Through Her Body

After engrossing in her body, I have more reasons to love. I know the roadmap of her curves. I feel like having visited every crest and trough of her body. There’s a special canal that runs down her spine at her waist, and my hands wave along her waves there. Like one feels close to a place where he has resided for long, I feel attached to her every part, having visited the smooth ways so often.

There are reasons to love her, even though I never needed one. To really fall in love is to fall in love with the idea of her, not her as a person, not her qualities, neither her body, but the presence of her, the sound of air when she breathes, the cries of soil being trodden when she walks, the flashes of her smiles and giggles in the conscience – all these but I doubt if her as a whole person, in entirety.

To fall in love is to set my mind onto her beyond these fields of explanation and comprehension. Mysetries, unexplained, unfathomable; that would make a wanderer lost if he were to search for ways.

And the love that has never been understood, as to what exactly is it that he loves, there can be no end to it. It keeps spread over the heart like the sky, which exactly is pure space and vastness but persists mightly than anything.

What cannot be grasped, can never be lost.


The Lost Home

The places where I lived my childhood do not seem the same when I reappeared there after a decade or so. They seem shrunken. As if silencing the forever echoing cries of my childhood, they were eaten from inside by the sadness that looms in the air. As if lifting and soothing the child fallen on ground, they were bent on their knees. As if the uncertainty of my arrival made them weak, like old parents feel for their prodigal son.

The places where I played are not deserted either. They are busy, with the children of time. I remember doing the same as I look at them, rather better.
And I walk past them. I am a man, I cannot roll on the sand anymore. I cannot punch on those heaps of earth.
I walk straight, dragging the child in me behind.

Mumtaz Hussain.

(I visited my childhood place after almost a decade in April, 2016. This is just a glimpse of what I went through.)

It is an unabriged edition of a facebook note i wrote under heavy influence of nostalgia after returning from home. Summoning it here along other writings, not changing a single word. Written in May 2016.

Old Love

​Overcame love, if we may ever talk about then hear me today:

To understand love you need to feel its purity first, and feel its enormous sacredness. If something exist empty of blackness, it is love. If something ever glows in pure rosy shades, it is love. If there is anything able to sugarcoat pain in sweetness, it is love.

Where do you think love finds its abode on earth but the heart.

It is hard to say if love ever tarnishes or is ever maligned. My beliefs hold that it ages within our heart. It never leaves once it enters, it only learns to accommodate and occupy lesser and lesser space within the heart.

Sometimes I feel it builds a small cottage in a corner for itself, and sit in there like an old woman. Feeble and aged. Silent. With a strange hope for a gentle knock.

And if you ever knock on its door, from my heart I say that it will gleam up again with an unimaginable shine of youth. It will rush to you carrying the fragrance of lovely memories, like evanescence of scent from old clothes. Ecstasy, as we talk of is what you will feel. For a moment it will cover you in a rosy dew, blurring everything else there is. In that moment, my dear love, the tear in your eyes will reflect all that we felt together.

Old love never dies, it only learns to be silent.

Let go

let go, of these hands

“Let go”

I uttered nearly choking to the words as she held me tight in her arms, wiping her tears time and again with the sleeves of her free hand.

“I will return soon”, escaped from my mouth, and that was all I could provide to comfort her.

Tapping her back gently, I slowly parted myself away from her embrace and stepped away.

She turned around to hide her tears as I stepped back, but held onto my fingers in a strange grasp that radiated the intensity of her ache in this separation.

I stepped away from her, dragging my heavy chest and gulping the dry throat.

And she broke out in sobs in the distance.

I drove away without having had to look at her face again for once. Perhaps that was what evoked an emptiness somewhere, missing that last glance.

And I went away on a journey which held no certainty of bringing us back together the same.

I squeezed my eyes shut, which have been hurting trying to hold back the torrents of tears behind its walls all along.

A universe happened in that moment. 

Another memory embarked on the trunk of time, with the sharpness of her tears and the stings in my heart.

A Ride From The Past

Here they are sitting, together in a taxi driving them to their respective homes. Him, a child who happens to be an introvert of a kind. A chaos of thoughts in his mind, but only silence on his lips and words claded with hesitation coming out of his mouth.

Her, not much to tell about.

Amongst the chaos of his mind, one thought is of her. A mild amusement for her, even though he hasn’t seen her face. He still does not recognise any face when he thinks of her. A soul that feeds upon his imaginations; and then of course, a soul who suffers in reality.

Of her, there is still not much to tell. It is yet a one sided story. Were there any emotions emitting out of her, nobody knows. Could it not be a one sided tale as is believed till date, nobody could answer.

They have the outside worlds to look upon through the windows they were sitting by. Distancing them were her sister, a mature lady living a life of her own and perhaps engaged in her own thoughts, far away from this sphere of her presence. A white little mouse curled up into her lap, finding comfort in the cozyness, away from the coldness of a winter night. A mouse that will become a very good friend of him. The mouse that will eventually die falling off a roof. A mouse that’d make one of his homecomings unpleasant with his absence.
The journey proceeds, and with that his thoughts wander to far away places, escaping from her for some moment. She does not make any movement or sound that’d make him look at her, and it is dark too so he cannot see her at all. He only feels her, mildly and far away from any possible reality.

He is mildly attracted of her. Does he desire her? Nobody knows, not even himself. Would he wish her to be his? He is, for that matter, too weak to handle another person as his own. An introvert fighting with himself is too delicate to be handed over with someone, or rather handed to someone. And he knows it, he knows it all and hence he distances himself.

He admires what amuses him like how a traveller would look upon the beauty he would come across his journey.  Moving on, with his eyes and his conscience laden to rest for a while; as far as the horizon lives in his sight.

He steps down near to where he lives. They are driven away from him, and he walks away from them, from her. The dark alley to his place gives him the apt atmosphere for his thoughts to come out in freedom, and take him over.

In the distance, what was she thinking while they drove away, nobody knows.

And she certainly does not know, the same boy who had just departed would be someone with whom she’d fall in love with. Almost a decade later.

And him, today he gazes through the past and into that taxi, and he smiles at how the universe has conformed and conspired to bring her close to him, perhaps to make him realise his subtle desire.

While the universe is still being chiseled to cut the distance from closeness to togetherness, that weakness and the delicateness still hasn’t subsided much for me to possess her.

There are fears that sorround my heart like clouds that float in uncertain skies. Fears that hesitates my heart from pouring down, fears of uncertainty. 

Falling in love is worth a heartbreak, and I’m not afraid of the latter; it is the falling and the fear of not being caught that puts this heart into an anticipated uneasiness.

Love is supposed to be easy, it is the fusion of two souls to become one that faces all the restrains.

Echoes of the Past

Greetings from the past.

Every moment from the past is far less important for me than the labour of time, which has carved me from what I was then to what I am now. The artistry of the unknown artist is measured by how deeply is beauty and art embedded in our veins, for the light that illuminates the darkness outside glows from within. It dulls, it shines.
Of how much is it on us to shine preciously, Rumi says well, you are the carpenter of your own soul. Some men choose to age like wine, only better and alive.

Growing old enriches the flavour of a man’s words and his ideas. Ageing has to be embraced, but what we forsake in the past is too precious to be left behind, and perhaps nostalgia is the echo of all those calling us back for an embrace.
And when it comes to old photographs, I guess there isn’t too much to tell.

Of Her, Going Away


The air blew soft over the shore, gently stroking his hairs and brushing his face, giving him the feeling that the hands of his mother gave, but it could not take his lifeless hairs in teeth and pull, plucking a few, as she used to. But he was profoundly loss to feel the loss. He eyed the vast ocean ahead of him, dragging his eyes from the water splashing at his sandy feet to the horizon where the water seemed to dip into the earth, as if to quench the thirst of hot fire boiling under it. Waves rushed to him as if they had secrets to tell and surprises to uncloak, but every time they crashed against his feeble feet and returned unspoken. The dim sky, the dusk spread over him like a quilt of numbness and a sphere of protection, the melancholia started to melt like snow on the onset of spring, bit by bit, flake by flake. Sadly, everything else was persistent but this, he had to move and face the world, alone. The summer was a second long, the winter eternal. He shook his body to get out of the tranquil trance, shedding everything off his mind, and turned and began the walk-back. The sky growled with his first step, as if humiliated by his impoliteness. His bow wrinkled as he raised his eyes to the heaven, the dark heaven, and a drop smashed his cornea, in a way punishing him for his deed. The sky pelted raindrops on him, the pearly drops fell on his maroon shirt like bullets, out of the wounds flowed nothing but pure ecstasy of a tingling touch. And now his legs felt heavy to lift, for every step took him nearer to the world. The snow began to fall and sediment, bit by bit, flake by flake. Strangely the void in his life weighed heavy, perhaps she had lifted his soul till now, till yesterday. She flied to the heaven as lightly as a feather, leaving all her weight on his heart, the mother.