Stories about creative writing

Series 7: Dada Baba and me Part 2 ‘Life’s gift of giving… and taking’

Thanks to Dada Baba, I had a bit of a charmed life. I had experienced enough in life to know what was true for other people but was still inexperienced to know what was true for me. Nothing too traumatic had happened to me. That is until one day I realised that the story of my life had been the calm before the storm all along. For the first time in over two decades, I wasn’t woken up by the cheerful voice of Dada Baba. Instead, I was woken up by his painful groans, coming from his room which was right ...

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Series 7: Dada Baba and me Part 1 ‘My life from my deathbed’

It was a sunny morning amid the typical mid-summer hustle and bustle on the roads of Punjab. The rays of the sun made their way into my eyes and pierced through my pupils, blinding me momentarily yet almost completely. I adjusted my sight, trying to squeeze my eyes to halt the enforced violation of my personal eyesight space by nature’s brightest star, as a bead of sweat trickled down from my forehead and into the wrinkles around my squeezed eyes. The bus engine roared, and the passengers moved around in unison on every bump. The elderly man next to ...

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A love story

Wedding celebrations are a long event in our family. Like any Pakistani family, we were knackered, relieved, and thankful on the last day of my sister’s wedding festivities. By the time all the guests left, we found ourselves nestled around the big boxes of sweets and presents in the wee hours of the night. My father in his preferred seat on the rocking chair. Everything looked in order as the living room was cradled by the slow December breeze of Karachi. I looked into Shereen’s eyes. We had been engaged for six months now. I was just about to ...

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The Infinite Miners

The wind is uncomfortable, almost biting, The souls, in all their agony, begin reciting, The unfinished walls, dripping with red paint, blood, The fences scream, but just like their lives, are stopped with a single brazen thud. The hands, gravelling aggressively, soon succumb to the sweat, The lips dry, swollen, and pink, are blessed with the smoke from the infinite cigarette, The ground beneath, shakes and trembles, just as their fragile grey bodies, Their shirts, dripping of the stench of a thousand dead rats, that they would, in all their magnificence, rather be. Their ghosts circle the hole in the ground, contemplating, Their chests, bare naked, just as the day they were ...

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Time

Her breath was already heavy last night. Her heartbeat at 45 clicks a minute. But it beat. Quietly and clearly; it pumped on. The light on the monitor was green and it would beep every now and then. The sound meant she was alive. It’s been three weeks since I’ve been in here. At first I thought the walls would close in on me. It felt claustrophobic, but not anymore. I know the nurses by their first names now, and the chef at the cafeteria turned out to be an old college colleague. He always had a knack for cooking. ...

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Conversations and resistance

When does a leaf change colour? Is it in the middle of a night? Or in the day when no one’s looking? Is it when the wind gives it wings?   Or when it’s completely still? When the new one arrives, a packed luggage in hand, What does the old colour say? Does the guest get a single room, And take over each of the others, little by little?   How do colours allow themselves to be mixed, Giving up their arms so easily, Embracing the invasion and the invader? Why does the new colour leave behind, No trace of the old. When fingers trace a leaf’s texture, Can they feel the resistance, or a lack thereof, that ...

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Illusions exist

If I sit here, in this room for just a moment, what would change? What would happen? Just a minute, one moment. All to myself. Would the world change if I let myself forget about it? It forgot about me. It forgot about me a long time ago. So now I sit here frozen. Frozen in time. I can’t move. I’m trying so hard, but I can’t. I sit here staring at my legs, willing them to work. I’m willing myself to move, I swear. My legs won’t work. My feet won’t move. My toes won’t wiggle. The room is so small, all I can feel are ...

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Equidistant dots

He picked up his notebook, and he saw that it was filled with equidistant dots, page after page. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...

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I have ADHD and I love it!

Sitting in the backseat of my class, I somehow couldn’t bring myself to focus on the teacher’s lecture. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to focus; I was actually trying my best to do so. I kicked myself every day for not being able to focus properly. But the stories popping up in my head were far more amusing and interesting than the boring lectures on dog training sessions. When there were no stories popping up in my head, I would look outside the window and my mind would make private jokes about people roaming around outside in the school ...

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