She is a mask. She used to be a person. The person needed hiding. So she wore a mask; and added layers to it; layers over layers. The mask stayed on for so long, she became the mask and the mask became her. There is no person behind the mask anymore. Just a mask. Remove it, and you shall see a hollow face; a face-not a person, mind you. Remove it, and you shall see a shell of what used to be. Remove it, and you shall see withered roses, blunt thorns, lifeless daises, burnt grass. Remove it, and you shall see neglected needs, untold stories, a long-forgotten life.Remove it, and you shall see another mask. It used to be a person. The person was stifled and suffocated and gasped for air. I strangled her.
Originally posted on The Indian Reverted Muslimah...:
Bismillahir Rahmaanir Raheem.
As salamu alai kum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh.
Ramadhan is here! Yes, I too am excited like you. Ramadhan last year was a learning experience for me. It changed me a lot as a muslimah. Subhanallah. This month last year, healed me. For I know, I overcame depression with the help of Allah (subhana wa ta’aala) alone. It is hard to believe that a year has gone by and I still hold that month so close to my heart. Very often, I look back and feel thankful for having gained so much in this year. Indeed, closeness to Allah (subhana wa ta’aala) is what I am most thankful for. Isn’t it a mercy in itself that you are able to comprehend His (subhana wa ta’aala) blessings?
Say: O My servants who have transgressed against their own souls, despair not of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah…
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A magical blanket which changes colours with the passage of time is our sky. It has sequins and a crescent embedded on it. The sequins are of all sizes, but there is one that is bigger than all others that are visible. They glint and they squint, they blink and they wink, down at the wearer of the magical blanket.
The crescent, and the big sequin, they glow fiercely, and continuously, no winks nor smiles, they seem angry and sorrowful. They hold secrets unkown to the world. The secrets could kill, the secrets could put the human race in permanent shock. The sun and the moon are the keepers of those secrets, helping each other stay alive even when the burden grows too great.
The secret: This blanket will one day be folded. And before that, it will throw out its stuffing, the stars and the moons will vanish. Then as it folds, it’ll leave the human underneath in whatever state they occupy, but vulnerable and unable to fend themselves.
The sky will deceive the very ones that it gave shade to, for as long as it existed.
Two children had an early morning today. They decided not to disturb their parents and played a game of jigsaw puzzles between the two of them.They couldn’t even complete the game, it was time for school. Grudgingly, they left the game half completed, on their dining table, and left for school. Their mother smiled at them from the door, reminded them to finish their lunch which she had prepared like everyday, so lovingly.
But then, they had an early night as well. Hours before night was to come. It is 5 pm. They are not back yet. The jigsaw puzzle remains unfinished. The only difference-they’re a little wet, and very salty.
Today has been tragic. A school of Peshawar, Pakistan was attacked by some ruthless, heartless, vile militants. A hundred children died. For nothing. A hundred stories like the one above. A hundred early nights. Way too early. Let this not be about a school, a city, a province, a country, or a religion. Let this be about those children. Let this also be about their teachers, about the people who died trying to save them. Let this be about bleeding hearts. Let this be about dead little humans, and about alive little humans. Let this be about this tragedy. Cry. Be remorseful. Depress yourself. Let everything be gloomy. Let the sun vanish, let the clouds go grey, let the dark prevail.
And then think of those children. Think of their rosy cheeks, bright smiles, colourful eyes, beautiful lives. Let that colour your life. Breathe it in. Breathe them in. For their souls are now all around you. Let that colour seep in, absorb it. Then make their deaths worthwhile. Finish that jigsaw puzzle.
Listen to her smile
Look at her sighs
Taste her fears
Touch her words
Smell her thoughts
Feel her being
Her smile speaks
Her sighs have colour
Her fears are bland
Her words are wax
Her thoughts like smoke
Her entire being….
And it demands to be felt differently.
She doesn’t speak. She’s five years old but she doesn’t speak. Born in a poor village, she lives with seven siblings, she has never spoken. She listens, she looks, she points and claps-but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even try to speak. Sometimes when her family doesn’t respond to her signals, or doesn’t pay attention to her, she produces one word with full stress so that it sounds as if she’s singing it; “Ammmaaa!”. That is the only word she has ever spoken. And the irony is, she doesn’t have a mother.