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📚NEW SERIES RELEASE – Part Two📖

THE HEALING SERIES 👧🏻👦🏽❤️‍🩹

Dear all,

Books number 3 and 4 of The Healing Series are now on the shelves in bookstores across Sri Lanka. This series serves as a conversation starter with children aged 6 to 10, on the below incidences of trauma and stress in their young lives:

  • The loss of a parent
  • Parents’ separation
  • Being bullied
  • Becoming an older sibling to a new brother or sister

Every story in this collection gently holds the child’s hand and helps them navigate the confusing, painful and daunting times that they find themselves in.

In our beautiful but imperfect world, I hope that these books through the magic of story-telling in the safe haven of home and family, help to protect and nurture the mental and emotional wellbeing of our children 🌸.

IN PAKISTAN: The books will be available at Liberty Books, Paramount Books and the London Book Company by the end of September 2025.

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📚KIDS BOOKS👦🏾 | FANTABULOUS FACTS

IF HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF, I’M SO GETTING MYSELF A DINOSAUR!

At 18, Cleopatra was crowned Egypt’s queen
After which she went on to wed
Both her brothers, to keep the kingdom together
It was quite a common thing then

Vikings often dyed their hair blonde
Laika was the first dog in space
Coca Cola is older than the Eiffel Tower
The ancient Egyptians invented toothpaste

Ancient Greek dudes played sports in the nude
An owl lived with Florence nightingale
Dentures were first made from the teeth of dead soldiers
Shakespeare was scared of trains

People danced whether they liked it or not
When they got the Dancing Plague
The shortest war lasted only 38 minutes
The first computer programmer was Ada Lovelace

There is only one time zone in China
Japan has some of the most elderly
Marie Curie won the Nobel Prize twice
For Physics and for Chemistry

The movie “Star Wars” came out at the same time
As the last guillotine execution
Ancient Romans used pee to wash their laundry
Abe Lincoln was once a wrestling champion

The oldest joke is over 4000 years old
And no, it was not about history or art
Let me give you a clue, sometimes its a burp or two
At other times you let out a _____! (Fart!)
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FREE VERSE|LETTER FROM AN AFGHAN GIRL TO HER TALIBAN CAPTORS

This is a tribute to all the women in fact who are oppressed, reduced and shamed in the name of religion, and who still find the strength and dignity to go on another day.

O Talib*, O ye self-professed Learned One,

I have something to say to you.
You can whip up monsters from the air and call them your Shariah*.
You can torture and mangle “your” women, break their spirits and their bodies and call it the Word of God.
You can wear your imperious lungee* and as it swishes around in the wind, you imagine the very angels dancing around you.
You grow your hairy beards, and hide your malevolent grins behind them.
You rumble and you roar and that is your devotion.
You maim and you kill and you call that Divine intervention.

But then secretly you also glance at your reflections and you see what we all see: imperfect, angry, reviled men trying to validate their existence in the only way they can - by wiping the planet clean of the scourge of the Double (H)Ex*. But then you pause with the greatest effort known to the Men of God and you think:
How can we annihilate this evil, garbed in soft flesh if we are to propagate and procreate? How else are we to add to the rank and file of Allah’s soldiers?

The conundrum is excruciating. So you continue to brutalize and ravage just short of pushing her six feet under. Just so you can crush her under you instead and make her pay for staying alive. To bear and to beget your many sons. To nurture and feed your rabid army of the Men of Allah.


O Ye Men of Allah,

I have something to say to you. Hear me.

I am the Daughter of the Universe; the Yin to your Yang, the ultimate balancing act of God’s will gone wrong in your hands.

Hear me. We will be who we are: the proud women of Afghanistan. Our honour lies serenely, supremely, completely in the depths of our own eyes, not in yours.

Look at me. Don’t hide behind your fragile male bravado.
Look at me. Don’t turn your suddenly shameful eyes away.

Look at me. Look at me.

Look at me as I rise like a Phoenix from the ashes that you kicked aside.
Look at me as I look at you.
Look at me and see what you have become.
Look at me as your heart Drains … Shrivels …. Breaks …. Burns in its own hell.

Hear me, my voice will echo through my sisters even if mine falls silent. You will Hear me.

Look at me, even if it is at my corpse as I go to meet my Maker. You will Look at me.

For Allah hears me. For Allah sees me.

Allah stands behind me as we both look at you. As we both await you.
* Double (H)Ex: Word play on the double X chromosomes that all female mammals possess.  Hex is a spell or a curse.

* Talib: Scholar; Learned one.

* Shariah: Islamic law derived from the teachings of the Quran but mainly from the Prophet Muhammad. It is not a list of rules but rather a set of principles on aspects of life, including marriage, divorce, finance and rituals such as fasting and prayer.

* Lungee: turban/ cloth worn around the head.
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VERSE | I SEE

LISTEN TO THE POEM BEING READ HERE:  https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSeoMPHkF/
Spring turns to autumn which moults 
Into winter. The winds blow cold
And the skies are a myriad shades
Of grey. The trees in their glades
Stand stark and naked. Their leaves
Now mottled, dying underneath
Trampling feet. Hurrying feet across
Paths well trodden and paths that are lost
In the gloom. Winter’s dirge
Fills the spaces in between to merge
With the mist. She throws a blanket
On the quiet world. And then she touches
My cheek. I turn my face away and she spreads
Her arms. I’m enveloped from toes to head
From right hand to left. I stand still
And let her feel. She takes her fill
And then undoes her vapory hold. I finally see
The path stretching clear ahead of me
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ABOUT ME

I was once a part of the Financial Services Industry.  Now I write full time. My stories and poems have appeared in a number of international literary publications including The Rumen, Sequoia Speaks, Recesses, PentaCat, Confetti, Every Day Fiction, Parcham, Blaze Vox and DoubleSpeak magazines.  

My poem, “Veins” was long listed in the Plough 2023 poetry competition. My short story “The Glimmer” was long listed in the 2023 Zeenat Haroon Rashid writing competition for women.  My free verse, “Ravaged” appears as part of an American academic publication titled “Sing Slivered Tongue: An Anthology of South Asian Women’s Poetry of Trauma” spearheaded by the English department of the University of Wisconsin-Stout.

I have published two collections of short stories, a book of poetry, and 3 series of children’s books:

-Curious Animals and Quirky Creatures

-The Healing Series

-Fantabulous Facts

My books are available across bookstores in Pakistan/ Sri Lanka and on Amazon.

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VERSE | UP ⏫ ROOTED

This is for all the girls and the women who are struggling to fit into the expectations, definitions and labels that have been created for them. Keep speaking, keep striving, keep moving until you are free.

They told me that I should slow down
To put my roots into my soil
But when I did
When I trusted the hands that would
Nurture those tendrils, tender fragile
They instead beat them down
Crushed and strangled them in the ground
Burnt their life seeking ends
And everytime that they grew
When they reached for something new
They cut them down
Again and again they continued
All my tomorrows were carved out to be
Bleak as the ashen soil that held
My soles, my skin, my soul, my sins
Fusing them for the world and me
They were one, coalesced
That none could sunder
Save the keepers of the roots
And God himself
Resurrected in their image to suit
Him and him and Him and them
In a conspiracy of guilt and hell

So I uprooted myself
And I found someplace else

I slowed down and felt the ground
The soil was light, loamy brown
I sat down, took off my shoes
I dug in my soles, my soul, my whole
And that is when I found my roots.
Image: MidJourney
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LONGLIST | ZHR PRIZE FOR WOMEN WRITERS

My story “THE GLIMMER” has been long listed in the Zeenat Haroon Rashid 2023 Writing competition for Women.

Zeenat Haroon Rashid (21 Jan 1928 – 8 April 2017) was the daughter of Sir Abdullah Haroon. She was a young stalwart of the Muslim League and founding member of the Women’s National Guard at the time of Independence, and throughout her life promoted a vision of Pakistani women as equal partners in the struggle for building a modern Pakistan. The Zeenat Haroon Rashid Writing Prize for Women has been set up to promote and provide support for women who wish to pursue writing as a career.

Thank you to this year’s judges, Amina Ahmad, Shandana Minhas, Mohammad Hanif, Sarwat Yasmeen Azeem and Shan Vahidy. Grateful and chuffed 🙏🏼🌸

YOU CAN READ THE LONGLIST HERE: https://www.zhrwritingprize.com/read-the-longlist

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VERSE | DON’T FORGET

I draw so you remember 
What happened in October
Of 2023
And November and December
and January and February
And on and on in 2024 and 2025
I draw because I’m still alive

I stand where the stricken
Lie dead or dying in the rocks
Once homes and hospitals
I stand
And I draw so you remember

And should I lose my hands
I will still paint
The ravaged spaces that I see
I’ll paint them with my feet
I’ll sit
With my reds and greys amid
Strewn limbs and death debris
A paintbrush in my toes

And should I lose my legs
One of them or both
And if I can draw a breath
I’ll still draw the faces
Of the living and the dead
I’ll etch them with my eyes
Into the watching skies

I’ll engrave them in the heavens
Where angels wait to greet
All of me and mine
We, the flowers of Palestine

I’ll draw, I’ll paint, I’ll etch
Until my dying breath
So that you can always see
So that you don’t forget.
Image: Imad Abu Shtayyah
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VERSE | THROUGH THEIR EYES

She sits there selling bangles 
Set up in a wicker basket
Some laid down on the grass
Every now and then she gently
Sweeps off the dust that spreads thinly
From teeming feet that hurry past
Barely slowing near the woman
Sitting on her haunches hoping
For someone to slow down, to pause
Her concave belly almost touching
The basket that is tugging
The life blood from her womb
Every time that she moves
Spilling it in little driblets
Onto its precious load

The maternal bond of glass and blood
Unremitting, never enough
As she sits car-caressing
Sometimes fretting, sometimes fussing
Rearranging, caring, loving
Always loving, always loving
A tender smile hov-hovering
Around her tired mouth
She is umbilical-corded
To her treasures
Resting in their bed of wicker
Willing them to cleave their way
Into the hearts of passersby
Willing them to shine so bright
That it brings tears to her eyes
The boundless world of plenty
In those bangles by her side

Behind her lie two little heads
Heat-numbed and stupefied
Little thumbs in little mouths
Doing their best to pacify
The endless hunger in their bellies
Matured and rarefied
Over lifetimes spent behind
Their mother as she hums
Little songs of gentle rain
On golden fields of wheat and rye
Watching their little sisters
Take all their mother’s time
Resting in their basket
They tinkle and they wink
They watch their little sisters
Gleaming, laughing in delight
Suckling on the joyfulness
That streams from their mother’s eyes.
NB: Image is from the World Wide Web. Artist was not mentioned.
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VERSE | SENSORY SAUTÉ

I resolved to write egged on 
By echo-braised recipes
Of grating voices and bitter hearts
And chopped up memories
They tossed about inside my head
Seize-sizzling, beet-bloody
Of you is who I tried to write
As bits of you fell in
In-cisor cut, unholy messed
Out and in of my sight
I took my pen
The scene was set
I would write of pent up things
Of audacious consequence
But my pen lent itself more
To gnawing contemplation
A cooked-up imagination
As it bickered in my mouth
The words they just sat there
Headless, fleshless, boneless, bare
I chewed again upon the pen
They leapt aloft and hovered then
For a bit before they bit
Me on my purposeful lip
The drop of blood
Drop.ped on my page
There was no plot there was no stage
There was no more righteous rage
For them to come off eloquent
And so I laid down the pen
Let down my resolute bun
Bun-dled off my peaceless pique
Pick-ed all of myself up then
Set free an ex-heal-ation
I don’t think that I’ll try again.
Image: Annis Woods
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VERSE | THIS MOURNING

She’s caught in the rush of hurrying feet 
Snippets of conversations
Of laughter, exclamations
She’s caught in a tidal wave
Of teeming, streaming life
She’s caught in the swell
Of people of voices, of sights and smells
Riding the vital wave
Pushing ahead
Her silk scarf catches the breeze
Of swelling, surging humanity
She feels it pull
Floating just a little in front of her
She quickens her step
Her feet instinctively keeping up
With the urgency of life
She feels something
In her gut, the pit of her stomach
A ripple, almost a laugh!
She inhales deeply, she can’t place
This sudden lightness of being
It feels out of place
This morning, mourning
She had felt like lead
Now like vapor she rises up
Colourless, clean
In that moment she’s someone else
Propelling her body like a comet
Lighter, brighter almost serene

She arrives at her gate
8A
The same number, the place
Where this very morning
She had buried them
She had forgotten
For a few moments
Who she was
She was desolation and grief itself
Wearing the bruises of loss
Mourning only this morning
It all came back dawning
As she came to herself
As her blood remembered
And curdled inside
A freezing, heaving cauldron of chills
She sank into the depths of her seat
9B
There was a sequence
Monumental, compelling
To her agony
She had to remember
She couldn’t forget
Her world had ended
When she had buried her dead.
Image: Toyism
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VERSE | PURE

O blue blue sky
How often have you seen
Grown men cry
And children console
Kneeling, hand on a ravaged knee
Balled inside grieving bones
Sunk deep within fractured tombs
Their bare stares full of wonder
Rare, untouched by such things
As sense or consequence
Or contrivance or pretense
Guileless they just gaze and gaze
Eyes wide and bright and beautiful
No little cups brimmeth over
No tears spill
They just watch, they take their fill
There is no shock, there is no awe
Just the truest bluest won-der
One that you may have felt once
O blue blue sky
When for the very first time
You saw all of creation, heaven
And earth perfect, unsullied, pure
From eyes that were of the bluest azure.
Image: Jeanne Louise
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VERSE | ATOMIC GRIEF

When I look inside of you 
Into the very depths of you
Do you know what I see?
Two stormy mushroom clouds
Looming wetly in your eyes
Grey harbingers of doom
They roil and linger in the room
I’m afraid; I’m mesmerized
Then Boom! Everything is gone
In the ferocity
Of your atom bomb
Atomic, Anatomic, Catatonic
The fearsome stillness after the storm
Your atoms ravaged out of form

When I look inside of you
I see vanquished fields beneath
The clouds of smoke and acid rain
I see the skeletons of trees
The mucid ashes of flowers and bees
They were rustling, bustling, hustling
Their atoms dancing merrily
You plucked each atom from its orbit
In the fierceness
Of your tragedy
Calamity, Catastrophe
You heaved your mighty weight upon it
Smote your world beneath your feet

When I look inside of you
I see the heaving cosmos
Suns and planets whirling, swirling
In the vast blue-blackness
Meteors like fireworks
Blazing exultant trails
Shimmering tails, Star-burnished sails
The firmament a holy grail
You crush the heavens in your fist
You flick your angry blue-bruised wrist
The sky comes crashing down
Molten lava on the ground
Seismic vapor all around
I can taste it in my mouth

But when I look at you from here
You sit there statue-still
Not an eyelash moves at all
You are transparent, mystical
Ethereal, Apparitional
But within
Clandestine, Hidden
There are raging storms
Carrying sand and ice alike
I feel a chill in my bones
And all of hell’s feverous might
And all the while you look at me
Your skin shrouded in serenity
While in a loop, relentlessly
You break and shatter on the inside.
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VERSE | RED ROSES

The red roses were out
In full bloom
Riotous, cheerful, swaying in their beds
Wearing their full petalled crowns on their heads
I looked from afar
Day after day
As the roses danced and played
In the not so far off distance
Something was stopping me
Something in my heart
Was whispering, telling me that these flowers
Were best adored from afar
I listened and stayed away
From that little paradise
As it burgeoned with beauty
Day after day
But one morning when I came out to the garden
I felt a lightness of being
And so I strayed further afield
To that joyful bed of red roses at play

There I looked at the perfect blooms
Each one’s heart lay glistening in the sun
The petals dancing in unison
Around their pulsing cores
And then I saw
The soil below
There strewn in little pools
Of red, unravelled - unspooled
Lay the fallen petals
Fallen … resting … resting … fallen petals
Some bruised, some new
Some already a part of the earth
As she hugged them close, each delicate edge
Soaking back into her infinite depths
The scene took my breath away
Whisking me back to another day
Full of bittersweet memories
When I’d seen the same petals
Strewn where you rested
In earth’s boundless embrace.
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VERSE | REFLECTION

Do you sometimes ask yourself if you’re alright
Do the burdens of life come down hard on your joy
Do all the schemes of gladness that you deploy
Seem bound to falter, sink with the sun
Making you despair, come undone
Do you sometimes wonder if you’ll ever be alright?

Do you sometimes worry if you’re alright
If you’re treating your body like it was meant
More like a temple, less like a tent
Does it respond with resilience and grace
Does it show up as a gentle glow on your face
Can you smile and say that you’re alright?

Do you sometimes brood about being alright
If the crimson, beating, streaming path
From your rationalizing mind to your ruminating heart
Is clear and bright and lit up with calm
Where thoughts and memories are like comforting balm
Do you feel your spirit lift because you’re alright?

Do you feel your atoms dance, your heart sing
Then soften to a gentle, constant hum again
Do you feel your blood flow in passionate storms
And then settle into tranquil crests and falls
Do you sometimes in your moments of quiet
Feel a gratitude because you’re alright?

I hope that when you lie in your bed at night
On the cusp of sleep, with your guard down
When your truth shines unfettered, unbound
That with your eyes closed you can look within
And hear it in every fibre of your being
I’m alive, I’m still here, I am alright.
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VERSE | JOY

When morning shakes out her dress
Of blue and gold and green
I hope that you can smile at her
Beauty as she preens

I hope that you’ve fulfilled some things
That you’d planned out for the day
As noon time jogs along your path
In his radiant array

As the tender blush of evening
Bids farewell to the sun
I hope you found joy in the tasks
That needed to get done

When at last night drops her cloak
Around the world and you
I hope that in your heart there’s peace
And the spirit to start anew

When morning sings her new-day song
And wafts in once again
I hope that you will dance with her
Heart to heart and hand in hand.
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VERSE | NOSTALGIA

She steps into the car
Its gleaming surfaces
Adorned with gladioli and motia*
She’s the bride tonight
Garlands also lovingly
Entwine in her hair
Their fragrance filling
The nighttime air
Eyes bright
Face shining with expectation
She glances behind her
Just for a moment
One last time
At that spot where she stood
Leaving behind her childhood
Marking the end of her maidenhood
She smiles
Nostalgia now sits there
Young, hopeful and light
Eyes bright
Face shining with expectation
Waiting to fill the space
That has been so tenderly placed
Into her sacred embrace.
* Motia: The Jasmine flower.
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VERSE | METAMORPHOSIS

This is for all those who have survived emotionally, mentally and physically abusive relationships. For those who have discovered the precious blessing of sleeping deeply, peacefully without being haunted by crippling anxiety and the renewed torture that every new day would inevitably bring in its wake.

I look at him 
Threatening, raging
Berating me
The cruel words sidling in
Between his verbal pounding
I recognise, I see
His enterprise
To humiliate me
To agitate, to fluster me
To intimidate
To paralyze me.
I’m going to leave you
One of these days
If you tell
Anyone anywhere
About any of this
I swear
I will make you into the beas
t
The one unfit
The one tearing down this relationship


I look at him
Frozen in place
My heart still
I’m incapable
Of seeing beyond
My fear
I’m incapable
Of seeing anything
Beyond the terrifying sacredness
Of the union
We signed together
I’m incapable
I’m powerless
I’m numb
All I hear is a hum
A white noise in my head
Autonomous, involuntary
Humming humming humming
Preserving for that time
My sanity
Maybe my life …

And then one day
He followed through
On all the threats
That he had let loose
Into the fabric
Of our togetherness
I’m l e a v i n g y o u
He said, emotionless
This time there was no
Placating hum
No cloaking thrum
Inside of me
Hiding me, shrouding me
I looked at him
Cold sweat gripping
My face, my neck
The insides of my thighs
Dripping, dripping endlessly
But my mouth was parched
My lips were dry
I felt like I was going to die

But I didn’t crumble
In the wind
Whirling in the murky
Depths of things
I survived
I stayed alive
That shared horizon
Spilling blood
Dirty linen streaked with mud
Was washed into the sea
Decaying into infinity
A whole new realm had suddenly
Stretched out in front of me
Full of peace and gratefulness
Gladness and serenity
Where I was calm and I was whole
I had my body and my soul
There was no fear
No agony
No trauma filled spaces
Beckoning me

Like Kafka’s Metamorphosis*
In reverse
I have broken through the curse
No more thrashing, crashing heart
Petrified and frozen limbs
No more grim hellishness
Of emotional poison stings
Making me cry, making me cringe
I’m still here. I’m here still
My lungs now take in their fill
My heart is beating rhythmically
No suffocating anxiety
Once more I hold the hand of the child
That has lived in my soul all this while
For her now
Nothing is impossible.
* KAFKA’S METAMORPHOSIS: 
Metamorphosis is a novella written by Franz Kafka which was first published in 1915 and is considered one of his best works. The main themes revolve around the burden of responsibility, isolation and alienation, and sacrifice.
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VERSE | THE WHINGE

Today has dawned as one of those 
Days that makes me gripe
I sit up in bed thinking of all
The things that I don’t like

It’s useless today to try and be
Tolerant and benign
So here’s an unlovely ode to things
That get on these nerves of mine

I hate early mornings
And tepid cups of tea
I abhor geckos on the wall
Even if they’re nowhere near me

I can’t stand milky coffee
But I cringe when it’s too strong
Too much sugar makes me gag
Too little pulls me down

I so hate the humidity
And what it does to my hair
Like an alien in residence
Waving its million arms in the air

I deplore breaking with the
Predictability of my grind
First my latte, then some work
Then some angst if you don’t mind

But I also hate when twilight sets
On my day off from routine
From the clutches of mundania
Self imposed as that may be

I can’t stomach margarine
For what it does to my intestines
Anaphylactic shock and awe
Are then wholly, soully mine

I can’t stand the loud caws
Of aggressive city crows
Scavenging, ravaging their
Insidious way indoors

But I also dread the day my
Neighbourhood mynahs don’t come by
I don’t care that my avian favouritism
Is then guiltless and alive

On these days I also detest
All our erstwhile politicians
I wish they’d all go and drown
In the tumultuous Indian Ocean

The Arabian Sea just seems
Like a seriously dubious route
They’d go Gulf country visiting
And come right back home to loot

I hate that I hate my life
When my hormones are awry
When everything seems absurd
A frickin’ painful enterprise

Yup, It’s one of those days again
When I’ve woken with a groan
It’s going be 24 hours of
Whinge and hate and moan
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VERSE | FALL FAREWELLS

A melancholy rustle stirs in the leaves
Holding heavy in their boughs
Their green, green garbs have faded
They are in mourning now

For the bounties once bestowed on them
By spring and then by summer
Now they curl their mottled frames
In the briskness of November

Lady Autumn has this special
Cleansing Ritual that she wields
Back into the earth they go
Flowers, butterflies and leaves

The promise of new beginnings too
Is buried with their shapes
For when spring comes round again
For when again they will all wake

The leaves are weary as they cling
To seasons that have gone
But soon they too will hear her sing
The soothing song of Fall.
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VERSE | UNTIL THEN

He looked at me with eyes of love 
I could not hold his gaze
My heart lay closed and tightly bound
In yards of purple lace

It once had soared high above
Where eagles roam the skies
But since then it had plummeted
It had shrivelled up and dried

By and by it beat again
As I slowly found my peace
But it still liked to hide away
In its blue-violet niche

So when he looked at me with eyes
That spoke of tender starts
I looked away, there was no way
Into my blue-bruised heart

Someday when the colours change
Of the blood that flows within
Of when my heart reddens anew
And once more soars and sings

I hope that I can hold that gaze
So full of affection
Until then I hope to heal enough
To want to love again
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FEATURE | THE WHISPERING PATHWAY

Located in the mountains of Central Sri Lanka, and about 30 kms from the city of Anuradhapura, lies the ancient Ritigala Buddhist monastery. Dating back two millennia, the monastic complex is an epic work of mindful architecture connected via a continuous, forest-hemmed stone walkway.

The 1.2 km hike begins at the office of the on-site branch of Department of Archeology of Sri Lanka close to the foot of the Banda Pokuna, an ancient man-made reservoir with a circumference of almost 400 metres. Erected right down to the base are stone steps that circle the entirety of the reservoir. Here visitors to the monastery possibly completed their ablutions before heading on towards one of the many Padhanaghara – double platform structures made from massive pieces of granite linked together by a stone bridge; these served as meditation spaces. There are over 60 such double platforms over 120 acres at Ritigala. Among these structures are also the vestiges of what was once a “hospital” complete with root grinding stones and Ayurvedic oil baths with sophisticated drainage systems; the foundations of “floating air conditioned” rooms; and ornately decorated urinals to remind one of the fickleness of power and glory.

We began our journey at the Banda Pokuna into this ancient realm held as it was in the benevolent arms of nature herself. As soon as we started walking up the granite pathway, we felt the aura around us shift; take on an ethereal feel. The place manifests a melancholic trance in which one becomes completely cloaked, experiencing each of its elements in vivid sensory detail: The murmuring forest, the life force of its roots underfoot, the iridescent salamanders flicking between the stones and the continuous pathway like a silver beacon to venues of meditation and peace.

Trees, some old as age itself, their serpentine roots traversing the forest floor as far as the eye can see, shade the path with their green verdancy. As we hiked uphill, the atmosphere continued to thrum with their primal energy as one ancient one whispered and its murmur was carried like an undulating wave through the rest of the grove. Then all would be quiet except for the chirr of the crickets and the chorus of a songbird. It felt like we were witnesses to the sharing of a sage old secret; the trees of Ritigala retelling it among themselves and then quieting down as 21st century humans hiked up its ancient trails. Then whispering it again, until one stops to listen; and then the pulse slows down as the heart beats to the gentle rhythm of the humming trees. If ever there was a place where one can SEE one’s feelings, this mystical pathway held in the embrace of the ancients is that place.

Serenity is everywhere. The scene is mesmeric. The trees continue to tell their tales in the sun dappled patterns that shimmer on the path and on our skins; like golden runes that speak of the most profound quietude and peace.

To stand there and to take all this in is like absorbing the quiet energy of all that the monsastery once embodied; the tread of thousands of devotees; their quiet meditation, their rhythmic chants and even the ascendency of their consciousness. One can almost see the ascetics of old and the seekers of calm walk up the steps, their spirit energy conjured up again by the gentle cantillation of the trees. The experience rouses in turn, awe and an overwhelming humility; an acute awareness of the smallness of the individual and the profoundness of the collective.

We came away from Ritigala cloaked in the magic of nature that has continued to keep its erstwhile history vibrating through its quadrangles, pillars and its meandering walkway. The Ritigala monastery is truly a mystical portal through time.

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VERSE | STRANGER THAN FICTION

I look at the book
Have I read it before?
It’s a throng of short stories
My favourite genre
I took it from the shelf
In my own home
So it has to be one of the
For-sure-read tomes
Still, as I glanced
At the back cover blurb
Nothing jumped out
Not a line, not a word
I looked at its front
Multi shades of grey
The image glimmered
In its dusky array

I opened the book
I had to recall
A story, a plot twist
A mystery resolved
In the 267 pages
I held in my hand
So I started reading
Page one, it began:
That day Alisha
Looked up at the sky
The purples and blues
Looked terribly awry …

The rest of the story
Unwrapped itself
As I glanced through page two
Of the book from my shelf
Yes I had read it
The memory crept in
Of ETs and UFOs
And otherworldly things

Of skittering creatures
That had huge heads
Full of insidious plans
To make us all dead
Or not! Even in fiction
They were polite
Giving us choices
Being forthright
Choices! Forthrightness!
Now those are things
That are as alien now as
Well … human beings!
Laughing, I put
The Sci-Fi away
Our own lives were stranger
Than fiction these days
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VERSE | A SWEET ENCOUNTER

I looked at her over my coffee mug 
Stealing silent glances
Looking her way
Then looking away
My heart had set up a regular cacophony
As I stared at her secretly
From above the rim of my cup
That I brought to my lips to sip,
The adrenaline instead making me chug
She sat there, serene and beautiful
An ode to perfection itself
Between the gulps I watched and drooled
Oh lord! I felt like such a fool!
I took in a ragged breath
I had to calm myself
I had to let the feeling pass
To wring it, wash it from my heart
I had to fight, wrest my hungry eyes
Off that whetter of fantasies, that queen of delight
That mesmerizing, will-defying Passion Fruit Tart
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VERSE | THE SCREAM

Listen to the poem being read here: https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSdn6UdCw/?k=1

A storm is unleashed
In sheets upon sheets
Of pouring rain
In a cacophony
Pounding the ears
Pounding the earth
For a while
The storm becomes a part of me
I listen …
I hear a howl, a primal cry
I’m agitated, it feels so familiar
I still my breath …
I know that voice
I’ve heard it before
Finding itself
In a tropical downpour
As the sky tore open its breast
Pouring out its glutted greyness
On my world that was floating upon
Even tides of peace and rest
I heard it then, the banshee scream
It swelled upon the torrents that
Came down in never ending sheets
I heard it then as I hear it now
That voice that is screaming inside me
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BOOK REVIEW | THE GIRL WITH THE PAISLEY DUPATTA

Hello folks,

Wanted to share with you the first ever review of my book of short stories “The Girl with the Paisley Dupatta and other stories”. The review was done by Maha Qazi of the YouTube channel Maha’s Musings.

She’s done a pretty good summary of the book in general and has also mentioned very relevant specifics from within some of the stories.

Take a look!

(P.S. I would describe myself as a “corporate RUT absconder. A bit of a Nutty enigma in the intro there! 😅)

https://youtu.be/-uyrbICrQW8

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KIDSBOOKS | LITTLE COW

“Get away from me, Little Cow*
You’re blocking out the light!”
Shrieked a ladybug pushing
Little Cow’s ample behind

Little Cow sighed in sorrow
She hated her portliness
It got in the way every single day
It dampened her happiness

Little Cow was a ladybug
But she was quite gigantic
And so she was forever being
Screamed at and chided

One day there was a snowstorm
It became so very cold
The little bloom of ladybugs
Huddled under a log

But the wind soon blew off
A big piece of the bark
Leaving the ladybugs beneath
Freezing in the dark

That is when Little Cow
Spread out her mighty wings
She gathered up the whole troop
In the cuddly warmth within

The cold spell passed eventually
And out the beetles crawled
They sang praises of Little Cow
Her bigness had saved them all.
* Little Cow: Ladybugs are sometimes called Little Cows because of their fat, rotund bodies
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VERSE | NO THANK YOU

“I love you and only you
You fill my heart in every way
I will be but a shell if you
Call it quits and leave me some day”
Said the man with the twisted lips
As he held her close, hands on her hips
He’d done this a lot and then changed gears
The words felt absurd even to his own ears.

She looked into eyes that were gleaming with fire
Was it hope, was it love, was it lustful desire?
The three entities then followed behind
As she walked into the space of her heart and her mind
There she sat them down, the judicious sleuth
And looked into their faces now lit up with truth
Hope sat there wilted, there was hardly a trace
Of sincerity and faith on its mottled face
Love was like a wraith of its radiant self
Like old dust that had drifted off of the shelf
Smouldering away in the furthest corner
With sly little tentacles sat covetous Desire
It looked at her trying to hide its true hues
But in the light of the soul that was hard to do

She lifted the heavy hands from her hips
Bestowed a smile from her beautiful lips
“I suppose I should say a heartfelt thank you
But I won’t, those words, they just don’t ring true”.
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KIDSBOOKS – COLOURS | LEAFY

LISTEN TO THE POEM BEING READ AT: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSdeUChfe/?k=1
I’m the colour of fresh spring grass 
And the colour of peas in a pod
I’m also what many parrots look like
And the colour a grasshopper’s got

I’m the tint on crunchy, young apples
On honeydew, pears and grapes
I’m the colour of the Nile crocodile
and the slith-slithering grass snake

I’m the colour of the beautiful jade
And the rustling leaves on trees
Im also the the colour of your sweet face
When you’ve had too much ice cream!

I’m the colour of the deep dark woods
The loveliest marble you’ve ever seen!
I’m sometimes also called Mother Nature
I am the beautiful colour GREEN
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VERSE | MAYA

I am Laughter and I am Tears 
I am the apex of my most lucid Fears
I am Joy and I am Peace
I am all that the tranquil dove sees
I am Chaos, I am Discord
I am the Trodden, I am Master and Lord
I am Winter and I am Spring
I wither, I fade and I waken again
I am Rage and I am Love
I’m the depths of the ocean, I am the heavens above
I am the Devil and I am the Saint
I’m rampant, unbridled and also restrained
I am the Thundering Eye of the storm
I am the Deluge that it brings along
I am the Space Dust whirling around
Deformed defacements that once were sound
I am also the Centre of the Universe
I’m the Infinite Beauty of prose and verse
I am Kindness and I am Faith
I am Hope and I am Grace
I am the Atom, I am the Whole
I am the Body, I am the Soul
I am whoever that I want to be
I am Maya*, I am Cosmic Energy.
* MAYA: The personification of the idea that the material world is illusory. Maya is a female name in various languages. In Sanskrit, for instance, it means "illusion or magic", and is also an alternate name of the Hindu goddess Lakshmi. In the Tupi language, of southern Brazil, it means "mother". In the Māori language, it means "courage" or "bravery".
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BOOK LAUNCH! CURIOUS ANIMALS, A CLOUD, A FRUIT AND A FLOWER

Dear friends and family,

Happy to say that my infinite number of monkeys clacking away at a keyboard trying to produce a lucid piece of writing phase seems to have borne some fruit! Presenting to you my first children’s book: CURIOUS ANIMALS, A CLOUD, A FRUIT AND A FLOWER. This collection of poems comes straight from the funny, quirky cockles of the heart. With little stories ranging from the grumpy caterpillar, to the shy tomato, to how the okapi got its name, these short stories entertain, inform and also bring out a giggle or 4! Both, children and adults will enjoy this vibrantly illustrated, lyrical story-telling.
Print copies will be available in Sri Lanka next week (hopefully!). I’m going to try and make them available in Pakistan soon too.
The KINDLE e-version is currently available on Amazon at:

USA:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09KPWLG36/ref=nodl_

Australia:
https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B09KPWLG36/ref=nodl_

Canada:
https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B09KPWLG36/ref=nodl_

India:
https://www.amazon.in/dp/B09KPWLG36/ref=nodl_

Here’s to #rainsingreaders! 🤓

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SHORT STORY | VELVET DREAMS – Part One

Saqib Zaka looked at the sheet of paper in his hands. He stared at the short pithy statements that descended down its length, as they looked back at him accusingly, tauntingly. There was some colour on the paper too – an angry red gash against three of the statements. Four-letter gashes in fact, that had blurred before his anxious scrutiny; FAIL they proclaimed loud enough for the whole universe to hear. Saqib shook his head slightly, willing away the buzzing swarm of desperate thoughts that were crowding out all sanity, dignity and even his ability to read. He looked at the transcript again and finally set the truth free: he had failed his pre-engineering exam, for the second time.

Thirty years hence, that memory had stuck to him like rust; constantly eating away at his calmness and purpose. He had tried, in his intrepid moments, to shake the constancy of the memory off, to replace it with the triumphs that had also since found their circuitous way to him. But the recollection and all its accompanying sinking, shrinking, benumbing sensations had prevailed like insidious tenants in the space of his mind.

Saqib sighed and looked around him. The imposing room that had been his father’s office and was now, by default, his, shimmered in the late afternoon light coming in through the window. Despite his best effort not to, his eyes came to rest on the canvas that hung on the wall directly opposite his desk. It was a complex piece of Gestural Abstract art which had hung in the stately room for at least the last twenty years. In its monochromatic palette of random splashes, he always saw a figure, broken down and disjointed reaching for the ground with such desperation that it was almost like he was willing the earth to swallow him whole; annihilate his whole existence. The hugeness of the canvas added to the enormity of hopelessness that spilt from it; flowing into the room like a constant, unending stream of emotional sludge. He hated the piece. And yet, it hung there smug and superior, intimidating and authoritative, alive and kicking. It was one of his father’s favourite pieces of art.

A knock at the door halted his mangled introspection. The rest of the day passed in a flurry of activity that slowly abated around 6 O’ clock. Saqib then picked up his Smythson Panama briefcase and headed for his car. His father would be in tomorrow. Over the last year, more and more, the reigns of the company had been shifted officiously, almost belligerently from father to son. Even so, Sikander Zaka Khan swept into the office once a week, taking everything by storm. It took a day for the dust to settle, while his own reputation as the able scion of the family business was depleted slowly but surely, like the helium escaping from a balloon that had the smallest of perforations in it. With each passing week, even the most stoic of Sikander Zaka and Son employees had seen the boss’s offspring for the chip of the old block that he was definitely not. Ever so gradually, almost imperceptibly, there had been a change in the organisational culture as boardroom debates became more lively, just short of being heated, and the ambient murmur of the executive floor rose a few, not unnoticeable decibels. Saqib had watched all this silently, knowing it was just another counter intuitive ploy by which his father was toughening him up for the role of CEO of one of the largest textile spinning units in Karachi.

While a myriad ungracious, unforgiving thoughts passed through his mind about his unemancipated state, Saqib was also keenly aware of how his Harrods Roquefort bread was buttered: he knew he lacked the rigour and the character for a regular corporate job. He couldn’t see himself slogging 9 to 5 with only thirty days of paid leave. If he was absolutely candid with himself, he knew also, that he didn’t have the requisite skill set either, armed even though he was with his Bachelors degree from the Imperial College London. The couple of Finance courses that he hadn’t quite cleared in the first go, were another echoing reminder of his failure. He knew that to live in the lap of luxury that he was used to, he would have to sacrifice his life choices to a considerable extent and his sense of self, quite entirely. If it had been up to him, he would have become an interior designer … moonlighting as a chef. He loved the aesthetics of furniture and food. He had singlehandedly furnished and decorated his beautiful home. The fact that his wife was quite happy to let him take the lead on all home improvement projects had helped considerably in helping to keep his heart where his home was. His glamorous home on Khayaban-e-Shamsheer was the envy of many a well heeled housewife with whom he readily and fondly shared his vast stores of knowledge, from the best upholsterer in town to the florist who had the freshest imported blooms. His home was indeed, a loving tribute to all his most precious and unrequited dreams.

“Hello Abu”, came the cracked voice from the lounge as Saqib opened the front door to his house. Despite the burden of his innermost thoughts that had today descended upon him like a flood, he smiled. Shuja was growing up and his body was being put to the age old test of the transition from boy to man. His voice had started to break a couple of months ago, a fact that had quickly become a point of many light hearted moments between father and son. He was sprawled on his favourite lounger, his PS4 controller in his hands. Father and son had picked the soft blue fabric for the sofa together and the reupholdstered seat had become Shuja’s favourite chair in the house. His Velvet Dream he had once called it. Saqib had smiled at the aptness of the name for the chair and also for his own secret little stash of them. Shuja was a good child. He was also very creative and talented. And brave. Saqib acknowledged this last characteristic with some trepidation. There was so much potential danger embodied in that attribute that he couldn’t quite bring himself to look upon it as a quality, a gift. With his unusually honed skill as an artist and his love of cooking, he was quite the apple of his father’s eye. And in the sanctity of his home, Saqib allowed his heart to swell with pleasure. He looked at his fourteen year old son, his eldest, with a mixture of pride and joy.

Read Part Two here: https://theroamingdesi.org/2021/10/08/velvet-dreams-part-two/

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VERSE | LET ME BE ME

For all the girls, and the women young and old, who are made to feel less, inferior or impaired because they have dreams that are different to the ones dreamt up for them by others. May you find the strength and the passion to be you.

Why must I be what I don’t want to be?
Why must I change the state of my dreams?
Why must I cower in fear of my world?
Why must the story of my life stay untold?

Why must I hide myself away?
Why must I look behind me always?
Why must there always be danger to me?
To my spirit, my soul, my mind, my body?

Why can I not laugh out loud when I want?
Why must I hide all my joy in my heart?
Why can’t I turn my face to the sun?
Why must I hide in the shadows you’ve spun?

Why must I bear the ball and chain of these roots?
Why must I remain invisible and mute?
Why was I born if not to revel
In life’s ever cresting and falling swell?

I’m a child of this world, let me roam free
Let me think, let me speak, let me be me
I’m a creature of this earth, I belong everywhere
Let me spread my wings, let me lay my heart bare

Let me be, let me be, just what I want to be
Let me dream, let me dream, what I want to dream
Let me walk in this world unafraid and kind
Let my life tell the story of my heart and my mind.
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OPINION | FAITH

Faith: more and more, a tenuous ideology as it has traditionally existed. Increasingly, we are seeing how conventional belief systems are becoming less and less able to minister to the spiritual needs of believers at large.

As our spheres of existence evolve, leaping and bounding into the digital age; as we progressively become part of a smaller and smaller global village, we are also increasingly being faced with unprecedented challenges in terms of how we interact with the communities we live in, and others around the world. More and more we see how intolerance, hate and suffering are being directly perpetrated in the dubious paths of organized belief systems. The way I see it, we have slowly but surely lost our humanity to the relentless machinations of modern day religious powerhouses.

What is Faith then, in the current times? What does it mean to be devout and devoted? Is it a copious measure of ritual practice while the heart continues to race in fear and the mind is a cacophony of discord in times of trial? Is it the demonstration of exalted acts performed in the way of glorifying one’s particular belief system which, at its very core, is selfish and ungenerous? Where every “good deed” is performed on a quid pro quo basis: you are charitable primarily so YOU can go to heaven, and not because someone is needy – (that’s just a circumstantially advantageous outcome). You go to church and to the mosque so YOU can get into the Almighty’s good books so YOU can skip into Eden, not because you have the well- being of your community at heart. All, spiritually depleting ideologies of faith practised solely from a fear of consequences, rather than the simple desire to embody and celebrate our humanity.

What is it then, to truly believe? Could it be simply, the genuine attempt to be the best version of oneself spiritually, mentally, emotionally and physically? To be able to look within to become a force for good without? To be able to think for oneself more and to rely less on the divisive narrative of neo-evangelists? Is it to finally pay fit tribute to our innate “God-given” spiritual and mental prowess? To finally breaking through the webs of intrigue and confusion woven by self serving belief systems and sifting through the spiritual antimatter for ourselves.

Look around you. Nature itself has manifested how irrelevant caste, creed and racial differences are. How even more insignificant religiously wrought community and political boundaries are: The recent Corona virus pandemic didn’t pick political or religious sides. No one was beyond the reach of its pestilential nature. Why then are we not heeding what we instinctively know to be true: That our shared humanity is bigger than any individual religion. That our communal joys and sorrows are more spiritually potent than any Sunday service or Friday ‘Khutba’*. That together we are a stronger, better, more spiritually evolved species than we are when projecting our differences of Faith. At the end of the day, the very essence of all religions is entrenched not only in equality, kindness and charity among “our own flock”, but in thoughtfully and inclusively channeling these attributes to ensure one becomes a more universal force for good.

It is time. Time to break through the inertia and the paralysis of our different religions; of the illogical but deeply ingrained ways we are taught to hate one another. It is time to start having the difficult but essential discussions on renewing and revitalising our counter intuitive belief systems. It is time to take back our hijacked/ distorted ideologies of belief and once again breathe the essence of universal humanity into them.

* Khutba: publicly held formal sermon, especially delivered after the communal Friday prayers in the Islamic religion.
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OPINION| WORLD ON A WIRE*

Global politics, our collective Moral Compass and the Palestinian tragedy

Funny what our world has become. We grow, we evolve, we hope to become ever better versions of ourselves, and then life gets in the way; our pursuit of success and even our quest for happiness gets in the way. Somewhere down the line, we’ve lost the actual essence of those pursuits; we’ve lost touch with what makes us human – the heart and soul equation we call our Moral Compass. This degradation of our will to distinguish between what feels wrong and what doesn’t, deep in our gut, has gone on for so long that now we don’t even recognise when we are party to cruelty, injustice or irrationality in the name of ideology, faith and correctness.

We, as a species however, are not innately bad. The overwhelming majority of us mean well. We want to do the right thing; we want to stand for the right causes; we want to speak up where it matters. But so insidious and crafty is the state of our global politics and the malicious power mongering that goes on in its toxic folds, that for large swathes of humanity to be duped, brain-washed and even numbed to atrocities is now completely normal.

The one double edged sword where the glint of steel can go either way is digital media. While it is rife with conspiracy theories and extremist ideologies, there is also a healthy spectrum of enterprising, truth telling news and information sources on there. What becomes a necessary obligation on behalf of us, the bulk of humanity using these platforms, is to do the work to separate the grain from the chaff; the truth from the lies; the sincere from the duplicitous. That will depend heavily on first, how true we stay to our own value systems and then, on how we navigate through the tortuous labyrinth of information surrounding us.

Case in point: the Palestinian tragedy. The bare-faced atrocities have gone on for so long, that we seem to have lost our collective capacity to see them for what they are. And all the while, they have become ever more brazen and cruel. If this was a hypothetical study, it would be an open and shut case long before it had even reached its current levels of criminality. And yet, while we are ideologically devoted to fair play, we appear to have lost our will, our voice and our moral authority to really make it happen. The overwhelming reason: Because the global power brokers, deal makers and profiteers continue to blast their deafening megaphones with cooked up intrigues and imagined threats, confusing, bewildering and paralysing the rest of us.

In the wake of the recent unrest, despite biased journalism and political posturing, it is critical, now more than ever, that the international community comes together as one, to voice its concerns; to make its genuine feelings about the situation heard. This time, our collective moral compass needs to practically swing in the right direction. We need to prove that the vast majority of us still believe in basic decency and justice.

This then is something of a hope and a prayer for the truth seekers and the compass bearers out there. May we continue to find the moral and ideological strength to discern, weigh in and be heard. For the Palestinians and for all the others that are disenfranchised, marginalised and oppressed. Let us take back the global diplomacy narrative from the politicians and their funding platforms. Let us put back some soul and some humanity into the voices that we are raising for a more just and honest world.

* Title inspiration from Fassbinder’s 1973 German Science Fiction television series of the same name. 
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FEATURE| THE NOSTALGIA OF A NICE CUP OF TEA

Teatime- a word that invokes so many nostalgic memories, while also carrying with it the promise of another little social do right around the corner. I write this from the subcontinental (read: classic) perspective where tea means exactly that, and is not in fact a culinary codeword for another meal…like dinner perhaps!

Having lived in a country, nigh upon six years now, which is known for its magnificent tea plantations, I came here expecting to be swept off my feet with supremely flavourful tea served with as much fanfare. But oh, the lost pleasure of the perfect cup of tea! Not only has the stately beverage been woefully overshadowed by its more robust cousin, the sinewy coffee, but the genteel art of tea making itself has been all but sabotaged by our time-constrained lifestyles.

Tepid tea, (whatever happened to tea-cosies?) just this side of being too anaemic or too vigorous, is the norm at most places. Tea brewing is a lost art that even tea timers haven’t been able to revive (those aging relics that lie there, unused, taunting tea drinkers; and then fading a little more into oblivion as they realise the futility of their efforts). Tea strainers are further dying remains of the classic tea trolley. So, even potentially good cups of tea will quickly take on a bizarre, almost bovine experience as one chews the leaves along with each sip.

The silver lining in all this post modern annihilation of the elegant art of tea making is the teatime legacy my sisters and I have carried into our lives. Having grown up in a home where tea and the accompanying panoply was the norm, this has been a delightful happenstance. Teatime at home consisted of lavish spreads of everything from pastries and sandwiches to biscuits and dahi bhallas*. And of course it meant steaming pots upon pots of Kenyan tea laced ever so delicately with earl grey. It became an affair, synonymous with togetherness, laughter and chatter. A time for capricious banter and tender confidences- a caffeine-warmed embrace of the ebb and flow of our lives. And at the centre of this lovely intimacy was my mother, the gracious matriarch who made this teatime magic happen.

In conclusion, of all the tea connoisseurs/ growers/ curators of the experience on the island, I ask that you breathe fresh life into this exquisite tradition. It is the assured panacea to many a dreadful day, of which sadly, we have all seen our fair share lately. In the words of Bernard-Paul Heroux, “There is no trouble so great or so grave that cannot be much diminished by a nice cup of tea”; the “nice” there being replete with all manner of ambrosial and soul and spirit uplifting possibilities.

*Dahi Bhalla: a savoury, yogurt-based snack indigenous to the subcontinent.
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OPINION| THE PRODIGAL SONS

Earlier this year, after decades, the island of Sri Lanka welcomed the Pakistani cricketing legend of yore. Thankfully, the political mantle is still too new to disenchant the international fan base. Not that I think he is a corrupt bag of officious bones in the manner peculiar to many of his South Asian compatriots and indeed, his very own predecessors. No, he’s just a little soft in the head; a natural affliction, I have come to believe, when one decides to not go down the oft trodden path of political corruption and depravity. The cerebral mush of course, leads to an entirely different set of bureaucratic disasters. The long and short of it is that Imran Khan’s heart is in the right place but his brain is an addled brew of eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog*... And so, even with the best of intentions, the empire double doubles, toils and troubles!* But i digress… and can you blame me! Like everyone else in our beleaguered country, I too am a devoted armchair warrior and am wont to vent.

So why did our PM Imran Khan visit Sri Lanka?

What an interesting question, full of intrigue and the promise of riveting conspiracy theories (rubbing my hands gleefully and wanting to quote more eccentric old world verse!)

So here’s my take on it. The global power structure is gradually changing, and the South Asian bloc wants to be ready to play its part. Colonially-seeded geographical antagonism is seeming more and more irrelevant and incongruous as our unipolar world dithers on its North American weighted axis. As the US struggles with its burgeoning domestic issues, its inconvenient truths, it seems less and less likely to hold the moral mantle of global leadership. And when that dignity, skin deep though it may be, is shaken, the fall of the rest of the edifice is not far behind. No one wants to be told what to do by someone who can’t keep peace in their own backyard. And so, when some little but worthy nation somewhere tells Uncle Sam to mind his own business, we need to be ready to play our parts in catalysing the new equilibrium. Who those game-changing tRICksters* will be, is anyone’s guess. What is pertinent is that success will depend on there being some semblance of peace and harmony between the mighty neighbours of the Eastern hemisphere. And that peace has to begin ground up; with the smaller warring nations politely brought to heel first, so to speak. And so it was that on a swarthy February day, in the golden arms of the south Asian tear drop island, Pakistan was brought into the loop of the Global Reset. Because having two bickering nuclear armed neighbours in the region is generally not favourable to the efficacy of grand plans. And so, a meeting of the two estranged sisters, India and Pakistan, was arranged.

It is also interesting to note that hot on the heels of the Pak PM’s visit, the citizenry was treated to rather strategic Indo-SL combined military aerobatics, showcasing the battling might of mostly the Indian airforce. A polite but stratospherically overt reiteration that while there is some appetite for absurd but fit-to-current-form alliances, it’s best not to forget who the Saber Holders are and who the Saber Rattlers are.

All this of course is a funny-feeling-in-the-gut conjecture; the waxing eloquent of conspiracy theories. But these days, when truth has so often been stranger than fiction, the civic mingling of sworn enemies is not such a far fetched ideal. The proof of the gesture will of course be in how the two neighbours deal with each other going forward. (Watch out for startlingly long periods of peace along usually tempestuous/ skirmish-ridden borders).

Wade Davis’ words are a reverberating mantra for our times when he said, “No empire long endures, even if few anticipate their demise. Every kingdom is born to die. The 15th century belonged to the Portuguese, the 16th to Spain, 17th to the Dutch. France dominated the 18th and Britain the 19th. [By the 20th century], the torch had long passed into the hands of America”.

Let’s hope America continues to scratch the surface of its domestic/ social inequities, leaving little power vacuums across the globe. Let’s also hope that the Prodigal Sons of the East (daughters are in scarce order!) rise to the occasion. When the time comes, it will take a concerted effort of going against the grain of everything we know to be our patriotic truths, to seed a new epoch.

*eye of newt.... verse quoted from Shakespeare’s Macbeth
*tRICksters: the RIC in the word stands for the 3 global powerhouses of Russia, India and China.
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FILM PICKINS| STAR TREK – DEEP SPACE 9 (1993 – 1999)

It was slow I admit, the glimmerings of a connection with the ST-DS9* characters and their Deep Space shenanigans. But by season 2, I had developed a mild fondness for the Captain and his Federation crew. And by season 4, the affection I felt for the space Station denizens was deep-rooted and personal. By season 5, I was already forlornly anticipating the end of the series and feeling at odds with the rest of the Netflix science fiction repertoire.

That is not to say that i was blinded to the obvious shortcomings of the production; they just became tenderly blurred as the characters became increasingly larger than life. I still remember cringing slightly during season 1 and wondering for the 347th time why i felt such a compelling commitment to see every series through, dubious and otherwise, that I’ve embarked on. Here’s what I remember even as I dredge up the memories from the practical, unemotional series-bingeing depths of my mind:

The characters were more than a tad over-dramatic – Captain Sisko often comes across as a stand up comic endearingly poking fun at would-be space bigwigs; while the good Doctor Bashir appears so entranced by his own look, feel and sound that one would be forgiven for mistaking him for the English, Space version of a Doogie Howser impersonator. Major Kira (Colonel now!) is relentless in her adolescent knee jerk outbursts of anger, vengeance and the insatiable need to be the biggest bully in the Alpha quadrant…. nah… all Space. Then there are the dated special effects: the barely camouflaged fluorescent primary coloured lights blinking on 24th century tricorders and control panels; the landing/ disembarkation pads which look like ponderous railway tunnels; the defiant, brave little ships in space, dithering ever so slightly against their starry backdrop – trembling reminders of their actual minuscule size and mass; the phasers and other laser weapons put to shame by the contents of aisle 15 in Toys ‘r’ Us. But…. like i said, i had to laboriously dig up these first and not so lasting impressions.

What I do remember effortlessly is the superb characterisation of Quark the quintessential Ferengi who’d grown a heart and a bit of a conscience over the course of the 7 seasons; Garak who was as devious and resourceful as he was genteel and intrepid; Dukat the bipolar Cardsassian who fought a war of conscience for most of the 7 seasons, finally relenting with a Bajoran bow and a twisted flourish to his dark side; Weyoun, the Gamma quadrant clone who was as duplicitous as he was “god-fearing”; and of course Vic Fontaine, a holographic throwback to the 1960s Las Vegas rat pack style entertainment who was as good a singer as he was a psychothera-pal for the DS9 crew. All in all, the alien characters of DS9 delivered a far superior performance to that of their human counterparts.

The piece de resistance of the series however, is definitely its ability to take its viewers on a compelling, emotional journey into the lives of its main characters. The cloak and dagger plots set a million light years away from earth still took place in what was essentially a little town with its very own set of the good, the bad and the alien. And that was ultimately what made the series so memorable.

Other Deep Space Distillations:

-The mainstream ethics/ moral compass portrayed by the Federation of planets, while being lofty and aspirational by our boorish 21st century standards, was still shown to be insidiously riddled with intrigue and deception; its Section 31 dutifully and covertly performing all its ungallant business. I suppose some things are so hard-wired into our psyche, a basic distrust of anyone different from ourselves being at the top of that list, that no amount of evolution and sophistication can wring it out of our DNA.

-America, as is customary across the Hollywood universe, bravely endeavoured to save the day or lead from the front. And so unremarkably, Uncle Sam continued to fill in most of the shoes of the DS9 and the Federation nawabs*.

-I discovered a new-found love for Frank Sinatra’s soulful crooning. I’ve had his vocal jazz and swing numbers on quick recall on my phone for the last fortnight. Vic’s repository of the legendary tunes pulls at all the heart strings!

-The MC at Joe Biden’s inauguration ceremony sounded eerily like Worf, the Klingon!

I watched the last show of the last season last night. A net total of 176 episodes viewed, imbibed and psychoanalysed nostalgically during the last 4 weeks. Almost made me forget we’re in the middle of a pandemic as I traversed through space and time with the crew and the citizens of Deep space 9/ Terek Nor.

I leave you with a nostalgic old Sinatra refrain sung by DS9’s own Vic Fontaine, just because it’s such a lovely old song and even half a millennium on, it resonated richly, poignantly, on a space station somewhere in our cosmos.

*ST-DS9: Star Trek – Deep Space 9

*Nawab: a male title which literally means Viceroy; the female equivalent is “Begum” or “Nawab Begum”. The primary duty of a Nawab was to uphold the sovereignty of the Mughal emperor along with the administration of a certain province. In modern times, it is often used to denote men of power.

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OPINION|MY 72 HURS* AND I

I probably would not have been able to write this piece as intrepidly as I am doing now had I been in the motherland. And therein lies the basis of the conundrum that is our religion: an ideology that is deeply, consumingly rooted in loathsome patriarchy with a formidable intolerance for debate and discussion.

1400 years after the Prophet Muhammad brought the message of peace, tolerance, equality and most importantly, the elevation of the status of women in the fabric of our religious and social structures, we have not only forgotten the essence of that message, but have regressed in ways that would be considered somewhat extreme even in the wild misogyny of ancient Arabia. Islam, in the developing world, led ideologically by our oil-rich Arab brethren, has degenerated into a cacophony of fear mongering, at the heart of which is a gender bias so sick, it is boggling to the mind in the 21st century. So embedded is that illogical, bald-faced chauvinism that its nefarious cultural roots are no longer visible in the milleu of religious (mis)interpretation and ritual. In the masterful manipulation of all organized religions, Wahabi/ orthodox Islam too wields its power by staunching all debate that questions its ethical and moral viability for the current times – for to question is to be a Kafir* and thus branded, you may be exposed to the unwitting but ferocious wrath of the rest of the believers; or if you’re lucky enough to escape that gory end, you are forever a pariah in the fatherland.

I consider myself privileged for growing up in that little bubble of sanity that floats just atop the rest of the malignant mass that is our socio-religious national fabric today. Our generation of females in the family, led by absolutely prodigious women of substance, has been bestowed with those critically strategic opportunities to break through the debilitating and handicapping proverbial glass, nay granite ceiling. We have been raised to believe that the only people who are better than us are those who bring more to the the table as human beings, and that does not include their inadvertent Y chromosome. And yet, during my time working in the corporate sector which is known for its gender inclusivity with its strategic human capital goals of at least 45/55 percent female to male ratios, I was reminded on not infrequent occasions, that to be a man regardless of your professional acumen was to have a clear advantage. One example of this state-sponsored misogyny is the weight/ bearing of a woman’s signature on a legal document. Two female signatures are required for every one male signature for the document to hold up in a court of law. And so on more occasions than I care to remember, the resident tea boy who had nothing to do with the legal gambit or the event (except for the steaming cups of tea in our hands) has put down his testosterone-fortified signature as a legal witness, because I, the woman who was leading the charge on the matter, was not deemed fit enough by our state legislatures to understand it as well as any male can, including our tea boy – who, quite frankly, was a good soul but had limited knowledge of BPRD* circulars and responses to the State bank.

And so this system of overt bias is perpetuated to keep our gender from ever reaching its full potential – an unmitigating stream of psychological and jurisdictive attacks cloaked in fuzzy patriarchy to keep 50% of the country in a constant state of entropy.

Despite these disabling encumberances, our generation has forged ahead – thinking, questioning and expanding our minds and our hearts to become more of the emotionally, mentally and spiritually replete beings that we inherently are. This has also led to a sizeable denominator of women being essentially left in limbo viz-a- viz workable/ aspirational personal philosophies. On the one hand, the religious and cultural ideologies of their forefathers no longer fit their lives in any manner that is respectful, empowering and enriching; on the other hand, any discourse or analysis that could lead to a more gracious and inclusive embodiment of religious tenets is tantamount to sacrilege. This is the state of half the population of the Muslim world; the state of almost a billion people on the planet. I am one of those women.

As we continue to the top of the personal ideological food chain, the number of denizens occupying those upper tiers get very much fewer. The ironic paradox with this food chain is that the apex means surefire disenfranchisement, backlash and predation. Like I said, it is still a rare privilege to be born a female in a truly enlightened Muslim family – I am grateful to be one of those. But our numbers are few and the patriarchal landscape is vast and riddled with a hatred for dissidents that has only become more fanatical through the centuries. However, every revolution of the hearts and the minds begins with a few intrepid idiots calling out the injustice and the oppression. I am also one of those women.

And so I’m diving into my ideological debate with some essential satire on a salient reward of the Hereafter; a lustful vision so unashamedly made synonymous with goodness that it has compelled the righteous to decimate entire populations and on frequent occasions, themselves too: the 72 Hurs or splendid female companions of Paradise. Promised to every believer. I’m a believer and I think I’m a good human being; (I’m also as straight as they come!) So is that vision, touted as it is in every inspirational Khutbah*, an enticing end to a life well lived? I’m going to hazard a guess on behalf of us Muslim women who are almost a billion strong: Nah!

The religious conversation needs to evolve beyond the all male-corridors of our masjids*; beyond erotic visions of the afterlife as the penultimate reward, to a wholesome, dignified ideology of life itself.

It is time, ladies and gentlemen, to take Islam out of the Neanderthal man caves into the light of the 21st century.

*Hur: a “splendid female companion” in the afterlife epitomising the spoils of a righteously led life for every devout Muslim man

*Kafir: unbeliever/ infidel. The term refers to a person who rejects or disbelieves in God as per Islam

*BPRD: Banking Policy and Regulations Department of the State Bank dictating the rules of business engagement for all banks

*Khutbah: A Muslim sermon that is delivered at places of worship mainly on Fridays which are considered holy days in Islam

*Masjid: Islamic places of worship predominantly visited by only men.

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THE CORPORATE SERIES|Demystifying Organizational Success – (Part 1)

It has now been over 6 years since i decided to take a sabbatical if you will, from my corporate career. I embarked on it more in the spirit of a healing process (life had thrown a few curveballs at me in 2012/13), rather than a wild abandonment of the work rigour, resulting precariously also, in the sudden and definitive staunching of a hitherto steady income!

Even so here i am, half a decade on, happier and probably somewhat healthier and wiser too! However, you can take a person out of the corporate halls of slog, but you can’t take the corporate exactitude out of the person. And so, i have over the last 5 years, approached all my experiences across the service industry spectrum, from the hospitality to the airline to the internet service providers with my customer experience hat adroitly perched upon my head. I have, quite a while ago, given up even the pretence of being a congenial, everyday customer with a heart full of forgiveness and a kind blurriness of mind reserved especially for appalling episodes of experiential breakdown. I notice everything and while i have made earnest efforts to not treat every service gaffe/ misdemeanour like it was committed by a flawlessly trained prodigy, i do pick my “service battles” from the point of view of identifying those likely eliciting the maximum bang for the buck. So while i won’t voice the mental angst of grossly delayed service followed by fumbling/ bumbling remedial efforts, I will respectfully opine on the myriad different withdrawal regulations that are applied to my NRFC* account – each disparate rule a tribute to its creative forger and executor of the day. The subsequent explanations to central bank auditors could make for a whole new banking science fiction genre; not to mention the plethora of post facto documentary and explanatory toil that I, the customer, would likely have to undertake to help the institution to regularise its stream of inadvertent but almost lovingly repeated foibles.

And so, to cut to the chase, i’ll go right to the helm of affairs – to the leadership of the organisation. That seat of power that can make or break the best and the worst of enterprises.

So what does a good Management Team do to create organisational success?

There are a few simple but utterly alchemical factors here that can convert even a seemingly jinxed piece of corporate enterprise into a decent success. I will explain each in successive blog posts.

Creating and Nurturing a Distinct Organisational Culture: There have been a couple of times, (twice for those inclined to use “couple” to mean a scattering!) where i have become part of a company culture where i felt like i was working for a home enterprise. The work environment being so disparate across the board that it ranged from an all out gestapo reenactment in one unit, to a space bubble with barely a shared ethos among its occupants, in another. And although the 2 units were highly dependent on each other in a particular product value chain, the twain barely ever met in purpose, harmony or delivery. Left unchecked, this work culture dissonance had added over a month to the end to end delivery turnaround time of the particular service. Complaints were rife; staff had been changed multiple times; bonuses were withheld. But despite the best of intentions, the issue stuck like the karmic backlash of a past life. Simply because there was no defined work culture, ethos or a shared Big Picture.

This work culture incongruity is a death knell for companies, especially in the service industry where, unlike in consumer goods producing FMCGs*, the end-user gratification is a sum total of their experience at that point in time with the organisation. Think of opening an account at a bank; your entire takeaway is nothing more than the knowledge that you have a new account in a particular bank underscored by the experience that accompanied that fact. Therefore, leaving the objectives of a mid-sized to large corporation undefined to its daily drivers and facilitators translates into the inevitable gross dilution of end-user experience that in time leaves nothing of the original/ intended USPs* of the company

Enter the dual magic of the Vision and Mission Statements*. These vessels allow management to clearly, concisely and effectively embody not only the existential purpose of the company; but also right to the T, what it means to be a part of the company as staff, customer, supplier and advertiser. (I’m personally not a big fan of shareholder stakes being vocalised in these statements). Building focused understanding, enthusiasm and energy behind these formal statements help to create and perpetuate a distinct company culture. People respond because by nature we are social creatures, and these statements of purpose then become the catalyst for nurturing a community of professionals with a clear unified end goal. A robust company culture though, is not a static thing. While the primary values remain unchanged (e.g. an FI’s* focus on technology, accessibility and financial security), the culture around those values is ever evolving to successfully accommodate the continuous diversity of its people, systems, customers and the external environment. The openness to change needs to be learnt/ imbibed at the get-go; imparted with veracity, in the very earliest of company orientation training programs.

Company management, the ManCom*, is the rightful custodian of the Vision and Mission statements; while every staff is the practical incumbent. In the best organisations, Management role models these values in visible ways to give them meaning, relevance, and to embed them into the DNA of the organisation at large. A game-changing organzational culture is one where its staff members are recognizable almost anywhere in the positivity of their bearing, attitude and pride of affiliation. For me, one such organisation was ABN AMRO bank in the late 90s into the mid 2000s in Pakistan. It was a poster child for hitherto unknown brands taking the market by storm; and continues to be a professional alma mater for so many even after it has ceased to exist in that particular market.

And so, a cohesive organisational culture which brings people together into a work community of purpose, is the first cornerstone of an organisation that successfully leads the charge and is able to cement its position as a leader in the industry.

(Read Part 2 here: https://theroamingdesi.org/2020/11/12/the-corporate-seriesdemystifying-organizational-success-part-2/ )

(Read Part 3 here: https://theroamingdesi.org/2020/12/01/corporate-seriesdemystifying-organizational-success-part-3/ )

*NRFC account: Non Resident Foreign Currency account

*FMCG: Fast Moving Consumer Goods

*USP: Unique Selling Proposition

*Vision and Mission statements: A Mission Statement defines the company’s business, its objectives and its approach to reach those objectives. A Vision Statement describes the desired future position of the company. Elements of Mission and Vision Statements are often combined to provide a statement of the company’s purposes, goals and values.

*FI: Financial Institution

*ManCom: corporate parlance for the Management Committee

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OPINION| A GRACIOUS FAREWELL

I’ve been meaning to put this hitherto confusing, emotionally wounding mass of thoughts to paper for a while now. So far, through all the varied attempts over the last 10 years, I’ve always choked on the words in my mind; cocooned in a kind of benumbing Writer’s Block if you will.

So here i am today, feeling a little more intrepid, a tad more emotionally sound and spurred on by a medley of bittersweet reminiscences, to finally reflect on the vital importance of End of Life acceptance, dignity and preparedness.

To die is inevitable; to lead a life well-lived is a choice. And yet, we leave so much to providence while we can still exercise our power to choose, and put up formidable bulwarks of resistance when faced with the inevitable. This is a construct and a bullheaded perpetuation of our modern times, urged on by medical advances and their preserving effect on our life expectancy. While we are living longer, we have also developed an almost combative relationship with the End of Life. Even when everything is pointing towards the inevitable final exit, we choose to fight. We push back, we suffer, we agonize and we degrade, physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually as we try and keep the “monster” at bay. A lot of times, that militancy is dispensed by the people closest to the terminally ill; and despite their good intentions, end up reducing their already suffering loved ones to little more than vulgarised shadows of their former selves.

In 2008, my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. She lived with the disease for four years with the dignity, grace and courage of the superwoman that she was. Never once did she put on the mantle of the reduced or the afflicted or the invalid. Right to the end, she remained the gracious matriarch of her warm, welcoming home. Towards the end, the final two days to be exact, when she should have been allowed to make that Final Walk with the same beautiful poise with which she had lived her life, we, her family and her medical specialists intervened with all of our might to fight off the inevitable. She was taken to two different hospitals over the span of the last 3 days where the vitally alive battled to avert or at least delay an end, that became heartbreakingly beleaguered.

My final memory of her last day with us, has nothing in the way of any gentleness, love or the deep peace of final goodbyes. It is a memory fraught with fussing, poking, prodding Medical Staff intubating, pulling and pushing her as they, with determined professionalism, executed their Hippocratic oaths. The memory of her looking right at me, confused and exhausted as they inserted the ET tube down her throat is still searingly painful.

For a full two years after that, I thought of that terrible, terrible last scene every single night before i allowed myself to sleep. Perhaps it was my form of emotional self flagellation for being a well meaning party to the inadvertent indignity and torment my mother suffered towards the end.

And then, I’m not sure whether it was a providential helping hand reaching out from my own subconscious to finally pull me out of my emotional abyss, or the tender, cosmic reverberations of the maternal bond that helped me to transition to my current state of mental well being. That said, it was a dream that gave me back some semblance of my peace. So lucid, potent and reassuring was the vision of my mother being well and happy that i woke up with the sheer visceral force of the feeling – the warmth of her touch still lingering on the skin of my hands. (I have written about the dream in another post: https://theroamingdesi.org/2020/03/09/thank-you-for-the-joy/ )

And so, I finally did surface from the viper pit of guilt and grief and i have since, forgiven myself.

All living creatures are the sum total of their experiences and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from my experience of losing someone close to me is the ability to see death for what it is – unavoidable. While I have lost my fear of the end, i also now understand the profound blessing a quick (relatively painless) exit is. That a departure that is underscored with acceptance, essential conversations, tranquility and quality time spent together becomes the blessed catalyst for more fully celebrating the lives of the loved ones we’ve lost. That the ability to see life and death with more ethereal eyes, to help us to grieve a little less and remember with joy so much more, are the cornerstones of a loving, respectful parting.

These End of Life conversations need to logically start in the hallowed halls of medical science. Medical caregivers need to bring more depth to their oaths taken for preserving the well being of human life, to include the dignity of death. These conversations need to become mainstream; to change the culture of the crusading and contrariness around death. In our current approach, we are left with too little in the way of the love and grace of final farewells.

It will take a consummate change in our emotional and social makeup and temperaments to begin to ennoble death even half as much as we do life. Given the current state of our world, this gracious labour of love around Final Partings may be the panacea for reminding us of both, the wonderful alchemy of the state of being alive and the eternal fragility of life itself.

De Khudai pe aman

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POLITICAL FARCE|THE AGE OF STUPID – Part Deux

This political farcical piece was written in September of 2020 in the wake of the American presidential elections.

May 24th, 2021:

The President Is Dead.

It was not exactly a shock but it did put the Administration into a bit of a tailspin. DT’s* tenuous hold on his vitality and even his lucidity, had begun to loosen quite quickly after he won the 2020 election – through the electoral college loophole yet again, trailing as he was by a popular vote count of 4,321,786 to be exact. It had been sad to see his trademark animated crazy-man persona take a nosedive in the aftermath of a Covid 19 attack in February 2021. Respiratory complications had led to double pneumonia and a heart attack from which he had never quite recovered. And thus it came to pass that with a sniffle and a stroke, the “Wuhan” virus had finally triumphed over its greatest Detractor and Denier in Chief.

Mike Pence Was Confused.

Mother* had been anticipating a turn in her otherwise vapid husband’s fortunes. She was a devout Christian and believed that because of her prodigious equation with God, her Mike was destined for greatness. Privately, Mike was terrified. He was used to doing someone’s bidding- the more autocratic the bidder, the more effectively Mike Pence tended to advance the [political] will of God. Mother said that when the time came, he was to “rise to the occasion”….

He mopped his brow and picked up the phone to call Mother. He put it down almost immediately. He looked across at Ivanka, squinting in anticipation.

Ivanka Glowed

In the wake of her father’s battle with the Chinese scourge, Ivanka had stepped up just like the chip off the old Trump timber that she was. In fact, she’d been the defacto Head of State now for the last 3 months while the President elect had relegated himself to laboriously showing up for the necessary photo and video Ops. In the short course of 2 months and through unrelenting public interactions and fact-repelling, fantastical incendiary speeches, she had expertly manipulated his fiercely loyal electorate to look on her as the heir apparent to the American throne. When the time came, she was going to gleam; she was going to be queen!

June 9th, 2021:

Bloody Wednesday

A million Trump supporters marched on Washington DC on June 5th, 2021. They had one mission in mind: to ensure the legacy of Donald J. Trump endured in the only way possible/ plausible. Ivanka Trump was to be President – some said Sovereign Leader.

Over 5000 people were killed in that endeavour (which came to be called the Lafayette Square Massacre in clandestine, ragtag liberation groups). On June 9th, 2021 Washington fell and Ivanka was installed in Mar-a-Lago, Florida as the Supreme Leader of the Republic of America.

June 9th, 2023:

The Immaculate Assimilation

There are still hopeful little insurgent clutches that come up here and there like miniscule trickles of water in the desert. They raise tenuous battle cries for the old values; for equality and justice. They are brutally crushed every time. The QAnon* governed, Portland based torture chambers, i have heard, rival none.

A newage caste system, inadvertently borrowed from the 1500 year old Vedic period in ancient India, has been installed as the elemental social fabric of the Republic of America. It is a fundamental alchemy of economic and racial hierarchy; and it is thriving in all its unstifled, newly-released glory. Washington is now home to the Mass Re-Cognition Camps where participants are concertedly reconditioned on the values of the new republic or Great America as it is now called.

I am a working class brown woman in this new America. And I have ‘volunteered’ to relearn the manifesto and the ethos of our new country, my position in it and especially, the very definite limits to my aspirations.

Where We Go One – We Go All!*

Long live the Aryan Republic of America!

Glossary of Terms:

*The Age of Stupid: Title inspired from a namesake 2009 dystopian movie. This feature is the follow up to the original OPINION |The Age of Stupid*

*DT: Donald J. Trump, the 45th President of the USA

*Mother: Mike Pence’s (and indeed, all of America’s) endearment for his wife

*QAnon: A far-right cult of conspiracy theorists alleging that a cabal of Satan-worshiping pedophiles running a global child sex-trafficking ring is plotting against President Donald Trump, who is battling them

*WWG1WGA: Where We Go One We Go All– a QAnon credo based on the “Great Awakening” of the public to share the load of restoring faith in the rule of law in a post-media age.

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OPINION|In God we Trust, But Our Morals are Negotiable

US Hegemony, Its Lingering Pakistan/ Afghanistan Embarrassment and Media Morality

It was the early 80s. I still vividly remember as a child, standing on the side of the iconic Mall road in Murree (a mountain resort town situated about 30kms northeast of Islamabad in Punjab, Pakistan, and also home to a number of missionary boarding schools) with compatriots from my school and others, waving little Pakistani and American flags as President Zia ul Haq accompanied by the then US Vice President, George H. W. Bush (Bush Senior) drove by in their endless cavalcade of black luxury sedans. For us it was a joyous day out of the regular rigour of boarding school life; for Pakistan it was the beginning of the end of its Rising Star status in the region.

Pakistan, so geostrategically well situated to catalyse the downfall of the Soviet empire- the one thorn in the side of the Americans and the only obstacle to an all out USA dominated planet- was requested to become Ally Numero Uno. And we complied in the then considered most shrewd and cunning manner – through religiously radicalising, arming and mobilising an entire nation in a war that was to turn in on itself for decades after the USSR fell. By God, did we comply! And for very little in return. A statesman at the helm of affairs at the time (or even a half-way successful businessman like Donald Trump armed as he is with his career collage of bankruptcies), rather than a religiously devout military man, would have at least got us better trade deals to help shore up the economy once the dust of battle settled. But these are wishful conjectures…and the rest as they say, is history.

Soviet Russia sputtered and fell and the USA couldn’t get out of the region fast enough, leaving two countries with populations in the area of 130 million (circa 1992) to clean up the mess. But radical religion has a way of festering, sometimes out of sight, and emerging multiplied, more virulent, more destructive and deadlier than before. And that has been the dubious Vestige of Alliance bestowed on the two countries, the “rewards” of which we are continuing to grimly reap. Kabul, once considered the Paris of the East, is now a wraith of its former self, and the country has been declared a failed state. Pakistan itself has been teetering on the edge of the abyss of Pariah States. It’s people have undergone decades of global dismissal at best and damnation at worst. Despite being the fifth most populous country in the world and a nuclear power, it has fallen behind all its compatriots on almost every index of progress, prosperity and nationhood. The war on terror in fact, has purportedly cost the Pakistani economy a total of almost USD 130 billion since 2001.

Ironies and hypocrisies are rife as the countries in the West continue to strengthen themselves in nuclear armament while using every tactic in the book and outside of the realms of international law to bully the weaker/ developing nations into maintaining their globally vulnerable positions. The touted purpose: because these countries cannot be trusted with independent nuclear arms for they may wage globally destructive wars. The ironic truth: almost all the wars of the 20th century and the 2 decades of the 21st century have been initiated or aggressively intervened in by the USA, whether it was Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya, Syria; or Cuba, Panama, Kenya and Yemen. We, the developing nations, have sat on the sidelines, watched our economies bled dry, our social systems dragged into the Middle Ages and our international reputations ripped to tatters. The 20th century has indeed been a bloody epoch despite all the noble peace-promoting intentions of the victors of the 2 world wars. We as the human species have remained true to our baser instincts: power has tended to corrupt; and absolute power has corrupted absolutely.

And now enter the new devil! The mainstream digital and broadcast American media which in the blink of an eye can school millions of viewers around the world onto any hypothesis, conspiracy theory and interpretation of facts…and fiction. For the Global Village such as it is, besides making the world that much smaller and more accessible for its citizens, also ensures that current affairs are copiously and constantly coloured only with the pens of the victors of the 20th century, the USA.

Case in point: A few months ago, Pakistan displayed quite remarkable success in not only reining in the Covid-19 pandemic in the country while the wheels of economy continued to turn; but it was also reported to currently have the best performing stock market in Asia. Hot on the heels of this positive press, the major American media conglomerates began blitzing their screens with how Pakistan and Afghanistan are still the only countries in the world which still had rampant wild strains of polio. And so there it was again – the habitually insidious carpet-pulls from under our beleagured feet….

The Avengers of the Digital Age then, are not the politicians nor the military Strongmen. They are the Media. And granted that on the Information Super Highway, it requires great ethical tenacity and character to claw through the putrefying onslaught of political bias, power and oneupmanship. But never have the stakes for the preservation and endurance of our collective ethics and morality been higher than at the present time. Now more than ever, this fraternity needs to people itself with the most courageous visionaries, opinion makers and informers who bring an unwavering moral predisposition/ force to the sacrosanct task of building a higher globally shared ethical instinct and awareness.

God save the Queen, the USA, the Sheikhs, the Despots and the Champions of our collective moral integrity!

De Khudai pe aman.

Featured

FEATURE| The Call of the Wild

I’d been hearing its haunting whispers for a while, and so there was a sense of urgency of the spirit if you will, to go off into some wilderness sunset somewhere. It was in this chakras-in-a-flux kind of state then that the opportunity to soulfully recoup befell me. And so it was at the tail end of a tropically balmy July that i found myself taking the scenic route to Habarana – home to a number of national parks, eclectic wildlife and the majestic pachyderm, the Asian elephant.

We (my travel adventures partner in crime and I), drove to Habarana which is located in the Anuradhapura district of Sri Lanka. It is ideally situated as the departure point for safaris in the Habarana jungle and a throng of nearby wildlife sanctuaries. It is also home to a number of beautiful hotels one of which is the Cinnamon Habarana Lodge. Boasting sprawling grounds alive with the sounds, sights and smells of nature, the Lodge offers fabulous walkways replete with forest trail-like pathways; water bodies straight out of a Monet painting; and a profusion of chittering, chattering birds and primates. Nature truly is free and floating at the Lodge, dancing in a mesmeric carnival of greens, browns, blues and reds. Needless to say, we walked off many a lavish meal in the midst of this resplendent profusion.

Our first deep-dive into nature was a trip to the Minneriya National park situated a half an hour drive away from the Habarana Lodge. Close to the culturally historic city of Polonnaruwa, it is home to 160 species of birds, 9 species of amphibians, 25 species of reptiles, 26 species of fish, and 75 species of butterflies. The park offers majestic views of wild elephants foraging in the shrub. The famous Gathering of the Wild Elephants occurs at this meeting place, also known for the largest gathering of Asian Elephants at one place anywhere in the world. During the dry season of August and September each year, herds of up to 300 elephants are seen within a few square kilometers of the vast Minneriya Reservoir.
The whole experience is almost meditative as these gentle giants go about their foraging activities while the calves romp, play and trunk-wrestle one another. We also had the unique good fortune to see 1-month old twins born in the wild – a fabulous rarity in the pachyderm species. The day of our visit, there were only 5 other jeeps at Minneriya, where there are usually over a 100 on any given day. The pandemic has definitely put a spanner in the wilderness works at Habarana! In an ironic way, as is true for so much in our lives, this break from the human horde has been greatly psychologically salubrious for the resident elephants, who have been known to occasionally charge at the safari jeeps. Not in any harmful way but in more of a display of self preservation as they protect the herd, especially their juveniles and infants.

We were also able to spot wild Axis deer, Jungle fowl, Peacocks and wild hare. Curious troops of Toque Macaque monkeys and Tufted Grey Langurs greeted us at almost every bend in the road, sitting on their haunches like so many subcontinental men who, done with their daily toils, congregate on sidewalks to watch the world go by, while also wishing for some serendipitously divine change in their fortunes. Many are carrying cute as button infants who are chips right off the old blocks – inquisitive, sociable and perpetually waiting for divine (or homosapien) manna.

Wild elephants at the Minneriya National Park

With the copiously tranquil vibe of Minneriya still reverberating in our city-wearied bones, we were hooked. So on the morrow, we embarked on yet another safari, this time to the undulating plains of the Kaudulla National Park. Situated about 40 minutes away from the Lodge, the park is known for sightings of leopards, fishing cats, sambar deer, endangered rusty spotted cats and sloth bears. On a typical trip, one is guaranteed enthralling views of a variety of birds including resplendent junglefowl, peacocks, ibis, egrets, hornbills and rain quails. The piece de resistance again however, are the herds of wild elephants and their calves, observable in their wild habitat; and of course the habitat itself. Lush greenery amidst undulating plains meets the eye for miles. Kaudulla Park is yet another close up zen experience with Nature and her great and small beasts.

Wild elephants at the Kaudulla National Park

The national park sojourns are as much journeys into the great outdoors, as they are into contemplative/ meditative spaces replete with the sounds and smells of the peaceful wild. I came away from the Habarana trip revived, rejuvenated and rested. It was like the spiritual letting down of my hair while walking barefoot on rain-moistened grass. Indeed, it was like living, for a few delightful days, in a Khalil Jibran quote: Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.

De Khudai pe aman

Featured

VERSE|Thank you for the Joy – Part 2

For my beautiful, wise mother on what would have been her 72nd birthday on the 8th of July 2020. And to all the other wonderful mothers who have left us too soon ❤️🌺

Sometimes I wake up in the morning
Feeling a little less vibrant, a little more melancholy...
I get dressed, and I look in the mirror
My hairbrush poised in my hand...
And I see a flash of someone familiar
A fleeting gesture, a nuance, an expression,
And I smile, a gentle joy touching my cheeks.
And then I look into my eyes
And I clearly see the lingering glimmer of someone resting in my heart
And my heart bursts, my throat chokes up and my eyes twinkle
And I know that I have shared
A special mother-daughter moment in my dressing table mirror.

VERSE | PARADISE

I have lost the rituals 
Of faith. But my devotion has
Become stronger. I no longer
Am afraid or confused by questions that
Whirl around in my head
Never to be brought into existence
Their very substance damning
Pounding, hammering a path to (h)elsewhere
I now wear a cloak around
My shoulders. It holds a super power
A texture all its own. When I’m alone
It reminds me of who I am
It fosters my introspection
It champions who I want to be
And then I feel
No other burden of pretense
Or suspense
No fear of consequence
For being so much more
And ritualizing less
I have no dire need to find my
Hallowed steed to gallop on with
Me holding on, bound for paradise
This life, this blessed life is mine
To treat with such passion
Such tenderness, that earth
Our beautiful earth
Itself becomes the Eden I seek
My paradise is under my own feet.

VERSE | SEASONS WHISPERER

Where are you going my little one 
With your hands full of summer flowers?
Why do you have that smile on your lips?
Why do your eyes shine like stars?

I’m coaxing with play the Summer away
She’s never ever happy to leave
She’ll pout and she’ll wallow, go all shades of yellow
She’ll moult in the throes of grief

But when I pick up her bloom-strewn dresses
And laughingly whisk them away
She follows along singing a song
And her sister takes up the reign

I’m the whisper of the breeze flowing in the trees
I’m the drops of morning dew
I’m the patter of rain on sun-kissed earth
I’m her fragrance as she breathes anew

I’m the usher of times, of blossoms and snow
I’m the forger of grand season farewells
I’m the music and cadence, the rhythm of life
I ring all its wistful and joyful bells.

VERSE | Aii-o!

It was so, that palpitations on the go
Were what this brew
Bestowed on me willy nilly
Everytime I put a mug of it
To my lips and took a sip

That cup-o-java treacherous

Time took its stride, I began to write
And the gentle infusions
Of earl grey tea and BOP
Just lost the zing they brought to things
Robot, human and alien

As onto joe I transitioned

Now I’m somewhat of a connoisseur
Of the brew, and what have you
I cringe when it is less than perfect
My taste buds scream at every defect
In a mug or cup or a takeaway

That I encounter through my days

I tell this story because today
Is alas one of those days
Where my joe, is a little slow
In bewitching my senses as I conjecture
Its milky hue and grainy texture
Grounds afloat like demon specters
No soulful brew, no gods’ nectar
The stuff of theses, TEDx lectures
I could go on, but suffice to say

Dear barista is off his game today.

Image generated via illustration software

VERSE | THE DELUGE

Wars rage across the globe
Black tender weaponized, legalized, expedited
Back into western folds
Pockets lined with silver and gold

And the rain falls

Billionaires wearing t-shirts and jeans
Their assets splitting at the seams
Go to the moon
To float around in zero gravity
With their mugs of civet coffee

And the rain falls

Priests and rabbis and the clergy
Preach from pulpits blood-streaked
With people sacrificed, ostracized, cast aside
As God is their witness, we all see

And the rain falls

A woman takes in an elder drenched
In torrents that wrenched
The next meal and rent
From his shaking hands
He cries without a sound
His tears surge into the floods
Rolling down
Crimson-hued carrying blood
From the mountains to the sea
As the country drowns.

Image generated via illustration software

LIFE-SKILLS SERIES👦🏻 | MY GIFT OF GRATITUDE

For Ages 7 – 10

Come young one, let me tell you today
An important little story
All of us people, we live together
In what we call a Community

We each also have what we call Feelings
Some of them are happy ones
Like joy and laughter and excitement
Of beating hearts full of love

There are other feelings that don’t feel so great
Like being unhappy and wanting to cry
Of feeling angry, wanting to throw tantrums
Or being filled with big sad sighs

These are emotions and they make us human
But there’s a magic in all of it
No matter how you are feeling
You can give or receive your bit

There will be times when you just feel
Kind of low and kind of sad
What you want then most of all
Is for someone to understand

Sometimes that sadness is deep inside
Other people can’t see it that well
And when someone is nice and kind to you
Your day can transform itself

That is why it is so important
To mind your Ps and your Qs
Saying “please can you pass that ball”
With a smile saying, “thank you!”

You could have just brightened the day
Of a person who was sad inside
Your kindness, politeness in talking to them
Made their grey clouds go and hide

Gratitude is like a seed
It grows when it is shared
Saying thank you for all the little things
Shows that you truly care

Waiting your turn patiently
When you are playing a game
Being nice, ready to apologize
When you have made a mistake

Respecting others’ bodies and space
Saying “excuse me” when someone’s in your way
Reminding yourself to be quiet and calm
Instead of shoving them away

Before you start using or playing
With someone else’s things
It is always nice to be polite
And ask for their permission

A “please” can open any door
Much more than force or frown
It shows respect and gentleness
A “please” ever lets you down

From teachers, friends, to Mom and Dad
To strangers in the store
Your manners say: I see your heart
I respect you for who you are


Being helpful at home, at school and indeed
In your neighbourhood too
Makes all of the people you talk to and meet
Like being around you

When you’re grateful and kind to people
In our world of green and blue
All those positive acts, find their way back
To their special source, that’s you

So be nice, be polite and on days my dear
That you’re feeling sad and low
There will be someone who with their kindness
Will make you smile and glow.

LIFE-SKILLS SERIES👧🏼 | I CAN BE SAFE WITH MY GOLDEN RULES

(For ages 7 – 10)

Maria had just come into the house
She had been playing outside
The lovely smile that always lit up her face
Had decided to go and hide

Maria hugged her Mama close
Her Mama kissed her on her head
Come here darling sit with me
Why do you look upset?

Standing near our fence outside
There was a man I just saw
He was looking at me while I played
I didn’t feel like playing anymore

Maria’s Mama went to the window
She stood there for a bit
Then she came back and sat down
Darling he’s gone she said

That uncomfortable feeling that you just had
It is called In-tu-ition
It is when something inside you says
This is a not a good situation

You trusted the little feeling inside
That was a clever and safe thing to do
When there could be danger around
That feeling will oftentimes warn you

Now is a good time to also tell you
Of a few other important things
These are Golden Rules to remember
So you always stay safe my darling

Don’t ever go up or talk to strangers
Don’t take anything they may offer
Chocolates or candies even when they say
They’ve got puppies in their car

Like a smart child you have memorized
Your home address and phone numbers
Of Mom and Dad and you also have
Grandma’s mobile phone number

Don’t ever go wandering alone dearest one
If you’re on a trip from school
Always make sure your teacher is there
Stay close, stay with the group

If ever you think that you are lost
Stay exactly where you are
Ask for help from someone working in a store
Or if you see one, a police officer

Also my darling never ever
Let a stranger get close or touch you
You will say a big, loud NO!
If they try to pick you up or hug you

Don’t touch electrics in the walls
Don’t touch fire or matches or lighters
Never take any medicine without first asking
Mom and Dad or your teacher

These are Golden Rules to remember
To keep you protected and safe
And always, always talk to me my dear
If you feel uncomfortable or afraid

Our world is big and beautiful and bright
But there are also dangers outside
These Golden Rules will keep you safe
Wherever you may be my darling child.

LIFE-SKILLS SERIES👦🏽 | EVERYONE SHINES DIFFERENTLY

(For ages 7 – 10)

Babur came from school one day
With a thoughtful look he said
Dad, what would you do if you saw
A different kind of a kid?

Babur’s dad had his glasses on
The wise-owl ones with strings
He wore them to read the paper and also
When he talked of important things

He pushed his glasses up his nose
They were big and framed in black
He smiled, took a sip of tea
Come here son, let’s have a chat

Now tell me what you mean
When you say a different child?
Did he scribble on the walls
Did he run around all wild?

No, no Dad said Babur
He couldn’t stop laughing
We both know that most kids do
Those naughty-fun things

This kid was in a wheelchair
And he couldn’t move his legs at all
In the break, he sat alone
While the rest of us played ball

I wanted to go and talk to him
But I didn’t know what to say
So I played the game, then had my lunch
From him, we all stayed away

Darling son, everyone is born different
Some of those differences we can’t see
Others are more visible but they need not
Make one ill at ease

There are people everywhere
Who live with a disability
Some with one, some with more
Real heroes in our society

When you see someone who looks
Different from what you are used to
Use the golden rule - Treat them
As you would, they treat you


That just means showing empathy
Putting yourself in their shoes
Then thinking of how you would want others
To see and talk to you

Kindness and openness are both
Important attributes
And another rule of thumb my dear
Is to just in fact be YOU!

A boy may speak a little slow
Or need some time before he goes
Be patient, wait and he will share
His thoughts and you will know

A girl might flap her hands with glee
It helps her feel just right
She dances like a bumblebee
A joyful, buzzing sight

Some kids don’t like a crowded space
It makes them feel unsure
A gentle smile, a friendly face
Can help them feel secure

We all like games and fun and play
But some might join in late
If someone plays a different way
Just let them find their pace

In every mind a garden grows
With thoughts like seeds that bloom
Just give them time and you will see
Their ideas fill the room

So if you feel like saying hello
To the new boy in your school
Just go up to him and introduce yourself
That’s another golden rule

Don’t lean on his chair or talk from above
Try to put yourself at his eye level
These are little graces to make
The other person feel comfortable

Babur and his dad had that chat
Over a month ago
Babur and Adam are now friends
Adam is an ace at Lego!

The boys have their lunches together
They’ve even been to the seaside
There they won the Best Sand Castle award
Adam and Babur both glowed with pride

The beauty of our wonderful world
Lies in its people, 8 billion of them
Each one different, each one unique
Each one a potential friend

Wheelchairs and white canes, crutches and hearing aids
They are all just helpful means
The people who use them are full of life
Just like you and me

Don’t be afraid of differences on the outside
Go kindly into the world
People are like jewels, precious and bright
Some are like silver, others like gold.

LIFE-SKILLS SERIES👧🏻 | SMART HEARTS AND SMART CENTS

(For Ages 7 – 10)

Zenia said to her mother one day
I want the robot doll that sings
See! She also skips and nods and smiles
She can even hear the doorbell ring

She can skip and sing, and hear the doorbell ring?
She really does sound like a gem!
But my darling, you will have to save
To add Jemima to your collection

Let’s do this, we’ll go to the store
And get you a nice little money bank
I’ll start you off with twenty dollars
In your brand new savings plan

Let’s put up a Vision Board in your room
You can write on it of things
That you want to get for yourself
Let’s give your lovely dreams some wings

Dad and I will also help you dear one
On us you can depend
To give you pocket money every month
Some to save and some to spend

And so began a brand new adventure
As Zenia learnt the art
Of how to manage her pocket money
To get the things close to her heart

Five months later, she had saved enough
To buy the singing robot doll
She had also added another thing
To her fabulous vision board …

Her best friend Amy’s birthday was
Coming up in the month of June
Zenia said that to buy Amy’s present
Half the money she would con-tri-bute

Her piggy bank had filled and filled
With pocket money and birthday gifts
She now also enjoyed doing chores
For which she was rewarded

For putting away all of her toys
Keeping her room tidy and clean
Folding her clothes, putting away her books
Polishing her shoes to a gleam

For every 10 that she saved up
Her parents also put in a 10
This teamwork made her piggy bank swell
Three, four times, again and again

By her tenth birthday Zenia had
Her very own bank account
Her mom would take her to the bank
Where she deposited her saved amount

Zenia’s vision board now blooms with things
That she wants to get for herself
It also has a special section
For gifts that she gifts her friends

You too can learn to be clever and wise
By learning how to save and spend
To make your special dreams come true
To also be a generous friend

Start today, make your dream list
And get your very first money bank
In your savings and spending adventure
The world is an oyster in your hand.

VERSE | ISN’T IT IRONIC?

How long has it gone on for?
I have lost count of the days and the months
And the number of times
Facts and fiction have been combined
Made to stand hand in hand
By the gentiles that stain these lands
Caricaturizing, miming scenes
Of zealotry and genocide

I have lost count
Of the number of hospitals bombed
Ruins atop tunnels where the Khamas abound
And the aid workers killed
Unidentified dangrerous women and men
And the journalists sniped
With their arsenal of 1984 daggers and knives
And the doctors shot
With nitroglycerin bombs hidden in their surgical gowns
And the men raped in prisons
With propagandist lore stuffed up their intestines
And the women maimed
Their bellies heavy with terrorist babes
And the children killed
Starved and stilled
Their sinful blood spilled
On the promised land

How long before this evil doth cease
How long before the chosen ones can finally live in peace?
Image: Freepik

VERSE | LET’S BLAME IT ON THE RAIN

Blamed again and again for massacres 
We have no clue of, our proxy war
Of 40 years ago is still biting us in the bum
‘Fo-Fum - this beast at least
Does not have the bite of the ‘other-man’
With its depraved ideology
Hijacking faith and humanity
Bankrolling them into human bombs
Boom! There goes another one
Creating martyrs of civilians
We protest, we didn’t do it
They say we did, you see
Another ethos, dark and evil has floated in upon the sea
And so they insist it is us
Nurturing terrorists underground and above
Guns blazing, egos inflating
Up up to the constellation
Of ISRO satellites

But what is this?

3, 4, 5, 6 jets down - not ours
We shook them right out of their stars - their 5 out of 5 on Amazon
Now they’re raging like bulls in a ring
We’re meme-ing and gif-ing like comedy kings
I’m laughing at both
A little harder at the misplaced ire
Full of apocalyptic brimstone and fire

But here it is

War is not what any of us need
Good sense, forebearance, lucidity
Is the need of the hour and I want to believe
In this ideology even as I
Pin a little pin of green and white
Crescent moon and star shining bright
Onto my beating heart full of pride

Because when all’s said and done

Between neighbours who live side by side
Sharing a culture old as time
Huddled albeit over our nuclear buttons
War really is just not an option.

Image: generated via illustration software

📚NEW SERIES RELEASE 📖

THE HEALING SERIES 👧🏻👦🏽❤️‍🩹

Dear all,

I’m happy to introduce my new Healing Series for children ages 6 to 10. This has been a labour of love and grew into the current 4-book series when friends and family spoke of a vacuum in the children’s literature space – there were very few books which allowed painful, stressful events in the child’s life to be softened in the gentle flow of story-telling.

The Healing Series includes coping with:

  • Bullying
  • Suddenly becoming an older sibling to a new brother or sister
  • The loss of a parent (will be in stores in May 2025)
  • Parents’ separation (will be in stores in May 2025)

Traumatic experiences can initiate strong emotions and physical reactions that can persist long after the event. Children may feel terror, helplessness, agitation or fear as well as physiological reactions such as heart pounding, vomiting, or loss of bowel or bladder control. It is critical to identify when a child is feeling deep seated discomfort which they are not able to verbalize. Other overt behavioural signs and symptoms include acting out or withdrawing, nightmares, physical ailments, difficulty concentrating, clingy/separation anxiety, crying frequently, self destructive behaviour, academic struggles and loss of appetite. These are the most common, but the whole gamut of emotional and behavioral symptoms can be wide and varied. Basically, any behaviour that is not normal for the child should be considered a signal for help.

Consider these books, then, as a way of starting conversations with your child about events and circumstance that may be distressing them. Every story in this collection gently holds the child’s hand and helps them navigate the confusing, painful and daunting times that they find themselves in.

In our beautiful but imperfect world, I hope that these books through the magic of story-telling in the safe haven of home and family, help to protect and nurture the mental and emotional wellbeing of our children 🌸.

SRI LANKA: The books are currently available in most bookstores across the island
PAKISTAN: The books will be available at Liberty Books, Paramount Books and the London Book Company in a couple of months.
KOBO: Will be available on KOBO by the end of April 2025.