The fucking rain won’t stop. It started last night, and it’s still pouring down heavily with short breaks of few minutes. This is not classic Bahrain weather. Everything is so gloomy, so heavy that I have a feeling its affecting my mood. My finals begin in two days. It will be the last 5 papers of my high school life. Of course I’m glad about it but there’s an ache involved, something like a loss of something that I will feel as I emerge out of the hall after having written the last paper. I’m sure of it. That will be the last day I will put on my school uniform and probably the last day I call myself a student of the school. But it’s the one month of freedom before the results that I’m looking forward to. It’s that one month of doing whatever I want for which I will endure all this fucking studying for. I’m dreaming of birds, their tense white wings scratching at fractured blue air, searching for redemption.

'And she wonders where these dreams go
'Cause the world got in her way
What's the point in ever trying
Nothing's changing anyway'
-Goo Goo dolls

Note to the world about the girl-
If she would have given up, it would have been long time back. But she's still here, and fighting.

The stitches of my world have come loose again. Beads of sorrow percolate in my heart and everytime another disaster occurs I can barely breathe.

Mumbai has always been hit by some misery every once in awhile. But never has there been a disaster that has collectively stopped our heartbeats for three days, and cut off our oxygen supply. Terrorists entered Bombay by sea, split up and went around the city firing shots at random as they passed by busy streets before they entered the hotels and Nariman house where they held the people in there hostage. death count- 195.

This is the city I was born in. This is the city my parents grew up in. I have walked along the beach passing the Taj hotel and wondering what it would be like on the inside. My parents grew up near the Nariman house. Its been around for ages. My mom as a kid along with her siblings used to dare each other to go into the Oberoi hotel without getting caught. I've eaten at Leopold's the last time I went to Mumbai for holidays. But now all these places have fractured our memories and replaced with sadness and anger. I want these bastards caught. Only few of them were caught, most of them shot dead. But the estimate is that there are 40 terrorists.

40? So where are the rest of them? Are they still lurking among my people planning another attack? I sure would like to know. Thats the place I'm going to go next year after high school and I want it safe.

Pakistan is already put to blame. Sure everyone knows theres lot of politics involved. The pakistani government is doing nothing to put the terrorists living so freely in their country behind bars. And who suffers? The rest of the world.

For the first time, we have reason to believe in the police and army forces again. They've fought those bastards properly. India thanks you guys. We salute those who died in combat yesterday.

Although this incident has put us in a frozen state, we will never be defeated. Mumbai will rise on its feet again. We will fill it with our hopes and everyday life again. We will work on replacing memories.

i
forget the world
forget what holds you still
break the glass
break the face
pull back lies
and retrace

ii.
i am nothing, i have
always
been nothing. consume this
burnt thought process that
eats this dream
and maybe in the end
you'll find
i've always been
just a figment
of your endless sighs

I feel like something in me has broken. Everything going wrong in the world has always been covered with some trivial over repeated crap like celebrity media and clothes. There has been too much of dreams dying. Too much of material crap stuffed into people until they break and they can’t recognize themselves anymore. They’ll learn to identity themselves with the material worth they own. Sometimes it makes me want to say-fuck it. Why should I want to save all these people? Why am I the bitch with open eyes, stitched with patterns of pain and a sky of hope seated in my mind?
But I know there aren’t many who’d want to stick their head out there. Who’d want to risk being called different because in the society we live in being different is a bad thing, something to be packaged and thrown away because it is harder to swallow one truth than being over brimmed with lies.
Doesn’t it implant a dreary pool of desperation, sadness clinging to your edges when you look into the face of the deprived? Doesn’t it make you want scratch and burn yourself till you can come up to their level and feel their loneliness flickering in you?

Subtle dreams blacken against the glow
of the pounding sky. A river of apologies
for the things unsaid and regret swimming
in it for those said. I should never
hurl myself into pain again. Smug lines sing
about the futility of thoughts.
Unbutton this promise and
I will cut away this lifeless part of
me that dies everyday in the
soft swirl of bitterness.

I want to cut away into the void. At the same time, I want to swim in it. Let the night engulf my existence so that I may become nothing. I want to get wasted, do something crazy, and slip on the edge. Know what that dark, that ultimate line of sorrow feels like.
And I wonder if I will be able to come back from it.
My fictitious children swim in my mind. They look at me with so much hope that I’m at the point of wanting to smudge them out. Erase their existence so that I won’t be torn with what the society wants of me and what I want from me. But I’ve learnt long ago that when you give yourself to this world, they chew you and spit you out. Because you’re never good enough for it.