Back to work

Yesterday was my first day of going back to office after many months, the idea of going back to old life/work setting was making me uncomfortable, I have settled into homeworking mode where I enjoy the calmness of morning, without rush , hustle and bustle of stations, catching or missing a train, without stress of being late or missing a meeting.
There is also an absence of preparations for food and clothes a night before going to work, saves so much time and energy, I realized when I had to do it all over again yesterday.
In the morning my husband enquired what time would I be leaving home, to which I replied casually : Will get ready first and then check which train I can catch!



He shook his head in disbelief, He said normal people check the train first and get ready accordingly,
Yes ‘normal people’ do,
If I check the train first, my notion of time isn’t timed with the TIME, it has its own clock that means when I box it and try to match , my anxiety kicks in so I get ready first and then check which train I can get, works for me….”I said in my very ‘sana’ style of shrugged shoulders and raised eyebrows.
He decided to drop me to station, wasn’t very sure if I will go to work or drop the idea in between or was in still in shock of MY TIME theory response 😃.
I found a window spot on the double decker IC train, and as I was enjoying the spring view outside I had this deja vu feeling of life going on as usual in some other verse as if I had been taking this train everyday, there wasn’t any feeling of missing out or a new home working routine, a space of my mind preoccupied with an old process ,a phenomenon.
The Deja vu was broken when I tasted the office coffee, in the past I thought it wasn’t good, yesterday I affirmed it was quite BAD.
Compared to what you will ask? My home coffee, the coffee of my local cafes which now my coffee buds are accustomed to.

Release

 A strange month is February, of winds and rains

 Of colds and hurts, aches and pains.

The old wounds revisiting the new you

You thought it was over, Don’t you?

What’s different this time though

Are deep secrets for you to know,

They aren’t only for disclosure,

They are present for a closure.

 

All this while, laced with guilt and pain,

 You’re reaching out to them, was in vain.

All what was ever returned

was more hurt, guilt and shame.

Guilt of hurting them

Guilt of causing them pain.

A persistent behaviour

unjustified and disdain.

 

But this time it was different.

For the first time,

You didn’t hear a hurt person,

You didn’t see a hurt person,

the veil was lifted

in the darkness of night.

In the shade of light,

 You saw a narcissist

dwelling in their

self- righteousness.

 

You weren’t reaching

 for helping them out

You weren’t trying to fix them

You were reaching out to the connection,

to the source of your wound.

Wound that hurts

Wound that bleeds.

Wound that they caused in you

And made you believe otherwise.

Your mind only recognizes

 connection and its source,

feels safe in the familiarity of it

however troubling that might be.

 

Release that guilt

Release that pain

Break that chain

 that binds you

 to your source of wound.

 

Healing is really to see the light at the end of the tunnel, when the events just remain events and memories without having any negative emotion or control over you.

When you break free from the prison of your own mind, of your own negative voices, of the intangible clutches of people who control you, manipulate you or hurt you through their words or actions.

Time to take your power back.

May Allah the Sha’afi heal the wounds of the heart and the soul and illuminate their darkness with His divine light. Ameen

Sense and Sensitivity

 

I have often heard from people that I am too sensitive, and I agree I keep sensing sensitivity and sensitive people around me through my inbuilt radar always on.

The tones of people keep varying, from an empathetic response of “O Dear, you are so sensitive” to being snapped at with “OMG, you are too sensitive! ” as if sensitivity was a crime I committed then.  I kept wondering why our levels of sensitivity vary so much based on different subjects. I might be sensitive on one subject while another can be sensitive to something else or same thing, but our levels would differ.

What people fail to see behind the façade of sensitivity are layers of hurt, layers of shame, layers of guilt, layers of internal battles, self-doubts, and negative self-talks accumulated over the years we spent on this planet earth. Everyone’s structures and layering are unique so are their sensitivities. If I must put life in two words, I will say it is a series of hurting and healing. There is much beneath the surface of a person who gets triggered at seemingly harmless jokes which everybody seems to enjoy unanimously or at minor remarks which nobody else seems to mind. After years of battling hurt, putting up with pain, people can’t take it anymore and break at a slight hint of something closer to their fears and pain. Remember our mothers when they keep mentioning that they will not tolerate this behaviour from now on, chiding at things that seem trivial to us and we couldn’t relate much. They have had their share of pain and fatigue, their cups brimming and outpouring then.

Before we judge people for their sensitivity and classify their reactions into different boxes of our disapproval:

 “It’s not justified. “

“This is too much! “

“You are overreacting! “

“Creating a hype! “

“Dramatizing things! “

We need to pause and think: It is as big as hurtful as shameful as they have mentioned it, exactly how it exists in their minds in their internal worlds.

Respecting each other’s inner worlds can help us better understand, improve our communication and relationships.

A note to self!

Grief and Gratitude

How do you describe a grief for a person you haven’t met in 10 years or weren’t best friends with, but it just sits heavy and hurt in the middle of your chest for more than a week now but you do know they meant the world for their family.
You remember  their gentleness, their distinct humor, their goodness, their simplicity and a tear rolls down , just like the rain drops on this window glass.
I remember the teenage girl with twinkling eyes and contagious laughter, I haven’t met the wife and mother she became in last decade. Our well being was communicated to each other through our families which are neighbours and friendly.
We were always keen to receive news of the other and wished only goodness.
Her sudden passing  has  shook me deep, out of the autopilot mode my life tend to switches despite my continuous efforts to be more mindful many times per day.
Gratitude has changed my perception of Life, the abundance people are yearning for is already present in our lives. We only need to see and acknowledge it. Gratitude which  is so many layers deep is what I wish to explore now.
The news of her passing has made me more mindful and  grateful for each day I am able to spend with my loved ones, see them, hear them, respect them, acknowledge them! None of the next slice of day is guaranteed, death is just round the corner watching us play the life game and just like that it will blow the whistle and say Game  Over, Time to go.

#fromadaydreamersdiary#talkwithsana#grief#gratitude#indianwomenwriters#womenwhowrite#womenwhothink#womenwhospeak#igreaders#igwriters

Colours

Grateful

I often wonder if
Colours exist in real
Or is it something
that eyes conceal
Of the Universal light.

With its mystical part,
a reflection starts.
eyes and brain
process , ascertain.
What we truly
witness then
Is a magic, a joy
We call it colours.

Have you wondered if we all could see a different colour for the same object?
We would end up fighting, arguing and siding up with those who see what we see!
We are always validating our perceptions, our realities with others. We side and get along with people who match our energies , our thoughts and perceptions just like the colors we see. On the other hand if we couldn’t see any color , the world would be a boring colourless place , Isn’t it?
I am so grateful for all the colours. What are you grateful for today?

P.S: Can you tell my favorite colour these days? 💜🟣☔

#gratitudepost #talkwithsana # amwriting #indianwomenwriters #writersofig#igwriters#poets#poetsofinstagram#womenwhoread #womenwhowrite #womenwhothink#womenwhospeak #gratitude#fromadaydreamersdiary

Eid always brings Nostalgia

Eid for me always bring the Nostalgia of childhood Eids celebrated among the shade of my loved ones whose towering sheltering presences kept us off the life’s heat. 

Ab bas Eidey aati hai jaati hai lekin wo bachpan wali Eid nahi aati. 

( Eid now comes and goes but the Eid of childhood never comes)

 I remember the night before Eid was a long one, I could hardly go to sleep in excitement. Arranging my dress, shoes, bangles putting up Henna on my palms at night before Eid and trying to sleep with hands up in the air. Once I woke up with Henna design tattooed on my face along with my hand because I accidently put my hennaed hand on my face while sleeping, Talk about embarrassment and an Eid Nightmare as teenager, full Eid day was spent in hiding my tattooed face with my hair flicks and watching it over. I have some Eid Dress disaster stories too at hands of the most sought after people around Eid Mr.Darzi or Darzan ( Tailors) sometimes my Eid dress arrived squished and wrapped up in a small cheap shopper delivered just before we were leaving for Moradabad to see my grandparents at mercy and kindness of our thoughtful Darzi or Darzan nevertheless made my day.

We have always travelled on Eid to visit my grandparents, both of my grandparents maternal and paternal lived in the same city and we were lucky to celebrate with both of them. We had lunch with my father’s family and dinner at our Nana’s house and in between the two, Eid memories etching in my mind forever. 

My dadi ( paternal grandmother) had her signature style chole ( chickpeas) and Qiwami sewiyan( sweet vermicelli)  served with Imli Khajoor ki chutney( Tamarind and Date chutney)  and Dahi Phulki ( Fried Dumpling in a yogurt sauce)  , the standard offering for anyone visiting her to say  Eid Mubarak. We ( kids) always stuffed ourselves with it and not waiting for the elaborate lunch of Biryani, Kebabs and Qorma. Her Qiwami Sewiyan were the sweetest thing I ate in the world, it could be renamed as Death by sugar until I tasted the Arabic sweets dipped in honey and crying Calories. I could never finish my bowl and she didn’t like it, everyone else loved it and waited for Eid when she sets her foot in Kitchen to cook them. When my husband visited her first time, She was delighted to cook her signature dessert for him which he devoured and asked for more. 

My Nani was a great cook and loved feeding people, anything she cooked even if it was not good for her own liking, it was still great for others. I can still remember the taste of her Kebabs which she served with Imli and Pudina Chutney ( Tamarind and Mint Chutney), you can’t keep a count of how many you can eat once she start serving you from pan to plate.

Nanihaal or maternal grandparents’ home or the time spent there have a special comfort and place in one’s heart and mind, so does to mine and I often wondered why? Are you more loved here or is it because your mother is more loved here, may be because nobody judges her in her own home where she grew up, you love the importance thrown at her and how everyone kept asking her what she wants to eat or bring the things that she likes? You love the carefree laughing person she becomes once she is with her parents and siblings within the love fences, she left to create new ones for you as a child.  

So that was from my Eid Pandora Box, What memories did you have from your Childhood Eid ?

Trust your inner sensors

When you are sitting in the nature observe it too !
How everyone is just busy and happy doing their things.
Bees buzzing around, birds flying and  chirping, wind  blowing , some flowers opening at sunlight and then closing again at sunset.
The climbers and vines finding their way through the walls and support using their sensory receptors , their natural springs coiling around the wires sometimes multiple times as per the support needed by their delicate stems until they are  stronger and ready to move to next wall.
And here I am untrusting my natural inner sensors who are constantly telling me who I am, 
That I am strong, I am worthy and I can do it,  that there is Allah’s support available, just close your eyes, see through the inner eye and coil around your rock and support system that trusts you,  supports you and nurtures you!

I was looking outside and getting lost while all I have to do is adjust my compass and look inside , because that’s what I always do !
I always look inside for my way though, that’s where I find my answers and support.

Dont change your course because it works for others, what works for them might not work for you. You know what is best for you and how you do things.
Trust your sensors , do it your way.


#fromadaydreamersdiary
#talkwithsana
#indianwomenwriters #indianwriters #muslimwomenentrepreneurs #womenwhoread #womenwhowrite #womenwhothink
#womensupportingwomen
#muslimahwriters#muslimauthors

Life’s Sunset Song

Walking into the fields,
watching the sunset
Running into the wildness,
silences  are where met .

From the depth of soul
A  joy  emerges
on the  surface of heart.
Perfectly merges
With the stillness of art,

To speak is to break
the  moment’s stillness .
Experience ,  Inhale,
Breathe , Witness
Life’s sunset song.

Flowers of my Childhood

These Rangoon Creepers or Madhu Malti flowers are deeply ingrained in my childhood memories of my grandfather’s house! Playing with these flowers, making necklaces,earrings, bracelets ! Sometimes even sucking out their nectars excitedly before we made our master art pieces and flaunted around, in the house all day along in summer holidays of May and June when rest of the cousins also gathered and we all made a cock a hoop about it.
The creeper was planted by my father, I think I inherited my love for greenery from him.It grew over the years from staircases up until the Edges of verandah of the first floor kept as residence and the ground floor was for vocation. As children we hopped, jumped , skipped the stairs sometimes one, sometimes two of the poor old stairway whose cement was chipping away with our incessant nonchalant self invented games. We almost slept on these stairs making it difficult for family members to pass by. I have clear memories of my father working in the workshop always shouting at Pappu and Afzal to move their hands faster, the two apprentices who never graduated and remained apprentices for life. My grandfather calm as usual , sitting in his office which constituted of a takht( long broad bench like a single bed) set with an office table with his essentials and writing something in his notebook, he always used fountain pens and I always awed at his handwriting.
The weekend was much awaited to have a leisurely breakfast of Hot melting in Mouth Jalebis from Babu Ram Halwai whose shop was at a stone’s throw and the famous Daal served in pattal (disposable plates made of dried leaves). It is still a great breakfast combination in Moradabad. The weekend also meant blaring doorbell ringing at ground floor and someone from first floor needs to go and open the doors. It was usually the kids who were sent for the job.
We couldn’t have minded had it been once or twice a day but it was once or twice every hour and each time someone leaves, the doors needs to be closed as well. It was two sets of wooden doors that needed to be opened and closed by vertical kundi(latch) on first one and a horizontal kundi(latch) on second door.
The Rusty smell of those latches, old door knobs, the scent of flower’s, the sweltering heat, the boiling water from tanks, the long days, watering the plants, the cooling of floor by sprinkling water, the cool touch of moon on the chandnis(white bedsheets) spread out on the beds in open, still beckon me and how I would go back in time just to open those doors as many times without complaining to see my childhood summer and my grandfather Writing in his notebook one more time.

#talkwithsana #fromadaydreamersdiary #childhoodmemories