After several days of trying to understand where love goes when people are no longer there to receive it, I came to the conclusion love is on an island that everyone has forgotten about.
When I arrive, everything decays with conditions of affection-drought. I crawl over broken and jagged items: shelves and tables, desks and chairs, sofas and beds. There are so many trinkets and souvenirs, I find it difficult to distinguish the island and objects' separation. …
After therapy sessions, it is occurring to me how my parents (perhaps, most desi parents) never really grow as parents. A person would be a very different parent to a baby and to a teenager because the needs and vulnerabilities of these two development stages are so different.
In fact, a parent would need to be a very different kind of parent to a toddler and a ten-year-old.
But in Pakistan, I feel that parental growth stagnates sometime around when a child is 12–13. Sometimes, it happens even before that. None of our parents really talk to us about puberty…
Recently, a swarm of certain types of Instagram posts regarding mental health has left me feeling extremely uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely happy that the current generations are more open in talking about mental health.
However, at the same time, there are certain undertones (at times, completely overtones) of capitalism surrounding these conversations. Take Instagram, for example. Every other day, I come across various trending posts (usually by social media influencers but those are a different story that deserves their own post) which discuss and swear by certain individualized products that can help you feel “much better.”
I once read that when the idea of god first came into existence and when god first had power, she was feminine. But she was not called “god,” she was a supreme being.
A supreme being that represented everything that came to be understood as feminine. Fertility, birth, life, growth, nurture. People watered their lands and buried their newborn’s placenta in the earth and she would reward them with flourishing crops, good harvest, sunshine and rain.
She was everything they needed for their agriculture to grow. She represented the promise of a future that would prove fruitful. …
My house has always felt like a hotel. People come over, take over, and proceed to make you feel guilty for all the things you don’t have and also for the things you do. You’re expected to bend over backwards, to go out of your way and comfort zone to make sure the guests are comfortable at the expense of your own.
My mother practically lies on the floor so that they all can walk over her. If it were up to her, she’d hand them machetes for shoes so it hurts her more.
Her food is an extension of…
“Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday. I can’t be sure.”
While on a recent trip (literally) with my friends, Meursault’s opening words from The Stranger kept reverberating in my head.
I don’t really ascribe to any labels nor do I know the meaning of life or have anything figured out. I am very cynical when it comes to these things because I feel like there’s always this uncertainty; everything we think we know is literally based on what we know in the present time and could be rejected anytime in the future.
There’s no final stamp that okay this is…
I was asked to describe you
And it took me some time to think it through,
but I answered with seasons.
Because when I think of you like that, I can plot your changing personality like you’re some difficult mathematics graphing equation that takes me numerous trials and errors to perfect but when I do, the joy is so profound I forget some questions are never meant to be answered.
Summer was the season where you kept your hair the longest and I found it really ironic because you hated the sweat and the clamminess associated with summer and there…
Tinges of musings, imagery, and literary flair wrapped in lowkey contemptuous words.