Once upon a time, man asked God for expression. 
So God made the eyes windows to his soul. 

As it always goes, man asked for more. 
This time he wanted a didactic device. 
An expression of pain/hurt/sadness, as well as a means to relieve the same. 
Thus, God bestowed upon him tears. 

Nevertheless, some were different from the others and they did not want to express/reveal their unhappiness each time. 
One such asked for a mask, a disguise of sorts. 
And so, a smile came into being.

Barsaati

When she had first seen it; that flush of light from the sky had excited her so. That very shaft of vertical space which balanced the deep horizontal space experienced upon entrance; and held all the other spaces together like a pivot. The space she had envisioned would fill her house with a loud gush of water. She could almost hear it washing off all her stress when she entered the house, or even as she lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. She could hear the water hitting the water inducing a noisy peace, replacing her silent disturbance. She expected so much of it, amplifying our laughter, calling everyone to dinner, bringing the mausam inside, and as her architectural lingo said, being the focal point or feature in the house.

Yet, it didn’t. That, which had impressed her so intensely, was now her biggest woe. That surge of love had changed its face, but not the force with which it hit her. The space, for which her preferred name was barsaati,was now a repulsive object for her. All it did was amplify the screaming, echo the shouting so much it was injected straight to her brain. Causing, what it could have erased – her silent disturbed-ness. Becoming the increase in the noise.  Being hated for exactly what it was loved for; being the connection. Being the means to connect, yet, being the dissection of the same connection.

She saw through it the full moon, fell in love with it all over again; whilst the hatred crept in, warning her of the impermanence of this fleeting moment of joy. Whispering to her what each day she heard through it, all that noise! which she couldn’t paint white, no matter how she tried. All that news, all those reprimands for doing the needful; and for what was her fault and what wasn’t.

She was sure the barsaati hated itself too. She felt its pain, its want to have its identity back. The plea to be home to the fountain, amplify the music borne of it. Let the glass sculpture hang from itself, illuminating it gold with the sun, and silver with the moon. Be the canvas for the mural in her dream; connect the colours of their lives to one another. Be the feature that it wanted to be. Become the marvel it had been conceived for.

Each day as she walked up beside it, she felt the same emotions flood her rushing upwards and down simultaneously; the love for what she hated, and the hate for what she loved. That marvel. That feature. That nuisance.

The best advice to me...or any other arch. student

Confidence is never created outside, by someone to you. It is something you create inside of you by being sure of what you do with time and lots of effort, which no outsider CANNOT kill. 

PS: so (1)be sure of what you do-have honest reasons (2) take time and develop-have many feed-backs and trial n errors possibly you could have, (3) effort- have no resistance to 'work more' (4) know the teacher, and know you-some times you have to believe the fact that the teacher is never the god; he's just person with all imperfections, you just present to him/ her. So if you, at least know his liking and stuff, present what you did, the way they like it; have your real reasons (sometimes) untold. He's like a client, he has his bias, so know those and present properly. Because inside of you with all untold stuff you know you are correct after going through (1), (2) & (3)

- Chamila Bambaradeniya

Thanks Chamila... :)

mere bachpan ke din

Missing how every inappropriate thing I blurted out in my 'bachpan' was forgiven and is even fondly remembered now, owing to 'na-samajh-bachpana'. Missing how Ammi used to 'laugh out loud' before any "LOL" came in-vogue. Missing how Abbu would break into songs with even the most ridiculous-tareen urdu words.

Wish the days would be as slow paced as they used to be, and the bachpan of today wouldn't be just about tech-slavery, and kids would play with make believe stuff, more than, counter strikes, x-boxes, kinects, and playstations. Miss the cheel-urii, ludos and steppos, not to mention the freedom to play on the road. Any road

Much as I want to move forward in life, and fast. I miss being little, and honestly, hamaray bachpan  mein khush hona seriously itna mehenga nahi tha. It took only two kids to play. Not two kids AND a playstation.

I remember when I was a kid, when I got eidi I would just be excited that I could have three ice-creams in the same day, or four pepsis, which-ever. Today I see kids planning to buy cell-phones!

It feels as if these cable tvs, laptops, i-pods, and so called entertainment gadgets have distanced people from each other. Not introverted, just... Not interested!

The Line between Confusion and Complexity

The time had finally arrived. They had come face to face. Confrontation had been inevitable, yet, was this the right time? Thought both. It was most difficult for the Line. In the dim, hazy, flickering light of the fireplace, she couldn’t even see him clearly. She could only hear Confusion shifting in his sofa, almost uncontrollably. His crisp ironed drapes were nothing but a forest of creases now. Complexity was late; but isn’t she always? The duration was short, but the wait, endless. Finally, the crackling of the fire and the shifting of Confusions curious drapes was interrupted by footsteps. Calm, calculated, uniform footsteps. In a mixture of panic and relief, Confusion turned around. Line gazed poignantly. One wait was over whilst the other began. The room was filled with the crackles from the fire the rocking of Complexity’s chair.

The Line wanted to break the silence, yet, couldn’t; “how strategic position takes away from one”, she thought. Complexity gazed up at the ceiling as though she could see the stars through it, while Confusion stared point blank at her, sitting as still as a statue. The fire lit their faces partially, but their emotions needed no illumination. Those almost shone through.

Complexity calmly waited, consciously testing Confusions patience. Infact, she enjoyed those moments as blessings of peace; exasperated as she was, at having to be stuck with Confusion. As expected, Confusion broke the silence.

Confusion: So how are you?

Complexity: How do I look?

Confusion: I don’t knoww

Complexity: Do you ever?

Confusion: How come you never ask me how I am?

Complexity: Cause you never know

Confusion: I wanted to discuss a few things with you.

Complexity: I’m glad to see you coming to the point – sooner than usual I note.

Confusion: Why are you so arrogant?

Complexity: You want to discuss me? Are you sure?

Confusion: No, I only wanted to discuss how we are made to cross over and mask each other

Complexity: Why? Do I not make a pleasing cover?

Line: That, is besides the point

Complexity is startled
Confusion: Please do not digress

Complexity to Line: I never knew you could speak

Line: Your constant stepping over me has forced me to. Else, my position does not allow it

Confusion to Line: If you had to do the talking yourself, why did you drag me into this?

Line: Cause you are the one who leads into this crossing over, in any direction

Complexity: you have to understand that I am your future. You are the path and I the destination, and my dear Line who does the Herculean task of keeping him separate from me, you cannot deny fate

Line: I refuse to believe “fate” shall be so unkind to me

Complexity: I would understand if Confusion said that, why you?

Confusion: Fate is not unkind to me!

Line: Indeed, ignorance IS bliss

Complexity: I see you are closer to me than him. Nevertheless, we are here to discuss something else. (Facing Confusion) You may speak

Confusion: I am sick of being used

Complexity: How so?

Confusion: Let me finish at least

Complexity: Proceed sire.

Confusion: I am sick of being at play and then masking me with you. I don’t like it when I am ‘confused’ with you. My incoherence is forcibly cohesed to convince I am you. I am sick of this pretense

Complexity: Hmm…valid, and I must say, true. Even I disagree with clarity of thought being confused with incoherence and I find it most painful to do so. Indeed, many a confused cover you with me and I am an unwilling, yet pleasing disguise.

Confusion: How do you think we can stop this?

Complexity: I think you wouldn’t like me wiping you out.

Line: What do you mean Your Arrogance?

Complexity: Ah! Of course, you’d be wiped out too.
Line: I’d be free

Complexity: My dearest, it is actually this excess of you that is causing your complaints. You are your enemy. Rarely do I not see through you; but you, you cannot tolerate a mirror, and like to please yourself with an image of me. You must learn to recognize, yet once you do, we are one and you are lost. Its your choice


Also published on facebook : https://www.facebook.com/notes/qurat-ul-ain-shamim/the-line-between-confusion-and-complexity/89379149160 

Funeral

Today, he had died. 

One of them; those who set up the stake she burnt at. 

He, had died. He who had added logs to the fire she burnt in. Yet, she had gone for his funeral. 

Gone to shed tears for him. 

He who had stood afar watching , making small talk and loud gossip of her miserable predicament. 

All the while she burnt. He just, saw. Never felt. Today, she had gone to feel sorry for him. 

He who had not cared if she lost her dignity, her life or her all. 

She was there to feel a loss of him. 

He who she had expected to smother the flames. The flames in which they cremated her alive. 

In flesh and bone. 

In sanity and trust. 

In love. 

In all. All in the name of God. 

Yet, she was there by his deathbed, to make a prayer for him. 

He who had propagated her a God-less woman.

She was in a place of power. Or so she felt.

She was giving them both a chance, both love, and life.
After them having taken all chances with her, it was now her turn.
So oblivious to feeling she was, that she could now sit and watch.
From a place above: a place of comfort, for her; and a place of discomfort, for them.
She would let them play, but not give them cues; make no reactions, just see how it goes on.
Make no moves, just wait for their next move. She was so initiative-less, yet powerful.
For a change, she was watching, and they were watchful.
She was awaited, and they were waiting.
It was she who was in control, of herself; and not them, in control of her.
She was in a place of power.
Or so.
She felt.