Back in 6th grade, I had a diary. Harry Potter obsessed as I was, I symbolically named it “Pensieve”, for the shallow stone basin which was a portal for all memories. Memories, captured happiness..and deep tragedies.
Last morning I was fine. Same old life. Biggest worry in life: packing. Of course, nana ji’s in town, so naturally some deeper topics were explored too. A little soul-searching, Iqbal, Rumi, priorities, regrets, death. The unpredictability of life. The inevitability of death. Funny how one of the greatest certainties in our lives, death, is seen with such horror-stricken caution. Phrases like “Khuda na khwasta” often follow a mention of death. But perhaps “to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure” (Dumbledore).
I finally understand why nana ji always chose Multan over Islamabad. The City of Saints.
If a hummingbird’s heart flutters,
Does it dance to the rhythm of its melody,
Or does it flitter to a tranquil tune of calm chastity?
Is its restlessness reflecting the rivers of remorse,
Or something pervasive that’s run its course?
But why desecrate beauty with words,
For a cadence that is truly its own.