Friday, 29 June 2012

Seashells

Karachi – A tangle of tenses. The city knows no boundaries of time. Walking through the lanes of Saddar, the city is, at eye level, the twisted lanes filled with hawkers that belt out the symphony of the streets. But turn your sight heavenwards, and you are transported to the Colonial past, to gain an eyeful of the glorious remnants of British architecture. Look towards the sea, and gaze into the potential of everything we can be. From a small fishing village named Kolachi, to the sprawling magnificence of what is now Karachi, the history of Pakistan courses through the veins of the city. Karachi is the tears of subcontinental women as they sent their sons off to war. It is the frenzy of the time of Partition. It is the prayers whispered as the sun rose in a new nation. It is the ache in the weary legs of those who left behind their homes. It is the taste of salt in the wind on the beach. It is the seashell that you lift to your ear and think, “Is that the sea I hear? For it sounds just like my heartbeat.”

Tuesday, 19 June 2012

The Moment

Faces, inches away, drawing closer each second.
Eyes, fixed in a gaze of uncertainty.
I bite my lip, you lick yours, intensely nervous.
You ask, I answer, neither knowing the truth.
Time stretches. Minutes? Hours? Days, perhaps?
The world is watching, but my world is here;
your intoxicating scent, your parted mouth,
your eyes watching me, questioning.
You lean in fast, afraid to lose courage halfway.
My thoughts whirl till my mind is numb.
Your lips on mine, your heart beating a tattoo.
That was it, the moment that changed everything.

Monday, 11 June 2012

Objects

Dadi Ammi was listening to me while she thumbed her favourite brown tasbih with the missing tassels. A mosquito was buzzing around her head, and she motioned for me to kill it, still mouthing her prayers. I picked up the blue Finis spray, it was almost empty, and its top was taped on. Still chatting happily, I sprayed the insect, and Dadi Ammi smacked my thigh for spraying so close to her head. She got up slowly from her creaking charpai, her joints groaned under her weight. Crossing the small carpeted room, she lit the orange candle on her teak dresser, her wrinkled fingers caressed the engraved flowers. The flame reflected in Dada Abbu's naval crest, tenderly placed on Dadi's bedside table, worn out with age, his name barely legible.

Saturday, 2 June 2012

Pumpkin Baby

You'll be here soon,
no longer a pumpkin
residing on my sister's belly,
but a minuscule human.
You'll be as distinctive-looking
as a sack of flour,
but we'll insist we recognise 
those lips, that nose, those eyes.
And if you ever read this,
I want you to know:
You will be the world's
most gorgeous sack of floor.
Waiting for your arrival, baby.