A Woman's War

She rings him up, I have a job, assuming that she would congratulate him, he took the call, she in a petrified tone said, “I do not want to get married, not so soon.” She had dreams in a patriarchal world where women are slaved and assumed to have a sole purpose of satisfying men, objectified and believed to be a property post marriage to the men who purchase them through the ‘sacred’ union of marriage. She had a vision to surpass the stages of Maslovs hierarchy and not be magnate-d to any of the levels in the pyramid. She wanted her parents to live a life, she had dreams for them.

The nuisance saw no end to it, there was no cease, pails full of pain poured themselves upon her, from the up and sides, then the brainy chemicals played their theatrics banishing everything that had been once a companion, . She was deceived into sympathizing with those who grieve excessively, who lust inappropriately and who laugh at base things. It even goaded her into feeling these base emotions vicariously.

She thought there is no shame in indulging into these emotions because she merely indulged them with respect to a fictional characters, she had visualized people to be. It was like the smoke from the cigarette which changed colours from blue to grey within no time. She took time to prepare her goblins and Pekkas, ultimately this was her war, her clash of clans, as I had earlier stated, it was the war of a women with the world. I told her once, “Shaina, If You fail, they will not say Shaina does not have it, The men out there would say, women do not have it.”

She had observed an eschatological system which rewards virtue, particularly wisdom, she had been told that for a 1000 years, people are either rewarded in heaven or punished in hell for the sins or good deeds of their life. Despite her isolation from the coalition of chocolate boys, groups of sluggish soldiers and the silent ones hazily guarding the school wired borders who always gazed as she cat walked the ramp elegantly like that tortoise from childhood tales, but would suddenly transform into the counterpart in that tale, the rabbit, when chased by anyone from the three groups, on the way back home, there was a gloom.

Now she was away, skies away from the union of those sluggish soldiers who stood guard outside the class, on the banks of rivers, on shop sides, in the maze-d streets, it was the plague has stricken Thebes and now the citizens gather outside the palace of the king, Oedipus, asking him to take action but away she valued people and often did she engage in comparative studies, Kashmir v Down South, she always held south was better, for Once these parts of ourselves have been nourished and strengthened in this way, it flourishes in us when we are dealing with our own lives. Suddenly the fictional characters had become the grotesque sorts of people we saw on stage or heard about in epic poetry.

She was a child when she started being the “layla”to many Majnuun, early childhood, she makes an unknown call, the shadow follows her years down that date, the first proposal,  he cuts his hand, asks her to cover, hacks some facebook, gets closer to the closed, the love she is confused, baffled, puzzled, she winks disowning the guy. A book with volumes is where you can document her love stories.

She is a whole new way of looking at the world, a whole approach to truth and our bond to it. The idea and the math can be grasped by anyone who wants to. Abruptly, the rigid static cosmos is brushed away and reinstated with a personal world, related to what you watch and you transit from being remote to the universe, looking down, to one of the apparatus inside it as stated by Einstein in Relativity equation. Her dreams were precious, but as foretold she invited troubles and her dream was more precious, then to be in a relation with the boy, but she had puzzled the otherwise simple equation, the people around and then the trouble of constructing every relation on the same lines, where people praise her beauty. He was no judge, but that was his understanding that this geometrical aspiration added to her buckets of pain and was taking her away from the dream she had always dreamed.

The first glimpse at her and he absurdly found himself drenched in sweat, and then he realized it was nothing to do with her, there was the effect of the scorching sun too. For the first time in his life, he had been gripped by emotions he had never felt before. They spoke for hours and days without breaks and then he photoshot her and he noticed something unpleasant, unusual at a distance; it was the color she wore, which suddenly transited to being his favorite color, with some absurd Black, blue, green, brown. She made him colour blind, and moments later he realized that his colour blindness is inherent. But, even the perfect road has its own mysteries and turns, and it’s the ones we choose that make the difference in our lives.

She had made her choices, and he was puzzled, then petrified… now he was too scared to know her, as he was afraid that he might get lost or drown back. Or worse, find him face to face with the revulsions that were cloaked beneath the solid green foliage. But he walked on, dodging the truth; she had admirers all over, the college, whatsapp, facebook which she took pride in. Though, she abhorred to admit that. She had “Fans” praising her eyes, lips, her figure, her eyebrows, eyelids, eyelashes, her that hair, this part, let us say and what not.

The admirers went on praising her dawn to dusk, though it kept her not aloof from the real world as most of us do. We find soothe in the virtual world. We tend to please ourselves with the virtual world, attain something in virtual what we may always fail to accomplish in the real one and him.

He was a covert admirer, by all virtue.

That name I think fits him just right

there is nothing he likes about you (I think)

But, on his mind you stay day and night

Albert Camus once said, “A writer writes to a great extent to be read (as for those who say they don’t, let us admire them but not believe them).” I created a piece for her, but she was too lost in her tortoise-ic movements that her eyes did not even want to read the opening lines of it. He was told that the way he speaks is essentially meaningless meanwhile the buckets of pain kept pouring from all corners, draining the tears of blood down her pearlish eyes, she wept and wept and there was nobody to wipe off her tears, all were lost in their own struggles, while he heard Mahdi Hassan,

“Zamane Bhar ka Gham, Ya Ek Tera Gham,

Yeh Gham Hoga, Toh kitne Gham na Honge”

The troubles pushing him into rat living were thought abandoned, his mastery in skilled writing vanished, the keyboard was dusted, all shades of filth had clasped it, there were no stories to be told, the beneath earth, limitless sky, merry trees and even the joyous wind all lament the silence of stories, the keyboard was now silenced to death and the dead nonchalant of their artistic death rose higher and above to help her abandon her grieves. , Even though such intense emotions can damage one’s psyche, the work pays poorly and artistic poverty is dangerous to one’s health, and inspiration sometimes seems increasingly hard to find. But he instead stated, “Shaina You are always important here, Be the Dominant.”Let us not speak of me, He had told her limitless times assuming that someday she would at least ask him, “What was he going through..!” But she did not. He had perhaps abandoned his own fears, Mahdi Hassan had infused that courage into him. He longs for a drink of crystal-clear water or wine so that he might adequately describe the sounds of the bird mourning in his heart. Each of the five senses must be involved in worthwhile experiences, which, in turn may lead to the rebirth of worthwhile art.

Shaina was enveloped in innocence of Miss Nancy but people slowly down the years had stripped off her innocence with their lustrous sights and torn down her virtuous garments with their slouches. She had breathed through this all, But he had given her the thoughts of Freedom and taken her out of the limited cages that patriarchy had confined her to. Though the thought of freedom she envisaged would chain her further. “There is a scale Shaina, You have to understand that those who do not understand will not understand what Freedom means and what understanding you means.” 

They will judge her, in the future course. She was frank and the scale she was shrinking the guileless thoughts to, would only insult her own thoughts and her own scales and she would be doomed with expectations, hopes and definitions of the limited small-scallers. She has no caprice. She read the book three or four times, and then closed it, tried to remember all the scenes and tried to write them exactly as described by Hosseini. The book was too long. Those first 50 pages are Maryam’s story, before she meets and marries Rasheed. This was his attempt to make Shaina three-dimensional.  She thanks the Spirit of Nature for giving her such feelings, for now she has a moment and an understanding of life that she does not want to lose.

But south winds stir the human from “his summer dreams,” and programmes him into choppy chasms, making the “sapless foliage” of the dreams tremble and one wishes to be the dead leaf that the wind could bear, or a cloud it could carry, or a wave it could push. But particularly women, They are treated as subordinate beings that care only about being attractive, elegant, and meek, they buy into this oppression, and they do not have the tools to vindicate their fundamental rights or the awareness that they are in such a condition, seldom independent and tend not to exercise reason. Men place the burden of upholding chastity on a woman's shoulders.

She constantly sent him her photos, she had been a most affectionate lady, and finds peace in you, This enormous transition is what psychologists’ term as “The Nail Paint Effect”. The word was coined recently when the fact was discovered that happiness is Lays and joy is dry fruits, devotion is chicken and satisfaction is Nutella and the ultimate pleasure is a selfie and if you look good in that “You are the happiest”. It has lately been discovered that there is no reaction for the action, ridiculing Newton’s laws of Motion. Even the process of electrolysis did not work, she tried that too, I suggested learning titration, but it seemed like the Pythagoras theorem being recited to a class nursery child. She was themes such as murder, hatred, and madness, subjects that had previously only been explored in novels.

You are that one person she rings up early morning and beeps up before dozing off into peace before some inhabitants from some lands flirt, like the Devil playing a coy game of seduction with her. Meanwhile, he never professes his love for Shaina, Love would shrink what she meant to him and a mammoth emotional transition happened, now that he had become an early to rise, he dotted his sight at the phone, smoked, a glare at the phone, no calls, a smoke, she is awake, but no messages. His heart was in my throat, eyes darted to the floor and eyes terror-filled. She whispered to him in a dulcet voice “It means nothing” as sweet as any songbird.

But it meant an emotional transition, a sentimental isolation from a lady whose first glimpse had injected the thought into his mind and he had told himself, "The heart's here.”

Shaina loved non- vegetarian and bright colours at the same time, she was now fond of reading too. And when her mother travelled across the Dinars, manats and riyals and the hustle, bustle, silence, the peaks and the seas, the river and the pines, Shaina welcomed her with wide open jaws, he witness a chaste splendor with no disguise just a glimpse and his heart beats rise, he too had a mechanical look and him, he could not ask for more, as he saw her. The next weeks of her life were occupied with happiness, loaded with pleasure and suddenly she texted me, “I will miss her,” I comforted her saying that destinies are crossroads that cross every now and then if you start and are meant to lead to the same destiny. The Sweetness drifted apart and she was again left along to the mercy of the merciless world. She of course was going to miss the comfort she found in the arms of her mother.

They shopped and shopped for an entire day, holding her pigeon soft hands, they strolled the commotion  of the city, he was so lost in her that he lost what he shopped for himself, he could not tell her though, she thought she was being blamed and then silently in his blood he calligraphed,

Teri Soorat se hai Aalam mein Baharon Ko Sabaat

Teri Aankho Ke Siwa Duniya mein Rakha kya hai.

He thought he instilled in her much good sense, though a little too much tainted with town-foppery; but what recommended him most to him were some sentiments of great generosity and humanity, which occasionally dropt from her; and particularly many expressions of the highest disinterestedness in the affairs of humanity. On which subject the young gentleman delivered himself in a language which might have very well become an Arcadian shepherd of old, and which appeared very extraordinary when proceeding from the lips of a modern fine gentleman; but he was only one fine gentleman in her life (conclusive) and meant by nature for a much better character.

wondering the time they’ve spent together…!!!

Because some stories never have their end… !!!

They fought the battle of idioms and the war of quotes, the conflict of dialects and the encounters of prepositions bullet-ing and bombing eachother appallingly with hurls of abuses and verbal exploitation, he watched and heard, it was never them, it was he who faced and in the usage of ears, he found pleasure, akin to the wedding night, the boy accepted the pleasure of the first intimation and the girl accepted and never explained anything anytime. He was voiceless, he was now fighting a battle against the larger conspiracies in the world, “Goodness can produce good results.” A Conflict prevailed and he though knew the world had just fabricated this propaganda but his heart wanted to loose the battle and demonstrate the conspiracies were not at all lies, but then propaganda just helps the states and “Duly” established Governments, he was just a law abiding citizen or preordained to be that way.

Shaina had grown up in the mazes of Islamabad travelling, understanding and watchful of the loose threads that can propose any situation into certain connotation, meant merely to degrade a woman. She had grown up with stalactites, stalagmites and ice pillars, the evening Adhaan when glittering sun spread its glisten over the contiguous contours into red. She had grown up with the unhurried loud drumming of the Sehr Khan, he had seen the brimming starlit skies telling the tale of untold lands, the packed bird trees with them chirping the holy verses of thankfulness and signing the songs of infinite mercy. He always told Shaina that they were different; as they come from a strange Land of onion domes and Snow Fantasy Mountains. They’d seen fairies atop these mountains crouching with their arms hugging their knees. It is the land of invincible demons of smokeless fire, the strange Faqeer, where a Jinn is adorable, where haired snakes fly and birds, humans glide back to their nests in the evening after a busy day of work. We come from a land where crows and owls discover not only the fate of humans but also the path of love and their songs sing the infinite mercy of God. It was a land of painted wooden houses and trees, crystal snowflakes covered in glitter. Everything was conjuring and glistening.

The Glitter spread all over, 3^rd of October that year when Plotinus provided the modern anguish the means of pacifying itself in the familiar setting of the eternal, but the absurd mind is always low on luck and when the polemical games begun he thought if he was a cat among cats or a tree among trees the life would have a meaning or the problem of games would never arise. The pen got silent, he did not want to lose himself in the mintnum fragrance that eloped every cell of her body.

He drifted away as she grew stronger on her assumption that he was the disease of her life. “Space is not needed from the loved ones to be with every stranger,” he wrote.

There was this stage when the skies dropped buckets of sorrow upon her, blue is sorrow, red and pink is sorrow, her favourite black and white had become sorrow, her heart sorrow, her breath, her breath is also sorrow. Sleepless nights, they had not been together for months, but them came and enveloped her in their arms and listened as there was nobody to listen to her sorrow, she had distanced herself from all. She bid the sleepless night a farewell after they promised they will come back tomorrow.

Love- Love is a madman taking of his clothes, bleeding his arms in madness, chewing cigarette butts, sleeping on dust, wanting to run to jungles, bringing himself pain and more pain which only time can heal, but what if time is the illness?

She saw her reflection at the glossed shop years back in a window to just inquire and make sure that moment by moment she continued to exist, the fears of isolation, a partition and the extremes she had pushed her innocent self to satisfy the moral conscience of people, she no longer wanted to be the person like the innate intimacy of a song to its own word, she had held her dream within her bones, which only bones felt, so close.

When he saw her, the first thing he saw was a caged passion and he had witnessed a butterfly that is made to fly and he promised, “I will give her wings.” And like the gardener is pleased at the sight of his blooming garden, a sight of blissful her, he thought would infuse a sense of accomplishment into him. other than all the good Anti National Food they had together in the clumsy mazes of the haunted localities and the travel and travelling it required to reach this Nagar.

Almost daily, he told her that she was going to live even after she was soiled. He would die, but she would live together for ages to come, peacefully, holding hands. He couldn’t imagine life without her and yet his mind forced him to consider the painful possibility multiple times per day. Shaina, “I will scatter your tale among mankind and be trumpet of a prophecy.” But is anyone interested in Women Heroes, do we read their Tales?

As our history doth not, like a newspaper, give great characters to people who never were heard of before, nor will ever be heard of again, the reader may hence conclude, that this excellent woman will hereafter appear to be of some importance in our history.