Crawfishing

Photo: Nazia
Location: Corbett

Borderline

The washed out tracks disappear behind
and my footprints fade
as the foams cut deep and sharp-
yet, over the last long waves, as it swells with hope
I am solaced by your laughter…

Leonard Cohen- Love Itself

Charade

Beneath the deadness of blister :: translucent pain ::  mocks my charade of  endurance ~   





© Nazia Mallick                                                                                                                                                                                                        

The Attic

tonight
the sepia memories
old hurts 

like cobwebs on patchy walls
a tangled web of grey,

the rigid verses 

of an unwritten elegy- 

picture of my  mother 
smiling wistfully at the camera
someone had clicked it years ago 
looking deep into her big black eyes...
a brocade scarf on the bureau
with tea stains on its green tassles
a muddy hue
of remorse-

an empty bottle of perfume

the fragile whiffs of her fragrance
still  trapped inside  the crystal walls
a moth-eaten volume of Burns' poetry
the serrated petals of a yellow rose
a leaf still trembling on the brittle stem-

fluffs of cotton, dead feathers, dusty squiggles on the floor
the rickety wooden table
doodles on the scratchy surface
"love...forever...forever "
on a three legged chair
a blue cushion, embroidered  
with a sprig of musty wisteria-
like weeping willows

my father's old coat 

a golden pen 

tucked inside the breast pocket
a picture postcard from Venice
damp...
crushed by restless fingers
the smeared red ink
 like diluted blood
"dear...my dear...my dear"

a muggy afternoon in a corner
dark as sin

a sad evening
congealed on the dirty ceiling

blobs of sunset on the window sill
the parting glory 
the blinking tail lights
of a retreating car
 the goodbye-

the night 
when we had pressed our faces together 
and wept silver tears
you and I, moon.

© Nazia Mallick

For You , Ammi

Death has nothing to do with going away.
The sun sets
The moon sets 
But they are not gone.
~ Rumi

Overture

Sometimes in the night
Before the dawn has trembled on a leaf
You wake up in me, quietly-
And gather my storms.

© Nazia Mallick

The Way Back

I covet solitude, like a lover. And am loyal to it. To the silence that nestles deep inside, quivering like a lone dew drop, perfect in its effulgence.

However, sometimes,something happens that disrupts the silence inside, and it shifts its place and spreads outside, on the walls, in the corners, on the bed, into the empty rooms, dancing like witches on dope. What was tranquil within turns into an incessant chatter, raking the brain like the impersonal fingers of a grave digger. And, one by one it begins to exhume the long dead, buried bodies. The bodies of myths, truths, realities, lies, betrayals, mistakes, regrets. Ghosts from the years past, unnamed fears, anxieties  And the need to get away from the silence outside and noise within begins to take root at that very spot, which was visceral in it's incorruptible entirety-not so long ago .

When something like this happens, I just step out. To be at the nosiest place, like some bazaar or a crowded theater- seeking the comfort of strangers.
I absorb the outside noises, the chatters, the screechy voices, the squeals of other's delights, their simple innocent pleasures and silly exclamations.
I stand and watch. Stare. Smile. That silly, childish smile of those not given to much pondering or reflecting. And slowly, gradually, I try to find a way, to come back to that void, that rich, full and vivid space within.
To renew my springs. 

© Nazia Mallick

Can You Love Like This?

Say No To Ivory 

A message from Dame Daphne Sheldrick, one of the supporters at the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust: 

"I know elephants intimately having reared their orphaned young over a lifetime. I have witnessed their suffering and their grieving for lost loved ones, and I have often been ashamed to be a member of the human race in view of how they have been treated at the hands of humans. 

Noble, powerful, yet inherently gentle elephants are emotionally identical to us, but so much better than us in many ways. Endowed with a mysterious intuition, slow to anger, they never forget, and yet find forgiveness despite the unjust and evil cruelty inflicted on them. 

Today elephants are dying in droves on a daily basis, to feed the infamous and evil ivory trade fueled by the demand from the East. Killing such a magnificent animal simply for its ivory epitomizes all that is evil. It is outrageous, cruel and wrong and cannot be allowed to continue."

It is time for all caring people in the world to make a difference by speaking out loud and clear against this inhuman practice that is driving elephants as a species to extinction - Your voice can be heard. 

Please sign your petition at:  www.iworry.org

What She Taught Me

She taught us Shelly, Byron, Milton and Keats at college; and the passion with which she recited the verses and described their meanings at length, would often leave me breathless. Her eyes would shine behind her glasses and her gaunt face would turn pink while reciting Shelley’s ‘I Arise From Dreams Of Thee’.

Our mouths agape we used to watch her sway on her feet while the words just poured through her lips.

‘O, lift me from the grass, I die, I faint, I fall…’

She would get into a kind of frenzy describing love, passion, sadness and the intensity of every emotion that all those poets tried to depict in their creations.

Outwardly, she looked as ascetic as a dry twig. She had the thin ruler type body, sallow complexion, thinning hair that was cut close to her scalp giving her a boyish look, and she wore black-rimmed spectacles with lenses so thick that her eyes almost disappeared behind them. But during the English literature classes she would transform into a goddess of love and passion.

On the first day of our class, she had just entered the classroom briskly, nodded her head briefly at us and without asking for or giving any introduction, had turned to the blackboard.

On the blackboard, with the white chalk stick, she wrote an entire list of things that we were NOT supposed to do in her class. The list forbade us of wearing noisy jewelry that would distract her while she taught, preening or playing with our hair during lectures, looking outside the windows while she was explaining things, and doodling in our notebooks.

She did not allow us any note writing during her lectures.

‘Just listen, absorb and write the summaries on your own.’ She emphasized.

‘Poetry is not taught’ she said. ‘It is conceived, nurtured, carried inside and given birth to, like a baby. You all will have to go through the labour pains while understanding the nuances of reading and writing poetry. Remember, nothing creative is born without pain’.

We heard many stories about her. One of them was about her separation from her husband who was a very famous poet and songwriter of those days. There were plenty of gossips regarding her eccentricities, her difficult moods, her live in relationship with a man twenty years younger than her, and her nonconformist views.

The 80s were the times when many Muslim women were tentatively stepping out from the sanctuary of their homes, taking up careers, and walking out of their husband’s homes, if he did not fit in with their plan of things. Though her lifestyle and choices still raised lot of speculations. Coming from a conservative and sheltered background, I was quite fascinated with her strong views about marriage, divorce, love and open relationships that she often discussed during the lectures. Somewhere deep inside me I too had something struggling to break free, and at times, I felt, as if she is reaching out to my innermost thoughts, talking to me above all the other heads.

One evening I was sitting alone at the college cafeteria waiting for my tea, when she came and sat at my table. It’s not everyday that your English lecturer comes and sits at your table voluntarily. The hierarchy between student and teachers was quite strong those days. Naturally I was a bit nervous and self conscious in her presence. After the formal greetings and few odd comments about the weather, we fell into silence.

Our tea-tray arrived and I offered to make her tea. She refused with a wordless wave of hand, and pulled her tray to her side.
'So you are about to get married?’ She asked suddenly, while measuring out sugar in her tea.
The question was sudden. Without any preamble, and it was shot across more like an accusation. I nodded dumbly, perhaps guiltily. 

I recalled how critical we were of her weird talks and avant-garde life style. We used to call her an absentminded oddball, but it was in retrospect that I realized she was so much more perceptive than most of us who never find the courage to rebel against the rules of society and continue to live life more for an audience, rather than ourselves.

She kept staring at her cup and then she spoke. ‘You know I have often seen you having your tea alone. I see a streak of an independent spirit in you. A spark straining to come out. By the way, do you love the man? Why did  you agree to get married? You are still at college!' 

She showered me with questions.

I told her quietly that I am giving in to my parent’s wishes. And no, I do not love the man.
Her eyebrows rose to her hairline and she rolled her eyes. But she said nothing.

We drank our tea in silence. Then she spoke again.

‘Your creativity will be killed forever if you carry on with this horribly unsuitable marriage. I can see your future. Would you like spending your life with someone like that? And for that matter, pandering to some unknowable man's inexhaustible ego?’

 I was silent. She did not wait for my response and I noticed that it was not expected from me too.

‘If you are not ready to receive what is given or shall we say enforced upon you right now, just say no, or run! Ultimately you will either ruin yourself, or run away. Depends on how much guts you have. Because, *bibi, whenever we allow our true spirit to get smothered, it leaves us with loads of emptiness later on. So, bibi, act now. Know what you need. And know well!’

She drained her cup and getting up in one smooth gesture, walked out. Leaving me with even more doubts and worries than I cared to admit.

In retrospect, I realized that she was talking more with herself. She was, perhaps, reliving her own experiences, something she must have got out of with great difficulties.

She had spoken prophesied words. She was also letting me know that it requires great courage and grit to live life on our own terms and not be afraid to protest, if something is being violated in our life, especially, our freedom of choice...

*Bibi is a formal but endearing term used in most Muslim families to address a young girl.

© Nazia Mallick

Image: Google