CAMPFIRE BLUES

 

Tamjeed Hashmi and Wania Zamarud

 

Daastan Publishing

First Published in Pakistan by Daastan PVT LTD

House # A-41, Madni Street, Lala Rukh, Wah Cantt, Punjab 47040

 

www.daastan.com

www.meraqissa.com

 

Text copyrights © Tamjeed Hashmi and Wania Zamarud

Design copyrights © Daneen Khan, Lareb Farid, Sabeena Shehzad, and Ushnah Aman

 

Edited by: Aqsa Manzoor

 

The moral rights of the writer, illustrator and editor have been asserted.

 

All rights reserved

 

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

 

ISBN: 978-969-696-741-5

 

Printed and bound in Pakistan by Pixel Printing Solutions
Dedicated to those who touched our hearts, who reside in our hearts, and who continue to be shielded by our hearts.

 

Warmly,

Tamjeed Hashmi and Wania Zamarud

 

Contents

 

UNDERSTANDING CAMPFIRE BLUES- LOVE, LONGING AND LONELINESS  1

POEMS BY TAMJEED HASHMI 11

POEMS BY WANIA ZAMARUD.. 116

UNDERSTANDING CAMPFIRE BLUES- LOVE, LONGING AND LONELINESS

 

When my resilience slows down,

It starts coming closer towards the ground,

As if a lift descending from the top most floor of Burj ul Khalifa.

If I look down from the glass windows,

The height phobia strikes,

So, my eyes are closed instead and I choke.

When my friends tap my shoulder,

“Are you alright?”

I choke, as if this huge heart is in my mouth,

Yet despite this heaviness,

I cannot utter words (my friends?)

 

So, my friends say “Talk about it, vent it out”

To talk is to find words so I get lost in words,

To identify the words which would suit it perfectly

Each word that knocks on my tongue is rejected,

So, when I resume

I am not coherent and it echoes,

As if recording voice notes from the bathroom,

With a fan going in the cold of December,

So that my voice is not overheard by the December loneliness.

 

When I open the door,

I know the horizon needs to open too.

To open the horizon, is not just hearing but to be heard.

I begin.

I begin with all the words that would define the eventful, the impactful, the one, and the best.

With a deep breath and a soft prayer to continue until finished,

To convey the message,

To leave the legacy,

I begin.

 

“I had and I have a present,”

When I say “have”,

I know I am lying,

So, I make an extra effort to say this

as smoothly as I can but it turns as rocky as a mountain,

I climb new heights,

So, I say, “if I were to skydive

You were my parachute and it opened, granting me life,

And if I was found by life itself,

why was it necessary for you to distance yourself from my life?”

 

They say being found is a great feeling,

How do I tell them, when life finds you there is no feeling at all

If the life you created betrayed you and you fight against this thought,

Like a demon each day,

Like a nightmare each night,

I take a deep breath and say,

If I were an asthma patient,

You were (and I hope are?) my inhaler.

 

I realize,

I am floating in the blues of my longing.

Nostalgia strikes and I begin to drown,

so, I think,

“If I dove into the deepest sea,

You were my savior submarine,”

My next thought is that you became the Titanic.

I reject this thought,

which often knocks on the open doors of my mind and gives me a migraine,

So, I say you are my aspirin, dissolving in water

but I fear becoming allergic to aspirin,

As I am becoming increasingly allergic,

to the colours associated with you.

 

I stop.

I turn back and wonder,

I say even if my allergies are increased with all that’s associated with you,

Why would it even matter?

Your presence is within me,

You are shielded and protected in your home (my heart)

Which you will never know.

 

 So, when my friends act like stubborn toddlers with the desire to meet you,

I act like a tactful parent, tackling an innocent toddler,

so, I tell you,

one day,

I shall become your reflection so they all could meet the glorious light and warmth,

The glorious campfire,

The campfire which gave me the blues,

The blues whose concept I try to navigate so I reach my destination,

As the glorious one never called me enough but once, did call me a seeker,

A title which I not just insert in my twitter bio, Instagram photos but I also live by;

To be a seeker.

 

My head spins when I think of becoming your reflection because I have not seen you for so long,

I have forgotten how you look but I remember your origin,

So, when I spend time with my children and I get books and art supplies for them

I know deep down that I am trying to be you for them,

By enabling them to be found, which will lead them to find themselves,

as it happened with us.

 

When I, in my hurry, ran off with your mic and you had to follow me,

To return your vocals safely kept in my voice,

In a mic that I was taking with myself

And then, I tried removing it from the edge of my shirt’s collar,

Doing it alone, did not work and I needed help

but you looked away because you thought it’s personal and private

but I wanted to be seen,

To be touched,

To be felt,

To be sensed,

To learn to remove badges both of honour and disgrace.

 

That’s when the campfire’s light brightened and we felt its warmth on us,

In your lantern, which you held

until I gained the energy to hold it myself and from that day,

 

You gifted it to me and it is with me in all uncertain, dark times

So now I may not have the hand which plucked the mic

as though plucking a pretty flower from a garden

but I have your light in the cold like a born fire;

Both for direction and celebration.

 

The lift came on our floor,

I left for direction and you left for life.

Thinking about this alienation,

I could not stay either-

I could have but I feared the lantern will lose its light

and I must return, before it gets late.

And when I return,

It is not too late,

My Mah (moon) was fighting for life in ICU,

And I was outside on the red, marble, uncomfortable, benches

of Agha Khan University hospital and homes

(For broken creatures with wide smiles and wild hearts).

 

Your text lights up my phone screen like a campfire in my blues.

“My shoulder is there for you to lean on,”

I lean on, but that space is empty and vacant so instead

I fall down and hurt my head in my numbness,

Silly I forgot it’s a metaphor,

But I am still not ready to accept it as one so I would file petitions against it

and have arguments about it,

In House of Lords,

It’s a campfire’s blue,

It’s a shielding place,

It’s a protecting space and it’s my space,

Because you are mine but why is the distance coming between us?

 

And if it is,

Why are you not ready to remove all distances and develop the connection that Rumi had with God,

That’s what you taught me and I expect you to follow this.

As I followed and continue to follow,

Still a seeker even as I receive new titles

“Silver tongued girl,”

Not received from you but a title nevertheless,

so, I tell you this with a screenshot of its meaning from Webster’s dictionary

pulling you closer by words, titles, dictionaries and poetry;

The little things I keep doing to fulfill my desire,

eradicate my loneliness,

and celebrate the campfire of my blue longing.

 

POEMS BY TAMJEED HASHMI

 

Last week,          

when I could not hold being me,

I wore blue slippers and paired it up with blue bag,

along with a blue "identity card,"

which I scan to be recognized.

 

Recognition with just a beep. 

no words, no honorary mention,

just a beep. 

 

The same beep is heard and felt differently during existential crisis,

when judge does not beep after my arguments,

when the professor does not beep after seeing my full attendance,

when the trainer rejects the beep of my call,

when the librarian raises eyebrows when my phone beeps.

 

While I collect all the beeps,

which were not acknowledged.

the beeps which turn into dust particles,

within the effort of each written (alphabet, word, phrase, sentence, and number),

within the creative inspiration of creating art.  

 

Created in each diary, notebook, journal, and register,

which often is covered with dust during the times,

when,

my hair is oily,

my body is unwaxed,

my skin is not moisturized,

my nails are not filed and buffed,

my wardrobe is unsorted.

And,

when I wake up multiple times to check up on my parents,

when I wake up from my nephew's crying, 

And when I wake up during the nightmare of my grandmother's death.

All the times,

While I wake up before my alarm clock beeps and I choose not to snooze,

I hear its beep before it is heard by someone else in the same space.

 

All that,

I carry to be me,

In my arms, tightly packed,

in my heavy backpack.

 

I run,

I run towards home before each part of myself,

begins beeping.

I cry on the way, and there are no hands to wipe my tears,

to touch my cheeks and hold my living.

 

On those days,

my hands do not have enough courage to wipe my tears,

there are leakages everywhere.

They float in blue water.

Even in this situation,

If you send me Pablo Neruda's poems.

Picasso's painting,

Ali Sethi's songs.

Or,

just your wild thoughts,

with our relatable thought process.

 

I respond,

I respond with long narrative essays as a reply,

when I don't,

I write persuasive essays on why I don't.

So, if last week,

when I could no longer bear being me.

I beeped your doorbell,

But I got schooled.

That Jaan and Dil are not always together,

they can be poles apart,

I thought we are entirely same but,

alike magnets stop attracting. 

You are separating us,

by refusing to entertain your Jaan.

 

I leave.

I leave your body.

Your body,

which no longer has spirit.

The spirit flew away without a beep.

 

Yet,

I hear its sermon each Friday,

its siren is heard in the middle of working hours.

The loud alarm beeps in the middle of night and gets snoozed multiple times.

 

So, I wear my half-moon string, and I lie down,

in my blue quilt, but my maids keep interrupting my sleep,

shutting doors with intensity,

which makes my body, heart, and thoughts,

beep all at once.

 

Just the way,

my favorite teacher does,

while holding our hand,

while narrating a story,

while we hold his arm while climbing up,

but he leaves,

he leaves in the middle of the journey.

In the middle of moot court days,

in the middle of Court of Appeal (England and Wales navigation)

In the middle of High Court of Sindh proceedings.

 

During our bonding,

when we let personal come in between professional ambiances and environments,

I open the door to welcome that side,

but yesterday,

you were not to be seen.

Then, you left my messages on seen.

You rejected my call.

And my friends sent me your happily ever after Instagram stories.

 

Tomorrow, you will throw shade at me,

you will make me an example of third party,

so, I look at the ring in your finger,

"Is it an engagement ring?" I think,

but it changes frequently with the matching cufflinks. 

 

This is why,

I won't let you open the door for us.

Let me do the honour

by driving us. 

 

I look down,

while I do the honour,

frequently, I say thank you, and your job is to say, "You are welcome"

and I hear it as,

Sarah Kay's poem,

when love comes, 

say, "Welcome! Make yourself comfortable!" 

 

This is said and thought,

in conference rooms and staff rooms.

But someday,

it can be at home.

 

During which I bend,

my string does not stay on my chest.

So, when we are on the same desk, 

half a moon,

my string leaves a void beep to be filled. 

While I sign up for you and you sign the contract acknowledging the beeps

that come along with me. 

 

~Blues and Beeps Unrecognized

 

We, the natives,

were told to leave.

While they cleansed and sanitized the colonies,

We became “the other” to the white man’s gaze.

 

That’s when I craved to become “the other”,

to hold “the other” as an identity;

a self-created one,

not one which was imposed.

 

When that approaches me, hands up in fear,

Questioning my fragility before anyone else,

Conscious about my obscenity,

if my laughter still indicates my decency?

Of course,

the belonging to an upper-class family.

 

~Imposed with Creativity

 

How did I not know?

I overcame my biggest fear

Until you asked, lifted me up from my world

and took me somewhere else.

 

Where you made me fall in love with myself

You claimed that was my reflection,

Which you made me witness

unlike what I thought.

 

You have embedded “I” in me,

Your perception of who I am

is a seed of ego

which shall be left ungerminated

 

~Wild Growth

 

I think of the taste of salted caramel today,

and I imagine its syrup on my dry, pink lips

transforming purple in the cold.

 

As I lick it, my eyes close automatically

as if seizing the moment, as if indulging in it

by leading myself to it fully.

 

No, a salted caramel shake cannot do what a cupcake can.

Complete melting cannot do what a semi-liquid can.

Just the state of transformation.

 

I manifest. Please Allah! It has been a while

since my lips had that syrup’s tint on it so I can dance around

and take those cupcakes to the place where I am on their lips.

 

And once, I tasted salted caramel when I was in their heart

until I had to transform

to appear on their salted caramel lips.

 

~Salted Caramel

 

Under the tree, away from the hustle & bustle,

protected by its branches

rays of wisdom striking

my vision is clear,

my purpose is found.

My plan is set.

 

I see

a leaf absorbing sunlight to grow,

yet falling all the same.

It indicates

That to flourish may mean to fall

From the spreading branches of intimacy.

 

~Swing of life

 

I have ventured leaps & bounds,

My personality, behavior, attitude-

Everything has changed

But my heart

Is still a fool,

Waiting to receive a congratulations text from you.

 

~Cliffs Beneath

 

The more I try not to think about you,

The more I think about you

Everything at the countryside

Reminded me of you.

 

Here, I have landed at a new place

Which is strange for me,

It alienates me,

Yet I don’t feel distant from you.

 

Your presence is within me,

Not in the outside world.

 

~Knitting him

 

Every knot tied in my mind,

is noticed by you.

 

Every fear in my heart,

is acknowledged by you.

 

Every unusual behavior,

is observed by you.

 

You understood me,

before I did.

 

Yet you fail

to read my eyes every day.

 

~Gazed Down

 

Thy,

Name is woman

A woman locked in a cage,

by the society.

Who cannot fly alone

Who is only told to fear flying,

so, she doesn’t cross the boundary.

 

Unfulfilled desire, incompleteness

In my hunt to find freedom and pleasure simultaneously,

I lean on someone else’s shoulder.

Just to hide away,

to fly,

in everyone’s absence

to feel my presence.

 

~Behind the Bars

 

To know,

What goes in this restless heart,

before my exotic behavior reveals the hidden truth,

which makes me naked in a middle of a crowd.

 

With countless lives I live

and different hearts

pumping with mine,

claiming to be mine.

 

~Bending Down

 

There is no flaming fire now

The water has cooled it down

With just a question,

How to go beyond it?

Denial and grief are overcome.

 

~Onwards & Upward

 

How did I not know?

That overcame my biggest fear

Until you asked, lifted me up from my world

and took me somewhere else.

 

Where you made me fall in love with myself

You claimed that was my reflection,

Which you made me witness

unlike what I thought.

 

You have embedded “I” in me,

Your perception of who I am

is a seed of ego

which shall be left ungerminated.

 

~Wild Growth

 

Scream! You can;

Cry- you should!

Relax- you must!

Speak- enough silence!

Wake up

Enough sleeping