Over Thinking

The perfect moment doesn't exist,
But I over think
What disease plagues me as such
Life's too short,
It ends in a blink.

I contemplate every moment,
I craft it articulately in my head,
Like the budding of new flowers,
On mother earth's lush spring bed;
I water the plant of my thoughtful demise,
I nurture it with care,
I watch it flourish in front of my own eyes;
Hope laden and love clad,
The tree dies,
And I go mad;
The conditions were perfect,
What had I done wrong?
Was it me,
Or was fate telling me that it had gone on for too long?

I over think,
Perhaps that's why I cry,
It's not easy when expectations die;
Expectations about love and life alike,
Every moment winged with hopes but failed at flight;
Perhaps hope isn't the best fuel,
Not a practical one at that,
Rationality works best,
It's like a rough welcome mat.

I over think,
That's my demise,
I saw my walls break down in front of my own eyes;
I replay every moment a million times in my head,
It hadn't happened yet,
But I suppose I'd play it again.

Every moment is perfect until it comes to be,
I don't stutter in my head,
I just close my eyes and see.

My perfect ending,
My happiness in red,
Is best left for night time,
With my eyes shut in bed;
I don't have the courage in real life,
Neither the will,
To live through a moment,
And ruin the perfection still.

In my head,
I say I love you,
And you say it too,
I play the moment twice,
Just to stare at the image of you;
I stare at the curve of your lips,
I drown in the waves of your hair,
You're entirety is poetry to me,
Just that in reality I feel like you don't care.

I over think,
Perhaps that's all,
I'll never have a definite answer to my thought's call.

The Warrior’s Reverie (pt.2)

Sparks flew off from the raging flame in the fireplace. The yellow danced with the orange, spreading heat across the room.  A rickety rocking chair was placed before the fire, bearing a man almost as old as some of the cracks running through the chair. Like a lethargic pendulum, he swayed back and forth in continuous motion. In his scarred hands he clasped a mug of hot coffee, the heat pouring into his body. He held the mug with a drunken gentleness – strange for a retired warrior. The thick aroma of coffee, mixed with the scent of Winter, created an ideal ambience for one to ponder. The old man’s eyes were lost amidst the seemingly endless sheet of white. His mind was replaying the same old memory.

It was 1975, and the man was in his early twenties. Then, strong and exuberant, he had joined the army. He hoped to earn enough to resolve the financial crisis of the family, although the cost may well be his life. Within a few days, he realized the nature of the job and the discipline it demanded. Being a person of impatient disposition, he was unfit for a soldier life. He had to endure rigorous training sessions, intense and merciless combat practice, explosive weapon and machinery handling, etc. Yet, with the image of his starving and desperate family vividly floating in his mind, he came out first in his class. By the end of initiation, his body was scathed with marks and wounds.

The new life transformed the man in every aspect possible. His clumsy, ungainly movements were replaced by controlled and dexterous reflexes. His restless mind was converted into one with calmness and precision. He even started drinking his tea differently, holding the cup with unnecessary force – which he couldn’t help – and cooling it with silent stirs of a silver spoon.

By the time of the first battle, the day the soldiers had all been preparing for, it was mid-Winter and everything was enveloped in snow. To succeed, it was crucial for the entire troop to perform immaculately and collectively.  The words of their commander in chief, General Walter, had left an indelible effect on the man. “No matter how much training you do, the best soldiers are the ones with obedience”. However, young and inexperienced, the man wasn’t able to decipher the weight of the words – until it was too late. When the location of the battleground was revealed, the man felt his stomach ache, a longing sensation filled with nostalgia. It was beside his village – his home.

A wide snow-covered field spread out in front of them with large mountains surrounding them. A fume of white danced in the air as the man let out a deep breath. He gripped his gun with cold fingers. The battle began exactly at 8:01am. The rest seemed like a bloody blur; people falling, gunshots sounding, screams and yells. However, the man remained impassive throughout – his teeth gritted, eyes burning and his fingers singing against the red-hot barrel of his weapon.  

By afternoon, it was evident that they were losing; with half their men deceased or injured, there was no way they could win. All their cannons had been used up – except for one. “Aim it at their leader and fire” General Walter had ordered. But the man had a better idea. Without another thought, he impatiently shoved his way to the cannon and aimed it at the mountain. “No, Briggs, DON’T!” Walter had yelled. But all Briggs could hear was the cheers and applause he would receive once he executed his plan. He knew it would work, and the thought of being able to make his sensei proud filled him with a tingling sensation. He fired; an enormous pile of snow came charging down. The man, Briggs, had planned for the snow to engulf their adversary, overlooking the fact that it might destroy them as well. His life flashed before his eyes as the realization sunk in. The cannon triggered an avalanche so large that it wiped out the entire troop, the enemies and Brigg’s village. Only 3 survived – Briggs, and two of his fellow soldiers, who were the youngest and fastest runners. But even they were left with ineffaceable bruises and injuries.

****

The old man’s hand shook slightly, drops of hot coffee soaked into his shirt. The sudden warmth brought him back from his reverie. That was the day Briggs lost everyone. His beloved family and troop were all buried under his frivolous blunder. Every now and then, he would conjure delusions of his family talking to him or smiling at him, only to realize he was hallucinating. The guilt haunted him like a sanguinary ghost – interrupting his siesta, clogging up every corner of his thoughts and provoking sudden waves of depression. Each of his nightmares was characterized by blood, avalanches and the echo of Walter’s words. Briggs wiped his shirt, placed the mug on the table and closed his eyes as everything turned to white. Like a broken record, the memories began again.

~ Noyolee

When Love Came By

Have you ever seen love? Have you ever touched it? Have you ever seen your love embodied within a person? This perfect, little ensemble of everything you feel. She feels different, not the cheesy kind that you feel every time you find someone attractive; no, this one’s actually different; it’s not an attraction of what’s outside. It isn’t her skin that attracts you because to you, she is so much more than flesh and bones; she is an aura, a presence that brings a calm to the storm raging within you. On most days you’re your- over thinking- self but the moment you're around her all those thoughts drop, they give in to her gravity and for those fleeting moments you are finally happy. You can describe her in essays- pages after pages about her subtle nuances, every one of which you notice ever so carefully. You observe her every move; no, not like a creep, you don’t stare at her all day, that’s not how it works; but the little glances that you steat are enough to imprint onto you. You notice how her lips curve when she smiles, you notice how her buck teeth come out as she laughs and she shies away, hides her face behind her little hands. Every time you make a joke, she gives you a nudge to your arm and she laughs, and then you notice how her laugh isn’t tuned like every other girl’s. She doesn’t shy away from bursting out into a full-fledged laughter, nodding her head ever so slightly and then completely shaking it as she continues to laugh uncontrollably.  But that’s not all you notice, you also notice when she’s down. She doesn’t say it out loud, you just feel it because you know her, you understand her and you feel it in the air around her when she’s not at her best. But you don’t stop at that, you don’t just notice and let it go, you try to do something about it because you know that being left alone when you’re sad isn’t exactly the best feeling there is. You don’t care whether you’ll be perfectly able to change her mood or not you just want to try in hopes that she’ll turn to you and smile, tilt her head slightly and laugh lightly as she says “You’re stupid, you're very stupid." Oh, when she say that you know that all is well with your world again.
It wasn’t love at first sight, no, not at all. It wasn’t love at second sight either, it’s the kind of love that develops over time as you get closer with someone, the kind of feeling that grows, it grows into love. As you get closer you understand different layers of this person, she doesn’t have a two dimensional personality, she is a web of emotions – no, not tangled- her disorganized web of emotions is like a beautiful mess, it’s like the kind of chaos that brings order to life. In simple words, she is the sky. She is the lilac sky, a blend of red and blue, of love and the sadness it brings along with it. She is the rough storm; she is rage that knows no bounds. . She is also calm and quiet, the bringer of the soothing rain that heals the worst of wounds.
This kind of love is untainted, pure, a fairytale. Because almost always you shall find that when you get to this point, it’s one sided and if it isn’t then you are perhaps the luckiest person on earth.  Life is a lot more than just hopeless romance, but to a person who dances in the rain and stays up all night listening to the thunder burst, to someone who finds beauty everywhere he looks, hopeless romance- even if one sided- is the most beautiful thing ever.

Laddu-wooed

‘Dear diary,
I have officially ended my life today. Finally got married to that engineer guy papa kept whining about. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t take it anymore.
Maybe dad’s right, you know? I’m pushing 26 and I don’t have a stable job. I don’t have my own place yet. I don’t even have a goddamn boyfriend anymore. I couldn’t say no to papa anymore.

Maybe this is all for the best, you know?
I can do it… I have to do it for my dad.’

“You look very pretty Sneha.”, the only other person in the room broke her trance.

“Erm…thanks?” she said as she looked up to him. A 6 foot guy with decent enough facial features. She tried to size up her new husband.
American import with an engineering PhD. He was a distant relative. Her chacha’s nieces son or something. Somebody suggested the match at a family meeting and her papa immediately liked him. Or more frankly speaking, he loved his resume.

He doesn’t really look much like a nerd though, she thought. She tried not to think too much of it. The more she thinks, the worse it gets. She promised her dad that she wouldn’t make a scene.

“I don’t really know what to say… Neither of us wanted this. You know what I mean right? Sneha?”

Well maybe he’s not that bad, she thought. At least he knows his place.
Also many people get into these arranged marriages, not all of them are unhappy. Maa never had a problem with dad and she didn’t even see him before they were halfway through their vows. At least in her case she talked to him beforehand. She’d be fine, she hoped.

“You don’t know about my last relationship, do you?

 “Not really no.”

A stretch of silence followed. How did maa manage to bypass all that information? This wasn’t the first time she had ever regretted dating Riddhya, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.

“You could always tell me about him.”, he raised his brows as he tried to catch a better glimpse of her face.

He had genuine curiosity in his eyes, something she hadn’t seen in her mother’s when she told her about it.

“What do you want to know?”, she sighed.

“How much do you want to tell me?”

“Okay”, she sat up, cleared her throat and prepared herself for the incoming storm.

“ 3 year old relationship. Same college. Star crossed lovers. Fuckboy. Toxic relationship. Has dated 3 more women after me. And before you ask…No, we didn’t have sex.”, she caught her breath.

“I don’t see why that would matter.”

“Why what would matter?”

“You know…if you had sex or not.”

She was genuinely surprised. Not because of what he said. But because of the way he said it. This guy felt like he genuinely didn’t care if his newly-wedded wife had been in bed with another man before.

Huh. He must’ve had a girlfriend then. Someone he regularly screwed. No South Asian man is okay with his wife having an ex if he doesn’t have a shittier past.

 “Have you ever had a girlfriend?”, she tried to confirm her belief.

“Naa… I’ve never really had time.”

Huh, so he’s a mama’s boy. Or more like a career guy. Not bad. Still doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t have the balls to protest when his father told him he was to get married to a girl he didn’t know. Coward piece of shit.

She didn’t want to talk to him anymore. She looked out the window to see if there was a full moon. 

She had always believed in true love. The kind of love they tell you about in novels. She always wanted to find someone who’d make her laugh when she felt sad, someone who could sweep her off her feet. But something she found out a year into her graduation was that, love never came to those who didn’t look for it. So she got desperate. Dated the most handsome guy in her batch.

Fucking looser couldn’t didn’t even have the guts to break up face to face. Broke up through text.

She calmed herself. Maybe she could learn to love this guy. He isn’t as bad looking as most of the other guys her maa suggested.

‘A 200 pound blob of jerk , she told herself. ‘That’s what you get for dating a fuckboy Sneha’

She needed some food in her stomach. She’d been dieting to slim down for the last 2 weeks. The lehenga still wouldn’t fit though. The pressure was finally starting to get to her.

This isn’t fair, she thought. It’s her own wedding and they wouldn’t let her have food. Food, the only thing that kept her going through her breakup and then this goddamn marriage.

The biriyani smelled incredible, she closed her eyes as she tried to remember. Everything smelled incredible damnit. The chicken, the faluda, the mutton and oh my god the laddus!! Those reshmi laddus almost glistened in all their buttery glory.

And as she thought, a look of hunger and sheer desperation ran through her face.

‘You can get through this Sneha’, she psyched herself. ‘You’re gonna go out tomorrow and eat all the fucking laddus you want.’ ‘Nobody’s gonna stop you’, she mumbled to herself as tiredness and some form of childish anger overtook her face.

“Hey!”, he said desperately trying to grab her attention.

“What?”, she opened her eyes with a seemingly annoyed look.

“I noticed you were looking at the small laddus on the table when we were taking photos with the guests”

“YESSS…They looked delicious!!!”, she almost screamed.

As her voice rose, some peeping Tom dropped something on the other side of the door.

So they were listening this whole time. Huh. Bangladeshi families. You could almost hear all of them escaping quickly.

She sighed, “Not like your mother would let me have any laddus. Bou maa Bou maa eita omuk er chachar khalar nati enar shathe ekta chhobi tulo? Bou maa ektu hasho??”, she mocked her new mother-in-law.

“Hey! Don’t talk about my maa like that!! She isn’t that bad.”, so mama’s boy finally decided to grow some balls.

“You’re right you’re right… I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that.”, she said trying to control herself.

“You look quite tired. You should get some sleep.” “But um… I was wondering …..maybe you’d want some of these before you went to sleep”, he said as he held out something wrapped in a piece of tissue paper from his pocket.

Four laddus peeped out of the tissue paper even before she could open it. As she unwrapped the tissue, a smile kept widening on her face till she was finally laughing.

She had never been happier in a long time. Suddenly, everything didn’t seem so shitty after all. She felt like a 3 year old stealing laddus from the fridge. She forgot to resent the night for a couple of seconds. She smiled and smudged her lipstick on the laddu but she didn’t stop. She loved it. She loved all of it.

He gave her a faint smile and picked up a pillow. He said he was going to sleep on the couch and he left her alone.

Ten minutes and three reshmi laddus later, you could almost hear her scribbling away on her diary,

“Dear diary,
I made a new friend today. I guess he isn’t really that bad…”

Escaping reality

The luminescent red-green lights rained down on Rachel, each beam creating distorted reflections on her sequined dress. She was in the middle of the room drenched in the intense glow of the spotlight. Her silk black hair whipped across her painted face as she twirled. The air was thick with the heat of 30 unfamiliar bodies, each engaged in their own exotic dance. Friday nights were always packed to the brim, but that didn’t stop Rachel from unleashing her emotions.

Music of every genre blasted out of the speakers in a cacophonous melody. Memories were enveloped inside every song, each note inciting a different sensation within her. Unknown songs were an opportunity to create new reminiscences, a unique story intertwined with each decibel. The sound penetrated into her skin and reverberated through her bones. Rachel allowed her body to translate her thoughts into a series of flips, turns, twists and shakes. Despite the lack of dexterity, her movements were intriguing and often alluring. She swayed her hips and spun her head, inducing a nauseating numbness that relieved and rejuvenated her.  She could still feel the remains of her red tinted drink burning down her throat and slithering in her stomach. It seemed to have awakened whatever beast that had been residing there, caged and captivated. 

For a perfect moment, time froze. Rachel forgot about the deadlines and the paperwork clogging up her table. She let go of the fury from the quarrel with her parents. She didn’t even recall the image of her lying-cheating supposed ‘soul mate’ trying, yet again, to apologize. All her feelings and contemplations drained out of her and morphed into her dance. Inside her head, Rachel pictured herself performing a solo piece – even though she was fully aware of the crowd – leaping like an elegant ballerina and landing with soft grace.  As she closed her eyes, she deciphered the heartbeats of the people around her, each beating with the same intensity as hers. Maybe they were just as desperate to escape reality as she was.

~ Noyolee

Privilege

Under the yellow shade of the street lamp in the pitch-black alley, I stood, sipping a cup of tea. The cold winds bellowed; it was mid December. All that kept me warm was that hot cup and the surrounding smoke, I never liked the smell of those little paper devils, but they kept the heat and it had been a rather taxing day. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to going home, not anytime soon at least; the smell was strong and I was in no mood to have my parents find out tonight. Dinner would have to be on the streets tonight, I was running low on cash.

 I threw the butt on the ground and rubbed it with my feet, I watched as the burnt leaves splay on the ground under the yellow shade. Fuck that, time to get myself some food. The heat was wearing off, it started to feel chilly again, I took to walking, I had to find myself a cheap place to get rid of the hunger pangs that were irritating me more than I needed to be at that moment.

The phone buzzed, mum was calling, I was in no mood to talk to anybody, let alone mum. I cut the call and switched the phone off.

I frantically scoured the streets; finally, I had found a little shack. I was hungry and they had food, fuck quality, this would have to do for tonight. The visual anger on my face had likely dimmed- because right then, I was approached by a little kid. One of those street kids, ragged clothes, the usual.

“Bhaia, akta balloon kinben?”

“Ami balloon diye ki korbo? Tor monehoye ami
 balloon diye kheli?!”

“Bhaia akta nen na.” he resonated back, this time the plea was stronger. Some part of me felt bad I suppose, perhaps I had a soft corner in me, one that I seldom visited.

“Tor khida lagse?”

“Ho bhaia, sharadin kichu khainai.”

“Accha, ami balloon kinbona. Amar shathe aidike aye.”

“Mama, ak plate tikka ar  4 ta luchi den”

“Ki khaite chas? Balloon kinbona, kintu tokeh khawabo, tor golar kontho shune maya lagse.”
The asshole inside of me felt so proud at that moment, I was doing a great deed, spending my money on this kid. What a fucking saint I must be.

“Na bhaia, kisu khabona.”
“tor na khida lagse?! Faizlami paisos? Taka’r jonne manush re kos khida lagse, shuwor er baccha!”
His face had turned blue, his voice a little hushed, he said…

“Bhaia, kisu mone koiren na. amare taka ta diya den. Ami taka ta amma ke dibo. Amar choto bon ta amar joinne boishe ase. Kisu khayenai oe.”

I fell cold. I fell cold to the heart of this little kid, I felt like I was doing this kid a great favour, a favour that no one else was willing to do him. I had this sense of moral gratification going on within me, but in that minuscule moment all of it was gone. I saw him as a beggar who had come to me because his false gods had abandoned him, the power that I possessed towered over him. But, was I really better than him?  I felt ashamed. My mouth went a little dry, my voice became hoarse. I assumed a different tone.

“Tor bashae ke ke thake?”
“amar amma, ami ar amar bon.”
“tor baap koi? Tor maa kaj kore?”
“na bhaia, amar maa onek oshusto, amar baap tai amgore chaire choila gese. Rojgaar shob ami kori.”
For the first time ever, I looked at another human being and saw pain in their eyes; pain, despite of which they still continued fighting. I was as non chalant and impervious to the world around me as one can get, I was shrouded by a fortress of money and privilege, the fortitude of which was finally questioned today.

The food lay on the table, but by god, I wouldn’t be able to swallow a single morsel that night. My neck constricted. I was tongue tied. I just sat there, in awe, contemplating. Amidst all the chaos, silence; silence is all that resonated.

I shared the plate with him. That’s the least I could do. But, only now, I wasn’t doing it because I felt superior to him. I had everything, everything one could ask for. But this little soul sitting in front of me, he had nothing, yet he had more than me because I fell short to him where it really mattered, I fell short in terms humanity.

On my way out, I bought food for his mum and sister. I used whatever little money I had with me. For the first time in my life, the arrogance that I had within me, slowly seeped away. I didn’t feel happy that I bought his family food, I didn’t feel any sense of gratification, all I felt was guilt. I felt horrendous, I felt as if all that money which I flaunt around, money which I didn’t even fucking earn, amounted to nothing. I couldn’t do more and that bit me on the inside.

I walked home that night, perhaps a little different than I had walked out in the morning. Home felt a little warmer, it felt like some place I want to be at. Mum’s worried face didn’t annoy me this time around. I relished dad’s lecture. I checked my privileges, and all this time I had neglected the biggest privilege of them all, a happy family.

Confessions

The ever-changing winter winds often dissociate the season from the other five. Often like we choose to dissociate ourselves from people who really matter due to temporary jitters and infatuations. The advent of morning sunshine on our rusting skins expose the true nature of human beings. Rash, impatient, immature. Immature enough never to learn the value of perseverance, of patience, of persistence. Immature enough not to look to love the same person even more and instead  to look for an opportunity to hook up with some random stranger every shot we get. We choose to cheat, to rebound, to scourge for a newer, fresher partner every opportunity we get. Hot bods and shiny ratios speak more to us than a wonderful mind. We choose to fall for a 'Size Zero' before we fall for a Damien Rice lover, we choose to fall for a Victoria’s Secret fangirl over an artist who would immortalize us in their pencil strokes. We choose to fall for the brawns over the heart, the six packs over the poetry, to fall for the notes in their wallet over the notes on their guitar. Not saying everything above couldn’t be mutual in some people, but we often choose to discount virtues we should really value for fain physical and materialistic characteristics.

We decide on living because we want to gain success in a flawed parameter in this world. Monetary success, individual achievements, are the the dimensions we can see. We choose to ignore our hearts, to ignore where it leads us. We follow our disruptive brain and in exchange, we slowly learn to kill of the voices of our heart. We choose to value reasoning over emotions, to value profit over peace. This civil conflict between our spirit and our brain is what eventually destroy every one of us slowly on our last days. We say we don’t love someone because they’re not with us, because they’re not our partners. But does love truly value for sex or physical intimacy, or is love something we can never truly comprehend? Is love bounded by materialistic conditions, or is it something so different from other emotions; so out of whack from the dimensions we see that we often fail to merely spell it out?

Love is unfair, and it is often one-sided. You do not need to be loved to be in love. Love doesn’t account for response, intimacy or for distance. Love doesn’t value terrestrial exchange. Love is a hue in the air, a very pure and yet often unfair feeling, always indispensable. The person we love might never be ours, but that does not stop us from loving. We might lie to ourselves, we might tell the world out loud that there’s no feeling left, that there never was no feeling to begin with, that we’ve moved on and in most cases, “We’re just friends.”

“I LOVE YOU! I FUCKING LOVE YOU”
A bunch of simple words. Small, easy and yet bear more meaning than the rest of the dictionary combined. Sacred, pure and easy to spell out, to let know. But we choose to stuff them in our fat bellies with half-digested oily sandwiches. Stuff our mouths with words we don’t believe in instead. And then kill ourselves every time we deny our feelings. Live as a shadow of our loving selves. Choose not to be dead but yet not to be alive. Put on fake smiles and secretly watch as they pass us by.

So let’s not ‘move on’. Let’s not deny love. Let’s learn to live for love, not to die for it. Let’s learn to love from afar, find happiness in the happiness of our loved one. Let’s learn to use love as our biggest strength, not as our worst weakness. And let’s confess. Confess to love, confess to being in love. Love is not a crime, it’s in our credit to be in love; not in our fault. Let’s learn to cherish love, for not all of us are blessed with this feeling. Some of us keep searching for it our entire lives and yet there are others who ignore it, deny it, stuff it, kill it. So let’s not. Let’s love, let’s live, let’s be loved.

Amen.

Years

The years rolled by, you've aged now;
Your buck teeth smile now shows a little less,
Your lips curve still, but your dimple no longer shows,
You no longer laugh like you used to;
Do you still cry at night?
I wouldn’t know, I suppose;
Only now, I can no longer comfort you,
Only now, we don't stay up all night talking to each other,
We grew apart, you’ve found someone else;
Someone else to talk to remind you of your eminence;
Someone else to assure you that all will be well;
You are happy with your life,
I see it from afar;
I’m happy for you;
I built my own life, one not graced by your touch,
But not one that is uninfluenced by your virtue;
I was happy, but just not as much as I wished I were,
Remember when I said that I'd love you, always?
I haven't stopped holding up to that, dear;
I bear not an ounce of regret in me;
For love doesn't begin or end with possession,
Love transcends these barriers.

We live a little differently now;
I no longer write like I used to;
I lack inspiration, perhaps;
You no longer listen to your old favourite band,
Do the memories bite?
Remember my jar of memories?
They're filled with remnants of us;
I sometimes look through them at night;
As I yearn one last conversation,
I suppose the fuel that lit our friendship,
Burned into cinders, and from the ashes,
Only the remnants remain,
Bittersweet;
I suppose it's better to have loved completely and lost,
Then to have never loved;
At least I now know what it feels like.

The years have rolled by;
Only the memories remain of a life once lived;
Memories of a song no longer sung,
Memories of the brighter kind,
Ones that keep me awake at night,
Not mourning what I could never attain,
Rather,
Cherishing what I once had.

A Night Visitor

In all my years at Little Mary’s hospital, I’ve witnessed numerous tragedies and sparse miracles. I have seen patients with guaranteed premature death certificates, walk out of here with springs for heels. I have also see those, fresh as a rose, fall prey to the night visitor. As doctors we do not create miracles, we witness them. Despite not being directly acquainted with the night visitor, I have seen its magic more than enough. And it leaves me breathless, every time.

It was 1999 and I was in my 1^st year of training. My first practical exam was simple – to assist a terminally ill patient with Euthanasia. All I had to do was pull some chords and it would be over. The moment I entered the room, my eyes lay on the crippled figure on the bed lying motionless – ready to die. His pale, crackled skin looked as if it could hold on no longer. His body was rigid and bent at odd angles. His eyes were the color of clouds on a rainy day, all the light seemed to have drained out. He caught my gaze and I knew then, he had given up completely.

My patient, Mr. Rogers, was connected to various different machines, each performing functions his body could not. I realized then, he was a grotesque mixture of technology, prolonging a life that doesn’t want to live. He couldn’t do the things I could – to take a stroll in the park, or have a picnic under the stars. It wasn’t a surprise that he chose to quit breathing. His soul had departed long before he had.

A small chair was placed in between Mr. Roger’s bed and the machine that showed his heart rate. I sat down and my patient looked at me, the wrinkles in his eyes spoke the stories he couldn’t tell. He expected me to remove his oxygen mask or cut his food supply. Instead, I took his freezing fragile hand in mine, gripped it tight and smiled.  I began to describe the beautiful scenery outside his window – how the beams of light played with the cotton clouds, how the lush green field enveloped the earth; I figured it had been a while since he’d even heard of the world existing beyond the confines of the hospital. A weak smile played on his lips and for the first time in a while, his body relaxed and a calming sensation washed over him.

Time elapsed like spilling water and before I knew it, it was midnight. Mr. Rogers had listened to all my simple stories as if they were witchcraft. At one point I felt his hand slipping away from mine, his eyes slowly closing before sealing shut altogether. I looked at him in disbelief and immediately checked the heart rate machine. It displayed a straight line. I knew at that moment, the night visitor had paid him a visit. It had finally granted Mr. Rogers what he had been seeking – eternal peace. 

~ Noyolee

She

She was laughing, the marks on her face added to the beauty of her smile. Her puffy cheeks couldn't distract you from noticing as her eyes twinkled when the air rippled across her long hair. There was a certain ambience she gave off. You could almost lose yourself in it. You could almost drown in it without even gasping for air.

But you wouldn’t notice the small glance she’d give over her shoulder, or the hint of worry that ran across her pretty face every time someone called her name. You couldn’t detect the obscured sadness as she looked up to you while you talked. You couldn’t see the thousands of secrets hidden in her eyes. They were well concealed, like a bunch of dark clouds beyond the horizon that will only come out at night. She hid the darker parts of herself, in her heart; under a sheet of beautiful white. You could almost fall in love with the darkness, but she’d never show it to you. Truth be told, she wasn't completely alive inside anymore. No, she's not dead. As long as she is able to laugh, as long as her beautiful smile can enchant you, she can't be dead. She’s confident. She knows her smile can bring all her lost happiness back. She’ll live on, she’ll overcome. She won’t let the world defeat her. She can almost see it. She's going to reincarnate herself, she’s going to live again. And this time, for eternity...

12 Lines

12 lines distinctly etched on a beautiful canvas of beige. I never did understand art. They say that behind every stroke there’s a story, just like writers, artists tell us vivid tales through their art. Every line, every shade tells of some personal thought. They imprint their mind onto the canvas for the world to behold, for the world to take a dive into their innermost thoughts hidden behind the perfectly crafted masterpiece which few can comprehend. Tell me, do you ever produce anything that is so personal that holds so deep a meaning to yourself that you are afraid to let the world know? We all have those, don’t we? Sometimes, however, we open those locked doors. She did too. Beauty, as it was, one that I could not decipher. The mystery that enshrined it made it all that more beautiful. She had let me in, but I felt helpless to her essence, her exuberant radiance. She didn’t consider herself someone very special. She wouldn’t call herself the most beautiful person, nor would she even think of herself as someone remotely relevant or worth someone else’s time, for that matter. When you appreciate someone, they smile back, they get warm inside, and maybe they’d even return a word or two. She wasn’t like that. She would be taken aback when hit with kind words, as if she was shrouded by disbelief to your sugary words. Maybe she wasn’t used to them.

12 lines distinctly etched on a beautiful canvas of beige. Each line tells of a different tale, a tale that she would rather forget but they wouldn’t let her. One line for every time mum and dad had fought. One line for that nights when she felt helpless to it all; when she sat in the corner of her room, teary eyed, not knowing what to do. One line for the empty childhood, no not a bad one, just… an empty one. And nine other lines, each of the tears that remain a mystery to me. Is it the mystery that enshrines those lines that make her mind so beautiful? Is it the puzzle that it poses to me that pulls me in day in and day out to understand her better, to stay by her?  I don’t know….

12 lines distinctly etched on a beautiful canvas of beige. Each line that was once red, but now, the colour has faded away. I never did understand art, I never understood what artists try to portray. I never quite figured out what ails them or what depravity they face. I wish I did, maybe that way I’d understand her better. But even with my minimalistic understanding of art, one thing that I knew for sure was that she was the most beautiful work of art that I had ever laid my eyes on. But I don’t understand her. I guess I’ll never understand art. 12 lines distinctly etched on a beautiful canvas of beige, now faded into the beige that it was carved upon.

Omran

“Mum, I can’t sleep, I’m scared.”
“It’s  alright, mummy is here, nothing is going to happen to you .”
“Mum, please sing me to sleep.”
“Okay, Omran.”
“Hush little baby don’t you cry, everything’s gonna bealright, cause mummy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird, I will give you the world, I’ll buy a diamond ring for you, I’ll sing for you and I promise to never make you cry.”
“There, there, honey, off you go to dreamland”
“God help us, if not for us at least for the sake of this poor little angel.” Tears streamed down her face as she felt hopeless to the fate her little son was exposed to, her baby boy, no older than four years of age. Born to eternal damnation, simply because he didn’t win the lottery of life. What was eternity compared to hell on Earth? There was no difference, time seems irrelevant when life abandons you, as if all the cruelties of the world fall upon you even though you are innocent, little children suffer the consequences of the greed of grown men. But this time it wasn’t only grown men whom they were angry upon,  they felt as if God had sent them here and forgotten all about having created them. They felt betrayed.
“Mum! Mum! Where are you? Mum! Mum it’s dark in here, I can’t see mum” the last thing he remembered was the sweet sound of his mother’s voice. Where was it now?  Where was his mother now?  Where was his mother when he was in dire need of her? Little Omran lay there, in the dark, gasping for a breath of air. He heard screams, he could sense that there were other people in the vicinity; but his muffled voice was indiscernible amidst all the chaos. Omran did not know what had happened, he was unaware of the predicament he  was in, all he understood was  that he could not move and that he needed his mum.  What else would a child in his shoes think of? So innocent, so little, a soul that would not even think of hurting a fly; yet, now he didn’t even know whether he was alive or whether the stories of heaven were real and God had sent a calling for his little angel. He felt a voice coming closer, suddenly the pressure on his chest was removed.  The light shone bright on his face, amidst all the dust and the rubble. But  where was his mum? This man wasn’t his mummy,  this stranger was cloaked in orange with a mask on his face.
“we’ve got one, a survivor! A little kid!”
“Y’Allah, he is still breathing!”
Little Omran didn’t move, he didn’t flinch, he sat there, quietly . A living, breathing body, but his soul was lost somewhere amidst the rubble from which the angel in orange picked him up. The smile on his face was snatched away by that bomb which took his mummy. His innocence was lost. He sat there, he sat there as the glaring cameras gazed at him; and as he gazed into the camera’s lens, the world  gazed back, but this time, he was just another headline in the newspaper. This time, all hope was lost.

The Warrior's Reverie

Sparks flew off from the raging flame in the fireplace. The yellow danced with the orange, spreading heat across the room.  A rickety rocking chair was placed before the fire, bearing a man almost as old as some of the cracks running through the chair. Like a lethargic pendulum, he swayed back and forth in continuous motion. In his scarred hands he clasped a mug of hot coffee, the heat pouring into his body. He held the mug with a drunken gentleness – strange for a retired warrior. The thick aroma of coffee, mixed with the scent of Winter, created an ideal ambience for one to ponder. The old man’s eyes were lost amidst the seemingly endless sheet of white. His mind was replaying the same old memory.

 ~To be Continued~

      ~ Noyolee Munim