Vocal Silence

  Are you tired of following grueling diet plans for your kid, trying to balance his intake of carbs and proteins? Do you get fed up of constantly facing failure in this regard. We as adults often try to mediate mealtimes by bribing the kids with the promise of a cookie upon tasting a new vegetable , or committing to TV time as reward for finishing the plate. However, this interference of ours undermines the innate ability of kids to eat intuitively. You will often observe kids creating a havoc at dinner time, overturning food platters and yet at times they would come barging in your room reporting hunger and demanding snacks. This might fed you up and you may feel as if you are unable to fulfill their required calorie intake. This is where we all are at fault. We have an inbuilt system that connects our digestive system and brains, automatically signaling an urge to eat when we feel hungry. Help little ones eat according to their appetite and become healthy eaters rather tha...

 (An engaging story written to personify alphabets for young children) She sang her sweet song and strolled through the lush jungle. As she went deeper into the forest, she heard a panicked cry. It was the roar of a lion, but it sounded like the animal was in great distress. She looked around but there was no one in sight. Her heart started to plummet. Something strange must have happened. I must see what is wrong. She   followed the anguished roar deeper into forest until she came across a lion who was bound in a net. “Oh finally, someone heard my cries! Please save me! Free me from this net!” pleaded the lion. “The hunters will come at dawn, and if they find me here, they will cut me up and have me for their lunch.” The girl was confused. What if the lion pounced on her the instant she freed him? She was scared of his strength. “How do I know that you will not attack me once I save your life? You must promise to let me go in return for my kindness.” conditioned th...

Every time I begin to write, there is a mad rush of emotions and ideas in my head and with all the words teeming in my head I can only commit to paper an insufficient ‘Hi’. HI! ‘Hi’ a greeting to my pen for again becoming my companion in my journey to interpret that which has been a mystery long before anyone knew how to fashion a pen, recognize the impression of the ink, and appreciate its ability to knit a tale with threads from our insignificant and chaotic lives. I do not intend to undermine our lives when I call them insignificant but merely comment on the very short passage of time we all survive and hence comes the pen which grants our temporary existence immortality – immortality as can be boasted of by an ordinary being- immortality that should right be called ‘longevity.’

A broken heart Hurts more than shattered glass, And for long. For long does it recall the pang of fear; The fear of being broken once again. It recoils, Within itself, Never offering itself over again to be crushed Even if you promise it wouldn't happen so again: I am a bad learner, My heart not so! For even when I release its grip from the scalding memory of the past It folds unto itself in fear of another unassuming coal, Another unexpected blow, One more shattering, And of many more.

He passed away on 10 th Sept’ 17, 18 th of Zilhajj. So silently. I got a message of his demise but I hadn’t checked it till the fall of dusk when I put my head on the pillow to rest. I had not anticipated it. Never anticipated it. That was the day to be merry. I had to get up after a brief rest and get dressed for an engagement celebration. I was restless that day. Uncomfortable. But I had not anticipated that message. It was a significant day for me, 18 th of Zilhajj, the death anniversary of Hazrat Usman Ghani R.A. I was lying on the bed recalling the love of the Prophet P.B.U.H for H.Usman Zun-Nurain telling myself that I will offer two rakaat as esaal-e-sawaab for him as soon as I get up. But then I got the message and I could not sleep. I lied there with tears running down my cheeks, and even as they dried up on my face I still stood frozen on the threshold of a new world where Maqbool Sahab had stopped existing. I have heard he had grown extremely frail before his death. ...

Black. Black is beautiful for it does not require explanation. It is the negation of everything. Absence of colours. Not an absence of meaning for I intend it for a purpose, the purpose being to escape. Sometimes I wish for life to cease – end into the abyss of darkness, the blackness of my slumbers. Sometimes I wish to escape my identity – an identity awarded to me by others where people recognize me for my smile and joviality. I feel lost when that smile disappears and yes it disappears. Disappears for days. For endless, excruciating days when I do not know how to move forward, how to make sense of events and incidents for my identity has marooned me. That smile that disappears leaves me handicapped. Those days I lean on black, mirroring the wistfulness of my life when my mind exhorts me to be myself as if I am nothing other than radiance and positivity but my heart – my heart asks me to just stop – disappear, disappear into nothing and black is the best way for this to b...

In tribute to a person who though was only assigned to teach us academia but taught us so much more. This piece saw its first draft on 21st August 2017 when I had the opportunity to once again sit in her class and observe her interact with a new batch of students and see them as inspired by her as we still are. With love, for Miss Qurrat-ul-Ain Raza! Define beauty anew! Define it through her; In how she sits surrounded by eager vessels Pouring forth her wisdom in words. Arousing the silent, slumbering minds with just an insight into the ‘House of Cards,’ That lounges so peacefully in their sight; the sight that has never till now been taught to tear asunder the weak foundations of all that has been layered in front of it for years. This ‘House of Cards’ she teaches them, is not all! She takes them by their hands, pulling them across the damping overcast pall And this theatric reveal of the world beyond all occurs in that room; Where I sit and silently observe, ...

How helpless is the man in face of death, how humbling an experience this encounter is, for nature does not let you linger long on your grief, does not allow you to break away disillusioned from the temporal existence of the world. We may abandon food for a day, every morsel a banal lump enforced into our mouths, but within three days, the fog descends again, clouding our eyes so that we again forget our own inevitable demise that hogs our lifeline, cutting it short. Within three days, our baser desires resurface, gradually then growing into the hedonistic monsters that keep us so busy in the seek of the unachieveable satisfaction. Yes, we cry. For long we cry. In vain we cry. Alone we cry. We cry commemorating the anniversaries of our grief - daily, monthly, yearly - we mark days on the calendar, the days we survived,the days our grief was not powerful enough to overcome us, the days life again won - and grief took a sideline. We count days and months of when for the others our grief...

Ache: Brought about by confusion When we latch onto pain for so long That then things stop making sense. And from behind the veil of suffering, the word ache blurs into achay Leaving me confused evermore And I pondered over it Over what tickled her to ask me to write on achay (nice) when I was in pain Inattentive to anything remotely good around And I tried unsuccessfully to blend the word achay with meaningful English words. My efforts were comical- Not sliding easily from the tongue Struggling against the gulf of "irshaad" and "silence of anticipation;" Two cultures; One that appreciated talent with raucousness, appreciating, encouraging- Satisfied with the artist knowing the art Invigouring the mehfil with echoes of "waah waah." The other culture more benign, Silently beseeching the artist to preach And through rapt attention they would learn, Trying to master words as the artist uttered Considering the talent not imbued from birth, Or at least not l...

In the past year so much changed, So much so that words have failed, Relegated into hollow silence, Of unrealized sentiments Sentiments had they been translated, They would have spoken of increasing unfamiliarity. We might have shared our past At one time, In one place, But no longer do we choose to share our lives We choose not to lay ourselves open, Raw, Raw to scrutiny Because may be we fear we have changed And change had never been so ominous, So uninvited, Than it is today. Maybe, maybe because we ourselves do not like the change we cultivated, Acquired, Ingrained And we fear had this change be realized Rectified, We all will break, Scatter So it’s easier to slowly drift away, Afloat on the arms of time, To peacefully let these relations recede back into the expanse of cherished memories Without the tumult that comes with recognized differences Preserving the illusion of a strong bond That never faltered Until life came in Knocking persistently with ...

Written almost two and a half years ago (in 2014) What is Change? Nothing Strange, Change- When from earth a shoot breaks free. Change: When it grows into a tree. Change: When then the ground it again meets. But its change minor that matters most. A seed sprouts when negligent in the soil, A forest brought about by saplings many, A flower so delicate when ripens into a fruit,   It’s all a change minor, but it matters the most. A child born is hope An evil boy, spanking can do nothing about- But ever even a little act of kindness, Can light a candle in his soul: Warming him. And from evil changing his course. Big is the change that is seen, Whether it be from barren to green Or from being evil to becoming a human being, Small is the difference by which it is brought- It is in fact change small that can really change all. Image source: http://starstray.deviantart.com/art/seasonal-change-185408732

"Morality is doing what is right regardless of what you're told." Morality is the ability to distinguish between what is right and wrong. However when we talk about morality, we not only allude to that knowledge but the then overpowering urge to adhere to righteousness, which is in actual the import of possessing morality.: To be able to align yourselves with what you consider right. Henry Adam considers this sense of discretion to be a luxury.. a word we have oft heard in regards of expensive indulgences that provide comfort but are not essential for survival or even for a moderately comfortable life. So when he dubs morality to be a luxury what does he actually mean? Does he mean morality is expensive but then how so because we are not charged money for our decisions or per say?? Or does he mean that morality comes bearing comfort? If we scale morality against the word luxury as we often describe it, then it appears that morality does yield comfort. It does so by rel...

Books tell tales. We often talk about how books preserve stories from another time, era or region allowing you to experience what the writer went through and the mindset his ideas originated from. But how often do we consider that the book may be confidante of the reader's life? How often do we consider that the book may be entrusted with another life, another tale within its pages, privy to itself alone, and thus the story becomes all the more precious for its claim on individuality.

I am shocked and appalled at the behaviour of fellow Muslims towards the shrines of Aulia-e-Allah which they wrongly believe to be the strongholds of shirk, thinking that masses of people worship these maza'arat. I wouldn't go in a long debate on this but if we learn the Ahadith of the Prophet P.B.U.H, these allegations would have nullified themselves before gaining any popularity. At one occasion holy Prophet P.B.U.H has been quoted to have said: "By Allah! I am not afraid t hat you will worship others along with Allah after my death" (Bukhari - Volume 2, book 23, number 428). Now what you believe is upon you but what I question is why do we teach religious harmony by propagating the celebration of Christmas (a festival which explicitly praises Hazrat Isa A.S as the son of Allah which is definitely shirk), dubbing it as religious tolerance and yet we act extremely intolerant towards sects in our own religion especially when we have no inside knowledge about them...

Khamosh Ae Dil! Bhari Mehfil Mein Chillana Nahin Acha Adab Pehla Qareena Hai Mohabbat Ke Qareenon Mein Silent, O Heart! Crying in the full assembly is not good Decorum is the most important etiquette among the ways of Love (Allama Iqbal, Bang-e-dara: 058) Mohabbat. Love. MOHABBAT. How often we go around telling others we love them and how seldom do we mean it. You may say you mean it every time and that your heart is boundless in its capacity to love and that we love many people for their many different attributes. I would not nullify any of these arguments because yes heart is akin to an abounding vessel that gushes with love but that does not mean every next person you meet "is love <3."Love is when you are completely smitten with somebody and here steps in the element of respect. If you really love somebody you admire them, silently from a distance. You follow their movements ardently just like a moth chases a light, attentively. One would ask why are you required...

I always enjoyed being a spectator of my life. It wasn't something inherent I had, this ability to watch from the sidelines, but it was carefully cultivated with gentle ministration of faith in the Superior. But sometimes I wonder if it is carelessness, selfishness that makes me so calm in all turmoils because I don't share anyone's pain? Have I grown to be cold hearted? Or maybe my parents are shielding me from all the heartache by absorbing it all for their own? I don't like this existence where everyone is fighting so furiously against fate but I stand still, meeting it like a welcome friend despite the grave news it bears. Tell me is it faith or carelessness because I want to know?

How do you define anger in colours, For my anger is blind? My anger is a prison for my tears, So it is a cocoon of insensitivity That chooses to undermine my fears, My hurt. My anger is blind. It was pruned to be so With incessant jabs to my inner self. I was picked on, bullied And crying was a sure way to invite more fingers to myself. So I learnt to lock my lips such that not a sigh escapes. I fixed my eyes on a wall ahead, Unblinkingly, so that the dozen tears swimming in my eyes did not catch light. And even then I failed. I was called a wimp, A cry baby, A pussy. And all these became words I began to loathe. So I switched to anger, Angry exhibition of my inner self! I screamed so that no one picks up the tremor in my voice. I screamed and shouted, And my wide eyes became an expression of fury and disrespect. At least I was no longer a wimp, A cry baby, A pussy. Till this day I cannot decide, whether being disrespectful, rude and temperate are any better words. My anger is blind. I...

I am so sad to see the state of parents nowadays. The disrespect that they face from their children is so heart crushing but it's more tormenting to see other parents laugh at this mistreatment, unbeknownst, that somewhere in the unconscious of the child's mind they are encouraging this very disrespectful behavior towards themselves in their old age. It's pathetic how these parents laugh on the tragedy of fellow parents rather than mourning the plight all the parents are facing in near future and working towards averting it.

Joy! Rapture! The deep feeling in your stomach that makes you restless yet you do not want to be bereft of it. I don't know whether it's just to call this feeling fireworks for I don't know if I would enjoy the feeling of miniature rockets going off in my stomach but I sure enjoy this feeling. I latch onto it with the tenacity of a child for whom his parents are entirely capable of fulfilling his every demand and thus he staunchly demands his wishes until they attain fulfillment. People say "this" is a blessing and "that" is a blessing, Absolute wealth is a blessing or an uncompromised health is a blessing. Commanding respect is the absolute pinnacle of blessing, or garnering love is it. What one always fails to point out is that being able to "feel joy" is a blessing and there can be no arguments about it. I have seen people with immeasurable wealth look with yearning at succulent desserts that their money could afford yet their body could n...