Rain, rain don’t go away.

The much needed respite from the heat comes in a cluster of clouds, shades of gray varying on the spectrum. If you fear the storm you learn to recognize the bouts of anger nestled in their depths. However, when you learn to love the smell of the earth before water washes over it, you realize the very same clouds are a blessing in disguise.

It’s all a matter of perspective.

Monsoons can be unforgiving. When you learn to expect them, when your body awaits their arrival, you are prepared. These old, creaking bones devoid of anything but salt laden air crave it. Unless you are left unsuspecting. That’s when you’re really in trouble. 

Karachi is no different. We forget the signs that Mother Nature bestows on us and instead listen to the uninformed and often incorrect Meteorological department. But can you blame us. Our rains are dwindled and few, like a blue moon. We see the clouds drifting away from us like memories of a long forgotten past. Slipping past the crevices we failed to fill up.

That’s exactly how the water creeps through. Cracks in the foundation.

It’s calm at first. Calm before the storm. Until it isn’t. Your senses are heightened, it reminds you through smell. The smell is in the air long before the first drop falls on the dry ground, a ground thirsty for rain. This smell will remind you of home.

The wind in your hair turns volatile, a lover’s caresses no more. And then the first drop hits your nose, your cheek, and your lips before you open your mouth to taste heaven’s tears. Often it starts out slow, a drizzle to prepare you – then angry. A pitter patter turned frenzied, the onset of water washing over you, as if to wash away your sins. You are worthy now, you may be cleansed now. It takes away with it the sticky, stuffy air and brings with it winds that make you shiver in your clothes. The solace that comes with the rain only comes from loving it. 

And it speaks out. It always speaks out. Appreciate me human for I will only grace you with my presence if you pray for me. Pray for me. Pray for me. Want for me. Beg for me. 

And we do.

We do even before the clouds roll away, a new destination in sight.

We do.

Just like that, the sorrow of goodbye settles into the pits of our stomachs. Even before that last drop has fallen. The end is always near. A reminder of short-lived joy.

But in Karachi the rain is a paradox. It brings with it destruction and grief and sorrow. It reveals the cracks in the foundation. Crevices we weren’t bothered to fill up. We crave the monsoon but we don’t flourish under it. Instead, we turn ugly. And while the green becomes vivid and bursts into innumerable shades that cannot be captured, you tend to miss out on the beauty. It cannot be appreciated by those who suffer under the rain, through no fault of the rain or them. 

There is much despair to go around in this metropolis. But much appreciation as well. Always appreciation to follow. 

Rain, rain don’t go away. Come, every day. 



Don’t tell me God doesn’t weep;
these fallen stars
Are witness
to tears shed
and your wish upon a shoot-ing star
remains in vain

Hopes and dreams and desires
you vacuum,
these stars
are nothing more than flecks
of dust, littered across the night sky
that you no longer recall

This velvet suffocates-
No fairy dust to light the way
each constellation
a hindrance in the philosophy
of existence-
we no longer wish
to understand.

She Burns Lavender Incense


She burns lavender incense
To fill her lungs with silent hope
They said it would help,
Help her remember
Bring back memories
Clear her thoughts so jumbled
Like hair knotted together over years of ignorance
and her fingers will try to do the job
Combing, combing, combing
Unsuccessfully, painfully;

That’s what her life has become
Lavender incense in the morning,
In the afternoon,
In the evening
All in the solemn hope of rectifying
A past so jumbled,
Navigating turns into claustrophobia.

I think life is a journey…

I think life is a journey, one we have no idea that we’re on. Every choice that we make is the road we take to the next town. Every person that we meet can either decide to take the journey with us or just remain a townie, memories held but no longer an active part. […]

Shooting Star

Thinking about it now, the notion might appear foolish on the surface. The night sky was dusty at best and completely crowded. Littered across this beautiful velvet blanket were small pinpricks, fiery balls of gas that somehow held the heart of every single individual on Earth.

I know you look towards the sky for help and guidance. I know you watch in awe at the small bodies that float above you, miles and miles away. I know you speak to them in the solace of your room, completely alone. Don’t deny it because the heart wants what the heart can’t have.

Watching a glittery jet stream across the sky always captures my attention. There are those of us who ink our bodies with the picture our eyes bestow us so that when world knocks them down hard and instead of a clear sky devoid of city sights they have a skyline full of skyscrapers they’ll look down at their body, place a finger on the art, close their eyes and wish upon a dream that could someday withstand the uncertainties of life.

There is a certain beauty in this wishful thinking. The idea that a fallen eyelash or a shooting star possesses holds the power to strum a tune at our heartstrings that makes goose bumps appear on our skin from the very sound. I want to fall asleep to that sound, a lullaby that holds me close in its arms and whispers sweet nothings through the night.

I hope you get the chance to catch a shooting star, hold it close to your heart and cling to the hope that it brings you. Only then will you realise that it is an indication of something big, an image you need to blow up in order to understand its message. And I’ll watch you standing under this blanket of heavenly beauty, watch you close your eyes, hold out your hand towards it, hoping to catch whatever magic it leaves in its wake and watch your heart make a wish that I pray come true.

I think we all …

I think we all like to be told from time to time, that we were born for something great. That our mere existence complies of small achievements that will lead to something beautiful. Something to be proud of. But sometimes we overlook our great achievement and only realise when it’s too late. That the air […]