Mushtaque B Barq

From Aysha’s Diary

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How this stripped precision actually and factually has been scripted in the style of a Fairytale, presenting a scene sugar coated by ambiguities and rhetorically terse verses.  Now that we are double-crossed, Ah! How our rights are wronged. The one in the chair hires historians and the one in the open deserts preserve this fallacious fiction like a picture of a mighty vista of a fanciful paradise. We are supposed to vote, we must.  But before I cast my wish, I wish my representative be taken out of a luxurious court that after all is supported by ruling party apparatus. It may indeed be my extreme whim, but then no one has knocked my door to ask for vote. I know no one. Whom shall I honour and dishonor.  I am not like my grandpa who cast his vote for an unknown candidate.  At times his peculiarities giggle my ribcage and yet at times his wisdom administrates a new verve of insight deep into my gorges.

Anyway everyone has right to do what suits him, but now that I feel like it to mention that ‘known faces’ must not behave like ‘unknown’ ones at least when they are out to look for mandate. Ah! Wish a woman to come out with a vision to change this scenario of male game. I would have been the first to cast my vote in spite of hurdles and hazards.

No, I am not eulogizing, not at all at least not in this scenario my opinions. Just for a change, we must have few well mannered young ladies around to proceed.

Like my dad and mummy, I wish I would never be so submissive and yes man of politicians. They are carried by traditions. One favoring mainstream party and the other separatists and me in between feels like a football. I am kicked by both sides to score over the opponent. Now that I have decided not be a football, a congregation of leather pieces carefully darned to lure the spikes. No more football, yes. I shall stand for my own perceptions, let my feeble imagination suffer, I don’t mind. These dents anyway shall guide me.

I don’t fear failures for I have seen so many. I failed the other day too when in that race of admiration I lost my hut of dreams when a wave of fashion took off the veil from my friends at school. I failed that day too when I voiced against tyrant tornado when the ‘might’ pulled my hair locks and dragged me to be ravished under the starry sky in Kunnan Poshpura. I too failed that day; I still remember when I put forward my choice of subjects for my future classes. My stream is different and I am floating in a different river, to me that flow has flaws and projections. It leads me nowhere, I am lost, but I keep my rudders ready to gain a favour from a wave that may certainly hit my boat to drown me forever. I shall rise and rise again and again like phoenix. I failed today as well when my candidate, my hero failed to call me out to cast my vote.

This piece of paper bearing my number, my name and above all my picture all black and white like my dreams sans color so is this piece of paper. Shall I keep it to add frustration or simply shall I burn it like my other poems and stories for want of audience and appreciation. Or shall I keep this piece of paper well preserved to add an item in my wish list.  Or shall I try one more free versed poem on its back. Wait, sorry can’t do it Ah! Its back is burdened with directions like my broken back with responsibilities.

Oh! My dear voter slip, you are lucky. I won’t shoulder my ugly verses over thy already crumbled back. I shall spear you this time, but then, don’t blame me if my adrenal rush shall find you either in my dustbin or in the ashtray of my dad who keeps his ashtray alive and active. He never listens, he loves his cigarettes. His love for cigarettes anyway develops hatred both in my heart and in mom’s as well. We have failed yet again to stop him. He ruins his health so ours as well. He won’t listen and we won’t give up. Let us see who wins. I hope he must lose for his loss is victory for all.

How our maternal uncle lost his game of life. Ah! May God grant peace to his soul. He too like my father hardly cared for his family. I wish my dad should listen to me for his health is what all we rely on. What is in this cigarette? Hell with it!

“Why don’t you listen dad, see how Amina, my dear cousin is missing her father”.

“How deadly you smokers leave your families in darkness, in that unknown tunnel of woes that only promises a bright light but factually it ends at the never ending tunnel of death”

Alas! We the girls even can’t go to attend the graves of our loved ones. Amina, my dear chum, we have been trained to obey the laws, and we have been fashioned to be patient. Our suffering needs no language; it is universal and devoid of phonetic transcriptions and pronunciations and incomprehensive syntax. Our tenses are tension free like our adjectives that only add grace to our sufferings, our nouns are non- living entities and our adverbs if any work not in any class for they are derived out of our own plight and problems. Our grammar is vast, beyond school teachers and university professors; we construct our sentences without ‘Subject and Object’. Our subjects are objected and Objects are subjected to male preference. Verbs we can’t use for our life is after all a mess of verbal held in a mesh of misfit compound words, we are hyphenated when we ask for full stops. Our commas are ruined by a prolonged coma.

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