My dark bride charmingly walked in, subtle shades of black beautified her mystery. Ironic to her fate, there stood she, singing lullabies to the world underneath, syncing with its symmetries both evident and not.
Paroling her breaths from the luminescence of day, her fall was a silver lining to my prolonged recession. With bold pesky eyes presumably reigning the queen moon hemmed to her being a bride, oscillating like pearly beads…
There you go my witness, I bowed before my empress. The dark silhouette of my coming night stood out boldly against the fading light. “You are captivated, aren’t you?” The moon whispered.
What a bifurcation between an obstreperous day and my moaning night, I thought. Cries here harboured an expression which increasingly became more sombre. Beats here were more like a crusade to the following fable of dreams both built and those dashed.
Well! Misfortunes never come singly!
What makes a teenager like me, live nights lost in smoulders, is a dream that craves for an opening that awaits a breeze to make it to the freedom. Alas! Never is it realized.
Parents, dear parents, what according to you must be the biggest of fears? Well to me it’s a life full of ‘what ifs’.
Amid all the conflicts surmounting people, a conflict within oneself is more tumultuous. Recalling every day the deadly possibility: “What if I would this time be pursuing a career of my own?”
High school in Kashmir starts absurdly in Parraypora, all the way to Chashu, Rufeen, Crescent classes and what not.
With due respect to all these institutions, I am no authority to come up with reprimands and cheeky answers but only am piqued over the med-nonmed atmosphere we have created. Back then in 2015 when I declared my being obsessive to the infinite world of books and literature and that I simply wanted to opt for humanities, I received a beautiful garland of gibes and jeers exaggerated by the regular pantomime, “aetilagakhpaga school masterbai (Huh! You going to be a school master)”
We are the saplings of the fruitful seeds you sowed. Why are those capable of working magic underestimated? Why some blooming buds can’t be allowed to go to the unheard of lengths and recapture what was lost?
Stature need not be paralleled with the unnecessary ostentatious display of Doulat. The doctors and proud engineers our society has aren’t there because their sole objective was moneymaking but more of it because that’s where their heart was inclined.
Somewhere in The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho I read “When you want something with all your heart that is when you are closest to the soul of the world.” And yes of course, it is a positive force.
I request every parent to seriously think over this and overpower the notion that the only way to escape prying eyes is to make your child an engineer or a doctor.
Every person has some capabilities and talents which discern us from each other. Ultimately, life is a test. Before the final sleep withers us grey, it is important to fulfil, at least, those obligations that come from within.
I respect all the emotions of parents and their valued concern but this, at times, acts as a retarding force and in my case became a barrel full of peer pressure. At times such emotions become poison to any living goal.
It’s important to leave things to almighty Allah but going with the flow is never an option, either we meander aimlessly or build a career that was never made for us.
Let every child at least make an iota out of its life. Let’s widen our prospects and explore life through different avenues, let’s not run after high speeds but that after total clarity.
Definitely love is something that casts you into winds, sets you ablaze, makes you burn through the skies and ignites your nights like a Phoenix. The kind that cuts one loose like wildfire and you can’t stop running simply because you keep on burning everything you touch. If such passion and love for ‘something’ pitches its tent on the realm of your insides, then you need to be set free and let your line of action hitch your wagon to the stars.
Don’t suffocate your beloved’s nights with anguish unworthy and remorse unannounced. Dreams are not illusions.
There is one life. Its epilogue, the least, demands to be satisfactory.
Transferred epithets only beautify poems, here comparisons are chaotic.
Proper ambient atmosphere can only solve the purpose. Let your child for once be what he or she really is. Because the more of you, you be, the clearer you begin to see. So, be their hope, a follicle of hope.
(The author can be contacted at: [email protected])
