Just Giving

Sometimes you have to visit the less fortunate for a much needed lesson in humanity.

Once someone told me that, ‘the giving hand is better than the receiving hand; because God does not cause the giving hand to be the receiving hand’.

I had made this the cornerstone of my life, until ironically, I had in relative abundance.

Unfortunate, I know.

The act of giving is religious, morally and culturally celebrated since the beginning of time and will be celebrated till the very end. What makes me so confident in making this statement is not only stories and tales, fictitious and non-fictitious, that I may have heard over the course of my life, but even present day experiences of the act of just giving.

To sustain and nurture this level of empathy and love for God’s creations softens the very  hard of hearts, or it should do if one calls themselves human.

Personally, it reignited what once was a flame. It is a way of thinking that inspires a way of life.

This thinking overtime helps towards the genesis of a conscience as clear as droplets of glacial water, trickling down and feeding what rivers of the Himalayan region on Kashmir. The same water that eventually reaches the city of Muzaffarabad, the final resting place of my maternal grandmother, whose life was a beacon of generosity and selflessness. These waters also pass close to the hamlet Khari, where my paternal grandmother is laid to rest. A woman who gave more love than any and sacrificed her comforts.

I dedicate this broken thought process to the memory of the great women in my life; their memory serving as reminder to do right by their upbringing.


The Leap

Of the differences that have prevailed, there are times when it is best to let fate run its course. To take a leap towards the darkness of the night.

These are times when one should not resist the course that presents itself.

Times have been generous, and times have been testing; but never has one ever wanted to get time be the judge of matters.

What is intimidating is not the unknown, not the unseen, but the glimpse of what might be, what could be… To not be a priority, to be relegated from the throne of esteem; to be required less.

But perhaps fate should run its course, and time will tell.

We do not live in the past or the future. Let us live it while it lasts… if it lasts…

Let us bask in the warmth of companionship, the sense of purpose, and that of priority.

Lest we forget, the only constant is change.

The Elevated Chair

A song plays endlessly in my head.

The to-do list is looming and the deadlines become scarier than ever before.

And I have work to deal with on the side.

I hike up the elevated chair, a position so high that I need time to climb up to sit on it; and what I see is not very pleasing.

What happened to the progress that was once expected? What happened to the learning curve?

Oh I know what happened: you became complacent, you took it for granted.

I write these lines and I think to myself: does this passage sound intelligent enough to be a worthy contender amongst the many beautifully scripted writings?

But then I take a step back and answer the rhetorical question before it fades away, or transforms in to another momentary pressing thought: But why is there a need for this passage to sound intelligent? Why do you write in the first place?

It has been forgotten long ago, the joy of writing. The joy that is transcended only by the need to write.

What have I become? And my mind drifts away on to the lyrics of another song. And then to a specific writing style that I enjoy a fair bit. Wish I could write like that.

I have been asked to write at times, and I did. Did I enjoy it much? Not quite, for the reason behind it was not pure enough to connect my pen to my heart.

‘What becomes of us?’ What becomes of this?

Who knows… but what I do know is that pouring your heart out on to paper is the best feeling. I would compare it to the feeling one might experience if ones’ soul was cleansed of its woes.

If only I knew what that felt like. But what that might feel like is a renaissance of body and mind originating; perhaps a rejuvenation.

The elevated chair; mysticism and prose, similes and metaphors, tools to quench the self serving need to be identified as learned. The learning curve that has long become parallel to the horizontal axis yearns for a jolt.

A jolt that would open your eyes to the future; had beens have long been.

Your time is now.

The time to not look over the shoulder, and to take it all in your stride.

But what about those who linger on because of thy fondness to the their memory?

Well, you have learnt what you could from them, and now it is time to let go without ripping off the patch of knowledge that this memory left on your soul. For these patches cannot be cleansed in the catharsis.

And what becomes of the elevated chair?

Nothing, you look for a higher chair to climb; in need to see further ahead, in need to distance yourself from the past that lies on the ground.

The Cultural Filter

Culture: An eluding ever morphing enigma.

How it has affected the docile minds of the masses centuries upon centuries.

Little do they want to know the impact it has on ones perspective. Little do they care about how offensive it might be.

Here I am, wishing my life away for a tomorrow that I do not know anything about. Mundane enough to know all what seems to be true but falling to the great weakness of humans that can be a great strength as well; Hope.

While some might say that culture and hope are two different anomalies, there is weight in the argument that some strive for a ‘culture of hope’ while others ‘hope to be cultured’.

Can my tribesmen be conveniently classified in the two categories?

Perhaps every one can be; or can they be?


The Balance

Intense: The one word that can explain the juggling act of maintaining fairness in what actions can be attributed towards leading life.

Balance is what we all strive to achieve, consciously or otherwise. Like many others the understanding of balance is subjective, yet being a science it should be fundamentally precise and without a doubt of proportions.

That having said, it is but an act: the balancing ‘act’.

And it is the act of balancing that inherently makes the verb more subjective and more opaque.

Whether it be an art, a science or sheer subjectiveness, let us hope that whatever comes of it is divine, subtle, favourable, pleasing.

The Abyss

Nothing is for certain.

The count down continues; if all shall be as the humans have planned, tomorrow shall be another hot day in the desert, another glorious sun will rise from the East and set in the West, and we shall be closer to our destiny by another day.

Like clock work: without fail.

Nothing is certain.

For who knows what lies in the destiny of men. We hope that it is pleasant. In hope we find our salvation, in hope we lay all trust; for hope is a good thing as it is the worst.

The count down strays forward as we continue in to the deep dark abyss — the darkness engulfs our being, the emptiness eats us from within. But fear not as there is much to look forward to, away from the darkness of the abyss.

For there is light with darkness, happiness with gloom. The world of men is bipolar, and everything in between, a facade of patterns.

Let us rejoice, for nothing is permanent: Happiness nor sorrow.

Let this curse be transformed in to the blessing that it may prove to be.

Nothing is certain.