A pigeon’s fate

When I was not carrying your burden, my feet weighed as light as the feathers of a homing pigeon. My soul as pure as the whiteness of its body. My wings carried me high and above, taking me wherever I wanted.

But you plucked on my feathers and made quills out of them. Dipping them in my blood, you wrote my life, my destiny for me. How far was I supposed to go? Who was I to meet? All my decisions were in your hands.

You built fresh nests around me and asked me to lay eggs and each time when I refused, you built walls around me, their levels as high as your insecurities.

Now I can barely catch a glimpse of the painted glass windows of the house nearby. They have always joined my screams when you would go away. And I know once I am completely confined in these walls, my screams will not be muffled, rather, they will be so loud, loud enough to explode those windows and send sharp shards flying all around. And at that point I would wish deeply in my heart for one of those to find your way and pierce through your rough and callous skin. I want you to bleed, I want you to cry in pain and then with those broken shards I want to write the destiny of your life, just like you wrote mine.

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Morning to evening

My mom calls me in the morning and talks about random stuff, we talk for about 15 minutes and she mentions my grandfather being sick, to pray for him and to call him up. I tell her I would (thinking in my brain maybe I won’t. Don’t think of me as a heartless person. I hardly ever talked to my grandfather. Even if I did give him a call, he wouldn’t recognize me. He’s been going through old age senility for a while.) I made a mental note to still give him a call.

7:22 p.m. my phone rings and it’s my mom, she never calls twice in a day, so I am assuming there could be two reasons:

  1. She pressed the button by mistake
  2. Something bad happened

I pick up the phone and try to pay extra attention to her voice, it does feel coarse, like it’s breaking and then in an instant she is crying and telling me her father passed away.

“My mother already passed away, my father has passed away too,” she says crying like a baby.

I stop in my tracks, I open my mouth but no words come out, then in an instant I am knocked back to my senses…all I can think of is the statement we Muslims say when someone dies: Indeed from God we came and to God do we return. And after that I don’t know what to say to my grieving mother…

She tells me she’s getting ready to leave for the funeral…and then she hangs up.

She hangs up and my brain hangs up too.

I was never emotionally attached to my grandfather, not even to the slightest bit but I do feel something. I feel like someone punched me in my stomach…like I can’t breathe well. Nothing feels good, I don’t wanna talk to anyone, I just want to lock myself in the room and stare blankly at the wall.

I don’t know what’s going on in my brain, maybe I am thinking how quick it was, morning and evening, poof! Like how fleeting this life can be. Poof! Just like that you can one day go. You could be young, you could be old, but you go, you do go, no one stays.

Or may be I am just feeling for my poor mom, who lost both her parents within two years.

I don’t know whats going on, but I know one thing, I am certainly not in the state I was before the call and I can’t shrug past it..and don’t want to or else I would be a heartless person.

Slog

This prompt makes me think about that childhood poem about the dog who slept like a log. That’s all I remember from that poem and every time I come across a piece of log, my thoughts travel back to the same association.

But slog isn’t in any way the same thing, in fact its the opposite of that lazy dog that slept like a log. Slog is that dog that slept, woke up and began working. He chased a few squirrels, played with his master, learnt a few tricks but still had enough energy to keep going.

Log on the other hand slept and slept, he slept till noon and woke up with a bright sun hanging up in the sky. Log indolently walked around in search of food, he wanted the food to appear to him, he was too “tired” to play or run, he just was so sleepy all the time.

Each one of us has a “Log” or “Slog” experience in our lives. We just have to decide how often we choose the right one.

via Daily Prompt: Slog

Daily Prompt: Sep 4

Narrative an unconscious action in the form of a poem

Flavored Yogurt

Standing in the kitchen

I ate flavored yogurt,

It was strawberry flavored I think

One after the other

a spoonful in my mouth

like an unconscious task

my thoughts in a bundle

swirling in the uncertainty

what if?

But…

Unanswered questions,

in the twirls of my brain

I eat it all up,

and throw the cup in the bin

The taste of my mouth

after 2 hours

tells me it was a custard

not a yogurt.

 

Daily Prompt: Sep 1

You burnt yourself, describe the experience.

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So I chose this prompt because I burnt myself two hours ago and I am typing with one hand. Here’s what happened:

There were two pots on stove, I was taking some meat stock from the one at the back and adding it to the one on front.

The pot on the front had gravy cooking at high temperature. So I dug my right hand into the pot at the back and got some stock in the spoon and at the same time with my left hand I opened the lid of the pot on the front.

Suddenly the dragon from Shrek lurked out and unleashed a ball of steam on my arm.

“Argghhhhhhhhhh,” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

“I told you not to disturb me when I am resting! Grrrrrrrr,” she snarled.

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I watched the monster disappear into its den. “What the hell?” I looked on utterly confused, in pain.

Instantly I rushed cold water over my forearm…it was pink, the color of courage the cowardly dog.

“Aoooooooooooo,” I let out a painful howl.

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Gathering some ice from the freezer, I emptied the cubes in a zip-lock bag and began applying it to the affected area.

After a few minutes I could feel a difference but not long before the water  in the zip-lock fell to normal temperature…..

“Crucio!” yelled someone from a distance. My wrist split open in excruciating pain, it felt like my arm was paralyzed and someone was dropping molten lava on it.

I rushed back to the freezer and emptied more ice into the zip-lock, the curse was lifted in an instant.

I narrated the horrific incident to Baymax and he recommended I visit Madam Pomfery who would be able to help me with one of Madam Sprout’s herbal ointment.

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God bless Baymax, I heeded to his advice and ran straight to Madam Pomfery who applied an orange paste on my arm and within a few hours I was healed!


 

Oldie’s Gold

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Begum Shabana was notorious in her neighborhood and among her relatives for her love of gold. She wore two huge bangles in one arm and six thin ones in the other, a couple of rings of which she usually boasted of one belonging to the royal diamond family.

On weddings however, if you had to exclude her face somehow, anyone would be sure to mistake her for the bride. A long malaa (necklace) that she claimed her nephew brought from India was a standard wear along with other items on weddings.

Once Begum Shabana attended a wedding from her neighborhood, the banquet of  Jamal, Mrs Furqan’s son, one of her close friends. A plate in hand, she advanced to dwell into some biryani, unaware of her malaa dipping into a bowl of raita (yogurt). She attended the whole wedding unaware of the malaa submerged in raita and the smears of it on her bright green silk Kameez. Surprisingly, no one pointed it out to her, possibly everyone was having a laugh out of it.

She was sort of the chatty aunties that don’t refrain from backbiting and commenting on other’s clothes and accessories and had the weirdest hacks to offer like her famous totka of how to relieve constipation in five easy steps.

5 easy steps to relieve constipation by Begum Shabana:

  1. Do 15 squats
  2. Use an Indian toilet, if not available use a potty stool for Western toilets.
  3. Let it all out
  4. If it doesn’t cooperate
  5. Damn that shit

The first time Begum traveled to Saudi Arabia to visit her sister, she was very nervous, which resulted in an upset stomach. In the restroom, she hastily looked around for Muslim shower or a lota, but in vain. Once she dumped the carcass of the morning paratha chai, she used plenty of toilet rolls to clean herself and still wasn’t satisfied which led to a marathon of constant spill of tap water everywhere. Before leaving she accidentally peeked at the remains of her bodily functions which she forgot to flush. The required button was nowhere to be found. After what took her about a few minutes, she was about to give up, when a blue button with a finger sign caught her eye. “Tap”

In the following seconds, Begum’s screams could be heard all around. Two air hostesses knocked at the door and informed her that they were breaking in, opening the latch from outside, they opened the door to a horrified Begum covered in her own dump, the walls of the toilet were decorated with it too. Face red hot, begum couldn’t utter a word, the air hostesses advised her to stay calm. Upon her request, her husband was beckoned to help with the agony that befell his poor wife.

No one would have known of this story if Begum wouldn’t have shared it with her daughter, who weak in her stomach, couldn’t resist narrating it to her sister in Pakistan, who too in excuse of her stomach bug issues, in return shared the tale with her best friend who happened to be the far neighbor of Begum. Hence the embarrassing news spread in Begum’s neighborhood and by the time she was back, everyone had enjoyed the piece at least once over a chat session.

Begum didn’t learn her lesson even after getting bitten so bad in the back, she carried on bad mouthing her neighbors who she thought were just jealous of her vacation to Saudi Arabia. She narrated stories of the Umrah and how she shoved people away to get the kiss of hajar-a-aswad stone, singing her praises of piousness and how lucky she was to offer 8 nafals at the Roza. 

Last but not the least, the amount of gold she bought was also a necessary part of the discussion.