuine people. And Eid-e-Zehra mubarak! I don't think there could be anything better than entering the new year celebrating such an auspicious occasion.

Adieu, 2014. Adieu...

Faith.

We all believe in a set of certain beliefs to keep ourselves going, running in one piece. We look into our lives, and retrace the steps that got us here. What was that one force which drove us through the tumultuous waves of time and dreary lanes of life?  What fueled our genie lamps and we survived even through the darkest storms? It may be termed differently by different people belonging to different schools of thoughts, according to their experiences; what remains constant is the affect it has on all of us. Some call it Dharam - belief in the divine force that makes universe possible. Some call it Saddha - confidence based on knowledge, while some call it Eemaan - Faith.
Lets talk about faith. I have always had trouble defining faith just as much as I have trouble defining religion. You know what it is and what it means, what you don't know is how to fathom it into appropriate words. How must you define that which defines you?

Faith, is what governs you. Faith is silence; just not the kind which breaks you, rather a kind which keeps you together. Faith is a memory; just not the one which keeps you entrapped, rather a one which sets you free. Faith is time; that which unravels answer to every why that kept you restless. Faith is a saving hand which holds you from drowning; it is a ray of light which shows you way when you are groping in the dark. Faith is fate. It is not a coincidence. There is always a story behind how a belief was established, how a faith was developed. There is pain. There is hope.

~ ~ ~

I am tied in shackles of a memory which I force back in my head every second of every day. But there comes a time when I lose the battle and it comes gushing, filling my senses. I let it flow, and wallow in the sorrow it brings. I feel it closer than usual. I suddenly hear from my past. And it doesn't happen only once. Reminders lurk in simple little things. An association triggers the memory, I fail to hold myself together. I miss that which is gone. It's natural. I cry myself to sleep. I wake up and I see a message... That, too, doesn't happen only once.

*

Since my childhood, I would hold my breath to capture time. The longer I'd hold my breath, the slower would the time pass, and the more will I get to savor moments. I grow up. I hear talks pertaining to severity of the illness my paternal grandmother is going through. I hold my breath to freeze the time. It doesn't work. My paternal grandmother dies.

Always do good. Always be honest. Don't ever hurt a soul. That which you do, shall sooner or later get back at you. I am told that everything which happens, happens for a reason. A belief is established. I start reading signs. I start judging my life according to these notions.
My imaginative faculty is highly receptive. I dream a lot and remember each of it. My dreams are always pleasant. My sleep relies on my dreaming ability. I read about the interpretation of dreams. Another belief is established. Every dream means something. I cannot think they will ever cease to appear.

I overhear my father's grandmother repeat certain words to find something which has been lost before looking about it. I memorize it. I say it when I lose my things. I always find them when I do. It works for me.

I have an Aqeeq studded silver ring. It is a tangible souvenir of my faith. I wear it all the time. I lose it one day. I solemnly say those words again and again. I search and search but cannot find.

I forget about the ring eventually.

I observe the water coming down from the sky... I am told the sky showers the water of heaven. It is a blessing. I soak it in my bones. It makes me happy and reinforces my intuition of life. It inspires me at so many levels. I associate rain with spirituality. It will always be a good sign for me.

A friend is leaving for Damascus. She asks me to write an areeza. I don't know what it is. The idea of it fascinates me. She teaches me to write one. I neatly tear a paper from my notebook. I write Bismillah and offer Salaam to Sayyedda Zainab with my favorite pen in nastaleeq Urdu. I write a couple of lines, asking her to call my maternal grandmother at her Shrine.

My maternal grandmother leaves for Damascus a month later.

I check in my drawer for something. I see my Aqeeq ring resting beneath my accessory box. I close my eyes and hold it between my hands for quite a while. The need to wear it is no longer felt.

Muharram moon is sighted and my grandmother repeats to us tales like every year of how Muharram was commemorated back in her times. The simplicity of it all charms me. Muharram has begun and I feel like I have finally gotten back to where I truly belong. I feel completely at home. I weep at the tribulations of Ahlebait; the household of Prophet. It enlightens my faith.

It is the 8th of Muharram. It is important for me to attend tonight's majlis. There is haazri at home. We cannot go. My heart sinks. May be Hazrat Abbas doesn't want me to attend his majlis. I get a call from chaachu asking me if I need a lift. I am there sitting in the majlis, under the soothing silver light of the moon coming down at us from the open sky. I look up straight at it. The Moon of Hashmiites wanted me to attend his majlis. My faith is strengthened.

We go to attend the Ashura procession. We leave for home earlier than usual. I am very upset about it. We are preparing for  faaqa shikani, when suddenly there is news of a bomb blast targeting attendees of the procession. I experience so many emotions at once.
The turn out for Chehlum procession that year was however greater than ever. It doesn't matter what the funny looking Jihadis preach. They do not rule our faith.

I am starting college. I want to study Literature. My father wants me to go for Pre-medical. I cannot say no. I take Pre-medical. Three months later I realize it is not my field. I tell my mother. She asks me to switch to Literature if that's what I want. I am confused. What if I make a wrong decision? I take eight chits and write lit. and med. evenly in four each. I recite Naad-e-Ali three times and then pick a chit. It says literature. I repeat. I get literature again. I pick a chit for the third time. It's Literature.
I switch my subject.
I score second highest in my finals from Literature group in the entire college.

I believe in the power of words. I remember what people say. I store it in my memory. I safely keep the letters and cards and notes and messages that people give me. They give me something to remember. I treasure it. Keeping their words close is my way of keeping a part of them with myself.
I write a folder of letters to a friend who is moving to America. The letters will work as a reminder. I will remain with her as long as she keeps them.

I measure life in terms of months and years. I keep track of time. It gives me an illusion of being in control of my life. New Year eves make me nostalgic. A sun goes down, taking away tiny parts of me that will only exist in my memories. I recall little details and events that went through the year and look forward to many that the time ahead have in store for me. I bid adieu to the year bygone. I attach hopes with the one that will follow. I say Amen as the sun sets; I make wishes as it prepares to rise.

It will soon be 2012. My university will begin in fourteen days. I am an adult. I am excited. This year will be wonderful.

2012 turns out to be a mess. Family issues. I have trouble accepting that blood relations can abandon each other. I don't know what went wrong and I lost a friend. An acquaintance has wronged me to such an extent, I will never forgive that person. I write an areeza to Imam Hussain. I ask Him to answer me before the end of 2012.

It's New Year's eve. I shall not make any wish. I must not expect anything from 2013.

It is the 31st of December, 2012. I don't have my answer yet.

It is the 5th of January, 2013. I have my answer.

Five extra days. My faith is strengthened.

The acquaintance suddenly shows up after a month and apologizes for everything. I look back. I don't even remember it anymore. The disappointment is long over. I forgive.

I forgive because I have forgotten.

I wake up one day and I hear my mother cry over phone. A relative is shot dead in the wave of Shi'a Genocide. I lie back and tell myself it hasn't happened to us. I realize it has happened to us. We go to attend his funeral. To die for Hussain is to live for eternity. I stand amidst the chants of Labbaik Ya Hussain, my faith is strengthened.

I take a leap of faith. It is raining. I revere and hold close the promises I am given. 2013 has brought me a sacred euphoria.
I appear in someone's dream. The person explains the dream where we both walk along the shore and discloses something which upsets me. Something which the person cannot quiet recall. The dream proceeds as I begin to walk away; the person runs after me and convinces me to stay. I am convinced. The dream ends. I wonder what could it be that had me upset? It doesn't matter. I stayed. I know it's real.

Two weeks later, the same person reveals to me a reality. The same which had me upset in the dream. It was a sign. I am shocked. I go out under the vast sky, face up, I close my eyes and let the silver streaks of moon fall on my face.
I am scared.
I say nothing.
And then I pray.

I wake up the next morning. Everything is still the same to me. I know its genuine love, the kind which doesn't change with circumstances. I am enthralled by its purity. But distracted by its fragility. I need to be careful. I don't have a legitimate right. I must observe caution, I must not say everything that I feel. I must wait. For the right time.
It's drizzling and I am walking down the parking lot towards the one who has come to me. I am reading the sign. I know what I want. I make a choice. It is difficult, I know. But I will remain by it. I pray punctually. Everything is clear. I have faith.

I have to go through a trial. I cannot tell it to the one who needs to know the most. I cannot worry someone who I already sense is through a hard time. I rely on my faith, I rely on my prayers. I raise my hands and say, "You know the purity of my intention, be my witness. Save my heart, save my soul. Save me from ruin."

The result comes out in my favor. I take it as a sign. I know where I'm heading.

I see a person in my dream. I wake up happy. It's a sign. I must capture it into words before it slips away. I type down the entire dream and email it to the person it involves. The need to share it is strongly felt. I get no reply. I understand. It doesn't affect my short-lived happiness. I know I will always remember it.

I detect traces of lies and contradictions in statements every now and then. I don't take it as a sign. Everyone makes mistakes when they are scared. It does not matter what has been beside of what will be. I will make it happen. I send an areeza beseeching both my Masters resting in Karbala. It has my deepest prayer. Later that day, I fall asleep and see a dream where I am prostrating in haram of Hazrat Abbas, weeping bitterly and repeating to Him that He knows what my heart desires. I wake up with tears in my eyes. I am reading the sign. It is like I have conquered every blessing.
The latter part of the dream is not very satisfying. I cannot interpret its significance. I choose to ignore it. It continues to bother me. I pray hard.

I read somewhere that reciting Dua-e-Tawassul fulfills every legitimate prayer. I listen in majalis that no prayer is denied when you pray through Waseela-e-Abbas. I have strong faith. I sit under His Alam and punctually recite Dua-e-Tawassul every Thursday. It does wonders for me.
I will not immediately understand when my most earnest prayer will be denied. It will come to me only later.

The year is coming to an end. I reflect upon 2013. This year changed my life. It will be Twenty Fourteen in a little over a month. Two Thousand and Fourteen. I have a lot of expectations from the coming year. It will decide the course of my life. I shall not say it out loud. It will jinx it. But I have faith.

It's New Year's eve. I feel something slipping away. I express myself out loud and vow to stay by through all which would follow. I get no reply. But I know love better. It does not need to be proven. I have felt it and I know it is there. I have faith.
The year ends.

2014 begins. The world flips upside down. I am lost in the middle of nowhere. I suffer in silence. I revel in my pain. I become immune to it. I spend nights wide awake in a hope. A wait permanently settles into my subconscious. The dreams stop appearing to me and I fall out of my sleep at intervals. I get no answer.

I jinxed it.

I still pray regularly.

It's been a couple of months. Why is my faith taking so long? I log in my email account after ages for an assignment, I find another email instead. My faith has been in constant action even when I thought it isn't. It gives me hope. I get to exchange only a couple of emails with the sender. He disappears again without completing the discourse.
I continue to intuitively check my mails till this date.

I am told a million things. I choose to register none. I am told how I have been hurt. I am explained the 'nature' of betrayal. I continue to wash my faith with my tears. I fall sick. I have lost my ability to dream.

I give up all hopes and condition myself to go with the flow. The one who had disappeared suddenly shows up. I am told another long tale as a closure. I am too numb to react. I promise to keep it a secret, and I let the person go. I wallow in my sorrow. My story comes to an end. I pray harder.

I move to our new house. I have trouble letting go. My faith tells me it is for the better. I make peace with it.  I delete every word that I had kept close. The memory remains. I still cherish it in my wandering thoughts.
Inside, I am a mess. Outside, I am beginning to improve. The one who had presented closure, shows up again. I am hearing the voice after so long. It swells my heart, but I cannot say. I think this is the last time; but the broken bond is suddenly revived. I am perplexed. Is it that easy? It makes no sense. How can I go back being the same person that I was? Where do I find compensation for that which is lost? My wounds are deepened, but I do not say. My silence is misinterpreted like all other times. I am accused of insincerity. The person abandons me again. I have never hurt anyone. Why did it happen to me? I pour out all my grievances in an areeza to Imam Hussain. I make Him a witness to every tear I have shed in the quietest of nights. I tell Him to remember all my vows I had made and from Him I seek justice and from Him I expect comfort. My faith is intact. I still pray.

I get to receive numerous remarks. I stay silent because I am still just numb by how much it hurts. I tell myself that one who has hurt me would have by now realized. I will forgive if forgiveness be asked. I am proven wrong when the person shows up yet again only to tell me that it was all my fault and I am remembered as someone who withdrew. All my efforts so conveniently disregarded. It tears me apart. I choose to stay strong on the surface.

I fall sick again.

I see my family worried. I see my friends distressed. I question my faith. I get no answer. I stop praying.

I am in a hospital. A friend comes to see me. She holds my hand and asks me to have faith. I cannot hold my tears. We both cry. I feel something break inside me. I think I have lost connection. My prayers are returned unanswered.

I remember listening in a majlis in my childhood of how God doesn't forgive the one who has hurt you as long as you don't. I remember how I have always fancied myself as someone capable of forgiving. I realize now that I am not. I choose not to forgive. It fuels my fire. It keeps me going.

I receive a call from a friend living across the seas. She tells me she has finally got the answer to her 'why' after three years. I am happy for her. It gives me hope.

I have no plans. I continue my semester. I am 21. My family has other plans for me. I don't have the capacity. I tell them I need time. They understand.
It is the same time of the year. One year behind the line, I wasn't broken. Now I need every piece to run right again. I still don't have my answer. I am searching for a lyrical poetry, I come across a Persian Nasheed of Bay Taha Bay Yaseen instead. I internalize it in my bones. The sound of it comforts my shattered soul.

The one who was gone, showed for the nth time dragging me back yet again. I am exposed to the number of lies I was ever told. The person knew all along that it was never my fault, yet the accusations. I don't know where the limits are anymore. Love. Shock. Disgust. Pain. Anger. The possibilities life could have touched had truth been told earlier. The battles I would have taken had this love been just as honest as true as it said it was. There is so much that can never be said again. I have a number of questions to ask, a number of things to tell; I say none. It is ironical how something that I had so earnestly longed for at one point, has arrived so late, that it doesn't even matter anymore.
I am slowly joining the dots... The necessity to forgive is not felt. The pain lives - but I know now.
I have my answer.

For although I had stopped praying, I still had my connection. It was never lost, only disrupted. Neither were my prayers returned unanswered nor denied, only delayed. This calls for a prayer. A prayer of gratitude. My faith has won.

*

The Euphoria was mine all along. I will keep it. I get a part of inspiration for the fifth and final sequel of my Euphoria from Abbas Ali Khan's rendition of a Sufi kalaam composed by Baba Gulzar Sabri. Of all the contemporary music I have listened to, none of it can beat the gravity and soulfulness of this song.

 Nah hai ibteda mere ishq ki, nah hai inteha mere ishq ki.

Mera ishq hee hai mera khuda, mujhay aur koe khuda nah dey.

Mujhay baar baar sada nah dey,

meri hasraton ko hawa nah dey.

Mujhay aashiqo'n mei shumaar kar, mujhay aashiqi ka sila nah dey.

(Neither does my love have a beginning, nor does my love have an end.

My love alone is my God, don't give me any other.

Don't call me to yourself again and again,

don't inflame my hopeless longings.

Consider me among the noble lovers, do not reward me for love.)

~ ~ ~

I adhere to certain values. I do what is right. It is faith.

* * *

It happens again. I find myself thinking of the time gone; I rejoice in my pain. Ten minutes later, I receive a message... I hear what I had yearned to hear at one point.
The second day I am composing random rhyming couplets about a lost golden butterfly. The memory is active in my thoughts. I receive another message. The pain is reinforced. It angers me. It also compels me to do what I may have done had it not come this late.
What do I do? How do I escape from it? Help me, God. It does mean something. Show me what has it come for? I have faith in You.
It is the third day, I subconsciously anticipate for yet another message. And as I type this down, I receive a notice - and not a message - that my number has suddenly been blocked. What is it, a sign? It is God's answer. It is Him telling that the time to let go of the hurt has finally come. The last link is broken. I will not hear from the one gone ever again... It's beginning to settle in. It is finally time to let go. My chest hurts, and down flows the stream of tears. It is beyond my control. I must heave out all my pain in this one last lament.

My faith is renewed.