the bitter sweet break

The absence from blog was filled by sounds, the crash bang sound of a speeding car hitting my bike, dragging me a bit then shoving me to the wayside and still miraculously not killing me.

The doctors too wondered how could I not sustain fractures and all. There were abrasions, cuts and bruises that have healed leaving the scars.

But there was Eid afterwards – as if the hiatus between my last blog and now was a microcosm of life with near misses, pain and the shift of the pendulum towards blessings and joy.

The sounds filling my mind right now are that of the whispering rain, the chirping birds and a certain John Denver also singing about filling up his senses.

 

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The Rain Romance

Islamabad is having the first prolonged downpour of the current monsoon which remained largely dry to frustrate the expectations of respite from a blistering hot summer with unprecedented electricity cut offs.

Such a late arrival of the much needed rain is bound to bring gratitude and bliss. The clouds were ripe right from the last night and one couldn’t wait for the wine to be squeezed by the divine hands. The mild tipper-tapper like the whisper of the beloved woke me early this morning and it wasn’t long before we embraced in a hug of love.

The pouring rain fills a vast chunk in the largely bereft world of my romance; it melts my heart in to a deluge of emotions. I feel as if there is no worry in the world but love. As if a beautiful guest is visiting me. I cannot recall the first sight of my love; it has been all along with me, in me. I remember how in my boyhood I’d use ride on the bicycle in the pouring rain, roaming the streets of my little town and coming back home excitedly drenched.

Today is such a day. A day to celebrate. A reminder that life is not all dull and dour. That nature is there to soothe or sorrows and give us the gift of rain.

 

Love lives vulnerable

Love doesn’t pass away.

It lingers

on the edges of conscious

waiting and seeing

the reason collapse;

 

till it labors

deep into the heart

building from the ruins

another abode;

 

only to be threatened

by a bigger thought-

construct.

 

Love lives on

though homeless,

destitute.

 

Dil usay chahay jisay aqal nahi chahti hay

khana jangi hay ajab zehn o badan may ab ke

 

Coming back to life .. or trying at least

It surely has a lot to do with my parting ways with the books – not a willful departure on my part though – that I have been finding it increasingly hard to express myself. Yet I have to admit a failure not to resist a push of practical concerns that goaded me away from the source of my joy — words.

 

Now when I am astray and almost lost I need to come back … to life. My feet, unshackled with dreams, though, will find it hard to walk those steps. I wish and hope to gather some strength.

 

Thank you wordpress for bearing with my dead state all this while.

 

Coming back to life .. or trying at least

It surely has a lot to do with my parting ways with the books – not a willful departure on my part though – that I have been finding it increasingly hard to express myself. Yet I have to admit a failure not to resist a push of practical concerns that goaded me away from the source of my joy — words.

 

Now when I am astray and almost lost I need to come back … to life. My feet, unshackled with dreams, though, will find it hard to walk those steps. I wish and hope to gather some strength.

 

Thank you wordpress for bearing with my dead state all this while.