The Creatively Frustrated

Life goes on even when a father lays his son six feet under. It points and laughs at you when you make friends with the wall and wonder. It tackles and pulls you down when you're already trippin' over. It just never stops. Gives in. Lays to rest. Slows down. Takes a breather. Its a never ending circus act, giving tears and laughs to the ordinary. Life's short, shallow and even shit. Everyone's being heard, but only heard and not listened to. Its like Inception. A paradox. A dream within a dream. And you'd just keep waking up and realise that its still not the reality. Its still just a dream. But one day, one day you'll get that kick which would bring you back, to the real world. No more projections. Thats when life would really start. You were never born before. See you till then.

Wave after wave hitting the jagged rocks, Spraying the salt water all over me, I lick my lips and taste the salt, I take a breath and smell your scent. Your presence besides me Makes my existence, My hand covered by yours, Says more than words ever can. Your eyes searching mine, Find the long lost answers Of love, of truth, of hope. Overwhelming emotions, Dampen my eyes and I look beyond the vast ocean, And whisper the words in my heart, For sure you know me inside out There’s no need to say it out loud. My heart is empty of all wishes, For it would follow your soul, Whether up as you flow with the wave, Or down as it recedes. Hollow before but not any more, For your laughter fills me, Your touch ignites a longing, And your love, an eternal solace .  By: Misha.

(This is a lengthy story based on actual facts. The final episode is here! For Episode 8 click here . Enjoy!) Episode 9 (Part – 1) Maheen is sitting behind her desk. Her skin is very pale almost yellow. Her eyes are sunken into their sockets. She is signing some papers. The veins on the top of her hand stand out against her skin like a blue spider web. Saima, the secretary, comes in looking rather irritated. “Madam there is a mad hijra outside. He is insisting on seeing you. He says that you know him. He tells his name as Laila.” “Send him in.” Maheen replies without looking up. Saima looks surprised. She walks out of the door. “You can go in.” Saima informs Bahadur. Bahadur claps once loudly, “Fitay moun!” He mocks her. Bahadur enters Maheen’s room and sits down in front of her. He is in his usual womanly attire of shalwar kameez with the duppatta dangling on his shoulders and make up plastered on his face. “Salalekum!” He greets Maheen. “Walaikumasalam. I don’t want you using suc...

Sometimes I feel like running. Wind in my face, a blank road ahead all for myself. Even if I close my eyes, I wouldn’t bang into anything. If that helps to leave behind everything.. and if it really helps, I would like to run even faster. I would want to run till my limbs give up, the oxygen runs out and I am exhausted. Then I’ll just lay there thinking about oxygen and exhaustion and the annoying pain in my limbs because of the irritating lactic acid. Just that. And nothing more. Just that. I would want to run till the wind moving against me tries so hard to stop me and I’d still want to run faster than before. And every time that I am successful in defeating it, I would want to stop for a microsecond and look back and laugh at it. And then I would again want to run extremely fast, my speed ever increasing, that at one point I am no longer solid. Having left behind what made me substance, I’m just energy now, invisible, impervious, untouchable. You can’t know I’m there unles...

It might sound strange to you but I imagine people as play dough’s. Impressionable. Everyone leaves a mark; some deep, some leave behind just their fingerprints, curving and looping, touching your soul just enough. And with every touch the dough alters it shape, adjusting, changing and shifting. We've all had our ups and downs. We've all experienced heart ache and limitless joy. All of it being the result of someone or something that interacted with us at some point in time. I ask you just one question. Had you been where you are right now, without that tragedy that makes you weep at night? Or without that accomplishment that compels you to hold your head high? You may not be at peace with yourself now, but we have this uncanny ability of ‘Acceptance’. Yes, accepting that what has happened; happened to make you who you are. Sculpting your very thoughts, making you, YOU.  I am nearing the end of one chapter and turning over a new page of my life. It’s akin to com...

F unny thing about darkness. At first, it gives you creeps. Maybe because it steals from you the one thing that makes you feel you're in control. Your vision. It makes you lose your sense of power, of knowing your whereabouts, of whats to come.. But you eventually get used to it. You start getting familiar with it, and you realize how this is one thing in the world thats close to your skin. One thing you can be yourself with. No pretenses about to uncover, no fake smiles at the point of cracking, no holding away from the obvious, no holding back those tears that are begging for release. And after all those years, you find yourself looking forward to it. That time of the day, where you can slip into the never ending tunnel of darkness and find yourself.. Or maybe lose completely.

(This is a lengthy story based on actual facts. Episodes will be posted over a span of a few weeks.There are going to be NINE episodes in total. For Episode 7 click here . Enjoy!) Episode 8 Two years and a few months months later. Maheen is standing in a huge graveyard. She appears very thin and gaunt. She is staring at a small grave that is located under a very old Neem Tree. Her hands are cupped in front of her; the duppatta is on her head. She is praying. She closes her eyes; a tear escapes and falls on the grave. “Happy birthday my sweet girl.” She whispers. She bends and places a birthday card on the grave and a long stemmed red rose. She turns and walks away. Maheen sits behind her desk and types on her computer. She picks her phone. “Saima please come in my room.” Saima enters with a notepad in her hand. Maheen looks up. “I want the latest updates on the Transsexual AIDS project by this afternoon.” Maheen instructs, “I want to know everything from the room that was hired, ...

(This is a lengthy story based on actual facts. Episodes will be posted over a span of a few weeks. There are going to be NINE episodes in total. For Episode 6 click here . Enjoy!) Episode 7 Maheen is in the parking lot of the hospital. She takes out the keys from her purse and collapses on the driver’s seat. She leans her head against the steering wheel and breaks down. She cries and sobs, her shoulders shake violently with grief. She wipes her tears with the back of her hands and starts the car. Images are flashing through her mind, Sadiq holding her hand against his cheek, Sadiq spinning a bra in his hand, drunk; Sadiq beating her. She accelerates her car out of the hospital and sees an addict by the road side. She stares at him. Suddenly it occurs to her, her eyes widen in realization. She remembers the welcome party that her cousin Eemaan gave her in America. Her memories play in front of her eyes like a movie; the skinny guy coughing and then administering the morphine and th...

(This is a lengthy story based on actual facts. Episodes will be posted over a span of a few weeks. There are going to be NINE episodes in total. For Episode 5 click here . Enjoy!) Episode 6 Maheen is walking in the hospital. She looks at her watch. She is five minutes late. She approaches the receptionist who tells her to wait. Maheen sits on a sofa. She picks up a magazine about motherhood and flips through it. “Mrs. Maheen Sadiq?” A nurse announces her name. Maheen stands up and follows the nurse into the doctor’s room. “Hello Maheen! How are you feeling?” Dr. Mehnaz, the doctor dealing with her pregnancy, asks. The nurse leaves closing the door behind her. Maheen sits on the chair opposite the doctor. “I’m feeling good.” “Is anyone here with you?” “No. I came alone.” “Maheen… I’m afraid I have very bad news. It would have been better if someone from your family was here.” Maheen stares at the doctor for a few seconds. “I can handle it Dr. Mehnaz. Tell me what’s wrong.” “Do you ...

Eyes open and I am gazing out that window and still not seeing. Mind is empty of all thoughts, it’s a bliss rarely found now. Soul vacant of all expectations, a wave of happiness spreads through. Which I yet am unable to feel. And then someone along the way, points at a drop that fell from the skies. How long was the distance that it had to travel from up there, I wonder? How much did it change, from what it was when born? You think too much, I remind myself. That moment where all was forgotten; lost. The drops form a trail on the windscreen. Pitter patter. Stubbornly, it drums down with more force, thrashing on mother earth. What is it trying to prove? Ssshh. I roll down the windows and let the cool wind in. It didn’t come alone; a few raindrops unable to stay tied to the gravity and pushed inside by the breeze did too. A slight shower the entire way as I watch the roads bathe, small bubbles burst as fast as they were formed, lights reflect off the street, rain falling again...

(This is a lengthy story based on actual facts. Episodes will be posted over a span of a few weeks. There are going to be NINE episodes in total. For Episode 4 click here . Enjoy!) Episode 5 Two years have passed. Maheen is sitting in front of the mirror in the master bedroom. She is genuinely happy about something. A smile lingers on her face. She dabs perfume on both her wrists and looks at the wall clock. It is 8 ‘o’ clock. She walks in the kitchen, where the cook is busy preparing food. “Sadiq will be here any moment. Is the food ready?” Maheen asks. “Yes ma’am sahib. I have taken great care in cooking the food today. After all, it is sahibs and your first wedding anniversary.” The cook replies confidently. Maheen goes back into her room and looks out the window. She is lost in thought. Her memories of the past two years are not pleasant ones. She remembers how she fought with her parents when they had forbidden her to marry Sadiq, the images flash through her head. According ...

Ever had that feeling when you wished that you could just run away? Spacing out into your own self created world can be quite handy at times. For instance, there are times when you just can’t bear the insistent ‘yak yakkity yak’ of that plump woman standing next to you in a queue. But you’re too polite to shove a sock down her throat. So, you create an imaginary world of which the details are so vivid and crisp, that to you it’s almost; almost real. The ‘yak yak’ is tuned out to subtle hum, barely noticeable. The frequent, automated nod of your head and the occasional ‘jee jee’ assures her that you are listening. Here, your ‘escape’ spares you a bad headache later on. Like I said, it’s handy. Let’s take a grimmer scenario. Sometimes it happens so that there is such an emotional turmoil within you, that the pain no longer just remains psychological but you feel it in your bones. This is when you prefer to ‘space out’. You recreate your happy events, something that made you truly, j...

That chilly air enveloped her, Caressing as lips on skin, From between the tendrils it flowed And whispered in the deep confines. Strolling towards that frozen sun, The water licked her toes, Orange hues and shades of blue Beckoned, she wanted more. Thigh high the liquid pierced her skin, Her clothes a transparent halo, Fading warmth and numbness grew, Yet she strolled deeper still. With finger tips she teased the water As emerging ripples echoed The tiny tides gave birth to suns On that eerie icy lake. Breast deep, her breath came shallow, She knew not how to swim Yet eyes fixated on that fiery globe Burned to cure what has been wasted. Transfixed, she sighed, It was when the sun gave day to night, In the lake where dawn was a fiction, Where her truth softly wept. Her mouth, gasping, pale and wet, The water intruded her throat, It was just her and the half dome of light, Let the sun shine a light on her. (Photography and poetry by Misha.)