My Little Love Story

I had the complete teenage experience.

Towards the end of high school, I met a boy who seemed mysterious and wonderfully complex. He looked as if he had a deliciously dramatic life where no one understood him and where his sullen, brooding voice kept getting lost in the crowd.

He played the drums and listened to violent music. And he had lots of goals he wanted to achieve in some glorious far off future.

I was drawn like moth to the proverbial flame.

He wanted to be a rockstar, singer, songwriter, drummer. I wanted to know where he got the confidence from. I mistook ego for maturity.

He was my Three Days Grace phase; I took long nighttime walks in the garden with my music blaring to ‘sort out’ all our problems. And my life was full of drama and complexities and hurt and laughter and pain.

Hey, whoever says teenage love isn’t real love, needs a reality check. Teenage love brings its own suffering – you have to be in it to understand. And once having been there, you should not let yourself forget.

Then my exotic and mysterious relationship took a dramatic plunge. And I don’t mean a jump. I mean a losing-control-of-the-car-and-it-skids-and-crashes-off-a-mountain-and-rolls-to-the-jagged-rocks-below. That is what happened.

His complicated ways and deep emotions became too much to handle and at one point there was too much grief for there to be any love left.

And then one day I woke up to find that the love was gone. The feeling that made me attach myself to him had quietly packed its bags and tiptoed out at some point during the night. I felt free.

I broke his heart once. And never looked back.

Okay maybe that’s not entirely true. I looked back, but my feet stayed planted forward.

And maybe at some point in the future, I’ll write about the love I found later. The kind of love that doesn’t need flash powder and smoke screens. The kind of boy…man, that is sunny days and endless skies and green grass. The kind of love where pain is only a whisper, and even then, is silenced in a millisecond. The kind of man that doesn’t need to be mysterious in order to be interesting. He is my best friend, and he is me, and I him.

No, that is too close to the heart.

Hey teenage me, you pulled through.

Lahori Blues

I moved to the desert last year. I didn’t know the land’s history, or the shades of its people, or the ways in which the dialect twists and curls when spoken.

I never knew sandstorms and I’d never seen so many beige buildings. And then I met them: the Pakistanis who had grown up in this country. I know them, and I cannot relate.

How can I relate when they haven’t seen Lahore with child’s eyes like I have?

They’ve never had a paratha roll from the tiny yet prolific Karachi Barbeque in food street. Steamy garlic chicken filling wrapped in chewy paratha and lathered in mysterious white brown sauce. And an ice cold Coke in an ice cold glass bottle with a straw. 

I have a bucketload of aunts, grandmothers, cousins and uncles in Lahore. Our laughter spills over like rainwater when we’re together. And then there’s always a Pakistani wedding. How many people here have attended a shaadi? The weeks of prep work before a dance can be prepared, clothes can be stitched and tantrums can be thrown. Also, it is very halal for male and females to dance together.

How many people here have had the chance to almost dislocate their shoulders with a bhangra? A good bhangra with family can keep you happy for days. There is nothing like Punjabi music and people who love to dance.

When I was in school, I would take my modest five or ten rupees and ask for greasy rolls (rumoured to be fried in motor oil), naan kabab, and juice. Sometimes, when I could wrangle more money from mom, I’d get a small carton of icy Milo or an ice cream.

Where I live, if we see a Ferrari whoosh by, there is one of two invariable reactions. Either people’s faces pool into reverence, or they start making fun of the car and its driver. We subsist on Toyotas and the occasional motorbike.

People here have not had real falooda. There is no fruit in falooda. Let me reiterate that. No fruit. That is the Indian version. Falooda in Lahore is a clay bowl filled with cold noodles, milk, cream, ice chips, and a kulfi on top. 

Lahore is laughing with family when there’s no electricity for hours on end, going out with cousins and pooling money because we never have enough for a McDonalds meal, seeing junkies sleeping in public parks and entire families loitering at the airport, talking your way out of speeding tickets, collecting Eidi by the handful, having to speak in Punjabi with grandparents, listening to their political ravings, getting days off from school because strike or rainfall or too much heat, seeing trees everywhere imaginable, sharing food, laughter, and affection.

That is my city. What is the Pakistani way in Qatar like?


One Of Those Nights

Sometimes there are those nights,

you know,

when the moon wears a watery halo

and the sea seems to be sewn into the sky;

grey and white waves

sailing and ripping through the dark,

lined in silver.

Gliding and leaving no mark.

These are the nights that make me feel


You know,

The kind of lucky you feel when

you’ve been given all of what you don’t think you deserve.


I have a boy who loves me.

Another heart to share this night with.

You know,

the kind of heart that beats with my own;

I know he’s awake somewhere,

looking up at the purple sky,

breathing in the universe.

I know,

because I feel his eyes on my patch of sky;

He is in my atmosphere.


And I know this because

I wasn’t always so lucky:

I tried to live in my mother’s shadow.

You know,

we all do it.

But she wasn’t one to think about the stars.

Her shadow broke mine

and left it behind;

a pulsating, live thing.

A child’s heart that never was young.


I have a sister I adore;

she’s beginning to expand and stretch

Mind and body and soul;

you know,

The kind of growing up we all have to do.

She notices the night sky

but says nothing.

Maybe it makes her think of dreams

she thinks she’s too young to have;

stolen kisses and whispers and such.

What do I know of a 16 year olds thoughts?

I know my sky,

dotted through with silver points.

I know the tingling scent of jasmine;

I feel the goose bumps that line my bare arms;

I hear the faint chirps of resilient crickets,

and I see the wings on my back.

I can breathe it all,

in, out, in, out;

He is the universe.

Eternally mine.


As A College Student In The Real World…

Being in college is being in the real world. 

A professor offered this nugget in class today. 

And even though I don’t own real estate, a manicured lawn or a squall of mewling offspring, I feel like a real person. Living the real life. Doing real things.

I mean, where else but college would you have to rush to meetings after classes, inhale morsels in that 10 minute window between lectures, and then also be expected to have a passable social life. I don’t think adults in the “real world” understand what it’s like to learn new information, make notes, organize meetings, attend events, scarf down meals, channel appropriate emotions, prioritize people and things and books. And then be answerable: to a parent, a professor, a friend, or an inner conscience. 

Undergrads are savants of the part-time. We have part-time jobs, part-time school, part-time thinking time, part-time part-timing and full time expectations. 

I don’t remember a time when I’ve had a moment to myself. A singular shining bubble of encapsulated time where I could think about where I’m going in life, or what I should be doing. I just know what I have to do, and how much time I have to get it done.

And the questions. Professors will ask why you missed class, parents will ask where you’ve been, friends will ask for time; rinse and repeat. 

This is real life, and these are real problems. Take a deep breath and plod on.

Also, call your mom, just to say hi.


Before You Go Tripping In Love

He looks at you.
the gaze with the half lidded eyes;
He sees you,
As you.

When you don’t see him,
his eyes
are plastered open:
He tells his friends
about you;
As a thing to possess.

And in that neon bright room
with burning minds,
the questions begin;
You’re on the table
as an insect,

The way your legs curve,
or your hands;
He calls them ugly,
they laugh;
And they think about you,
as an object.

And the next day,
your cheeks are pink tinged;
You confess an attraction,
his friends will hear it

He’s shiny and penny bright,
and worth just as much.
You’re a story to
high five over;
I’m telling you child,
trust not him
nor you,
open your eyes.

About The Woman Who Raised Me

The woman who raised me is not my mother.

The woman who raised me is not a mother.


This woman has a tiny heart, and a smaller spirit.

I have learned this the hard way.


She was always too busy to read me bedtime stories but never too occupied to later point out the adolescent acne that spotted my face.


And now whenever we meet, she laughs and tells me I’ve gained quite a bit of weight.

And then she compares her legs to mine and makes me believe I am inferior.

She makes me believe I mean less.


To understand her, you must first understand the man who raised me.

He always had time for stories and games and long talks over bittersweet cocoa.

He read my poems and stories and made me believe I meant the world.


He also had a wandering eye.


But the man who raised me loves me to no end.

And the woman who raised me resents it, and me.


And today, the woman who raised me resented the gold pendant the man put around my neck.

She stomped her feet quite a bit.

The man who raised me had a gold chain for my sister. He quietly presented this one to the woman who raised me.

And she took it.

My sister’s bauble around her throat.


The woman who raised me has taken and taken, and then taken some more.

I have nothing left to give but resentment.

She is welcome to it.


I always say I grew up without a mother.

I will never be anything like the woman who raised me.

Bird In A Doll’s House

When I was younger, there used to be times when misguided little birds would accidentally fly inside the house. The thought of those tiny sparrows straying in from the open skies to the four walls of my home continued to interest me. The bird would hop from the shelf to the television, then on to the chandelier, and then fly in circles trying to find an open window.

All I wanted then was to catch the bird and keep it in the house. I wanted to put it in my pink doll’s house and act like I had a live doll. It seemed like such a good pet to have; this bird that had wandered into the human world.

The bird would peck at tables, alight on the fridge and examine these objects with so much curiosity; it fascinated me. It seemed like a child’s dream.

My mom would always open a window and let it zip out. She’d tell me she wasn’t ready to host a houseguest covered in feathers. Plus, who’d take care of it? 

I would whine, feeling like something had been taken from me.

Until two months ago, when a freckled brown sparrow whirred into my room through a frayed part of the mesh screen. It flew to my dresser, knocked over a jar of beads, pecked at a necklace, and tried to put its tiny head through a bronze hoop. 

My little sister wanted to keep it. She promised to feed, clean, and pet it, if only i’d let her keep it!

But, what would it eat? How would it eat? Where would it perch? What if it would be lonely? What about bird diseases? And what if it died? And most of all, it couldn’t live in the human world, with our gizmos and gadgets and alien possessions.

I looked at my sister’s drooping face, opened the window, and let the bird fly out to the sky.

And now I understand.


Sometimes I wish I could have been a child forever. 

How To Be Proud Of Your Thin Skin

I have a new mantra for you. 

Over-feeling is not a bad thing.

Going through the world with your heart on your sleeve is not a bad thing.

Feeling others’ pain as you would your own is not a bad thing.

Taking things to heart and hurting is not a bad thing.

There are people who will ask you to toughen up, brave the world, grow a thicker skin. These people feel the world’s pain on a daily basis, and have learnt to weave shields.

Being the hugger, the sympathizer, the caregiver, is not a bad thing.

Loving too much, too deeply or too often, is not a bad thing.

Saying thank you with tears in your eyes is not a bad thing.

Being overwhelmed by situations and people is not a bad thing.

Aching is not a bad thing.

Feeling others’ emotions as you would your own is both a blessing and a curse.

You will be loved, and you will be shunned.

You, are not a bad thing.

Know that.

How To Love Your Looking Glass

What do you see when you look in the mirror?

Do you see you?

You have bumpy bits and wobbly bits and parts of you you wish you could photoshop away. It doesn’t work that way.

To throw some ideas out there, for example: What do you need for the perfect bikini body?

Why, a bikini, and a body, of course. What more?

You are not your waistline, or your pores, or your thighs, or your forehead, or all the things you think are wrong with you. You are confused. Between what you see “out there” on the internet, and T.V, and magazines, and what real people are, in real life.

Because you know, if all of us were actually six foot tall models with legs up to our ears, we’d be pretty ordinary.

There’s sunshine in your smile, and your eyes light up when you laugh. There’s kindness in your voice when you meet a stranger on the street. A million good wishes follow you like whispers, wherever you go, from all the people you love. 

For all the things you wish you could be, there are a thousand things you already are.

You’re you. And no one can appreciate you more than you can.

And until you love you, shoulders and neck and thighs and pores and all, nobody else will be able to.

“To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance,” – Oscar Wilde


The Coward Does It With A Kiss…

Have you ever loved someone so much that it takes over an entire city?

The walls of your home have sponged up bits of the love you had. And now they’ve turned on you.

Every street you walk on, each corner you turn, it’s there. The love, it stares you in the face. The rain coaxes it out of the ground; it crawls up with the writhing earthworms.

The love has taken so much of you, there’s so little left.

A textbook romance, and now it suffocates you.

You know you want stability. But then the love knocks you out. It knows your tricks, when you wrapped your shivering self in it and slept warm.

It’s in the perfume you wear, and the clothes that are second skin and the whole damn city reeks of it.

I changed countries, people and possessions. I started to breathe freely again.

Then I came back. And all the air got sucked out.

I should have listened to Wilde.

It’s so, so much more difficult to kill the love itself.

Leave me alone.

“If You’re Going To Have Two Faces…”

You know those people who walk around with their heads high and look like they’ll slap you if you say hi?

I’m one of them, or so I’ve been told.

But, I’m nothing like that once you get to know me. I have a big mouth sometimes, I’m outspoken and sometimes tactless.

All my flaws are on the outside, and once I become friends with someone, I’m loyal to a fault.

And then you know those people, who’re easy to talk to, cheerful and ever overly helpful?

Once you get to know them, you find their other face. All their flaws are on the inside, sharpened to prickly polished points.

If I could change just one law of nature, it’d be the layers people have. The ones with their flaws on the outside, those are the ones worth bothering with. They don’t make friends for the sake of it, but actually work and keep them. Because they’re secure in their faults, and display them loud and proud.

I found another face in a person I called friend. And I ran. And am still running.

When you find someone who isn’t instantly likable, make more of an effort. Their quirks and issues are out there for the world to see. And their hearts are that much purer.

Also, it’s easier when there’s one face to talk to.

              Source: dollface801

Avoid confusion, make genuine friends.

How Mr. Darcy Proposed Under Meg’s Umbrella In Hogwarts

I bought an umbrella from China. A frilly edged, white and pink parasol with a neat wooden handle, glossy and polished.

Walking to class in the morning with the sun trying to burn my skin, I had a sudden vision of Meg going to the Gardiners’ house for the weekend, and deploring the umbrella Mrs. March gets her. She wanted a black one with a white handle, and got a green one instead.

Now, let me explain. This is out of Lousia May Alcott’s Little Women. For those of you who have not read it, please do so now. You’re missing out.

My point is, though, that books have a particular way of nestling themselves into one’s subconscious. Quite a few times I find myself “recalling” a memory, which turns out to be something from a book I’ve read in the past.

Often times, I’ve found myself “remembering” the creaking gables and snow crusted lattices of Wuthering Heights. And the lantern-lit looming corridors of Hogwarts. I’ve smelled the musty odor that lingered in Miss Havisham’s halls, and seen the crumbling wedding dress.

All it takes is one whiff, one image, and I fall into the pages of one book or another.

I look at everyday situations through the eyes of my favourite characters. Their conflicts are mine, and when they resolve them, I cheer. I learn. Every time I pick up a novel, I learn. All about conflict, war, love, tragedy, pain and gladness.

Oh, Elizabeth, it was your pride that refused Mr. Darcy that first time. But you fought battles with yourself afterwards, and then the world started to make sense.

Yellowed pages will always be my home.