Tell me a Story

“Tell me a story, Fatima.”   “No, Nani, you always fall asleep. Today, you tell me a story. Tell me about your wedding again. I want to hear about your gharara, and about Nana.”    Shameem Bano sighed. Revisiting the past was, at times, painful. Some days, she would lay her husband’s framed photograph on its back

Arretez

Arretez Stop Rukh jaoo Turn around Look at me Yes, that’s enough Arretez Stop Rukh jaoo Sing to me A song of immeasurable sadness For I am sad without you And this is my truth Arretez Stop  Rukh jaoo Walk towards me So I may watch The rhythm of your body as you move Now

A Woman who Writes

“One is not born a woman, but rather becomes a woman.”  Simone De Beauvoir Is my writing affected by being a woman, by my environment making me a woman? Of course, it is. I have never experienced the world as anything but a female human being. In her twenties, Beauvoir thought of herself as just

Breathing through Writing

“If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it.” – Anais Nin I have been invited to participate in a panel discussion on the 29th of May. It’s a Toronto International Festival of Authors

This Body of Mine

I have had a love-hate relationship with my body, ever since I was eleven years old. I hated all the changes my body went through. I went to great lengths to hide them from everyone else, and hated my mother for discovering what was supposed to be my shameful secret. Didn’t the lady know how

Vive La France

My first failed love happened in Paris. I was seven-years-old.  I had a crush on the boy a few years older than me. His eyes twinkled when he laughed and he laughed often. We were staying with his family, and he, his sister, and I slept on the floor of his room. I have the

Welcome to the Club (Dogs and the Poor not allowed)

“I sit on a man’s back choking him and making him carry me, and yet assure myself and others that I am sorry for him and wish to lighten his load by all means possible….except by getting off his back.” ―Leo Tolstoy, What Then Must We Do? At times, it seems that in Pakistan, you

For the First Time

Kiss me as if for the first timeKiss me as if we don’t entwine every nightKiss me as if I am to you a stranger,Longed for on the quiet,Kiss me like you tried that nightyears back,Both my wrists held above my headin your right hand,Your left exploring other parts of meYour mouth seeking mineKiss me

Scattered Like Seed Pods

I did most of my growing up in Pakistan. It was not the Pakistan that you find today in the media. It was not the land that housed Osama Bin Laden, or the country besieged by drone attacks, and suicide bombings. Handsome cricketers turned politicians did not stand on containers making speeches. Back then, Zia-ul-Haq

Our Shadows Merged

We were young,Eager, straining,With a love so certain. Then came other things,Laid claim to our attention,Love me instead these things said,And we did,That job,Family members, friends who tugged,Children,Of your seed fused with mineThey drew us together,But also apart,And our love dwindled,It shrank,Our faces turned away,In other directions My heart brokeLoneliness moved into its crevicesBut still,I