Friday, 28 October 2011

Day 10: Jutt.

The moment Akbar opens his servant's door, Zareena knows what will happen to her. She feels Akbar's nails digging into her skin as he drags her towards his palace.

'Forgive me, Sahab,' Zareena plunges the knife in an attempt to escape the horrifying sight of her rapist's dead body.

Thursday, 27 October 2011

Day 9: Mini Saga

'She was seventeen when she first entered his classroom. He was thirty-two. It was wrong, yes; but oh, how the sunlight framed her. They were spellbound. He was fired, she was disowned, but it didn't matter. They wed on her eighteenth birthday, and how the sunlight framed their intertwined forms.'

By Zoha Jabbar

Monday, 3 October 2011

Day 8 : Miss Me.

'I buy each breath I take.

I buy it with shed skin, footsteps,
the wheeze and gasp of my lungs
trying to barter with my heart,
prices high as a blood bank.

I buy them at night,
when I'm sleeping, and carry them
in paper bags like liquor.

I buy them and save them, when I can, and then hold my breath
like my lungs are leather pouches in raw
desert air, and I curl up the paper bags
hoping they don't escape. I engrave them
into rings, like wedding dates and names and
reasons to celebrate each year. Champagne.
They taste like that, alcoholic, bubbly, almost,
like smog when I spit them back out.

It's then that I wonder if my body is just a machine:
if all the veins and arteries that they tell me are red
are actually oiled and slick and chemicaled as a car--
if the smoke that they say is corroding the sky way up there
where we can't see, is just us exhaling,
drinking in the engravings that I scratched out with a fingernail
and I wonder if maybe if I could flip a switch to turn myself off for a while,
I would.

And I wonder if someone would flip it back.'

Quoted from

Saturday, 1 October 2011

Day 7: Fantasy.

'I remember the last time I was happy - truly happy.

It was when I took a silly photo of myself with curly wet hair with a green T-shirt on, one hand on my chin and eyes sparkling mischief. That photograph was a flicker. A flicker of happiness. It came too late and it ended too quickly. Just like fireworks. You anticipate them all evening, looking at the sky and when you almost give up hope, they shoot some and the whole sky turns into the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. But just when your eyes get used to the amazement and you begin to believe in magic, it leaves you with a dark night, and stenchful smoke. Your head spins with the smell of the smoke and your eyes are still not accustomed to the dark yet so you can't even find your way back home.

It's like that. It's a wonderful idea. Your fantasy is perfect and everyone plays along but when it becomes real, it all goes away - just like the fireworks.

I hate fireworks.'
Quoted from