For the Spring of Joy - Poetry by Neelum Afridi

"For the Spring of Joy"

Oh You have

brought the spring

of joy!

You primped

our souls,

we cried.

You groomed

for a bouquet,

we plaint,

 a bloom.

We waited, not

but grumbled.

You smiled,

said,

"Won't you

bide,

for the spring

of joy?"

If Life throws Lemons at you, Make Lemonade - Poetry by Neelum Afridi

“If Life Throws Lemons at You, Make  Lemonade”

I was relishing nature while sitting in my lawn, looking at the limpid blue sky enlightened by the golden, sparkling sun. The vista caused a kind of a jump-start for a life I had always dreamt about. Took a deep breath I moved my gaze to the brightly lined lemons hanging above my head in the tree which I had planted long ago. “How lovely the lemons look. My tree, I planted it. See, how large it has grown. Nothing can be better than that. What more can I ask for?” I thought to myself and the mere moment I had the thought, the lemons from the tree one after the other toppled over me. I started yelling which opened my eyes. “Oh…! Great God, I was dreaming.”

This dream led me to think of the cliché, “If life throws lemons at you, make lemonade.” In this very trite phrase I can see nothing but optimism. This is a lucent paradoxical statement which at the same time shows the sweet and sour aspects of one’s life, the way we can change every bitter, bad, galling situation into a sweet, felicitous and gratifying one, only by our attitude towards it.

As a matter of fact, we all know individuals who have lived their lives in a noble and honorable way and those same heroes have had a basket full of lemons too. The difference is that some decide to do more than make lemonade; they use their lives to show each one of us what it truly means to face life's greatest struggles with dignity, compassion, and an overwhelming love for others. They laugh, embrace, move forward, open our hearts and minds, notice the beauty around them, adjust, decide to go the distance, and evaluate their significance in the universe.

To name some as an example, let’s first talk about John Nash, who was a preeminent mathematician, won Nobel Prize for his contributions at mathematics. Was he always a man with a luxurious life so great? No, he never had a life like that for always; on the contrary, he had a kind of a life which threw innumerable lemons at him. When he was afflicted by schizophrenia but he with the help of his partner managed to fight it away and focused on what he was meant to do. He used those bitter, sour lemons to make sweet, yummy lemonade.

To take a turn from the world of science to the world of literature, Bepsi Sidhwa, a well-known female English novelist, who is recognized internationally, was never as well recognized as today. Dating back when she wanted to publish her first novel, none of the publishing companies in Pakistan agreed to publish her work. She has tasted dozens of sour lemons to make the sweet one. Here she is, right in front of us as a successful writer known by the entire world.

Nelson Mandela, a name never unknown but in actual fact it was not always as well-known as of today. An African leader, who came forward to lead his nation when there was no one to lead Africans and stood for his nation as strong as an iron wall. He spent 27 years of his life in prison just for the sake of his people.

Moreover, Tallat Hussain, an immensely talented Pakistani actor, once sold tickets outside a cinema to earn his living. Now is one of the legendary drama actor of the subcontinent, not only this, he is studied as a subject in the university of Scotland in recognition of his matchless work in the field of arts.

The accounts that I cited of these celebrated people above is to descry how efficiently they squeezed the lemons of their lives to make lemonades, never to ponder about the idea of the great people never suffered, they did; perhaps amply than us yet they  are deft enough to manage a smile in any scene of the story. Likewise, dare nay to chew over the interrogative of “why me?” As, you may have galore of the possessions for what others endeavor to achieve.

In the bargain, when life is topping you with its many lemons, you better think of the many ways of chopping the lemons to make lemonade. Let’s challenge the situation in which life has challenged us by learning what we haven’t learned before with the experience of making lemonade tastier and delectable than others. Although, it's just life reminding us that it's possible to make lemonade from the sour times in order to prevent us from dehydrating by the more mediocre and less rocky times. Life is primping our souls to be able to enjoy the sweet moments after tasting the bitter ones, or else we’d never be able to know the difference.

Besides, we long more than what we deserve and ultimately end up being depressed when we can’t prosecute it, as no one is granted more than he/she deserves. Thus, to endure the excellence and grace we have to catch the lemons. In order to get to the upper echelon we must regard the grimace of life.

To sew up, measure your life not by lemons, but by lifting high a glass of lemonade and toasting bright promises for the future. Dreaming as high as the sky and to remember that there is a world beyond the sky and the star as this visible sky is not the limit. In fact, to chalk up the world that we always dreamt of irrespective of these little, small, rounded lemons that life throws at us because our ardor is not so feeble to be extinguished by a yellow colored ball which tastes bitter only. For instance I inquire you, “what would you do with those lemons that life throws at you?"

Change - Poetry by Neelum Afridi

"Change"

These thorns,

that you have sown,

I will walk on,

to get the rose.

I will bleed,

hurting my feet,

I will sweep,

just like an eel.

I won't stop,

will clear the thorns,

will grow a rose,

of a new kind.

Because I'm a change,

I challenge this incline,

I reject this trace,

of smiles and laughter.

I choose to bleed,

I choose to change,

because I rebel,

to the customs which prevail.

I'm on this stony rail,

hurting myself,

forcing massive stones aside,

attiring myself.

Making a base,

for a change,

I'm the change,

Yes I am.

If you put me in jail,

or throw me in hell,

hit me with hand,

kill me with jibe.

But I'm the change,

remember I am,

I won't stop,

New foundation will sprout.

Because I'm the change,

I rebel,

I'll walk with pride,

as I know I'm right.

You may whisper,

those loose talks I hear,

I'm not deaf, neither blind,

I hear, I see.

Get hurt, may cry,

pains cut inside,

your eyes when I walk,

hit me like swords.

It bleeds my soul,

Ahh..!This blood will grow,

a rose with a fresh odor,

Oh! That will be the dawn,

As I'll bring on my own!

My Success Story - Poetry by Neelum Afridi

“My Success Story”

She was standing in the balcony, her hands wrapped around the railings, dressed in a fusion of western and eastern. The fair complexion, the pointed perfect nose and the greenish blue eyes; indicated that she was a northwestern Asian. Looking at the stars of the night, her eyes visualizing something beyond what they were looking at. The sea beneath the stars was showing its distress to see the moon, the different sounds of the waves were telling a story unheard for decades.

A voice from the back startled her, “Ma’am all the guests are waiting for you.” The organizer informed her.

                          

"I'll be there in a while." she replied.

She swam out of the ocean of her thoughts, threw a last glance at the scenery she was talking to, went inside and passed through the lobby of one of the most famous hotels of New York. The moment she entered, the hall echoed with claps. All the guests warmly welcomed her with their smiles and praising words, their eyes filled with admiration. Every person in the hall wished to meet her and to capture the moment with her in the lenses of a camera. She met everyone, one after the other. All of them were praising her stories, poetry and travelogues. They appreciated and esteemed the very different themes of her writings. While busy talking to her guests, someone tugged her dupatta from a side and a soft, sweet voice from the back asked, "Would I be like you someday?"

While she turned towards the tugged side of the dupatta, she found a young twelve years old Somalian girl with curly black hair, a dark face and large white eyes, waiting for the question to be answered.

She knelt towards the young girl, pressed her cheeks between her palms, and whispered in her ear, "If I can do it, why can't you?"

  Durkhanai was a writer, a world famous writer from the Northwestern region of Asia, known as "FATA". Tonight a dinner was arranged in her honor by a book publishing company of New York, who admired her writing skills.

Through her pen, Durkhanai, made her place and position in the world. Her stories were based on realities, experiences, ground facts and with a many encouraging themes; telling people about their hidden selves, asking them to discover those and use them to rise up to the top.


 
 It was early morning, lala was sitting in the traditional cot of Pakhtoons, with the green mountains to the front, the high length trees around and the sound of the stream was filling the atmosphere with a mesmerizing musicality. In the background, a sound of a broom could be heard. It sounded like someone was cleaning up the veranda and the backyard. Sun struck the earth with its early rays. Lala called out, "Durkhanai, chaye rawra." (Durkhanai get me the breakfast)

The broom sound stopped, after a few minutes, a girl with a shkur in her hand was coming towards lala.  She was wearing a voluminous ghagra with those traditional tribal cuts and embellishments. Long brown hair braided in peyaway which were covered with a red paruny. She placed the shkur before lala.

“Lala, what am I going to do now?” asked Durkhanai.

“Everything would be fine, khyr b shy. I’m on your back, don’t worry my little chunk.” Lala replied.

“But what about the people, how are we going to deal with them? Everyone would talk about it. We just can’t take the risk. I think I should give up on it.” Durkhanai said anxiously.

“No!” lala said, “Don’t you even dare to think of giving up! Don’t you trust me, your lala? Don’t you have faith over me? Are you so scared of the people that you’d turn down such an important offer just to escape their taunting words? Did I brought you up as a coward, to give away things only because what would people say? I’m so disappointed Durkhanai, extremely disappointed.” Lala exclaimed with a louder voice in an angry mood.

Lala was the elder brother of Durkhanai who have brought up and guarded Durkhanai after the death of their father. Their mother, Marjan, was an old, simple lady who was uneducated but very wise. She reared her children in the best possible manner and taught them the whole life long to stand for themselves and fight, no matter what. Now, both of her children have grown up. Gul Khan (lala) was her elder son and Durkhanai was the younger daughter. Durkhanai was born after the death of her father.


 Gul khan that Durkhanai called as lala was her father, guardian and the best of friends. Lala supported Durkhanai at every step of her life. Lala, himself could not pursue his education due to the unfavorable economic conditions. At an early age he had to be the bread runner for the family. He always wanted to study and to be educated, so he tried to accomplish this dream through Durkhanai. Durkhanai was given the best possible education in less resources but the determination was as high as it touched the sky.

Durkhanai, was now a grown up college girl studying at the nearby girls college of the village where only a few of the girls were studying who were mostly married, as young tribal girls were engaged at the time of their birth and married right after adolescence not concerning their young age, regardless of their education. In spite of all these taboos, Durkhanai continued studying with the back of her brother. Additionally, she was a born writer who started writing in Pashto language but with the passage of time extended her skills to other languages as Urdu and English. Durkhanai, living in the farthest of mountains had a literary sense and a joy for aesthetic beauty. At the very young age, she had written English poems, short stories and essays. Themes of all these genera were very unique and expressed in a very eloquent way that no one would expect a tribal girl to have this skill at such an early stage.

Lala was well aware of the talents of her sister. He tried to promote her writing skills and for that purpose he took help of social media with the help of his little primary school education. With growing age, he also taught Durkhanai the use of social media to promote her skills.

One day, Durkhanai came across a creative writing competition held by an international organization which was advertised on social media. She decided to apply for it, instantly submitted her entries for two categories, i.e., short story writing and poetry. After a month when results were announced, Durkhanai secured third position in short story writing and first in poetry writing competition among Pakistani writers. Moreover, she was invited to Germany for the final round of the competition. When Durkhanai saw this, she felt as if every single bone of her body was in the air and every single clot of her blood was rejuvenated. She ran towards lala who was chopping woods in the back yard. She was shouting at the top of her lungs and squeaked the happening to him. Out of joy, lala threw away the axe and hugged her. They were both very happy but after a moment of tranquility; the ecstatic happiness of Durkhanai was molded into a black anguish, when she thought of the reaction of her family, her uncles, male cousins and the foremost her tribe. It made her insanely agitated when an opportunity like once in a life time comes and you have to turn it down because of the so called social norms.

Lala was in a fret too. There was silence for a long time in the house as if someone has snatched a treasure out of the house and they were lamenting for it. The next morning, lala decided that Durkhanai would go, irrespective of the reaction of the family and tribe. He was determined to make his sister an inspiration for all the tribal girls. Durkhanai was very scared but lala forced her and ensured her that as long as he is alive, no one can dare to speak a word. Their mother was equally happy and worried. Though, they had to take a stand which they did.

After a week Durkhanai was packing up for Germany, the village gathered around her house, some to see her off with pride and wishing to be there in spite of her while others were there to scoff her. Unconcerned of the surroundings, with the trust and support of her family Durkhanai left for Peshawar where she’d take the flight to Germany. Lala accompanied her till Peshawar and from there on she took the ride of a journey that no one ever knew she’d take all the way from the mountains of the Terrah valley.

                                                      

At Germany, the final round had many twists and turns. They evaluated the participants in different ways to crave a way for the best ones to come out. Young writers, around the globe were competing, Durkhanai was one of them. At the grammar testing round, she suffered a lot because she knew plane language rules only that she’d use to create images with but was never so strong in grammar due to her schooling and less practice. She excelled in imagery rounds but her grammar created problems for her. In poetry, mostly the poetic license would rescue her but in short story, she suffered.

At the second last round, Durkhanai was out of the competition due to the same reason. Although, the imagery, the supercilious thoughts and the unusual themes of her work; were praised undoubtedly. She could not make it to the finals though was highly appreciated and recognized, she made her presence somehow. In the meanwhile, an international magazine offered her to write for them, she agreed to it.

After 25 years today, when it’s Durkhanai’s 45^th birthday. She is a world class writer belonging to the driest and strongest mountains of FATA. She traversed her journey of the stony rail accompanied by the scoffing, taunting words from the surroundings. She continued, hence she worked no matter what and whatever. Her lala was with her, her aday (mother) was with her. She walked every time she was stopped and she stood every time she fell off.

The Story - Poetry by Neelum Afridi

"The Story"

The story as it goes, 

sun shines,

Wind blows,

sun is covered, 

as clouds come close, 

where does wind go?

Nobody knows. 

Here it blows,

Again, the sun shows.

The story as it goes,

hide and seek, 

with the soul,

and the core, 

brings out just the woes.

A Riddle Solved - Poetry by Neelum Afridi

"A Riddle Solved"

A dwindling soul lurking

In the forest dark and cold,

Where every wood had a story untold,

Of the fetching spring bygone.

"A bewitching beauty I once owned

Such the spring you just gobbed

About in this shirking hole,

But then I was raped by a feral dog.

It quenched its jones, while snuffed the bod.

Now, I am a riddle solved,

The ravishing soul is just a hole.

Your winter would lapse anon,

You'd doll up afresh o wood! 

My mojo once doomed

Can never again find its youth."

The soul now a ghost proclaimed in gloom.

Went Away - Poetry by Neelum Afridi

"Went Away"

They went away,

Left us alone.

Never saw them again, 

Never have they come again.

Gone all alone, 

Though took us along.