Smell

Sunday, 4th January 2009.
2:30 p.m
Itwar Bazaar, Clifton.
Karachi.


Loose gravel between my toes.
The smell of paan,hours-old chai, sweat of small pashtun boys,green yellow brown rotting vegetables.
Women haggling over clothes, shoes, cracked precious stones.
Men snarling, swearing, spitting.

Staring.

I trudge behind ammi, clutching my chador with one hand and a zillion blue plastic bags with the other.
Evading eyes, fingers.

Someone with oversized pants and overpriced sunglasses pushes past me.
Before I get a chance to raise my hand to curse him out, I ....
Smell.

His smell.

I couldn’t have frozen faster had someone doused me in sub-zero water and then coated me over with instant cement.

In the middle of that dingy muddy pathway in the deserts of Karachi,
in the grimy heat and nauseating stench,
in the pummels of a heartless throng,
in the air left behind by a mysterious rude stranger,

His smell.

................................

Saturday, 14th December 2008.
4:30 am.
Four Points Sheraton Hotel, Long Island.
New York.


His Smell.
Sweet, without trying over-zealously to be so.

I bury my nose in the little hollow beneath his left ear lobe,
the curve of his jaw line.
I breathe....

..........................

They say smell is the strongest sense linked to memory.

What if smell overcomes memory? What if all memory became nothing,
not even a fragmentary speck of elusive imagination,
but just a nostalgic smell inhabiting the hollows of your mind?

...........................

Breathe.....

Each breath inhales in a little more of him.
Each breath exhales out a little more of me.
With each breath I etch him into my air my blood my soul my being.


Breathe.....
.........until everything I possess; my mind my thoughts my memories

become him.

........................................

Friday, 30th January 2009.
2:30 p.m
Home, Ash Street.
Vancouver.


I rummage mindlessly through my purse, removing boarding pass stubs, gum wrappers, one dried out pen,
a scrunched up draft for a poem, a fading yellow rose petal tucked into one of its many crevices.

I delve deeper to find a crinkled white tissue.
Memory rings.
The tissue envelops crimped leaves, dried flowers....


These are for you’, he says, and hands me a fragrant bouquet. A kaleidoscope of baby pink and white petals, bright red yellow white roses.


Memories.

I am caught in that silent moment of eternity between torn leaf and fading petal.
That moment when eternity itself holds its breath lest
it unleash its own power and scare itself into non-existence.


I hold my breath tight,close my smiling eyes in fondness-
Apprehension.
God, the slightest whiff of this smell can……


Already, I can picture the petals
rising like crimson phoenixes reborn from their own gray ashes...


Petals like fine paintbrushes,poised to repaint the black canvas of my eyelids with the.................

.........gray of the trolley wheels, the silver of his car,the pitch black of his jacket,

the glitter gold of him.

This smell,
His smell..


With barely-contained anticipation,caressing that stiff, delicate tissue paper like frail velvet cheeks,
as if I too, were nothing more than a frail tissue paper...
as if I too were blank, and wanted...needed... to be smoothed, scrawled, written, drawn,
painted
painted
painted
all over again..

i hold my breath.

shatter your iridescent glass phials into me, spill the molten silvers in rivulets, let run the glowing golds....
revive my memory with all the colors of you.

I, I, I, I...

Breathe..

.................................

yes.
cheesy.

bt pst.

this is where the emo ends.
yespleasesorrytobreakyourheart. You can step over the line now.
That post above didnt quite have what i wanted it too.. that feeling of pent up anticipation, and resolution.
ack. must re-write.

Isn't it funny that the smallest whiff of a smell can suddenly through you in a tizzy of emotions,
recreate an entire atmosphere from scratch?
I could almost feel the airport tiles zooming in beneath my feet, my plastic blue bags being replaced by my trolley, the stalls and shoppers vanishing in thin air to be replaced by weary travellers, excited relatives...


Anyhow, more later as i drum up my brain into existence,

-eeda

So,
why do i not write anymore?

I think writing requires emotions. opinions. intensity.
i have deliberately drained all that out of me. shut it all off.
it is easier this way.

it's not a sad feeling.
it's not a i-feel-deprived-feeling. it's a
this-is-how-it-would-be-if-i-was-numb-and-didn't-have-to-care-so-much
about-everything feeling.

i am an electric ant. as said by Paz Soldan and Philip K. Dick.

i do what needs to be done. i enjoy in the ittlebittlenothings that make me smile.

his emoness. his attempts at writing poetry. his insistence on holding on.

rainy weather. newly discovered songs i get madly obsessed with.
iris by the Goo Goo Dolls. kanye's heartless.
almost lover, by fine frenzy. creeative by leon jackson ala michael buble style ala frankie sinatra.

re-discovering oldsongsoldpartsofme happy times.
awaz's mein na mano haar. junoon's jazba junnon.
nazia hasan's disco deewanay. hasan jahangir's hato bacho.
shariq roomi's fikar na faka. abrar's billo day ghar.



uni. studies. call the lawyer/estate agent/ bank/ universities in toronto/ canadian citizenship/tenant/ pay tuition/ get books/ deposit rent/ fix broken laptop/ get new laptop/ fix internet connection/ call net service/ router people/ fix phone/ pay phone bill/ meeet tenant/ draw up posters for MSA/ study for midterm/ write three papers/ buy snow shoes/ visit mum's friends and deliver gifts tokens of thanks metallic mementos like metallic memories.


men-tallic memories? mental-ness.
dimagh is kharab-ing.

dil jo today ussay life mein kabhi na milo..hato bachoo.- hassan jahangir.
GOOD sane advice.


run run run.
bhag bhag bhag.
dodh kudh chalang mar yaar.



i miss pakistan. i miss the khana the smells the chehal pehal the rung.
In this white-coated banality and the grey-coated monotony, there is no other color in between.
and suddenly all people here mimic the same predictability the same mediocrity the same banality of clothes faces personalities expressions routines lifestyles.


i want a flash of the brightest reds and the purest blues and the most glittering yellows to paint my window easel day smile all over again.
dip your fingers into my mind and draw out the golds the greens the untainted purples
dust up my night sky with sparkle fairydust lilac plum mauve move move move me to the rhythm of sound smell sight sense soul.


what do i write about? what more do i complain about?
i will be the old lady in sleeping beauty's tower who spins countless strings and yarns of no meaningful value.
spin little old lady.


im ram bling.
ram for the aries in me.
bling 'cuz that's how i roll. son.
or daughter. depending on choice of gender for off-spring.


i personally don't care. even if i did, i lack the tiny little speckle of d.n.a that would make my X into a Y and hence give me a reason to care about the gender of my future children, considering that my tiny little speckle of d.n.a could either make my kid
1)the fairer (aka chakki-peesing and roti-bana-ing for eternity) sex or
2) the other (lamer) world-revolves-around-my-pair-of-socks-and-i-dont-mean-the-ones-on-my-feet-kind sex.
but since im X squared, im kinda helpless in that department and will be glad for whichever i get.

and kudos to whoever got that. once you're done with my kudos here's some free cheeni beeni.

btw. burst of semi-maternalistic-aggravation-rant above was direct result of 7 hours of continuous baby-sitting today.ACK
i can be excused.


...speaking of being excused, i need to head back to psychology.
im sorry because this was yet again, a pointless post.
a post about not having anything to write about which ironically, turned out a rather long post by my standards.
shit shit shit. need to shut shut shut up.
hurumph. mera munh nahee bandh hota.


this is what happens when the lactose-intolerancy-bug strikes yet-effin-again and i get coffee deprived for over 3 days.
3.omg.days.
*moannnnnnnnn...............*


ehem.
so im off
(off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz.)
that is...soon as im done trying to allure sleeping beauty into the tower with my pointless yarn....
pathetic pun intended.
-end disney-ish madness-


more later,
and much love to loyal stalke....*cough cough* readers.
:P
i lubju all.

-eedaaa

why does it feel like everyone i know
is going somewhere with their life
but i'm oddly stuck
like a stiff black dot fixated in space?

suddenly, everyone seems to have an opinion about us.

when ammi saw that i was so intensely depressed, she decided to sit with khala and tell her that i was in no condition to face a show-down. so she gave me a direct ultimatum, without the drama: forget him, but in the next two years when ur done with school ad when 'the time is right', if he's still interested then i will do whatever it is in my power to make sure that you guys end up together. However, the final desicion is ur dad's, and i can't change that.

when khala saw that he's a guy i didn't know AND a stranger, (astaghfirullahhowcouldi?) she said, forget him. NOW!. how could you?

when miscellaneous heard of it, they said, BUT he's punjabi! where's ur sense of self-pride and muhajir patriotism? forget him.

when hina saw that i was prepared to sneak behind people's backs and go see him ( in a different country? how could u? how unislamic.astaghfirullah. ) she told me to forget him.

when sabrina saw that he made me happy and heard of the little things we did and the kind of memories i had, she said, how can you ever forget him with that kind of memory? hold on!

(and then hina and sabrina promptly had a massive argument over ownership issues over me, and how they're both butting in too much, and over a general conflict of values.
gawds. brown girly drama. :P)

when his mum saw that i was fluent in urdu, i had a strong sense of morality, and god help it, religion, she said, marry her! what are you waiting for?

so then what. now what.

he says. i don't know.
he says. you're the best that thing that has ever happened me, and God strike me down if i lose something that is this good for me.
he says. we may need to work very hard and things will get very hard but it'll all be okay. it'll be okay.
he says. i'm not letting go of you.


i worry. i cry. i mourn the loss of something that i have yet to feel the loss of.
but then again, you can only lose something which once, fully, completely, undeniably belonged to you.

people don't just belong to other people.

unless you slit.wrists.and.mix.blood.and.then.tell.me.the.red.from.the.blue.
the.me.from.the.you.
tell me then that i don't belong to you?

One trip, one night, one sound, one mind
-Him

what will make me belong to you?

a prayer whispered over by semi-religious mullahs?
a metal band with your name inscribed that burns on the outside of my flesh inside of my skin vein blood soul?
or a proclamation that i accept you unto me and i accept you unto me and i accept accept accept you but let there be a single flaw and i.will.strike.down.onto.you.with.all.your.flaws.and.
strip.you.of.my.title.my.love.my.respect.and.
leave.you.un.loved.un.owned.and.un.belonged.?


or is it when, awoken on a frosty winter night, shivering fervently from the fleeting memory of a nightmare, all it takes is your its okay to still me cold and still me calm?

or is it when i fit perfectly into your curved hollow as if two
halves of one whole?

as if i were..
the other chromosome.
-Him



to bloggie readers, those who do read this.
(hint all disappeared female readers!)
whats your opinion?

-eeda

Dekha eik khwab to yeh silsile huey....


It is a shaadi house, insofar as I can tell between being simultaneously fully asleep and fully aware within my own dream that i am dreaming.

There is a string of gainday ke phool in my hand that I am tying to a staircase. This house is foreign, yet festive, homely yet not Home.

Some instinct tells me that is my Home, even if the physical structure does not induce any memory, the spirit of it is there. Maybe the presence of tinkling laughter, the young girls running around in bright pink and yellow and orange dupattas, ammi instructing me to hurry up, the dulhan is going to be here any second.

Brilliant larger-than-life colours. Blinding yellowing lights and yet a sense of gloom.
Andhera, but then that's nothing new.Most of my dreams are that way. I shrug off the feeling and join the gaggle of girls milling round trying to look busy, but getting in everyone's way.

Someone remarks that there's no flower garlands for the dulhan. It strikes me as odd, and speaks to some better part of me. I exit unnoticed and flag a bus down to the phool ki dukan. I realize this western element has set in me already; even in my dream I flag a bus as opposed to ordering my driver to take me to the little makeshift brown chowkis barely held together with sweat and spit, overloaded with motia ke gajray, gainday ke phool, gulab ki lareeyan.

My purchase done, some guy tells me that the next bus is not for 15 minutes. I panic, I must get home. And then a further realization, I do not know the way. I find myself distressed, crying, lost in a crowd of suspicious men with leering eyes and claw-like hands, and not a single comforting gaze.

Somehow I end up on the roof of some building. This too is nothing new, being at vantage points for suicides is also a constant feature of my dreams. By this time my sister has somehow miraculously apparated next to me, but she too doesn't know the way home.
A taxi cab driver offers to take me, but I tell him 'Mujhay raasta nahee pata..'


The horror rises up in my throat like bile, strongly reminiscent of the one time my dad left me waiting in the car to go see some mechanic when I was 7, and returned back to find me in tears and convulsions.I have had an indescribable fear of being left behind waiting since, and the thought alone causes me to get physically fearful.

The thought shifts..On the tenth try I manage to call and my brother picks up. He doesn't realize the plea in my vice, how frantic I am, and won't tell me where Home is. I stand there yelling and screaming and pleading to the faceless gods, heavens, whatever forsaken angels inhabit the realm of our wildest dreams.., 'Kahan hai ghar?' but to no obvious avail.
I bend over crying, and the overwhelming feeling of paranoia and loss and anxiety overcomes me until......

...... I wake up, staring at the ceiling and wondering whose house, whose bed I'm lying in..I gulp down some air like a drowned fish, still sweaty and still confused.It takes me a good deal of 10 minutes to finally calm down and get my bearings right. But does it matter?
Returning to reality doesn't mean the Nightmare's ended,
for this pale white blanket, the feel of this pillow, this cold and lonely bed is still foreign, still not mine.
and I'm still not Home.


and worse yet, even in reality and all sense functioning, I don't even know where that is...


nostalgia attacks.
-eeda

Update on Metaphorical for those with access to it :)

I sit down to write, but at the end of every sentence I press Backspace as a punctuation mark to end and extinguish the sentence.

How difficult to put in words an experience.
The cornucopia of sights and colour that is Karachi.
The presence of him.

I remain wordless.
Nothing, no words, can explain or even remotely do justice to how I shattered, crumbled and rebuilt myself the past 3 weeks.


How do i explain how the new year sees a new me in so many ways.
So much has changed.
The horror that was last year becomes a dark forgotten ember that I try and erase off my conscience but nothing can remove that utter loneliness and utter despair that made me what I had become.
Had.
Finally into the past tense.


I see the glimmering memory of me on the horizon.The girl who used to revel in laughter at the sight of the first snow, the sound of the tumbling stream that runs below the house, the pure blue of the sky.
I remember her, like an apparition at the edge of conscious. Like a child I knew and loved and lost.
Bring her back.



This isn't what I sat down to write. But there is much to be written, recorded, explained.
There is no more straight paths of getting anywhere. Every shortcut is deception, and will lead you elsewhere, nowhere you wanted to go, nowhere you thought you'd end up.

Epiphany- such is the nature of writing, of idle conversations, of futile attempts trying to explain how a person crumbles,withers, and sweeps back up piece by broken piece to restore oneself to ..not a former glory, but atleast a former normalcy that was functional in the insanity of this world.


no straight paths to anywhere.
Such is the nature of life.



...and of my blog.. this blog wound up in a lot more places than i thought it would..
more later, as I try and find the right words to explain, recount, rejoice, and most of all,
resurrect myself.

Happy new year everyone, hope ur having an awesomeeeee time wherever u are,
and always, to the loyal blogggie friends who harassed me into existence once more,
i owe you one :)
much cheeni and hugs,
-eeda

She lives...

albeit with stomach cramps..


i know about half of you have filed in a missing persons report in the FBI already (nudge nudge neeli :P) but im still very much alive and very much jetlagged.... as of right now i have SHIT loads to tell,....yes yes u may all begin the anticipation gladly..and ill b putting it all up soon once i figure out whther i want to still keep this blog or start a new one or change the url or what not..
will keep thee posted,

and yes, u all have been missed toooo..
-eeda

pst..sumhow ive lost the list of blogs i was following...ubaid if u could please send me the link to ur blog tht'd b awesome..i think i have everyone else :)