Emotional Chaos

 I know heart must flutter when one is about to get detached, if not detached, distant atleast, from something he has been close to . But when I was asked of how I felt in those last days of college, I felt nothing. Neither was my heart stuffed with any tightness nor did my brain sensed any upcoming distress . I was also not in the clan of "I have been dragged and put into this confinement without my will. Thank God this is ending for I cant wait to leave this hell and get the taste of real heaven outside " . As I said, I was indifferent. I felt nothing. I didnt pay any heed to it. I prefer leaving myself untouched when I am having my episodic temporary phlegmatic state of living in the real world with a dream like constitute.  But I can say that Nishtar has been a peace to me. A place or a person who gets you unwind the tensed wires of your mind and heart and convey a sense of peace is Home. Its called home, Right! Night walks on The Road inside Nishtar is one of the things ...

 BUT HE IS A ‘MAN’! After spending the whole day ,  venting out my frustration by fiercely speaking about how my society and your society never bothered helping oppressed gender aka girls, grow wings, and fly and get the taste of broad blue skies ,I was casually walking across the road as I saw him. I saw him . My eyes stopped right into his eyes and through his eyes I collapsed and fell deep into some unknown dark pit.       He was sitting by a wall near a giant trash trunk on the freezing  road, half blurred by fog half by darkness and half by unknown sadness. Legs drawn closer to chest with head resting on folded knees as if it was too heavy for that friable soul to hold it up . Head was tilted to one side and so were the eyes. Even in that darkness I figured something pouring down from his dry empty eyes, across his cheek and making a mark across  dirt laden beautifully crafted face. . A person, who looked like an old discarded mannequin ,arou...

          One day, I'll be an old lady telling my grandchildren the stories about how I had a perfect childhood just because it had an annual tour to village and may be getting slowly yet suddenly detached from that village was a perfect disaster in itself for I would have never realized how intensely my soul could crave for such apparently petty things as sitting in a mud houses on a charpai under a keekar tree and drwaing paintings with a wooden stick on soil underneath my feet .I would never have realized that even beauties of Kashmir would never be a replacement to that beauty of Punjab.         My sane mind has no idea how those days got lost . For it still craves those restless sleepless nights a day before going to village, excitements of boarding a train and unnecessary childish fear of missing it and then riding donkey cart to ultimately reach that humbled small mud house . How that wooden half broken half mended door was the mo...