Walking Down the Lane, Again. [June 8, 2008]

It's just been a year,
but it seems so queer,
that things are so far,
that were once so near.

Those walks down aisles,
those tears, those smiles,
final words, parting of ways,
leaving behind the olden days.

With glowing faces,
with watery eyes,
those lop-sided smiles,
just waiting to cry.

A maroon gown,
an NHS stoll,
so many memories,
I'm left to recall.

Walking backwards,
down the lane,
experiencing it all,
all over again.

A tossed cap,
a fluttering tassle,
when what to wear to grad,
was the biggest hassle.

The faces run through my mind,
shining, radiating with light,
each one a deep memory,
holding onto me so tight.

Another eight, another June,
same old winds, but different monsoons,
flying like old parchments,
shards of memories line pavements.

And as I walk with my head high,
onto my face each memory collides,
the radiant past burns my insides,
for my heart longs to cry,
on the same set of shoulders,
it yearns for the days so older.

The same song plays in my ears,
it glides with every sliding tear,
"breakaway" it whispers to me,
it fills me with warmth, with glee.

I open old boxes so full,
pouring out my treasures,
deeper into emo seas they pull,
depths that nobody can ever measure.

A shirt, a note, a card,
a wilting rose, a flower so dead,
everything dances around in my head,
piercing like old shards,
wounding me with such grace,
things I could just never replace.

with every rustle of the wind,
through my tangled, messy hair,
there comes a new glow,
that grows when shared.

As I sit here after a year,
with blank eyes, so devoid of tears,
a smile creeps onto my lips,
as the keys drum under my fingertips,
I'm looking at old snaps,
of those blood-red gowns and flying caps,
I'm recalling the times when,
the seventy of us marched out,
holding very high our heads and chins.

This is just to tell each one of you,
that no matter what each of us do,
a part of us always is and always will,
will be so empty, only to be filled,
by those days we spent together,
by those laughters and smiles,
by those tears and those frowns,
by those fiery ups and downs,
whenever we look over our backs,
we'll see the same old tracks,
calling out to us, to come back.


This is for the class of 2008.

Happy Graduation Anniversary! :)

June5:June6:June7

June 5: My last exams as a high schooler. Human Biology & Political Science.
Desi BBQ.

June 6: My first graduation practice, when almost everyone forgot to bring their IDs for entrance into Dhahran.

June 7: My second graduation practice, when we treated ourselves at Joffrey's.

It's been a year. Just memories. Scribbled down on walls. Jotted down in diaries. Signed onto yearbooks.

That's it. That's all.

An emotional detour.

A year passed by so quickly that I only realized this when I saw the news & newspapers today. Everything had Benazir Bhutto's picture in it- articles, newspapers, TV, posters, banners, you name it- the Bhutto element was so omnipresent. December 27, 2007 was surely a very pivotal day for the whole world. I remember it was one of my classmate Aly's birthday, the day my dad was coming back from his Hajj duty, the day when one of my friend's cousin was getting married and it was the day she died. I remember how I was so very bored that day. I kept myself glued to the couch in front of the TV and lazily munched on a bag of crisps by my side. Nothing interested me. I was sick of the same breaking news after each minute issued Geo about Benazir's upcoming rally. I left the TV on and went to my room to doodle about a bit. After a long time, I heard the signature music of Geo channel's breaking news session. Something had happened, I felt it. I ran towards the lounge, which happened to be at the opposite end of our flat. There was firing and a blast at Liaqatbagh at BB's rally. I screwed my face up. This had happened before on October 18 too, but she was safe. She must have survived this too, she had so much security around her. After a ten to fifteen minutes, Babar Awan publicly announced to the reporters gathered around General Hospital that BB was no more. I remember the pounding in my chest, I also remember forgetting how to blink. I was never an avid supporter of the PPPP or BB in person, but I too felt her loss. I thought about her children, how hard it is to lose a mother, that too to a suicide attack. I spent the whole day camping in front of the TV, watching news channels blare out second-to-second updates about her possible cause of death, her planned autopsy and her funeral. I listened to Zardari's grief-stricken voice in a telephonic interview to a news channel. I still couldn't believe she had died. Maybe she'll pop up again from a corner, from behind a banner and start chanting "Girti huwi deewar ko aik dhakka aur do! Go Musharraf, Go!"..[Give another push to a crumbling wall]...I wasn't ready to face her absence in the media or in the political scenes. As I watched TV all day long and heard people from all over the world commend her as a person and prime minister, I was forced to go into an in-depth search about her. My internet history would bear witness to the thousands of pages I visited to read up on BB. Not that she was new name to me, I just felt that I had to know more about her. I wanted to know whether she had really looted the country's money and built luxurious houses for herself abroad. I had burning questions in my mind about her suspected involvement in Murtaza Bhutto's murder and other such charges. She didn't look greedy or deprived. So why so many accusations? Why so many controversies? I looked up through massive series of text online, each article changing my opinion towards one way or the other. But my sentiments remained the same- I actually missed BB. This summer instead of totally sacrificing myself over studying for the MCAT, I got the chance to read "Daughter of the East", which was an autobiography written by BB herself. I remember my dad saying, "I know that now that you've gotten your hands on this book, you won't be studying with the same vigor."...Yes, he was so very right. I'd find myself cutting short my study sessions just to get the chance to read a page or two from the book and instead spend an hour literally glued to the pages. As I read, most of my relatives kept telling me "What use is it to read a biased account?"...If you really want to know, ask those who suffered or experienced the brunt of all those money laundering cases. I still read on...I wasn't in love with BB, I wasn't rallying for PPP, I was just showing respect for an international woman. As a consequence of her death and watching to so many of her speeches and documentaries, a new spirit of patriotism grew in me. Before I even realized, I had written "Flames", a poem that I published earlier on my blog about the condition of my country. I engaged in debates on groups online, trying to convince people that a new government will bring change if given the proper chance. All this was around end of 2007 and beginning 2008- a year old now. Today as I watched TV, skimmed through Dawn and looked around me outside, all I saw was Bhutto. So much love, so much respect, so much of charisma- this wasn't something everyone could easily acquire. I sometimes secretly wish that when I die, I want to be remembered like that. Logos, newspapers, magazines, etc. In a GOOD way though. Allah, you know best. I'm not even going to say anything else 'cause I don't what's right to say and what isn't. Allah, just do whatever's in our best interest, You know best. Whenever I hear chants of "Zinda hai BB, Zinda hai", I end up getting so emotional and it's funny 'cause I don't know just why my emotions run so high. I feel split about how to feel towards her. Should I like her 'cause she suffered so many personal losses in the course of making Pakistan a better country? Or should I hate her based on the many accusations on her, some of them even proven? Sometimes, it can become so hard to decide what to feel for another person. Sighs.