ihteshamtawakkal

[ihteshamtawakkal]

I am guilty of remembering

Memories and moments, often embarrassing

Like that ice cream melting between my fingers as I see white brutes in camouflage walk through the bazar

Human like, terrifying

Like the unforgivable guilt of being poor

And the kahva leafs that rot

In our abandoned kitchen

Scents turned into smells

Everything awful happens

Rewriting my memories

I am now a refugee with no past

I stink of a broken path

Of narrow creeks

Where natives were massacred

For the sake of civilisation

I am uncivilised now

I fear for my life

The sand on which I built my little castles

Now seems to sink me in to itself

A graveyard that hides the living

By taking their life

My father’s white khalka, reddened

But he doesn’t paint houses

And even if he did he would be back home by noon

But would he find anyone there?

Except the broken charpaai

That does not cradle me anymore

Neither does my mother

Where is she?

- Ihtesham Tawakkal

[ihteshamtawakkal]

I had that feeling again, somewhere beneath the heart, surprisingly, seems it has set-up house all over. It felt like a quesy inexplicable force slowly tickling my stomach, or whatever is around there, and i felt as if it didn’t belong there, almost giving hints of a stinking gut that already regrets whatever it is to come. That is exaclty when my mind lit up with the realization that it was a very familiar feeling, one quite hard to digest, but beautiful nonetheless, and then prospects that follow are something i wouldn’t wish upon my enemy if he were in my position, but then It makes me jealous to think my adversary would get to feel all these butterflies - oh yes! It was like butterflies in my tummy, as the expression goes, but i am afraid these butterflies are trapped against their will and that pains me. I can muster up some many words, phrases, metaphors, but i just won’t admit that it all points toward an inevitable occurence. Have you ever seen a poor, possibly homeless, man walk down the road, in the middle of the crowd, and you see that - despite him wearing the same layer of clothing as you do, however slightly torn, but this is a man that has seen the harhest of life and the winter breeze is the least of his worries - and you see both his arms tucked into each others, as if shivering from cold, cuddling his own body for whatever warmth thats left. But, that warmth is like a child that wets his bed where all his family sleeps, in the sewers of a city that screams progress atop its sky-reaching buildings, and his mother puts him on the the dry side, and pushes herself into the puddle, a warm puddle of guilt, of embrassement. I feel nothing like that, I can never come close to that being so priviliged, and It only pushes me towards the consciousness of me hiding myself behind these elaborate metaphoric anamolies, only to fool myself into thinking that I should forget about this feelings, forget that I am in love again.

-Ihtesham Tawakkal

[ihteshamtawakkal]

The weather seems quite sad today, or is it me? The red of sunset weakened by the blues that oft appear on unruly dawns, the silhouette of motionless trees, the blinking motorway lights, and the oppressive wind that carries the murmur of the unbearable distances. It could be me, torn between my cozy home and the city where my future awaits, between the tears of my mother, leaving from behind the shade of her dark shaded glasses, betraying her control and rolling down upon her slightly wrinkled cheeks, as she bid me farewell, caressing my shrinking face, that held in itself a river of tears that could no longer be barred from breaking free. I hugged her and told her not to cry as my own tears finally broke the barrage, the darks of the evening falling all around us, I wanted to stay but for my dear fate, I couldn't. How lonely I would feel in the coming days, already terrified me, because as soon I left home, I remember leaving half of me there and indeed I am torn between the giggles of my kid sister and the awful horns of that crowded city to which I traverse. What a painful story this life can be, just to make it better, one has to go through the worst of it. I have to leave behind me, my parent's unconditional affectionate presence, the loving presence of my sister and the care of my brothers, the most peaceful presence of my noisy little nephew, and leave it all for a city where I had no one but myself, and my soul shattering loneliness.

[ihteshamtawakkal]

Sundays are pretty, and even more so when they are eventful. It was the same for me, there was always something to do, most days something tiring but worth doing. Almost every Sunday we went with our father dear to a near-by junction, all three of us, wrapping ourselves around our angelic bearded father on his furious little motorbike, quite old and rusty but no less than Aladdin's carpet for us. There was a spot, known to us, as our bathing place on Sunday afternoons. This spot was right under an overpass, the junction was not in use anymore, at least not for trains, but there were people there, of all sorts, interesting and mysterious, i suppose they even slept right there on most nights, maybe they didn't like the trapping ventilation of home, ours is quite trapping but its secure and cozy. Father dear used to park right by the road and and as soon as he did, we would jump off, and happily rush towards the water tank, where we would joyously and somehow hurriedly take our baths, with our clothes still on and play under the water, laughing manically if one of us slipped. By the time we finished, the sunset would be upon us shyly, and the winds would start pushing harder. Father dear would then take us back towards the bike, and since it might get even chillier because of the gushing wind against the wild running bike, he would've always keep dry clothes ready and would have us change them their and put the wet ones back in a plastic bag, he always knew what to do next. We would then ride back home, our hair flowing against the evening wind, but the warmth of the last sun rays still fighting through it all, and everything covered in dramatic golden film, a beautiful Sunday well spent. Though the water left slight itchiness, but it still felt nice to finally have a bath, and wonderfully fun one at that, too. I believe our life was very much eventful, some days, we wouldn't even sleep at nights and mother dear would tell us beautiful stories, all night, often repeating the same ones but beautiful were they all, and kept us from wasting time on useless sleep or even eating food so much, like three times on a single day. Everything was something and it kept us, i also believe that we had a far better life than those good-looking rich people in those excessively big and closed cars, and weirdly designed houses, with useless extra space for lawns and they even had windows, maybe they didn't care about dust, as much, fools. On days like this one, i can surely say they never would have an eventful Sunday like ours, neither would they have the pleasure to take a ride on a windy bike, and nor would they have a refreshing and fun bath as we did - because, they probably have water at home.

[ihteshamtawakkal]

I borrowed memories,

To associate with songs

To feel not out of place

Left beyond, rotten and wronged

I borrowed the beggar's coat

To feel the warmth of days begone

Twinkling coins and battered bread

Yearning for warmth against the chilly dawn

I borrowed a musk rose

To feel my mother's warmth

But to nature it belonged

shrivelling in pain, with petals all torn

I borrowed the lover's scent

To remind me of when i mourned

The shadowed embraces amidst the storm

And carried my heart in a basket of thorns

I borrowed words to write a poem

But the spirit of poesy never came along

Except upon the fleeting moments

On the train ride home.

- Ihtesham Tawakkal

[ihteshamtawakkal]

I would like to be buried beneath the rain, when the ground mud slips and my grave shifts To feel how nature weeps for me and desires for me to never leave

I would like to be reminded of home when my last breath draws, of the courtyard trees and the flowers that bloom between with the scent of family and love so that I can leave in peace

I would like to hear whispers before my soul flees voices of comfort like rustling leaves and the river streams, Of my mother and father and their heavenly tones a goodbye hailed with tears and smiles as death in the corner cheers.

As the beautiful black sky of evening, will come to draw me and take me home. I would like it if it snowed in the morning to come so from the thunderous clouds who roared on the night before I could see the world covered in a white blanket of untouched snow, pure, serene, and never forlorn.

- Ihtesham Tawakkal

[ihteshamtawakkal]

Cries of a shattered child.

Oh, baba! What have I done? What is wrong with me? What mistake did I make? for it has cost me - my eternity.

Oh, baba! What have I done? does my flesh not bleed? or does my heart not weep? what warnings did I not heed?

Oh, baba! What have I done? Was I not supposed to shine, like a radiant little galaxy? or you say it is, but a test by the divine.

Oh, baba! What have I done? tell me where is my mother? where did she go? or you say she walked away, away from all horrors, we suffer.

Oh, baba! What have they done? do they not know pain? or have they not bled the same? or is it just us, who live under this infernal rain.

[ihteshamtawakkal]

He Lived.

A sunny morning in the bleak midwinter, everybody must be out in the backyards or lawns to relish the sunshine, to feel how the warmth pierces the heart of one and melts all the worries inside. Only he was still wrapped in blanket, shivering from the coldness of his thoughts, the blue tint of the curtains upon the room did shower the low-key sunlight but he wasn't welcoming cosiness, although it did weaken him a bit about his plans for today. His mind felt like limitless pieces of a torn paper whirling in a pool of blood and dissolving yet staying afloat, just a never-ending whirlpool he could not comprehend but only could pour it out in tears. After a while the light disappeared as the sun hid between a group of thuggish clouds jelly from the happiness the light spread but oh did they look beautiful, for the one truly blessed with true sight, it was no less a spectacle, the castles of clouds that obeyed no rules of architecture. He decided it was the time to get up, for it wouldn't be so hard to leave bed this last time, however, the bed pulled him all in, much stronger than ever before. He heard his mum out there in the kitchen probably making breakfast. He jumped out of the bed and walked slowly like a ghoul towards the bathroom. The splashes of water upon his face was like a mask he was about to put on just to hide the cracks on his broken face so nobody could witness the excruciating pain underneath. He walked out of the room and saw his mum smiling, she had cooked him his favourite for breakfast, he sat on the table like he was forced to - his mind still grinding with the whirlpool of sadness, he smiled back, he did not want to be rude as this could be the last exchange of affection between him and his angelic mum. For once in his life, he could not stomach his favourite meal, unable to digest as every bite stuck in his throat that dried from the fear of his intentions.

Before going out he went into his room again to wear something that'd help fight off the wind, as for cold, he had enough in his veins to wrangle first. In his cupboard he saw the salmon pink hoody he took from his friend, he remembered that she also loved it equally but could not turn him down when he asked for it. He felt a little better looking at it and chose to wear it as his last tribute to their friendship. He said goodbye out loud before going out today, it all felt normal yet peculiar at the same time. He stood before the door outside, took a deep breath and looked admiringly to the sky, the clouds, oh! the castles of love and the symbols of romanticism spreading far and wide upon the plain light blue and a sky full of hope. Trees blowing slowly with the winter breeze, shooing and singing a melancholic yet motivating melody, the droplets of water upon the yellow autumn leaves dazzling like the truth he was in no mood to comprehend, some leaves still bright green but all so beautiful, a carpet of rustling leaves blowing hither and thither onto the pavements. He could not afford to give in to the temptations of the marvellous nature, he had to be susceptible this once. He walked out slowly into the street, looking around to observe what he might've been missing for years, what he must’ve always missed before, he opened his eyes for it today. He saw his neighbour teen standing in her lawn, petting a dark Egyptian Mau. He was an introvert and starting a chat with the opposite gender wasn't his strong spot but he felt different today, walked a bit further and noticed her passing to him a friendly smile, he turned around directing his eyes upon the new cat and asked her about it because he recalled that she had only a brown Scottish one, she replied, that this one she found outside shivering, looking for a cosy spot worriedly, so she took the cat for vetting and now this one is also her pet. All morning he didn't a felt a much stronger wave of warmth, his mother's smile was divine beyond his comprehension but this he felt right underneath his skin. "Maybe I should've stayed at home today, mum would be alone all day and HELL I am going to leave her alone for the rest of her life, that alluring smile of hers was an indication enoug-Don't think back - what are you doing dummy?" He felt a war waging in his head, the awful cries and devilish smiles, whatever was happening up there was the reason he wanted to put an end to all this. He felt an iron chain pulling him back but the rush of eagerness and angriness got the better of him so he walked this time with more energy, the energy retained from the restlessness that he could put into a use much creative but it was all a mess, difficult to differentiate good from bad.

He was headed towards the trees on the far side of the town, through where passes a cargo train twice a day, he'd be there by noon right before the first pass. He wasn't even clear to himself about his intentions - a boy too sensitive for this world, fragile and naive, how could he be so brave and take a step so big but then again this bravery was just another extraordinary expression for stupidity. A bit further ahead, he saw a guy with a wide smirk on his face, moving with fast exciting pace towards him.

"Heya mate!" The guy said with excitement.

"Hy! How are you doing?" He replied with the enthusiastic kindness which he had towards almost everybody, he was totally not in the mood to talk and neither wanted anyone to interrupt his quiet walk towards the end of his chaos. "Be kind to everybody, you have no idea what battles within, the other person might be going through" his mind whispered to him, and this is what he believed, it was obviously because he knew the feelings, he had his battles that nobody cared about - only he wanted to be the change, he wanted to give to others what he never received from them.

"Read your blog last night, it was marvellous, you are fantastic at whatever you get your hands on." The guy commended with a pleasing and unbreakable grin on his face.

"Well, thank you mate, really means a lot" he replied, while slightly bowing in gratitude. It did felt amazing but he hated it right now.

He excused himself and continued walking down his path, everything was going too fast and it made him angry, this fast would be norm to everybody else, although his brain had been used to witnessing everything in a slow motion, unbearably slow with no sound at all. Every hurtful expression floating and happiness orbitally moving away and away at every pass. The weather turned a bit chilly, a faster wind blew making a breezy shoo sound with all the trees elastically moving along with it, this sound however pleasing to others was a shriek that the nature joined his brain in screaming out loud together, he felt oneness but all of a sudden he also felt more exhausted, like his body had used all the vigour for a shriek which he never actually screamed, he wanted to cry now but it'd let it all out and he most certainly wanted to treasure it today, a treasure so heavy that could sink his ship to the bottom of Atlantic. He felt like he was caged by the webs of spider and something heavy was hitting him from the above. Suddenly, the sky poured down on him, he felt a rush of relieve down his nerves, the heavy drops had washed everything away, liberating his mind from the webs that strangled him, the sky only showered flowers now and nothing else, the droplets running down his cheeks and those felt just like the tears of happiness but what a relieving illusionary concept it was. Whoever saw him walk down like this must've thought he was off his head but that was the least of his concern, he wasn't in the right mind and that you could say was true because it was exactly the reason for him to be so chaotic all this time. He always felt like there were stones falling outrageously upon him, that he kept fighting with, kept standing up to it but finally he had given up like the entire sky fell on him, he now decided to stay down forever and never get back up, as of today - the day on which he wanted to get rid of himself for he could never handle the raging storms within himself, came the calm, those droplets came upon him like a beautiful omen from the universe, he loved rain be it in the winter or summers, he felt everything going backwards, making him stand back up or rise from his ashes, stronger than ever before.

It was quite a while now, after that the rain took a halt, no more sound of water droplets collapsing down upon the earth, everything slowed down to the quiet of nature. He saw a bench on a short distance, it was wet but the sun came up, directly glazing upon the wooden bench, making it look like a centre of the attention, to be taken into focus while everything else blurred out, he saw it perfect for him to sit down, so he did. A deep breath and every chaotic thought, every bad intention, all gushed down, all the tics in his head went quiet, he sat there thinking but had nothing to think about, the overflowing, demented notions nowhere to be found, but just the ravishing smile of his mother, nothing but just that. The time flew like and with the breeze of after rain, and he suddenly heard the gradually increasing sound of blaring engine and horn of the train from in the trees behind, and it passed in the blink of an eye. you could never tell now - if it was too late for him, or too early.

[ihteshamtawakkal]

I am not afraid of going down again but I am scared for I have risen as a sunshine and I'll leave darkness behind.

[ihteshamtawakkal]

[ihteshamtawakkal]

Him

The owner of the gallery sent me to call to him a boy, a guest of his, that'd be standing out in the gallery hall inspecting art. It was a private exhibition with top government officials as guests, so there weren't many boys around and the only distinction I was told to identify this boy with, was him being the most distinct and distant which was quite strange to me but I was also obviously given a name. As I walked out in the hall, I saw among the gallery he stood - as he had nothing better to do. I walked slowly to observe him much clearly before I reach him out and confirm by his name. This particular guy not sharp looking nor clean shaven like the other’s of his age I mostly see around, his light beard that of a growing puberty type but it looked the best it could, not weird at all. His eyes might’ve been big and beautiful some time earlier in his life but now I could tell that either weakness or restlessness sucked them into a smaller pair. The brown colour of his eyeballs shinning but not bright and sharp. The dark circles had them fearfully surrounded and there was a deep blue sea in his eyes that could drown you begging for mercy, I’d say it was sadness but then I only knew him so much. His nose bigger, slightly unattractive but it didn’t spread outwards, his lips pale and dry. He had one of those complete, wide and a large pair of teeth, jumping out on every little smile but the smile it gave was majestic and bright, like the one they say you could sight on the face of broken man. His ears stood out as that of a rat’s but overlooked because of the beard. His hair not straight and neither completely curly and his built medium, neither strong nor weak. His light moustache spreading out like of a fearless Turkish alp but being light didn’t actually gave the look of fearlessness very much. He was dressed like a very young Victorian-era professor, very unique and neutral, similar to no one I have ever seen before, you could not simply read this guy at all. He wasn’t a symbol of beauty but neither was he unattractive and his actions also stood out just as unique as his appearance was but I had not heard him speak to tell if he is verbally and intellectually as peculiar.  

[ihteshamtawakkal]

The Third Story

Every single book in this world has two stories, one that it carries inside itself and the one about how it came into being. The feelings attached to the inner story and the backstory are emotionally beautiful. I have a dream to collect at least 100 books before 2020 and the pursuit for this conquest of the collection started earlier this year. I am not rich enough to buy new books every month and I live in a very least developed city when it comes to that. Although, I do love the aesthetic old yellowish pages of used books, and that seems to be the only way for me to reach my goal - Buying Old Books. Thus books I acquired from my grandfather's old collection are my utmost favorite, plus I love the notes or signatures left by the previous owner(s) onto the book like a historic mark of their existence, and that's where a third story comes in, a journal of the reader and his book, the story of where it came from and where it's been, the understudied or unknown story to most.

A couple of weeks back, I was in Rawalpindi with my elder brother. There, after a brief and quick shopping of clothing articles, we decided to buy a few books with the remaining amount from the old stalls in Saddar. When we reached the locality, we took a peak on a couple of stalls - Not-so-fine Used books that they perhaps obtained at no cost (like maybe left by a man who had to shift elsewhere, abandon his memories sell his home, for it could be so many reasons), Book-sellers with little to no knowledge about the books that they were selling, high prices (seems they depended on the length and size of the book, some even higher than the actual price of one), not ready to negotiate and most of them were not even to my liking - So, we moved on and spotted a stall a bit distant and further apart from the others, the books were surely used but almost all in a neat state. As soon as I picked one, I inquired who the book-sellers was and I had to ask twice again because I could not conclude this neat looking young man standing across, on the other side of the stall, dressed like a gentleman to be the seller. I tried to negotiate the price for the first book that I picked up, to see if there could be room for me to buy a few more, the young man sounded eager to make a deal and then he even suggested me a few fine books, exactly to my preferences as though he had read all of the books, I would've not judged this guy to be well-educated from the way he dressed, but this and his mannerism clearly indicated so. We bought a few books, in a price profitable for both of us. On my ride back to the bus terminal, I was extremely contended to be able to add a few more remarkable books to my collection, a few more to spend the season with but suddenly a thought hit me up hard, "What if this nice-young-man was jobless even after being extremely well educated and was selling books to earn his living", it really worried me and I was dismal all over again for a while because this thought was quite dreadful to me.

Yesterday, when I started reading one of the books that I bought that day "A Short Walk in Hindukush", It was quite an exciting read, exactly what I needed, the backstory and the thrill of adventure was really amusing and right in between the reading another distressing thought struck me, "The guy seemed to know so much about the books, maybe it was his collection that he had to sell now for his survival, for him to make a living out of something because of joblessness, to feed and clothe his family", This time my selfish heart cried not only for him but for myself too, "what if I end up the same way!", "Would I be able to pursue all my dreams?", "not so bad, it's a clean way of earning!", "What am I telling myself, would I give up this easy?". The third story to the book, the grueling reality of the hands it's been in, if what I think is true, this will stick with me anyway, every time I'd even glance at those books in my shelf. It will echo a cry all this time, "Will I ever be able to make it?".

- Ihtesham Tawakkal

[ihteshamtawakkal]

(ammarsmusic)

[ihteshamtawakkal]

The sky is that beautiful old parchment in which the sun and the moon keep their diary.—  Alfred Kreymborg

[ihteshamtawakkal]

Never seen a set this much of a perfect self portraits.

I stopped looking for the light. Decided to become it, instead.

Self Portraits – 3/16/17

[ihteshamtawakkal]

The Dying Art.

TBH It feels like the modern Art is breathing his last, It's just not about the process or the end product any more, it's solely about achieving fame, Nobody takes photos to stick them on their wall, for the pleasing sight of a depressed/ill person or a new guest or for a children to examine while they are in the dentists office, everybody does it to earn money and millions post them every day with the help of several different social media platforms, turning this unique art into something so ubiquitous to not notice their technical and aesthetic mastery. No one records a conversation or a gathering to be remembered and inscribed into the future forever but to earn money through it. There used to be a time when Photographers like Ansel Adam with old-school B&W film cameras used to hike for days to capture a photo, no help in post-processing of color grades or anything but to do at the moment with the distance zone system, in fact it is so ever-present in our lives that standard about what we believe to be great work in this field are drowned out by literally billions of photos to social media every day. Even the video songs are made just to earn more through them coz not everyone does it to expand the experience like Kendrick but they shrink it and kills the imagination. touch your photos, feel them, make them part of the visual diary of your experience, consider them souvenirs and memories, not a credit to be cashed. Go out like Eugene Smith and bring a message back home, kill the racism with it. It's not just a gear to show-off, not an item to flex how rich you are, but something that can capture the unbroken hearts, preserve fleeting moments and smiles forever. Our photos are not inspired by other anymore, they are straight-up plagiarised, be truly enthusiastic about putting your imagination onto the print. USE YOUR MIND'S EYE, DON'T SEE IT AS ANOTHER CONTENT TO KEEP YOUR PAGE ALIVE, DON'T SELL YOURSELF SHORT.

-Ihtesham Tawakkal

[ihteshamtawakkal]

There is light at the end of the tunnel so I turn around and walk the other way towards the darkness because what’s the point of delaying what is eventually going to happen? What is wrong with something happening today rather than any other tomorrows? So maybe you’ll come home and find me- correction- find my body and maybe you won’t cry or you will and maybe you’ll miss me for a day or in the moments you have no one else or maybe you won’t miss me at all. Maybe you’ll miss the white noise I created in your life or the sound of my laughter that you hate so much or maybe you’ll miss me talking shit and having a joyous face every time I see a dog or maybe you won’t. So maybe I’ll be dead or i already am but that doesn’t make any difference to anyone, does it?

too many death posts but not enough dying // justscribbledwords (via justscribbledwords)