karachi, Uncategorized, Writing

karachi, a postcard

this city is a palimpsest. all texture. peeling into self. layer upon layer upon layer. language and skin and dust and polythene waste and political graffiti, pan stains and rickshaw poetry, chai shops and cigarette butts, aunties in flip flops, families squeezed onto motorcycles, english in urdu and urdu in angrezi, traffic uncles maddeningly ushering sluggish traffic across, “these bloody motorcycle wallay!”, “baji dupatta samhalain!”, jasmine bracelets at traffic lights, khawaja sira clapping, a perfect pyramid of yellow mangoes, fruit sellers swatting flies, jamun and cheekoo and falsay and sugarcane juice, hot tandoori naan in foreign newspapers, a gutter overflowing, kites in the sky, tangle of cables swinging above, crows in the morning, painted walls and fading walls, dusty trees, sweat sun sea, noise evening breeze. this city, the sea breeze. this city, the sound.

 

karachi photo zehra

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healing words

i’ve made a conscious decision to speak openly about my struggles with my mental health. i’m slowly learning what my body needs when i am anxious, depressed and the different ways my PTSD manifests itself. i am learning to become comfortable with how fragile and vulnerable i am as a human.

the last few days have been particularly difficult for various reasons. but i find that in those intense moments of pain and brokenness, help finds its way to me.

a few months ago i had just experienced a racist incident and was feeling emotionally and physically overwhelmed.  a friend texted me out of the blue and asked if we could meet. she met me in the hallway right after my class. we held hands and cried. another time i ran into her, she slipped two beautiful bracelets into my pocket. i have been wearing them everyday and throughout the day run my fingers over them. they make me smile.

this past week has been especially difficult. the following words have been life lines extended to me.

  • an instructor handed me a copy of Lenelle Moise’s Haiti Glass and said i could keep it. i read these words again and again:

Instead I took a deep breath. I channeled my outrage into a form of meditation. I reminded myself that I am a writer. My job is to observe and to remember. When push comes to shove, memory is my greatest self-defense. I can be a warrior but I would rather be a poet. Poets live longer.

5. I WISH I COULD “LOVE MYSELF” OUT OF SYSTEMIC OPPRESSION. TRAUMA IS A STRUCTURE, NOT A FEELING.

  • a mentor/writer:

Your job isn’t to change the world. It is to hold up the truth.

  • someone special:

you are so different from every angle and so beautiful.

My God, who has been so quiet,
This must be your work.
As baffling as all of your other mercies

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love.

love is not a cliche. i forget that sometimes. my anger is justified, but it should not overtake my power to love. anger should not be toward human beings but toward systems. and i must never forget love. i forget it too often as i grow older and sadder and angrier. my anger is justified and powerful. but i also have the power to be overwhelmed in and with love. and it makes me whole. anger is not sustaining. it is important but it is not everything. love protects me from myself, from my anger from becoming too consuming. love is empathy. love is the Creator. love is wholesome and the only place i feel safe, accepted, at home. the systems in place are cold, unloving, and i am always being cast out. why must speaking about love be cliche? it is all i have. why is it easier to talk about sadness or anger when what i really want is more love? and it is here, available, within me, always open, welcoming me in.

 

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A Journeying Reader – Personal Essay

written for my poetry workshop in the style of Nick Thran’s ‘A Working Reader’

Exploring

In second grade at Ladner Elementary School, my teacher had a bookshelf of books arranged according to reading levels. There were the simple phonetic books that had more pictures than words, and then there were the chapter books that more advanced readers were encouraged to take home to read. It was 2001 and my family had just migrated to Canada. I was in ESL and I was put in the picture-book reading group.

The Junie B Jones chapter books were all the rage back in second grade. They had colourful covers and hardly stayed on the shelf. There was so much text on the pages. They felt so grownup.

I saw one of the books on the shelf—finally available. I picked it up. Mrs. Suki swooped in and looked at the book disapprovingly. “I don’t think you’re ready for those books”, she said. I put it back on the shelf. She directed me towards a picture book, humiliatingly simple. I felt small, and confused and wondered if I should be angry.

Few days later at the school library, I check out my first Junie B Jones chapter book. I like to think of it as an act of rebellion. There was a satisfying amount of text on the pages. Within months I had finished the entire collection of Junie B Jones in the library.

Take that Mrs. Suki.

Found

The books I always return to are books in the Anne of Green Gables series. My cousin lent the first three in the series to me. The first time I read the first book, I understood perhaps half of it. Anne Shirley had a wild imagination and I liked her instantly. I was eight and still in ESL when I read them. They were a challenge, but somehow that didn’t matter. I didn’t feel like I needed to understand everything. I instantly liked the concept of kindred spirits. Lucy Maud Montgomery became a kindred spirit and her books had an almost religious appeal to me. The delicious appetite for beauty and nature in her books cultivated my own appetite and appreciation for beauty. I rejoice when I meet a kindred spirit and can recognize trees as friends. I discover that part of myself when I go back to these books. It feels like I’m surrounded by the beauty of wilderness, of the starry sky, of moonlit ocean waves, dewy forests, and branches budding with spring.

And this our life, exempt from human haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

Shakespeare

A week before my first day of university, I re-read Anne of the Island, in which Anne Shirley goes off to university. It fit.

It’s like that feeling when you’re searching for that poem that you really need to read, to satisfy this certain gnawing in your chest, and you can’t find that poem that puts it into the words you need, so you write that poem. Except, I often would find that poem. I would find that “poem” that I needed in the Anne of Green Gables series and the Emily of New Moon books.

Abandoned

I read Oliver Twist by Charles Dicken when I was eleven. It was extremely painful, yet I couldn’t put it down. It was dull and there were too many characters and the dialogue was difficult to follow. But for some reason I finished it. I think it has to do with continuing to rebel against Mrs. Suki. I eagerly took on books that looked difficult and suffered through them. I don’t remember ever abandoning books as a child, even if I didn’t like them or if didn’t understand them. I wonder why that is.

I don’t have the patience or the time to read what doesn’t interest me. This realization makes me kind of sad, but it is also a relief. I no longer feel like I have to read War and Peace. As if I have something to prove. I think I’ve already proven it.

Three Day Road by Joseph Boyden is the most recent book I’ve abandoned. I intend to go back to it. I also abandoned Anna Karenina. I also intend to read it. I don’t think I ever really abandon books fully.

I abandoned Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway during my first year of university. I had him has my creative writing 200 professor. Then last summer on a coach ride from Bristol to London I finished it. It was winter and the London streets were decked with lights and holiday fervor. Took me a year to read it. I think of cellists, Sarajevo and grief when I think of pulling into Victoria station my second time in London. My partner was reading Harry Potter and Philosopher’s Stone, which I had given him. That look on his face as he flipped through the pages intently. The story, the characters, that world, he was discovering it for the first time. There are books I wish I could forget and read all over again for the first time.

Remembering

It’s interesting how memory can sort of meld everything together like the colours of the sun and sky burning together at sunset. Kind of like how a perfume can stir a specific memory of childhood, and you can’t really separate the childhood from the smell, and it’s all beautifully blended together, part of each other. That’s how I feel when I read Beverly Cleary to my little brother. He’s seven and he sees patterns everywhere. I want to have children and take them to the library and let them pick any book, no matter how fat and thick and pictureless it is, and watch them read it for the first time. I read Great Expectation a few weeks ago for a class. To my surprise I liked it. Robert Munsch and Roald Dahl are also kindred spirits.

I always feel like writing after reading a book or a poem. Because I have more to say. I feel like the world on the pages has blended with my world, and what I’ve read is now a part of me, and if I close the book, I won’t be separated from it. I have more to express because of this new growth in my world.

Rilke is another kindred spirit. He also gets it. Have a look at this excerpt from the Eight Elegy:

With all its eyes the natural world looks out

into the Open. Only our eyes are turned

backward, and surround plant, animal, child

like traps, as they emerge into their freedom.

We know what is really out there only from

the animal’s gaze; for we take the very young

child and force it around, so that it sees

objects—not the Open, which is so

deep on animals’ faces. Free from death.

I want to read more poems about the Open. I used to write a lot about the Open, trying to understand it, to access the thrill and mystery of it. It was easier when I was younger. I guess there’s been some sort of a movement against that type of exploration that has affected me—maybe not. But sometimes I feel embarrassed to share my fascination with spirituality—as someone who is fond of it, finds it very useful, and is not necessary critical of it. Being not critical of spiritualty feels like a fault somehow and it shouldn’t. I want to ACCEPT the Open rather than tear everything apart and criticize it and analyze it, which after two years of university education, I feel I ought to. I needn’t be suspicious of my own truths. Cynicism is exhausting and it makes me grumpy.

I like that Rilke is unflinchingly open about exploring the Open in his poetry. I would like to read more modern poets who are. I have a collection of poems called Nonexistent Poem & Songs of Love written in the style of Sufi poetry. Sometimes I find phrases that make the whole poem it for me.

Many of Kamila Shamsie’s books take place in Karachi. When I discovered her books, I felt that relief—the momentary fulfillment of hunger for stories of Karachi, of my stories. A quote from Broken Verses: 

“Don’t you know how much I hero-worshiped you when I was a kid? You were Marie Curie crossed with Emily Bronte crossed with Joan of Arc to me when I was ten. And when I told you that, you said my cultural references were the sign of a colonized mind.”

What often makes a poem great is that one line that just perfectly says it, exactly how you could never had said it and you feel so excited and relieved to have it recognized by another, and pinned down so perfectly on the page for you to marvel at. That one line can make the poem.

Reading feels like an exercise in accepting what is before me. Writing feels like a search to give it a name. Writing feels like a prayer. A prayer and a memory and words and a childhood rebellion and smell of chai in Karachi and holiday lights in London streets and eating apples as Jo March wrote her novel and Price Edward Island and looking out from Green Gables and Hafiz and Ghalib and listening to ghazals and finding kindred spirits in coffee shops and all of it melding together into one till you can’t separate them any longer.

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On writing that kind of poetry

I had a meeting with my poetry workshop instructor a few days ago and we talked about all the poems I’ve been working on for the workshop. She is a beautiful, insightful human being who approaches my work with so much respect and sincerity that I can’t help but believe in myself, in my words, in my capability as a poet. It is what I need. To believe that there is something unique within me that is worth telling, worth creating, and worth sharing.

She made me realize that I need to be unafraid of putting more of myself in my poetry. Of exploring my background, my experiences, my approach to life.

She suggested I take a theme and work with it, write smaller poems, a collection, explore different aspects of my experiences, my childhood, my obsessions, my histories. They don’t necessarily have to be about me, but need to be rooted within me, have a strong sense of where they are coming from and why they are being written.

I want to explore the political, the spiritual, and personal in my poetry. It is a difficult mixture, but I know it’s all connected in the way I approach the world around me.

There are memories of Pakistan, of childhood, of immigration, of longing, of being lost, of anger, of love, of discovery and of wonder. I have so many questions and fears and so many unresolved experiences to look back to.  I will craft them. I will bead them into a thread gently and sincerely. I will relive. I will go back and go forward and look within. I am realizing how much more bravery it takes to write a poem that is closer to the heart, that is honest, than a poem that is merely written to play around with words for effect.

I will write ghazals and I will talk about wearing shalwar kameez on the skytrain. I will talk about the time I tried to reread the letter I had written in Urdu only to realize that I no longer could.

There is a quote from Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet that comes to mind. Rilke is a kindred spirit. He gets it. He puts to word what I didn’t even realize I was trying to say, and yet I really needed it to be said.

Write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty – describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds – wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories?

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Writing, Graduate Studies, and Quotes

For the past few days I have been contemplating what path I want to pursue for graduate studies. I’ve always enjoyed studying, reading, and learning about new things, and continuing my studies after my bachelors seems like an obvious decision.

Yet, I’ve started to become conscious of being driven by a desire for a certain ‘academic status’. I’ve always wanted a PhD since the day I learned what a PhD is. I always wanted to achieve the very best when it came to schooling. Why? What exactly is the very best? Why do a PhD just for the sake of doing a PhD? That won’t get me where I really want to go. Is it a distraction?

My literature classes make me weary. I’m often interested, but in some of my classes there is a lack of fascination–a disconnect between what INSPIRES literature and the study of it. I am interested in the inspiration of things. I am interested in the humanness within words, literature, and stories. I care more about how a story makes me feel, how brilliantly imagined it is, what kind of inspiration is behind it, and simply the story itself in its entirety. The more I study literature the more I feel I that I don’t want to dissect everything I read and analyze its symbols and recurring motifs and the contextualize it according to the literary theories of the time. I want to see the piece as a WHOLE, and I want to discuss it in a simpler way–like I would if I were a child. Somehow cutting it up makes it less beautiful.

I don’t feel this way in my creative writing classes. I feel happy. Excited. Thrilled. And always leave inspired.

I want to write.

I feel that for a very large percentage of my life I have been waiting for the right moment to write, for the moment I can safely say “now there is nothing left for me to do, but to finally just write.” I am aware that moment may never come. There never will be a moment when I have nothing else to do.

George Orwell wrote a fantastic essay titled “Why I Write”. Here’s a quote:

From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books.

I am waiting for the moment I can finally settle down and write books. I am aware I have to make that moment. I seem to create distractions for myself. Even while being in the creative writing program, I have taken on so many classes for English honours, that I spend less time doing what I love doing the most. I give myself the message that if I enjoy what I do then it is not of value. I must take on work that I enjoy less, because it is of more value if it’s more difficult. Which is ridiculous. I need to change this.

Writing needs to become my number 1 priority. Not graduate studies. Not a PhD. I need to be singleminded. Everything else comes after.

I end with a beautiful quote from my favourite poet, Rainer Maria Rilke:

Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must”, then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.

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Maghrib

You were born of the deserts
with dates between your lips
and desert dune air brushing your lashes.

You watch the sun dip behind the minarets and domes
and let the azaan awash your skin with the pricks of divinity
when the pigeons fluttered in a rush with the haunting call
of the day’s end.

You see the end of a symphony from the
flat roof.

The butcher pulls down the store window
And your neighbour’s forgotten laundry flutters,
the sun slipping away from its embrace of the clay walls.
And the fruit seller wheels back home.
The boys and girls in creased uniforms skip home.

Closing windows and doors, and skies
shifting, as if the night sky had turned from its
slumber, taking over the watch from the sun.
Awake and crisp the night will shine soon.

The minarets are pillars upholding the sky.
His voice has reached out and touched the stars.
This moment is a welcoming and a good-bye,
a closing in and an opening out.

Tonight, you will traverse the cosmos from behind your eyes.

.

The word ‘maghrib’ has multiple meanings. It means west. It means sunset. It is also the fourth prayer of the day that Muslims perform at sunset. This particular poem was composed during maghrib time in Karachi.

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