Zu’l Qarnain journeyed to Mount Qaf; He saw it was formed of a bright emerald, Forming as it were a ring round the world, Whereat all people are filled with wonder. He said, “Thou mighty hill, what are other hills? Before thee they are mere playthings.” Jalaluddin Rumi (13th century…

I keep rewriting and erasing because I am unsure how to write of the sudden loneliness that has grappled me here in Firangiland. Don’t get me wrong, I am a highly extroverted, talkative and friendly person (or so I’d like to think so). I’m mostly the storyteller of the group…

Ours is a country built by men, built for men, corrupted by men and destroyed by men. Sometimes I wish, along with the partitioning of the country, maybe they could have partitioned the men off too. Pakistani men, to be specific. Obviously, to keep a community going, as Genghis Khan-esque…

There will come a day when we shall sit in silence, absolute stillness, grey in the head and blind as a bat, our knobbly knees and shaking hands will search for meaning. Under the blanket of the night sky and the shadow of the old amaranth tree, we will speak in tongues, unfamiliar to most. The reasoning and reckoning of things, of the hows and whys as if this is the culmination of all things, the zenith

According to most fashion magazines, makeup brands and women-only talk shows; the biggest conundrum a 21st century woman should face is how to battle ageing. The little monster lurking under your skin, that resurfaces to the top in all its glory as soon as you hit your prime. But pray…

Maybe the skies were calling you, the birds circling overhead, calling your name. Maybe the storm clouds were gathering, to celebrate your homecoming. Maybe the heavens were being laden with feasts, fit enough for a king. Maybe the Earth parted in two for you, much like the Red Sea. and there you lay, in your canopied bed, lush green and smiling, adorned in white. Maybe you jest and joke now, with the angels up above. A picture of health and happiness, resting in eternal love.

Burst of gold, the showering sun hanging overhead. You do not feel the heat, only pure, unadulterated joy. Evenings grow long and the days, more languid. You relinquish in all that this world has to offer, you realise that grasping at straws will not do, will not do. You realise that in this short-lived life there is much to be done, and despair will not do. Yet you wake every living day, out of this dreary state; like the mighty amaltas in the summer sun

We will always have the tangerine sun and the bespectacled moon; engaging in mirth and a tempestuous game of hide and seek. We will always have mini monsoons and cypress trees, spiralling into the cloudless sky. Seared limbs and denim jackets, the lazy sweltering, August sun; burning into our backs. We will always have the silent, gilded, frosty nights and the warm raucous laughter. The soft smoke curling around us as we speak, we shall always have it all; In the mind’s eye, at least.

I watch the soft unfurling of the fisted flowers tiny buds, competing to reach the finish line the slight trembling of the trees swaying to the Northern winds and the gathering of the crows in the quiet, misted mornings. There isn’t much to say except watch with complete bewilderment how the world as you know transforms in the passing of the days in the shadow of the night and in just a blink of an eye