The Cursed Creatures

It’s always your fault. You’re always wrong. You can never justify your actions. Your intentions can never be regarded as pure or good. People are always going to cast a shadow of doubt on you. You have no right to an independent life. You are not entitled to having your own, individual, unique, and beautifully different opinions. Don’t you ever dare to dream of freedom of thought and action in your life. Even your dreams need to be put chains on. Even your imagination ought to be shackled. The talks of modern and innovative notions scare the world around you and make you an outcast, subject to severe criticism. You, your personality and your life are required to be liquid-like; shaping themselves to any narrow, thin, shallow container they are forcefully poured into.


Because, you my dear, are a GIRL.

It is your fate to be the inferior one, the weaker one and the submissive one. In this world dominated by patriarchy, you are nothing but a mad, lost, unfulfilled dream. And dreams are the creatures of long, cold, gloomy nights; unable to dwell the real, bitter, unfair world of the blazing, scorching days.







Without fail, his eyes said it all always. Even when he was angry or disappointed, which was seldom, his eyes gave him away. They held the sparkle of a little boy’s eyes which shine brightly whenever he’s up to something. He smiled with his eyes and this was something that stood out in his personality.

Rough n tough.




His personality held an authority which was also reflected in his deep, hoarse voice. He held an aura of someone who’s had a lifetime of an experience in a brief time. Everything about him was so genuine and realistic. The numerous scars on his body and soul had many untold stories behind them but plainly stated the fact that he had been living his life to the full.






He was the kind of the guy you see in movies who would pick up a fight for his girl, the hero who had always the right words to win the heart of his lady and who could be a MAN and take a stand for the love of his life. There seemed no obstacle worthy enough to shake his courage and stop him from following his heart towards the endeavours of love.

He was this and much more.

A fantasy.

A dream.

A burning desire.


The world was awfully quiet, unlike the usual days when it roars and thunders to make its presence known. She did not care; she was immersed in another world of her own. That inner world was like a ship about to meet its end in a raging ocean. The wreck, the misery and the fruitlessness of the efforts are common to all whose ships are sinking. She opened the door to the night outside, the cool breeze brushed off against her cheeks. She took a deep breath and embraced the world outside.

She played many scenarios over and over in her head. Each time she viewed herself critically and each time she found herself to be NOT GUILTY. Some people are pure in every sense of the word; they have a pure heart capable of generating pure love. They are compassionate and good natured; they simply do not find the essence of hating anyone in their lives. No matter what others do to them or torture them through inexplicable ways of cruelty, such naïve people always come up with an excuse to forgive them and to bear their wretched beings. But how can you pass a brutal verdict to a soul who has just known love throughout her life? A heart who knows how to love with all its might, the eyes that keep shining with the light of hope and the lips that are decorated with the smile of optimism can never be defeated no matter what. It is not her fault that your heart is dominated by your brain, that you are so damaged that you do not know how to love or even appreciate love, or that you think that everyone who cares for you or comes near you has an agenda. There are still many beautiful souls in the world who meet others just because they want to and they like to; not merely to fulfill their hidden goals.

As she embraced the world and everything within it, she made sure it saw her in her supreme totality. The storm inside her had calmed down now as she had made peace with her inner being. The ship had fought a tremendous battle but was now on its course again. The world outside was awed, however. It rushed to challenge her; but the verdict had been passed. NOT GUILTY.

Verdict: GUILTY.

Assemble a court. Pick out as many judges as you can. Sound the trumpets, gather the masses. Bring her to judgement. Bombard her with your allegations. She is there. Dazzle all the eyes with your shiny tongue and confound all the ears with your truthful lies. Raise your hands to drink to her health while quietly whispering her to death sentence. She is there. Kill her with your false notions of love and respect and dignity and morals and values and faith. She is there. Like a steadfast rock, she is there.

She is guilty, yes. She is guilty of having the warmth of love in her heart. She is guilty of possessing the magic of hope in her bosom. Faith runs with blood in her veins. Her eyes sparkle with shiny confidence. She is guilty of giving the luxury of trust to everyone. She is guilty of giving it all in every matter, for she does not know any constraints; her feelings and her heart don’t know any boundaries. She is guilty of nurturing false notions of expectations and dreams and happy endings in that little head of hers. She is guilty of believing in magic and miracles and fairytales and love stories. She is guilty of being extraordinary and dramatic and poetic.

She is guilty; such selfless actions must be accounted for. She must be burnt alive. She must be condemned to adopt the veil of the mundane and ordinary. She must be exiled to the fires of the blazing life everyone else cooked up for her. Indeed, that is the most beautifully cruel way of pushing her off the edge, while her body still dwells this earth like a corpse.

All those in favor?

Verdict: Guilty.




What is literature? That was the very first question that every Professor threw my way during my first week of Masters in English. I was fed up (really!), going through the same answer again and again. ‘Literature is the expression of ideas, thoughts and feelings’, I would say. It eventually dawned upon me: the significance of doing that simple drill in the initial days opened my eyes to the universality and versatility of this very term. I began to see literature in a whole new perspective that I never had before.

Merriam-Webster dictionary defines literature as “written works (such as poems, plays, and novels) that are considered to be very good and to have lasting importance”; it can also be “books, articles, etc., about a particular subject” or “printed materials (such as booklets, leaflets, and brochures) that provide information about something”. Literature, in its broadest sense, consists of any written productions. There have been various attempts to define “literature”.  Simon and Delyse Ryan begin their attempt to answer the question “What is Literature?” with the observation: “The quest to discover a definition for “literature” is a road that is much traveled, though the point of arrival, if ever reached, is seldom satisfactory. Most attempted definitions are broad and vague, and they inevitably change over time. In fact, the only thing that is certain about defining literature is that the definition will change.”

 The Encyclopedia Britannica Eleventh Edition (1910–11) classifies literature as “the best expression of the best thought reduced to writing”. Coming to my own definition (which was not totally incorrect!), literature is indeed a reflection of ideologies, philosophies and dogmas. It shines light on various beliefs and views regarding economic, political, social, traditional, moral and religious settings. A plus point to this quality is timelessness; even decades and centuries after a literary masterpiece has been written, it does not lose its worth and charisma. Thus, literature is a queerly interesting encyclopedia that allows one to sneak a peek at the history of time and mankind. It is indeed a huge advantage for the kind of people (myself among them) who are terribly bored by the very notion of history. Literature narrates the tales of a certain time and peoples in history in the form of a novel, poem or even a fairytale, hence, keeping the reader spellbound and interested till the very last page.

Another aspect of literature is the expression of feelings, emotions and sentiments that, in my view, are the prime characteristics of any literary work. It allows one to explore the wildest fantasies and the deepest corners of his mind and soul. It is a hope for those who are terrified by the bitterness of harsh realities and helps them take refuge in the valleys of peace, tranquility and serenity.  Literature is the voice of one’s heart and mind that provides him with the freedom of expression. It is a thrill; it challenges and dares him to step beyond the stereotypes and traditional labels of a society. It is a device that helps him to think outside the box and color outside the defined boundaries and lines. It is a dream that urges him to move on fearlessly and courageously. It is a light; it guides many in the dark and assists countless in paving their ways through life. Literature is life, for it beats in every masterpiece ever written by any person at any time.

Literature is every bit and fragment of the thoughts that human mind can imagine, but most of all, it is a delight, an immense pleasure and relaxing pastime. It is what soothes one with a hot cup of coffee in bed during the night. It is a companion that travels with him during a long journey. It is the fountain that quenches his thirst for adventure by taking him to places far off. It is the wand that fulfills his desires for fantasy, magic and mystery. Thanks to literature, we have this all-in-one package! Salman Rushdie shares his opinion about literature as,

“It is literature which for me opened the mysterious and decisive doors of imagination and understanding. To see the way others see. To think the way others think. And above all, to feel.”



Do you know what doesn’t make a sound? The dying hopes. The lost willpower. The unsaid words. The unfulfilled promises. The misplaced anger. The false trust. The broken friendships. The unrequited love. The cold betrayal. The undeserved punishments. The stained loyalty. The lonely outbursts. The unslept nights. The tender emotions. The fragile nature. The slaughtered wishes. The aching body. The unshed tears. The swollen eyes. The dead dreams. Do you know what doesn’t make a noise? A breaking heart.



Grazie Vita!

All it took was just a moment. It always takes just a moment. A moment to shake up your world, to change your life as you knew it. The milestones you had reached, brick by brick, the monuments you had made, piece by piece, the heights you had touched, all ripped off the wall of your existence. Days and weeks and months and years and ages of struggle and love, patience and resilience, courage and hope, are brought to trial in a single moment. A moment is the separation between a smile and a tear.

But all it took was a moment. It always takes just a moment Amico. A moment to transform. It takes merely a moment to face the music of the deeds of your sentimental, spontaneous, instinctive personality. Only a moment is required to see through the sheer recklessness and plain brutality inflicted upon you. In that lapse of a moment, you open your eyes to the actuality of reality; you reflect upon the pains you took to accommodate people in your life, and their real face shown in the mirror doesn’t look quite so fascinating anymore. People are ferocious and vicious, but covered with facades of affection and love. When the time comes, it takes only a moment for them to throw away all that mattered to you in the garbage.

So, all it took was a moment. It always takes just a moment. You took only a moment to enlighten your own way towards this luminous path. You sip on your tears. You mutter a silent prayer. And you close it with a massive iron lock in your heart. Obviously, it still aches to think to what happened, to fall from such a zenith and pushed by none others than those closest to you, yet you bear it all. Because pain demands to be felt. You cannot deny its presence, but you learn to learn from it. You learn to move away from all the darkness that was trying to engulf you and you, oh you little Light! You kept flickering and never going out completely. That’s what you are supposed to do Amico. Shine as bright as you can. Smile as wide as you can. Take that moment and live it. For it is that moment that vanishes those tears and curves your lips into a smile.

Winter is Coming

It’s a beautiful day. The winter is announcing its arrival by the chilly cold breeze gushing across my face. It is making my feet and legs go numb for I am too feeble to bear any intensity. Yet I don’t mind it, after all I have waited long enough to cherish this winter. I have born the scorching, dehydrating heat of the summers to reach to this most awaited winter. Winter is coming, finally.

Only now do I realize the futility of my long, desperate wait. Here they are, the long, unending nights that I was so longing for. But I have been denied their pleasures, I have been exiled to the realms of loneliness and misery. I have been dethroned from my kingdom of tranquility and peace, only to suffer alone in the desert of redemption and regret. I have all what I asked for yet here I stand empty handed. The heart beats but has lost the one it beat for. My prayers have been answered but my wishes have been refused.


Once upon a time there was a beautiful, comely garden. The garden was nothing less than a heavenly, sublime piece of land on the otherwise barren, arid region. It housed innumerable creatures, plants, trees, insects, birds, small animals; all of whom granted the garden it’s enticing, bewitching grandeur and serenity. The halcyon garden thus got its name- Baagh-e- Arzoo– the Garden of Wishes; for it resembled Eden and offered such peace and tranquility that everyone wishes for.

Every object, creature and organism that surfaced in the Baagh was extraordinary and marvellous in its own way. But everything was put into shade by one particular being the newly born Rose. She had just opened her eyes to the magical land of beauty but it seemed as though it was she who was the benefactor of all that glory and majesty. She was so little, and somewhat confused and hesitant to have become a part of such a big, wide world. She was wrapped in her green sepals that were accomplishing the crucial task of protecting this newcomer. Despite their utmost efforts, they were unwillingly revealing the blood-red of the petals inside. The soft, red petals were peeping shyly out of the cover of their protecting sepals. The Garden of Wishes seemed to be boasting off its pride in the form of the Rose.

The next day, to the Rose’s immense pleasure and sheer surprise, she got a visitor; a young boy of merely 10 years of age. His fair, round face was becoming crimson from all the excitement that he got from just looking at the Rose. She did not mind such attention at all; rather she was enjoying and cherishing it. The boy claimed that he loved her so much and was ready to do anything to have her always with him. The Rose believed him for she was just an innocent, little being and did not know deception or falsehood. She began to savour his remarks, attention and continued to grow into a bigger bud. But poor Rose had yet had to learn about misery and heartbreak. So one morning, the boy left; uttering harsh words that cut deep into the Rose’s heart. He had taken out the frustration and anger that he received from his parents’ fights on her, leaving her disconsolate and dejected. The blows of his severe, cutting words gave her sharp, invisible wounds. The Rose mourned and grieved over her lost love for a long time but eventually learned to focus her excruciating pain to grow. And thus, the once tiny bud now bloomed into an alluring and most appealing Rose.

The Garden blossomed with all its might for now the Rose was at its par of beauty and magnificence. The Rose had learnt her lesson; she kept herself steadfast and haughty; for many claimed to love her just to get a moment of solace with her. But life was not done teaching her yet. So on a bright day, when the sun showed mercy with its heat, and the winds endowed the atmosphere with their slight, welcoming chill, there came an admirer; a fair, tall, handsome one just in his early twenties. His elaborate looks, impressive dignity and unfaltering eloquence stole her heart. She forgot all about her misery and hurting pain of the past and kept waiting for him regularly, just to be with him, to listen to him intently as he spoke in his soft, engaging voice. A Rose without a lover is incomplete, she told him timidly, and you, My Love, complete me.

He loved her like no one else could ever do; she fell for him like no one else could ever. They were inseparable; the complemented each other in most inexplicable ways. When in the Garden, he had eyes for no one but her. When away from him, her heart ached and longed for anyone but him. Every day, the thought of being united with him propelled her to carry on her journey of life. He named her Gul-e-Arzoo-the flower of wishes. She indeed was the fruit of everyone’s wishes; for everyone desired her. The two of them were envied by all other creatures that strode on the earth they lived on. The envy proved to be a bad omen for them.

The Rose was destined to experience pain and agony; Gul-e-Arzoo was cursed to be desired by everyone but to BE no one’s. Such was written in fate; for she was again heartbroken as she got separated from her Beloved, this time due to unfavourable, rough Winds that blew hard and disintegrated her very being. The poor, fragile Rose lost its battle of love and life and its once soft, red petals now rot in the barren soil.

It so unfair. To be always on the losing side. The waiting side. To live in mere illusions. Of happiness. Of elation. To keep dreaming. Having strong impulse about a future that holds nothing but sheer harmony n peace. Madman’s dreams of Utopian world.

It’s so painful. It hurts. It’s just unbearably pinching; to keep shedding tears over such matters that when voiced, seem petty and insignificant to the world. But they don’t know, they don’t realize the momentous and humongous power they have. The sheer force with which they collide with my heart and leaving aching and bleeding. If only, ah, if only the world possessed such an aching, throbbing heart.

But it doesn’t. It doesn’t possess a heart at all. And you are just compelled to thrash n bang your head against the rocky coldness. Till you bleed. Till it claims the last drop of your life from your miserable being.