Re-Visitation

I christen this re-visitation because it signals a reversion to a part of my life that I felt I had left so far behind, I couldn't even see it when I looked back past my shoulder.

All too often you're reminded that there are things so out of your hands in this life that the sheer helplessness of it leaves you crippled. This feeling of helplessness drags you down like a vortex into a world where sensibilities, logic, rational thought, even good and bad lose all meaning. Into a world of cigarette burns, razor blades, popping pills and emotional pain and hurt so debilitating that they take on a physical manifestation and you cannot breathe, try as you might, you cannot breathe. You turn to God but you are ashamed. More ashamed than you have even been because you feel that when the sun was shining, you shunned God. The minute storm clouds gathered ominously on your horizons, you took refuge in religion. You have nowhere else to turn, because you are forsaken and alone, stripped of dignity and left to battle the tempest naked and ashamed. People tell you that you will come out stronger and better for it. You look at them with dazed eyes, listening to but not hearing them because words have no meaning for you anymore, because you do not know how to defend the one person you had previously put on the highest pedestal you could muster. What will you tell your parents, your brothers, your sister, your friends? What will you tell them when they ask you? Infallibility is a good feeling, the feelings its leaves behind when it vanishes are not so good. You gave as much as you could, so much in fact, that you have nothing left to protect your own vulnerable nakedness with. You're in a desert and you navigate past every oasis you find, hoping to prove a point. You're in the ocean and you're drowning, yet you swat away every hand that reaches out from above trying to pull you back into sanity. You live on hope now, because you have seen something so beautiful that the thought of having lost it, of not being able to recover it leaves you dysfunctional and reduced to tears. You live on hope because even when you're naked, the thought of seeing the sun shine again gives you the strength to live past another day and not take your life right now, because Hope is a good thing and good things never die.

The Shit Magnet's Official Poem

For Juni, Shine On Your Crazy Diamond!

Your face is blank, but there's a tear in your eye
You say nothing, but you say it all with a sigh
They've knocked you about, but still you are whole
They've broken your heart, but not your soul
They've stolen the grief, but not the tears
They've taken the love, but not the fears
They've killed the joy, but not the smiles
They've left you for dead, but you'll walk for miles

They say it's written in the stars
But the stars for you are just too far
They says it's your destiny and your fate
but you know all that's just bullshit mate
They say it's the trend, it's what's ‘IN'
To love and leave is not a sin
You look at them with your sly little grin

And You say:
Fuck your trend and fuck you're ‘IN'.

In Other Worlds Than This

For Buttons, Who Made The Nightmares Go Away.

Day 1

He sat alone on his bed, wearing nothing but his track pants. He pulled on the cigarette without much ceremony, with complete abandon, until the smoke tasted bitter in his mouth as the filter started to singe. There was a knock on the door that he paid no attention to as he lit another cigarette, not because he wanted to, not because he needed to, but because it gave him something to do. A minute escape from the overwhelming misery pulling at his guts, tearing him apart from the inside. Again, there was a knock on the door. This time it swung open slowly. From the corner of his eye he saw his mother's tear stained face for a second and then she stood aside and let his friends enter the room. There were no greetings. Not a word was spoken as they sat around him. He felt an arm on his shoulder for a couple of seconds, then felt it slide down his arm in a gesture of futility. Thats what it was, he thought, a futile gesture to ease his pain. Pain. He could discern their's as they looked at him and then at the ashtray which, filled to overflowing, was spewing cigarette butts onto the carpet. Their pain was for him, not for his plight. That made their visit useless. They started to speak, he could see their faces floating in front of him. What they were saying, he could not tell. A million disjointed voices emanating from the far reaches of the universe, making their wasted journies across planets, galaxies and stardust to reach his ears as an endless torrent of static. He ground out his last cigarette and leaned back against the wall to close his eyes. It had been eons since he had slept. He slept.

He opened his eyes and found it was dark now. It was as if he had never been asleep. He would have sold his soul to the devil for a few seconds of forgetfulness. A few seconds where he would have no recollection of yesterday while he figured out why he was sleeping against the wall and why there so much cigarette smoke in his room. Oh the holy, blessed comfort it would bring. As it was, everything came rushing back the very instant he arose out of his dreamless stupour. Through half opened eyes he could make out his oldest friend. he was sitting in front of the bed. keeping watch. The one person he could be with right now. An unopened pack of cigarettes lay on the table next to the chair. he had expected as much from somebody he had shared all his joys and sorrows with for the past 8 years. He opened his eyes fully and reached out for the cigarettes. The pack was opened for him and two cigarettes lit. One was passed over and they smoked in complete silence. He tried to speak now, to break this vow of silence he had taken on, to convey how much it meant to him that the dearest of all his friends had stayed back but he was silenced by a shake of the head which, he knew, meant that he did not have to speak. He was grateful for their complete understanding of one another. They finished their cigarettes and his friend rose to leave. Through drooping eyelids he saw the door open and his friend exit with heavy steps. He closed his eyes. Again, he slept

Day 2

The harsh morning sunlight stabbed at his eyes until he was forced to open them. Total and complete despair creeped up his veins in an instant and once again he was overwhelmed. He had half risen out of bed and he fell back onto it. The window seemed miles away and he no longer possessed the will to get up and draw the curtains across to cut off the sunlight. With his arm across his eyes, he lay there for a couple of minutes until he felt strong enough to get himself out of bed. With great effort he swung his legs off the edge and got to his feet. Immediately his head began to twirl like a spinning top out of control. He reached an arm out to where he thought the head of his bed was, only to grasp at thin air. He went down on one knee to avoid a fall and he stayed like that until it passed. Again he got up, scooping up his T shirt off the floor and putting it on slowly, oblivious to the smell of his own vomit staining it's front. His mind flashed back to that awful moment in time when he received the phonecall. He saw the phone slip from his trembling fingers, he felt it bounce off his toes and clatter onto the floor where it lay still. He saw the tremble spread from his fingers to all of his body as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor. he could taste the bile at the back of his throat. It surged forward with ominous force as he regurgitated the salad he had eaten earlier at dinner. The vomit ran in a dozen little rivulets from his shirt to the floor. Abruptly he shook his head to clear it of the memories and as an afterthought, bent down to retrieve the phone. A look at the screen revealed 22 messages and 12 missed calls. It would have surprised him if all this had come from more than four people. Groggily and in a haze, he made his way out of his room. he didnt bother to wash his face and shuffled straight into the lounge. It was not his appearance that made his mother gasp out and break into another bout of crying, but the look on his face and the emptiness in his eyes. They were drained of colour and bloodshot. The thin red veins stood out against the pale white of his pupils like mineral trails of rubies in a well lit mine. Silently, he tried to make it to his mother's embrace but he fell just short as his head began to spin again and this time he fell to the floor. His mother was quickly at his side and on the ground and with another herculean effort, he managed to get his head onto her lap as she gathered the broken remains of her youngest, most beloved, son into her arms.

He did not know how long he had lain there when he opened his eyes again. Yesterday had taken it's toll on his body. His nerves were stretched to a breaking point, the smoking had caused his sinuses to block up and neither morsel nor water had passed his lips since the day before yesterday. He was vaguely aware of him being alone now. He reached under his head and found a cushion from the couch. His weary eyes locked onto the clock on the far wall. 3:30 in the afternoon. No wonder. His mother was on call at the hospital. That meant he had been lying there for little less than an hour considering he had woken up at around 2:30 and his mother went to the hospital at 3:00. He tried to get up and found it was easier now. He made his way to the referigerator on steady legs and fished out a water bottle. He drank it down to the last drop and bent down again to pick out the meagre ingredients for a simple cheese sandwhich. He closed the referigerator door and carried his provisions to the kitchen where he proceeded to put the kettle on for a cup of tea while he stared putting the sandwhich together. The tears were already streaming down his face by now and he was beginning to realize how tragedy on such an enormous scale affected all in it's path. Choking the life out of all that lived and breathed. Making everything so hard. Even the making of a cheese sandwhich.

He devoured his little snack in seconds and was about to gulp down the last of his tea when he heard the main door open and then close. He didnt pay it much attention until the furitive whispering reached his ears. He walked into the lounge and stopped short before a middle aged couple. The man was easily in his 50's, well dressed but pretty ordinary looking. His wife, he knew, was in her 40's, although she didnt look a day over 35. The woman's hands were trembling as she lit a cigarette and the man looked severely out of place. The man reached into his pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper. His throat tightened as he took the paper from his hand. He had recognized the spidery scrawl and ice ran through his veins when he realized it was penned in blood. The tears fought their way up his eyes and he fought them back fiercely. Not before these two, he thought to himself. Must not break down in front of them. He regained control of his nerves and stared at the couple. Taking the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, he lit one with shaking fingers and sat heavily down on the sofa. He dragged on it for a couple of seconds and was just about to open the letter when the woman fidgeted. He looked at her with a deliberately questioning gaze. 'We're so sorry' the woman mouthed. This time the tears won, as they surged through and ran their course down the wrinkles in his cheeks. Wrinkles that had not been there just 2 days ago. Of these tears he was not ashamed, for they were tears of a pure homicidal rage. He was mature enough to know that it was his body's defense mechanism against the havoc he might otherwise wreak. For fear of doing damage, and because he still had an iota of respect left for these people, he threw the cigarette on the floor, ground it out with the sole of his bare foot and walked to his room, leaving them standing there. They walked out the same way they had come in. Uninvited.

Day 3

The razor blade he held in one hand, his phone, with its messages unread and its missed calls unheeded, in the other. The blood stained letter lay open by his side. Slowly he placed the razor blade at the junction of his wrist and palm, and drew it down with force, in a neat line, through the the veins and arteries lying in abundance just under the surface of the pale skin. Immediately a gushing torrent of blood rushed out through the incision and started to pool on the floor. He leaned back against the wall and put the phone down to light a cigarette. Definitely his last he thought and he broke into fits of manic laughter while dipping his fingers into the rapidly growing pool of blood by his other hand. Slowly he traced out the words, 'My very last cigarette hon. I’ve quit for good. Just like you always wanted :)'. It was the most ironic thing in the world to him. Pulling on the cigarette with utmost leisure, he finally stubbed it out in his own blood. He picked up the phone again and entered a number. The only one on his quick-dial list. The number he had called daily for 6 years without fail excepting the last 4 months. The tears started afresh as he recalled the last time they had spoken. His broken words of comfort ringing in his ear as she cried against the injustice. Of her parents, of society, of the world and of God. His own voice had cracked and the last thing he had said to her was 'You might be with someone else but you will always belong to me. We'll be together. You'll see. In other worlds than this hon. We'll be together. I love you.' and he had hung up and powered off his phone. Those were the last words he had spoken and he had been silent to this day. Now, from across the beyond, his beloved was asking one last thing of him. He pressed dial. the ringing tone seemed to be counting down to his end as he felt his strength start to ebb away with astonishing pace. Finally it was answered. It was the woman. He didn't let her say a word past her initial strained ‘hello?’, as he spoke out 'I forgive you', and he slumped sideways as the phone slipped through his fingers again, for good this time, and fell to the floor, splattered with his blood.

Day 1 T minus 20:12:22

She leaned back against the white-tiled wall of her immaculate bathroom. The bright red of her oozing blood was a stark contrast against the spotless floor. She was dipping her quill-pen into the blood and writing down her last words on a piece of paper. She was scribbling away furiously, racing against time. There was much to be said and not enough time. She stopped for a second, wishing she had never gone through with this, wishing she had his undying faith in them. Wishing she had believed in destiny and in lovers as stars against the canvas of the sky in twilight. There was no time for idle thought, she chastised herself and finished the letter. With the last of her faculties she picked up her phone and dialled the only number on her quick-dial list. It was answered immediately. There was much she wanted to say but all she managed was 'I'm sorry hon. I love you too. I always will' before she slumped sideways as the phone fell to the floor. The letter lay besides her. It read:

'What you seek is an explanation, a reason for this deed, but none is forthcoming. this is rather an admonishment. For driving your only daughter to her own death, but more importantly, for bringing misery and despair into the life of the one she loved. I love you yet but i cannot forgive you until he does and until he does, I shall wish damnation upon you. You, mother, were meant to nurture my dreams and you shattered them. You, father, were meant to spoil your baby girl, to take care of her and you delivered her into the hands of one who spoils her, yes, but only by night and only in places that no one else is allowed to see. A million times I screamed that it was wrong, and twices times that you assured me it was for my best, that the man I was going to marry was good and kind. He is not good and kind and if I am content now, it is only because he died of my hands and his corpse rots on the very bed where he made me his play toy. Remember now that the path to my forgiveness lies through him, and him only. If he finds it fit to redeem you, then and only then shall you find peace. As for my own, I shall find peace with him only. In other worlds than this'

The Eternal Winter

I often wake up from dreams with disjointed sentences running through my head. When i gave them some semblance of sanity the last time, this was what they turned into:

Spring reigns for such a short time in life. Mine especially. What is two years in twenty? Hence, there has been only winter. Cold and desolate; grey and bleak. With it's rain and it's snow; it's sorrow and it's pain. No ebb and all flow. I felt her. She came into the room and it seemed her silence would taunt me. She stopped. She gave me a card. Out slipped a piece of paper. An apology. Never in my dreams had she sat next to me. She did. Never in my wildest fantasies had she consciously deliberately touched me. She did. Her skin and mine. Only surreal fabric separated us. Her clothes and mine. Her thigh and mine. She sat on my thigh. Her skin against mine again. Our faces this time. No fabric. Her skin and mine. Her cheek against mine. Her lips against my forehead, against my cheek, against my lips. Against my lips! Oh, against my lips! Soft and hard. Against mine! Against mine! Against mine parted now, as hers nibbled on mine. Bit them and licked them all at once. Then mine caught hers. Hers turned to granite. No longer was there skin against skin, lip against lip. No longer was there warmth. There was only a chill, all too familiar, in my bones. Was any move I made really that repulsive? She stood up. Leaving me sitting. Leaving me. The flowers shriveled. I woke up. It was winter still

Ode To My Better Half

For Hassan, Here You Go, You Gay TeddyBear, You!!!!!

In a beautiful peace, you sleep at my side
Through sweet gentle dreams, you soar and you glide
You hold me tight, with your head on my arm,
I promise you this, you're safe from harm
I strive to say just how much
I miss you now and I cherish your touch
You held me close as my life unfurled
But I can't give you much, just my world

Six Strings and Life

For Sameera, Who Will Grasp The Meaning Of This Better Than Anybody.

The cigarette smoke forced the tears out of my eyes and they rolled down like rivulets branching off from a river. The room was shrouded in smoke. It's lazy tendrils drifted in and out of little nooks and crannies. The ashtray was filled to over-flowing and even the teacups had cigarette butts in them. Two of my fingers were bleeding and my upper arm felt numb, but I couldn't break the cycle. C, G, A Minor, E Minor and E. I could feel his eyes watching my fingers, as they somehow managed to get into position fast enough to keep up with the rythm he was dictating. He's been doing it for years now and I'm only a beginner.

This had been the routine for a couple of days now. Ever since a cousin of a friend arrived from Multan, we've been jamming pretty regularly. Three guys so good, it's a sin to even the hold the guitar when youre in the same room with them. Khizer I've known for years, and he teaches me when he has the time. Wajdan, I've known only for an year and Shameel, I only met a couple of days ago. Its usually Shameel on lead and Khizer and Wajdan on rythm. Shameel and Khizer switch occasionally. The little cigarette or food break in between is when Khizer switches his attention to me and tells me what to do next.

Aching fingers finally prevail and we get ready to go home again. I put my guitar on the bed and take a long hard look at the still vibrating strings. I figure that life itself is kinda similar. Not very different from a guitar.

Everyday somebody is plucking a string, strumming a chord or even playing a scale. Rarely, very rarely, somebody comes along and twists the knobs that way and this, tunes it to perfection and plays something so heart-wrenchingly beautiful, it leaves a void in your soul. Their fingers play along the lengths of the strings and everything resonates with purity and harmony. Music so beautiful and so enchanting that angels in heaven dare not reproduce it with their harps. They play their intoxicating tunes until the strings break, at which point, they get up and leave. In due time, you just might replace them, but you know that nobody is ever going to make those six strings sing like that. You will ache and burn for those fingers and the magic they once produced. You'll turn to every other hand that comes your way and let them play your beloved strings and then turn away disgusted when they fail to do so. The only thing that keeps you functioning is friends and family. They make sure that youre tuned atleast, even if you sound horrible. It's really that simple. Life and Six Strings.

Dark Agent - II

For Qudsia, Who Believes In My Creative Genius

Ascent

The corridor reeked of human excrement. The walls were plastered with mouldy, damp wallpaper that was patched and torn along the length of the hallway. He walked in towards the first room and took a survey of his surroundings. A couple of cardboard boxes served as chairs. They were positioned around an old rickety table, on which stood a dozen or so empty beer bottles. More of these were found rolling or shattered on the floor. A solitary bucket tried in vain to keep a leak in the roof in check. “They’re going to have trouble if those storm clouds open up”, he thought to himself, “Then again, after I’m through here, that’s going to be the least of their worries”. He spotted an open-door and went through it. In the corner, sat a young girl, no more than 14, writing in a notebook by the light of a lantern. He stood right behind her and peered over her shoulder. He could easily make out what she was writing in her child-like spidery scrawl:

12^th April 2022

He did it again last night. I didn’t want to but he forced me. It hurt so much, and afterwards he grabbed me around the throat and nearly strangled me. He told me he would kill me if I told anyone. Then he raped me again. My own father. God I wish I could die………

He turned around and started walking back. He was disgusted and angrier than before. He found the stairs and made his way up. He was now in the master bedroom, if it could be called that. The bed-sheets were dirty and stained. The bed, itself, looked as if it would collapse any minute. There were no other furnishings in the room. Right in the middle, a couple was standing and arguing with each other. The woman, he noted, was pregnant and screaming “Your own daughter? How could you?” The man’s speech was slurred and he reckoned the empty beer bottles downstairs were responsible “That’s all she’s good for. She’s going to turn into a whore anyways, might as well put her on the right footing” The woman turned crimson with rage and slapped the man across the face. “You bitch!” he snarled and leapt on her, bringing them both to the floor. The man got up quickly and started kicking her. It was then that the woman saw him and started to scream. “Not my child, please take me!” she pleaded. Time slowed down and he could see the man’s boot going up slowly to connect with his wife’s belly. Then time stood still, as he looked up again and asked “You want me to take this woman and her unborn child and leave her daughter alone to this man’s devices? Indeed, my Lord, you are most merciful, as you claim to be”. He knew he was overstepping the mark, but he no longer cared. There was no answer still. Infuriated, he started to scream again “You preach equality, yet You let your subjects suffer this degradation. You preach tolerance, yet You push your subjects to the very edge. You preach mercy, yet You let a father violate his own daughter. Indeed, I do serve a just, merciful King” He waited for a while, looking for a sign that he had been heard; waiting for an answer he knew would not come. “Alright then, Your will shall be done”. He looked down and time resumed its normal course. The man kicked his wife in the stomach again and just as she miscarried, he reached right into her gravid belly and snatched the life from the unborn child within. He waited for a while as the husband continued to pummel his wife’s battered body, for he knew that everyone had to be taken at their own time and he was no one to determine that. Then, he reached down and took the woman’s hand in his own and gently drew out her soul, as the man collapsed in a heap and fainted next to his wife’s body. He drew back and spread his arms as his wings unfurled from under his clothes and he grabbed the woman by the arm to take her to her Lord. He looked at her and she was smiling. He was stupefied, for he was sure that the mother would be worried about her remaining daughter. He asked her, “You’ve lived a miserable hard life and you know your daughter is destined for the same. Yet you smile. Why?” The woman’s mile grew broader as she answered. “I can see it now, the Lord has singled out my daughter to grow up and put an end to suffering such as I myself have endured during my life. She shall grow up and fight for her kind and free us from the tyranny that you have no doubt witnessed just now. Her road will be hard, but it is a just Lord that she serves, and a merciful Lord that looks over her”. Hearing this, he folded his wings again and made his way downstairs. He walked into her room and saw her coiled up in the corner, shaking with fear, having heard her mother's screams. Against the wishes of his Lord, he reached down and took with him the soul of the one chosen to free her kind from man's rule. He opened his wings and took flight for the heavens. He knew he would be punished severely for what he had done, but he could not help himself, for he too was male.

Dark Agent - I

For Mav, Who Is Fast Becoming One Of My Biggest Fans

Descent

Skimming low tree-tops, he alighted across the street from where his task now lay. He thought it fitting that he always land in the dark. He stepped out of the shadows of the now decrepit and abandoned school building and started to cross the road. His dark long hair framed his face. He shook his head, for he was no great fan of what he was about to do. Everything was dark in his life and he dressed accordingly. A black suit, all but obscured the tie and shirt underneath that were of the same colour. He walked forward with purpose but faltered at every step. His mind was in turmoil, but he was bound by the very essence of his creation to carry out the task allotted to him. He betrayed no emotion now as he strode forward. He stopped at the fence door, veering crazily on its rusted hinges, and started looking at the neighbourhood. All of the houses were run-down without exception. None of them had a garden and only one had a paint-job that looked like it was administered in this century. The whole block had an aura of neglect around it. Not a light bulb adorned the whole street and nothing stirred. The creatures of the night were strangely absent, although he was to blame for that. They had felt his dark halo of power and scuttled off to the nooks and crannies lying in abundance. Beer cans and old newspapers littered the street and dead and gnarled trees grew on either side. He envisioned the place half a century ago and saw a lively community, thriving on a factory nearby. He turned around and looked across the street. The chimneys could still be seen in the horizon, although only four of the original six were still standing. Like a plant devoid of water, the community had died a slow and undoubtedly painful death. He sighed, turned back and started walking towards the door. It was getting harder every time. There was no place in the fold for one who let his feelings come between the job at hand. He knew there were a million just like him, doing what he was about to do now, but he doubted that any of them felt what he was feeling right now. He walked up the path, once paved marble, now overgrown with weeds. He stopped an inch from the door and looked up for inspiration; all he saw was storm clouds piling up. Anger clouded his judgment, and he threw a punch at the rotting, oak door with all the strength he could muster. The house shook on its very foundations, the veering fence door fell to the ground, a shutter fell somewhere close by and far away, behind him, he could hear the rumble as another one of the chimneys collapsed. He looked at the door and there was not a mark on it. He looked at his hand and it was as flawless as the day it had been created. Again he looked up and started to scream, “Why do you give me this power when I did not ask for it? Why must I go through this, day after day?” Still, no answer was forthcoming. Resigned, he pushed open the door and stepped in.