Tag Archives: Creative Writing

The Last Post

I started this blog an year ago, after I had closed down the one on Blogspot (Que Sera Sera: Life of a Desi Burger). A lot has changed since then, I have a whole lot of new friends in college, I am now engaged, I have two jobs and am a lot more richer than I was before now.
This place became a hide-out for me. I enjoy writing, hell, I want to make a career out of it. And then there was the added plus of dropping all my thoughts on someone who is there whenever I need to vent. But I now have my mom for that, we’re closer than ever. I have finally found that I can talk to her about anything and everything.

My writing these days has become intensely personal, not fit to put up where everyone can read it. So I have decided to close this blog down. My poetry will remain in my diary from now on, I don’t think anyone would mind though.

I’m sorry if I seem to be incoherent. I’m just scared of what life has in store for me and I don’t know how I’ll do as time goes on.

So I leave you all with a heavy heart, here’s the last poem that I wrote (a day before Eid, for some reason I haven’t been able to write after then.)

The dead girl stood smiling

She didn’t hear me call

so I went to see what she


held in her hand.

She was smoke,

mixing with the wisps

from the candle between us.


She was dead,

a dream, my silent



Yet the note she left me

was all too real.


It said, “You

are dead, no you

aren’t alive.

You are smoke


caught in an undying storm.

You, my dead girl,

will you stay with me

till I am dead too?”


I looked at the dead girl,

at the frozen smile,

then looked at my hand.


Smoke, smoke

The flame from the candle

burned right through.


The wispy smoke

mixed with me.

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Villanelle Unveiled

I wrote a villanelle. Three actually, but the one I’m going to post is the only one I really like. This form was making me neurotic, I swear. I didn’t want to write it because I felt I would fail miserably. (Free verse is the only kind of poetry I’ve ever done, after all.)

But it wasn’t letting me rest either. I just had to write it, the weight of it was getting unbearable.

So after three tries, this is what materialized. Criticism is more than welcome, but please be gentle. I don’t want my first born to be slaughtered just yet.


Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep

While the lady in the apron stood at the shore,

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”


I gave the ocean all my treasures to keep.

But the lonely fisher-boy evened his score.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.


What you sow, the others will reap,

the waves came whispering at my door.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”


Once, the moon was a hurdle for my sheep.

Now, it rules the tides that crash and roar.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.


Don’t take me down to where the weeds creep.

Don’t push me to mend what the wind tore.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”


I ran to where my dreams lay in a heap.

I sorted them, put them back in my store.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”


P.s. Changes have been made after applying the constructive criticism given by Marie.

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Blackout Poetry

This is what happens when you put a black marker in my hand and a few pages from last week’s newspaper.

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Calling All Writers!

And what’s life without a little bit of competition? So there you have it, KC Inklings, in collaboration with Ideas Evolved is out to find the next Tennyson, Poe, Plath, King, (Insert name here). Just write and send it in, we’ll do the rest.

Theme: “Think bigger, sin bigger”
Categories: Prose- Flash fiction (word limit-200 words);
Short Story (word limit- 600 words)
Poetry- (word limit- Unlimited)
Rules: Each writer can submit one piece in either category. If a writer wants to submit one for each category, they MUST inform us.
Don thy thinking caps and get scribbling!

Submit to: reality.romanticized@ideasevolved.com

The exact event date.
Deadline- First Call: 10th May, Last date: 20th May

KC Inklings http://www.facebook.com/pages/KC-Inklings/178638225550628

Event http://www.facebook.com/events/350903058303791/

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I Have…

I have…

A title for my book

pads of white paper

inviting the pink pen I choose to work with

I have a story

A character

no, two.

Time, there is a lot

inclination, not so much.


Semester break is here and I’m spending my days reading book after book. My 2012 challenge is 100 and I’ve already completed 4 and am halfway through the 5th.

River Sutra      A Woman's Place    Love and Longing in Bombay   Lake News  The Wandering Falcon

Click on the pictures and you’ll reach the reviews.


And yes, I’m working on a novel. Tips and tricks of the trade, anyone?

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So there’s news. Big, huge, gigantormous news. But it’s a secret so I’m not supposed to tell. Lips being sealed and all that, and they were quick to mention that my fingers shouldn’t spill anything either. Yes, they know me quite well.

But the news has left me both scared and excited. Confusing still, I’m scared and excited about pretty much the same things. And there’s no one who can pull me out of this confusion, at least for now.


And I know I’m not making any sense so I’m sorry for that.

Oh remember the script that I posted here a few days back? We had to act it out in class. And we were really really good.

This is what the stage (the front of the classroom) looked like when I was done with the set up:

My course instructor LOVED it. Yay =)

Back to crazily frustrating happy confusing scary news.

Is this a ploy to give me my book back? Just wondering.

Why can’t I tell anyone? I’m positively bursting to blurt it out. But I can’t =(

Wait I must till the fog clears and I see the path I’m supposed to be walking on.

I need to write a poem about this.

I’ll be back with it tomorrow Inshaa Allah.

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The Women

This is an assignment. I should not be posting it.

by Anwar Maqsood





Three women.

Two with birds on top of their heads and one with hair.

Did the birds eat up the other women’s hair? Why?

The one at the back seems

younger, you can tell by her eyes if not her height.

She’s safe, no bird pecking at her head.

Innocence? Did the others lose it as the years went by?

Is that why the eldest woman’s face is half red?


Or is it anger?

No, it can’t be anger. Her face is too relaxed.

There’s distance in her eyes.

A kind of vacant stare.

Passive is she? Resigned

To her fate, to the fact

That a bird is perching

On her head, content after ripping out all her hair.


They are all blue, in color,

Blue in essence too? Are they?

Sad, morose.

Did life do that to them?

Different eyes, they all have,

Smaller with every woman,

The youngest has the biggest.

Maybe she too will have her hair ripped

When she grows old,

And will lose half her face

To the vivid red.

Mama always says this painting

Makes no sense.

I might be coming

To the same conclusion.


Noor says the birds are men.

That’s an interesting take.

I never would have seen it that way.

So if the birds are men, preying

On women then…

Okay, no.


That’s just too disturbing.

I’d rather the birds be time.

Yes, I’ll leave it at that.

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