Month: September 2014

Are our hearts different?

Humans technically have hearts the size of their fists, red in color, beating with a controlled speed—unless of course there’s some medical incongruence. Not really.

Hearts are as different and as unique as people come. Some of us have big hearts with small egos, while some may have small hearts with big egos. Some of us with pure hearts, transparent, with everything written on their hearts as on their faces, whereas some have blackened hearts, constricted, wrinkled, with nothing to offer. Some have hearts that are dead; beating only because they breathe and so oxygen keeps the heart and the body going; while some have hearts as young as a two year old—excited, jubilant, emotional and romantic, waiting to be opened at any time and any place. Some have hearts that only open to certain people, clean and simple.

It’s not the fault of the hearts or the humans that own the heart. It is the circumstances that make their hearts pure or rusty, constricted or open, live or dead.

When a human dies, his heart dies first, no pretenses. No one’s heart shows a miracle, whether it’s blackened with hatred or pure with love.

Bottom-line: Don’t judge a human or his heart, offer him love and see if it doesn’t turn into gold.

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Rain

Rain, it made her alive. There were no excuses. The thunder, the lightening, the dark clouds and the pour, it made everything else feel so mediocre. Like nothing else mattered.

She would rise with the smell of the early rain—of dust and water. Her feet would carry her out, until she could see the sky, feel the first drop of rain. It was an addiction. Really.

She would close her eyes and feel every drop of water upon her body, until she would be soaked in rain. It was a ritual that purified her. It connected her with the heavens above.

You would think it was trance that carried her. But soon she would sit, somewhere in the balcony with a clear view, still drenched, still smiling.

No, she was not brave. Every thunder would make her start; every streak of lightening would close her eyes. But the glitter of eyes would remain and you would see a little girl with renewed dreams looking up at the sky wishing for a shower of confetti and stars and water drops and everything that comes in between.   

 

Mind Maps

My mind thinks in terms of cities. Does your mind think in terms of cities?

It tires me up. Thinking about what time would be in Boston right now, or what would people in Edmonton be doing around this time or how it’s so hot in Karachi and Hyderabad but it’s thundering and pouring in Lahore; and in New York, fall is there already while we are still shopping for summer clothes.

And yet it is comforting in a way. It gives me space when I am occupied. I have all these maps of cities in my head where time and lines separate one place from the other but there are people who always connect these places to me. Places from all over the world. There are some people who might not even know that I exist but reading and thinking about them makes me think of those towns and cities; and thinking of those places makes me think of them—it’s weird—and how these small dots connect the universe.

Is it the same for everyone?

I guess not.

The rain in Lahore for example always reminds me the roads of LUMS and ‘How to save a life’ plays in my head. And I know Islamabad gets really hot in September but it always reminds me of the rainy sunsets over Marghalla hills while Uzair Jaswal’s ‘Tere Bin’ always plays in the background (it has something to do with him belonging to the city I guess). And Karachi—Karachi reminds me several things; an entire lifetime, the dirty sea-view, night outs, old friends, random plans, coincidental friends and sadness and excitement. There is not one song, not one memory and not one place that I could picture when I think of the city.

And I keep thinking of people in London and Chicago and Toronto and Istanbul and Mumbai and Boston and California and New York City and sometimes of Arizona and it boggles my mind we are so different and yet so similar when it comes to feeling in a certain way—to heartbreaks, to surprises, to feeling far away, being separated, to finding good music and sharing it, to grieving and loving.

There was a time I was so obsessed with cities and how their residents felt that I downloaded dozens of weather apps just to look at the temperatures of different cities at a time. They say temperature of a place tells you the mood of the people. I was only trying to find out whether their mood matched with mine; whether they felt nostalgic in fall or in love in December, whether I could feel snow at my place while looking at -10 C in Boston.

It is disturbing to think that way, you might say. But for me it connects me to the universe.

Anything that makes me feel connected, works for me.