Almas Sadique

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?