Muddy Feet: a short story

Dusty wind and muddling dreams were all working on her bemused mind, with wind stamping its mighty imprints on every path whether trodden or untrodden, and dreams, on the other hand, were making her lose any sense of path. She does not know where she was or at least her feet didn’t, and yes. Suddenly it started to rain heavily but she did not notice it until the muddy path turned into a small pool of water. She stopped and looked at a nearby tree for a moment and then she started walking again. The brutal claws of mud reached were clutching her knees now, and the gashing rainfall had made her eyes so dampened that I could not look at the deeps inside her lashes which were full of water drops now.

She kept walking for half an hour and her legs started quivering but even then she did not stop. Her feet were like the two lazy cats tumbling here and there in the mud and her face… o why do I mention her face? Yes I know it was her face that made me write this story or perhaps it was her feet-I am not sure. Perhaps you want to know who I am but I would advise you to focus on that poor girl because this story is about her, not me.

So I was telling you how this encumbered girl was not ready to stop walking and how the hostile nature was making me know more and more about that girl. Yes I don’t know her but the way she was affecting the nature around her was making me feel uncomfortable. Her every step was making the weather worse.

Look at her hair that is like a rough rope of fiber now but what I want you to see is how her hair is reaching for the mud on the ground, if you can call it a ground after this much raining. It seems as if she belongs to that mud and dirt and her cat-like feet were perhaps born in that same mud.
After an hour mud was all over her and her legs were like the handles of two brooms being sunken in the water. Suddenly, she stopped and looked at me. (Yes here I come.) I got so confused and afraid that I couldn’t say a single word.

‘What has brought you here?’, she said and suddenly I remembered that today I had fought with my husband and left the house without telling him, and when I came to that road which leads to the jungle, I did not hesitate for a single moment before entering it. But this story is not about me so back to that girl. . . I looked at her for a few moments and then, surprisingly, I heard my voice, ‘I am here to escape from the people who are really dear to me, for whom I sacrificed all my life but for whom I am nothing, like this mud.’ She didn’t say a single word and looked at the mud for a while. I wanted her to walk, I wanted to follow her blindly, I wanted her to take over myself.

She, or perhaps those muddy cats, I am not sure though, started trailing on the mud again and I, like a loyal puppy, was so blithe to follow her. I don’t know after how many hours the rain stopped and the sun, like a possible suspect, took over the sky reluctantly. The winds stopped blowing, it was all so still over there and so was she. She kept standing there for hours until it started getting dark. So, when she turned back at me, I could only look at her fading silhouette and I instantly knew that she won’t let me follow her anymore. She started walking again and winds started to blow with the each step that she took. I kept standing there for some time and then I walked back home.

My husband was shocked to see me soaked with water and mud but what made me shocked was the fact that he was waiting for me.
‘You need some rest’, he said.

‘My feet are tired. I wanna wash them’, I heard my voice.

Elections 2008

The stolid Sky and pompous Sun
Look at weapon and the Gun,
Vandalizing public property
So ruthlessly as if it were fun.

The Tyrant is cozy in his den
As poor lye in a fen.
Hoping for the judgment day
While holding to a note of ten.

The nursling party of the Chief
Unlike an impotent thief
Impenitently purloins poor,
Hallowing the city with infinite grief.

The despot laughs in a room so warm
At virtue, morality and the norm.
But the final weapon is in our hands.
We howl so loud and stamp the form!

--Written By: Ammara Khan

A verse from Diwan-e Ghalib

On the flower laden path
Of the garden
You stepo down
Statuesque, vain, proud.
And in its reflected arrogance
Emanating from your closeness,
The timeless constellationsmirroring in its eyes,
The sweet scented rose extends its stalk
To reach out to your turbaned brow.

Reality Stricken

Life, will you ever reveal your scent to me?
Is presence hint of absentee?
This puzzling road is lead by thee
To darkness one can never see

Death, what come of life to human race?
If you don’t bring the persistent grace
The sands of time and shore of space!
You cream off them from firm embrace

God, the bemused mind and lonely heart
Are born alike or made to be apart?
Will ever come this earth to halt?
If yes, then why you made it start?


Written By: Ammara Khan

Crimson Emotions

Deep inside the exotic corridors,
Are crimson emotions
In a pale body
Amalgamating adoration with abhorrence

If love were a goddess
Her devotees would be copious
Slew at her claret vaults
Confusing femininity with callousness

Does adoration spring from femininity?
Is abhorrence outcome of callousness?
They are all crimson emotions
Differentiation will make no sense



Written by: Ammara Khan

They Say I am Mad

They say I am mad
Is this because I look so sad?
They find me different from themselves
What they can’t handle, can’t be but bad

When I am silent they love to confer
But when I speak, I find them dumb
If my eyes are full of tears, they maul
But if I smile, their ire would not succumb

They say I don’t belong to them
To live with them I have to change
I have to breathe with their consent
And perhaps die of this rage


---Written By: Ammara Khan

The Fragmented Leaf: A Short Story

I am in my youth. I am walking in the woods, up the hill, along the path. I pass the woodpecker. I pass the hornet's nest. I pass the painted turtle missing a hind leg.The leaves have begun to change colors. The thorny branches reach out across the path. I quickly push them aside as I proceed. The fallen tree blocks my way. I leap onto it with one foot and propel myself beyond the obstruction without slowing down. I'm 21. I'm not tired. I'm not afraid. I have hope.Finally I make my way up onto the place, the stage, the small, angular plateau opposite the rock face. The trees along this ledge are black, dead. They have lost all of their branches; have lost all of their limbs. Like spikes they jut straight up from the ground. Sabeeh sits against the tree furthest from me. He's wearing his pale yellow sweater. For a moment I'm apprehensive, and I approach slowly. Everything seems fine. He is graceful, fair, classically beautiful, and always contemplating on the nature. He’s Sabeeh who marveled about the essence of evil, who yearned for a good cause. He's Sabeeh as he was. Sabeeh at 21.

I sat beside him. He did not look at me. For a while both of us remained silent then it was he who broke the silence first. He said, “I’ve come to a conclusion.” I looked at him and said, “What is that?”

“There are two types of people in this world: good and evil. I think that to the core of my heart I’m good and I promise myself that I’ll always remain the same.” He said while tearing the leaf in his hand into pieces. “What type of person you think you are?” He flung the fragments on the stony ground.

“I belong to the third type if there are any two that you’ve mentioned.” I drove my eyes off his eyes. “What is it?” He didn’t argue.

“I am essentially both good and bad.” I said while feeling that somebody is persistently watching me. “How can you say that?” He was always humble.

I looked at the fragmented leaf and said, “Humans are fragmented leaves. Some of the fragments’ essence is good while the others have an evil nature. Nothing is good or bad in absolute terms”

“There is one thing that can never be evil. It’s the heavens looking after us.” He said very boldly.

“How can you say that?” he asked while looking deep into my eyes. It is always said that eyes provide an insight to the soul but I can not find it there. The windows of eyes do not take me to the abyss of the soul but offer a glimpse into brief vignettes of life, often reflecting or revealing things which actually make us human.

I paused for a moment and said “Sometimes the evil gets the hold of the world and sometimes it is given into the hands of the good. I will not say good or evil people because it is there actions which are good or evil; not the people. Heavens are sometimes with the evil and sometimes with the good. Heaven do not see whether something is good or bad but whether it is supported by honesty. Yes honesty. There is honesty in everything, even in the evil deeds.”

“I do believe in a God and divine justice.” He took some of the fragments of the leaf back in his hand. “I do believe in the same thing but my divine justice is different from that of yours. You say that ultimately the good will win and the evil would be defeated but I think that ultimate winner will be the one with utmost possible honesty with his cause. Who works hard enough to achieve his goal is the person deserving everything. There would be divine justice but the God is not like us favoring the people he thinks are good or evil. The power is bestowed to the person who deserves it, who is honest with his cause.”

“I would not let evil ruin our lives. I’m on the good side and will always be.” His humbleness was vanished.

“Who decides what is good and what is evil? Everybody wants to remove the evil by fight, by war. Do you really think that we can right this world by waging wars? A human can never kill another human. It’s just a Jew killing a Muslim, an Indian killing a Kashmiri, a German hating English, an American executing an Iraqi, an Afghani fighting a Russian. Everybody thinks that he is doing good while the other one is evil. None of these actions are good. All of them are evil. Everything which is against humanity is evil. Goodness comes to us from the human side and evil from the brutal one. We are neither a perfect human being nor a perfect brute. That’s why I say that we are both good and evil.” I said with the feeling of being watched growing with every passing moment.

“But yet I will say that I will spend my life while fighting for the good.” He was about to leave.

The feeling of being watched grew very strong and a strange force compelled me to look upwards. Yes it was there, the sky—Ever lasting, never ending, offering not a heavenly feeling but a contrast between the humans and the nature.

I turned to him and said, “Look at this sky. It’s Endless unlike us but it’s both good and evil just like us.”

The fragments of the leaf were falling.
----

I am old. I am walking through the swarming streets, on the road, along the path. I pass the police vans. I pass the ambulances. I pass the fire brigade.

The ground has changed its color. The blood is scattered on the road. People are running everywhere. I quickly push them aside as I proceed. The strewn remains of the dead block my way. I leap onto them with one foot and propel myself beyond the obstruction without slowing down. I'm 41. I'm tired. I'm afraid. I have no hope.
There are variant voices and among those voices I am standing still. The ground is covered with the remains of people, blood, and ashes, people are running in all directions. I look at the remains of the dead. I find him there. He is not graceful. His fairness has turned dark. His classical beauty is hidden in blood. Yet he is Sabeeh. But he is Sabeeh as he has never been. He is Sabeeh with no age.

The remaining fragments of the dead remind me of the fragmented leaf. Sabeeh has killed many of the good fragments while trying to kill some evil. People say it is a suicide bomb attack in US embassy. They say a lot many people have died. They don’t know that the dead have turned into eyes. In these eyes I see the faces of Iraqi civilians shot by coalition forces. I remember that an American academic has claimed that the number of Afghan civilians killed by US bombs has surpassed the death toll of the 11 September attacks. The faces of the dead Afghan and Iraqi civilians are intermingling with the ashes of the dead US embassy people and forming a painting of humanity which is dark and soaked with blood.

“It was a suicide bomb attack.”
“A suicide bomber blew himself up in front of the US embassy.”
“He has died for a good reason.”
“O what an evil thing to be done by humans!”
A lot of voices are echoing.

Just at that moment I feel somebody persistently watching me and a strange force compels me to look upwards. Yes it is there, the sky—Ever lasting, never ending, offering not a heavenly feeling but a contrast between the humans and the nature.

I look back at the blood-drenched ground and whisper to myself, “Look at this sky. It’s Endless unlike us but it’s both good and evil just like us.”

The fragments of the leaf have fallen….


--Written By: Ammara Khan