Almas Sadique

The promise of new love can send thrills down your spine, or your inner thighs, depending on the conversations that you are having and the thoughts that you are thinking. On most days, the promise of new love offers calmness in one’s life- not too much passion, no accountability, the freedom to have long conversations, and sometimes short. On most days, one can be happy with the promise of new love. It offers a certain kind of naivety that leads you to believe that all will be good. It offers what a real relationship fails to offer- a happy ending to all your days. The promise of new love comes with lonely nights where the embrace of a pillow seems enough to calm your nerves. The promise of new love seems perfect. But, then the sad nights arrive. An argument with a friend. The re-surfacing of a long buried incident. A bad day at work. Or that long-drawn sorrow that comes upon you stealthily, climbs up on you and bothers you because you do not know its origin. Those nights do not be...

Rabia sat on a rock, facing the Arabian Sea, with the Marine drive promenade behind her. She picked up a string of marigold flowers strung together to form a garland and began to pluck its petals distractedly. Meanwhile, the sun was setting into the Arabian Sea. She liked the silence at this hour. Nobody had turned up at the beach again today. While she sat on the rock listening to the sea waves and watching the birds fly back to their nests, she remembered that she had to go back home, too. Rahman would come home soon and she had to make chicken for dinner, since it was Friday. She had only started to get up, when an unfamiliar hand touched her shoulder. She turned back to look at a man. His face looked familiar but she could not remember why. Rabia woke up from sleep in haste. The man in her dreams was the one that she'd seen in a Spanish webseries the previous day. A pang of guilt engulfed her. It was a sin to even think of haram things. She decided to pray two nafl rakats ...

Last night, while I was tossing and turning in my bed, trying to go to sleep, my subconscious (which is more like another person living inside me, questioning all my decisions and serving as a companion for interaction whenever I need company) summoned some vague ideas about "pain" and pulled me in to have a full conversation about it. We argued a little about its relation to its cause and later agreed that all kinds of pains were significant, but the ones that we have to take responsibility for, are the hardest. Maybe that is why we hope secretly for someone else to take our decisions or to push us towards something hateful or to do something to us. If the source of our pain can be linked to another person, it is always easier to bear because we have the victim card to toss either at other people or at ourselves. I have spent most of my life blaming a lot of people for all the pain I've had to bear. This might be the reason as to why I haven't borne any life-alter...

I am twenty years of broken dreams bundled up in curiosity. I am too many feet deep in self pity, And no amount of kicking helps me breathe. I am too poor in grief, So, my latest muse is the worst of what I feel. Some days, I want to weed myself out, Crawl to the precipice and see if someone holds my feet. I search for the flaws that don't exist, And the pain that I am entitled to, So that this melancholia makes sense. I try, on loop, to unravel the curiosity of my being so, Only to end up vexed and forlorn. I envision slaying contentment, And then seeking it again. I am quintessentially sceptic and dissatisfied, And that's how I go through.

If I could listen to one million stories during a lifetime, I would listen to them with you, or rather, listen to you. The summers, I'd spend listening to tales of your notoriety that landed you in trouble; and the monsoons, when the smell  of petrichor would fill my nostrils, I'd talk to you about the puddles you jumped into, as a kid. Come autumn, and I'd hear you sing your favourite song, shedding all inhibitions in front of me; and during wintry nights, I'd snuggle up next to you and hear of all the overwhelming moments that rendered you speechless. The tales of your carefree days would fill the next in line-the days of Spring. Your stories theme into genres in my library-one for each season and one for every kiss. They are the lyrics that tune to the notes of your mood. They are the essence that ensues when two souls entwine.

The images of my childhood are blurred portraits. Blurred, but not inferior. They are grand and royal and beautiful. They serve as a vessel to all the happy events and the cherishable memories. The music that used to play in my brother's room, the smell of phenyl from when the floors were mopped, the sound of the fan turning at maximum speed during summers, mother's morning call on Eid and midnight hugs on my birthday--they are retained in my memory like the back of my hand; and are evoked at the sligthest mention, smell or sound of it. They are retained in my memory, not in details, but in emotions. Recently, I visited an amusement park from one of those memories and it had suddenly shrunk in size from what I could recall through my childhood memories. And so had that hospital that I used to visit as a child for my vaccines. It made me realise that all our memories are prone to subjectivity. It is always emphasised how childhood days are the best ones-full of hope, devoid of...

As the wintry chill swum across the village and engulfed its inhabitants in yet another wave of iciness, our grandma beckoned us to come sit around her in the verandah where she had lighted up the fire. The seven of us raced to reach her first, and be the lucky one to sit nearest to her and to the fire. This had been our evening tradition during all the winter vacations, for as long as I could remember. We surrounded our grandma like the planets surround the sun. She used to be the centre of our universe for the two hours that used to follow. Childhood tales, legendary stories, amusing and terrifying anecdotes followed by morals and bits of advices-these were the bits that effectively filled those two hour long sessions. That evening, however, was extraordinary. The teachings imparted that day would continue to guide me through all difficult moments in life. It was that evening when I was introduced to the concept of individualism. That evening was indeed magical-in the lessons impart...

[I wrote this story back when I was 14. This story is really close to my heart.] After school, I walked to the cafe which was located on the way to my house. I entered, took a table next to the window and ordered some french fries, a sandwich and a juice. After a few minutes, an old fellow with white hair, white beard and a broken leg entered the cafe and sat across from me. This had become my daily routine since I had come to the new city. The first time I came into the cafe, it was full. There was not an empty table. But, this old man had been kind enough to offer me a seat on his table. We began with introductions and soon started talking about our past. "You were about to tell me what happened to your family",I said. "Yeah, that", he said, leaned on his chair and began.... "It was the July of 1938 when I got married. I was 21 then. It was a love marraige and I really loved my wife a lot. For two years, we spent a peaceful life even as the world was wagin...

They say this is good. They say that is bad. They say this is true. They say that is false. They say this is moral. They say that is sin. They say this is acceptable. They say that is punishable. They decide he's enviable. They decide she's detestable. They decide your do's. They decide your dont's. What is good; what is evil: if not an inference reached through our personal versions of ideals? What are our actions and reactions, if not a physical expression of the objectivities that we have individually explored? What are our emotions, if not an articulation of our perspectives? What are we, if not a sum of our outlooks? What are people to each other, if not relative thoughts, pointed and aimed at each other?

Acknowledgement dictates effort, appreciation dictates improvement. Or rather, the propensity to achieve these dictates our effort and improvement. There was a time when my life was dictated by these exact same things. Appreciation and acknowledgement. From others. Days when the manner of criticism drove my mood. Days when I did things since I was supposed to do them. Someone once said,"Once you have done what you are supposed to do, you can't do what you want to do". You grow accustomed to a life like that. To the lies you have fed to yourself. When you first begin to do things you are supposed to do, you start a never-ending chain of all the unwanted actions that hence take place in your life. In the end, all you want is to get sucked into singularity or teleported to a parallel universe where your actions are guided by your desires and by your willingness(instead of others'), where you go out of your way to impress yourself and nobody else. Sometimes you are luck...

A wide grin stuck on my face. My eyes twinkled. My pace fastened. I was meeting my father after 35 days. The sight of him alone was enough to make me feel at home. We chatted about random things and experiences, initial feelings and the latter ones and my transcendence from living in a protected environment to living in an independent one.            A three hour road trip and fourteen hour train journey later, I was finally in the city that had always been my home. When my first trip back to my city had been confirmed, I had gone over the whole journey in my head; and I had then imagined to be filled with nostalgia as I moved through the city. But the reality quite surprised me. Instead of feeling like a guest in my city, I felt very much at home. Instead of being pricked with nostalgia, I was met with familiarity. It felt as though I had never left my city. My home did actually feel like home and it was then that I realised that some peo...

White, black, brown, dusky, bronze-coloured--yes, those are skin tones. Only skin tones. Nothing more than a mere colour. Yet, they dictate our opinions. They dictate our behaviour. They dictate our motives.  A turban wrapped around a man's head, a cross hanging from a woman's neck, red threads adorning a boy's wrist, a head scarf wrapped around a girl's head--put on any of those and get ready to be labelled as anything else but a human.  Today, if you make two individuals stand side by side and ask them,"How are you different from each other?", you are most likely to get a reply involving comparison on the basis of physical appearance, colour, religion and nationality. Nothing too significant-it seems. But then, these little points of comparison take on us individuals as the basis to get into fights and wars. How trivial it seems when a little kid uses slangs to insult his/her healthy or darker friend or when he/she crushes their friend's beliefs thro...

The rains have always got out the poetic side or the writer in me, say a lot of people. For me, the rains have a far deeper meaning and importance. Under the "feel good" emotions are a flurry of reasons for their commencement. The monsoons have always been my best friend, not only because they bring rain or because my birthday falls during the season, but because they bring along an atmosphere that subtly sets my mood to its best. Be it the light drizzle, the petrichor, the thunder, the lightning, the dark grey clouds and later on the clear blue sky when the drops have been shed, or the heavy rainfall thundering onto the ground like bullets, and even the hefty and dense downfall that belittles everyone and everything, I love it all. Unlike a lot of people, I like to watch the rains from afar instead of getting wet. I feel like it helps me look at the bigger picture, like the way a particular drop came and fell onto the ground (instead of a shower that wet me and went its own ...

Dreams. A six letter word. Four consonants and two vowels. A normal word. Insignificant. Ordinary. And then you dwell on its meaning. There's a world in those six letters. Your world. Or rather the world you'd like to have. And then another world, for another person. And so on for every person. I wonder how this six letter word that seemed so insignificant and ordinary in spelling and pronounciation could hold so much of importance, so much of weight, something that has the power to guide anyone's life--alone and fearless. Its beauty lies in its modesty. Behind that sweetness and simplicity, is a guiding light, a light that dispels darkness and a light that ensures hopefullness, a light that helps garner confidence and a light that sticks a smile to your face. For as long as I can remember, my guiding hands, namely my parents, teachers etc have put forth before me the importance of simplicity and the beauty of modesty. But, today, I've found myself a role model. Yes...