Her favourite sound in the entire world

Maleeha grew up without a father. On a cheerful, sunny afternoon of her fourth year, her father had passed away silently, in his sleep. The doctors said it was a painless, natural death.
Maleeha was sleeping between her parents at that time, under the single, whirring fan of their bedroom, on a lazy Sunday. The echoing sound of Azaan for the Asar prayers roused her from sleep and she blinked to adjust to the sunlight filling the room. She tilted her head slightly and reached out to tap her father’s shoulder. Her father was a light sleeper and usually a gentle tap on the shoulder was all that was needed to wake him up. When he didn’t open his eyes and squint at her in that usual, funny way which always made Maleeha laugh, she hopped on top of him and kissed his cheek. Surely, that would rouse him! And then when that didn’t work either, she decided it was time to pull out the bigger guns. So after stealing a quick glance at her oblivious mother, Maleeha started jumping up and down on her father’s tummy. A few seconds of that woke her mother up, but her father remained asleep. Suddenly, a wild thought came into Maleeha’s mind and her eyes widened mid-jump. She stopped and leaned down. She put her head on her father’s chest, where just two days ago he had told her his heart was. At that time he had pulled Maleeha close, her head on his chest, so she could hear his heartbeat. She had told him that it was her favourite sound in the entire world and asked if he could please record it for her so she could listen to it on their new computer. And he had laughed heartily. Then he had told her she could just put her head to his chest when she wanted to hear it. But at this moment, when she put her head to his chest, she heard nothing.

After listening to silence intently for a few seconds, she asked her mother if hearts stopped beating when people slept. Her mother told her she was probably listening at the wrong place and called out to he husband that it was time for Asar and he needed to wake up. When he didn’t stir, she called out again and shook him. Still no response. That was when she became worried. She pulled Maleeha off of him and put her own head to his chest. No heartbeat. She checked his pulse where there was none. She called out to him again and again, in disbelief and panic, frantically. She shook his arms. Tried again in vain. After a few minutes of this, she just lay there beside him, holding a weeping four-year old Maleeha, trying to think. But what does one think and how, when their husband just dies all of a sudden, after a promise of taking them out in the evening after waking up?
Eventually, Maleeha asked her mother what they would do now. Her mother got up and called her brother, told him, and then lay back in bed with Maleeha snuggled close to her. The child showed more maturity than could be expected of a four-year old. Her father had died, and she was trying to be brave about it. But for several years after that, all she could think about was that she only got to hear her favourite sound in the entire world once. And that she could never hear it again.

~Moniba.

Cry away

I’m at a point where everything makes me cry.

People I’ve been waiting for are finally coming? Cry.
I got the highest marks in a subject? Cry.
I got a B+? Cry.
Gifts for me? Cry.
Omelette for breakfast? Cry.
Inspiration for poetry? Cry.
Finished a great novel? Cry.
Started another? Cry.
A new blank journal for me? Cry.
A message from someone very dear? Cry.
A message from a person I avoid? Cry.
Writing a novel? Cry.
Just got a great idea that I’m excited about? Cry.
Got called in the kitchen? Cry.
Met with best friends after a long time today? Cry.
Had a great day? Cry.
Someone smiled at me? Cry.
Someone scolded me? Cry.
The wi-fi’s not working? Cry.
Everyone’s at home? Cry.
No-one’s at home? Cry.
Got a new ring for myself? Cry.

And not in joy either, but for a reason unknown. it’s depressing, this crying.
I haven’t been writing much these past days, because I knew if I tried to write, something dark and depressing would come out. I didn’t want to write dark and depressing. I don’t like dark and depressing pieces of writing. I discourage them. But I guess I’ve written one anyway. I’m sorry. I swear I’m not in depression. I’m just at that point where everything’s overwhelming and makes me cry.

But the thing is, I don’t cry. I’m strong.

“Without”

Trying to write
without words.
Trying to speak
without voice.
Trying to draw
without lines.
Trying to listen
without sound.
Trying to see
without light.
Trying to feel
without emotion.
Trying to be
without being.

Can you do the essential without the essential?

Imaginary friend(s)

Every time she entered her room, her imaginary friends asked her if she was alright. And every time she replied with an affirmative. Yes, I’m okay. Why do you ask this every time, she sometimes queried.

That one day, when they asked her if she was okay, she said “no” without a moment’s hesitation. And every time from then onward, her reply was always a negative.

They knew then, that they didn’t have to worry about her anymore. She was alright, and would be.

Golden: Tree of Life

The golden leaves, ardent in their sheen and whisper
Their slender stems, crisp in their sway and grain
The long branches, graced by gold, hazed by willowy pulchritude
The trunk, straight, firm and glistening, exalting the golden
The hidden, outreaching roots, left to imagination

Suppose the tree is life, its leaves our time
Each falling in its own momentum.
Suppose the stems are relations, and the branches emotions
Golden, brilliant, each prevailing over the other.
Suppose the trunk is purpose, and the roots your belief
The trunk firm, exalting your life; the roots hidden but obvious to the light.
The golden tree for your golden life.

~Moniba.

The story of his life

A tiny presence in the womb,
he listened to her voice
and fell in love
at first hearing.

He heard her and felt her
and tried not to hurt her,
and waited patiently
for nine whole months.
…
His happy days
began and ended
the day he breathed his first,
and his mother breathed her last.
…
The story of his life continued,
first love never forgotten,
second love never known,
third love never owned.
…
Beliefs, hopes and expectations
confused him as everything did,
he yearned and yearned to make ends meet
but never quite succeeded.

His dreams floated
in the river of his Future
where it met his Present
and passed his Past,
like unrequited love.
…
The boy deprived of love,
finally found love
when he stopped looking for it
in humans.

His dreams then ascended
from the river to the sky
and met with reality
colliding with bliss on its way.
…
Thus went the story of his life.

~Moniba.

A nobody

A nobody is
a person
of no importance.
But you, my dear
are important to me
as you always shall be.

So if you’re anything
you’re not a nobody.

But if you insist
on being
a nobody,
well then
I’ll humour you.

And say
you’re a nobody.

But allow me
to elaborate.

You are a nobody
bent on being
a somebody.
And the only thing
stopping you
from being
Somebody,
is nobody.

And hence,
we deduce,
that you
are a nobody
that is a
somebody.

Beautiful albeit damaged
by life.
Strong albeit afraid
of yourself.
Strange albeit familiar
to me.
And very
Extraordinary.

Yes, you’re a nobody.

~Moniba.