Zainab's Writings

Hello. Here's a story that I wrote. :) It has been inspired by some of my own life experiences and feelings about them, which is also why the narrator bears some resemblance to myself (it wasn't intentional). ---- "Sannaaaa!" Ammi called from the kitchen. Reluctantly, I put down the book I was reading and went up to her to hear what she had to say. "Put on fresh clothes. Your phuphi is coming to visit." I was instructed. I frowned. "Samra phuphi?" "No, your other aunt -" she said, pausing to taste the kababs she was making. I racked my brain. As far as I could think of, I had only one phuphi, one who came over almost every weekend with her two sons who would mess up the whole house each time they visited. "Which phuphi ?? " I asked, perplexed. "Sameena phuphi, your father's other sister. The one who lives in Canada. Remember?" I recalled. Yes, I did have another aunt whom Abbu sometimes mentioned wh

One. Sit down. On a chair, a sofa or on the floor. Pick up a pen or a crayon. Find a piece of blank paper. Let the blankness of the page and the range of possibilities its emptiness brings intimidate you. Get up. Make yourself a cup of tea. Eat a cookie. Or three. Light a cigarette. Two. After failing to distract yourself, return to the sofa. Find another blank page, because the wind blew away your first one. Now write a sentence. Cross it out immediately after; it sucks. Now pick up your paper and find another place to sit because people in the room are talking . Three. Sit down again. Bend over your piece of paper. Wince at how blunt your pencil is. Write a whole paragraph at once. Wince at how the protagonist in your story resembles yourself so much. Four. Stop wincing. Throw away your paper. Write something else. This time it turns out better than anything you could've imagined. Admire your talent for writing. Imagine how wonderful this would look published as a book.

Here's the second chapter of the short story I'm writing ( click here to read Chapter 1 if you haven't already). Those of you who often read my short stories will by now be used to the frequent food references in my writings (yup, I'm a foodie, and what my protagonist had for lunch is as important to me as my own lunch, lol). In some of my recent writings, though, I have been resisting the urge to include anything food-related but in this piece, I finally gave in (maybe I even went a bit overboard). :D Anyway, I do hope it did this chapter some good. ---- Chapter 2: Halwa Fareeha pressed the bell. She waited. It seemed like the old lady was taking longer than usual to open the door. Pressing her ear to the gate, Fareeha listened intently for the sound of footsteps. She could hear none. Should I ring the bell again? she wondered. Just then, she heard the front door swing open, snapping her out of her thoughts. As she stepped into the kitchen, Fareeha could

Dear Karachi, I love you. Everyday, they tell me how terrible you are, with your overpopulated neighbourhoods and filthy streets flowing with sewage, they tell me tales of your unreliable, almost nonexistent transport system, of poverty and power outages. Till not so long ago, I used to read in the paper; stories about corruption, robberies and the government’s lack of attention thereof. I don’t read the newspaper anymore. I know there’s more to you than what the news reports say. There’s good in you, good which I see everyday when I step outside. I love you for all your sincere people, people who care and are willing to make a difference. I love you for the fact that despite all your industrial growth, traditional values thrive anyway; you still have not transformed completely into a modern capitalist society. I love your diversity; your people which originate from different parts of the subcontinent creating a wonderful distinct culture, each with their own set of ideas and bel

This is the first chapter of a short story I'm working on. I will hopefully post the other parts soon, or as I get done with them. ----- It was an early Sunday morning, and after a hectic week of work, the neighbourhood slept uninterrupted. Everything was still and silent; everything except for the branches of an old neem tree that swayed in the wind - and the sparrow that lived on it - which went about their usual business, oblivious of the fact that it was a Sunday. Next to the neem tree there was an old house (the oldest on the street, perhaps even older than the neem tree itself). For years the house had stood alone next to empty plots on the street, and it had seen the deserted region grow into a neighbourhood that buzzed with life. But now, it wore a tired look; it seemed like it no longer wanted to carry on with life. The yellowish paint on the walls once used to be white, but now it was peeling off; it seemed as if the people around had stopped caring for it. In

At school I was always the high-achiever ; although I seldom worked hard at my studies. There were occasions when I wouldn't feel like doing the work I was supposed to do, did it half-heartedly, and still received a 'Well done!’ comment from the teacher. One such incident from kindergarten is still fresh in my mind. The class was doing a Picture Composition - a  writing activity which required us to write and draw about a picture of a seal performing in a circus; taped to the blackboard. I happened to be in a bad mood, and purposely gave my worst to the task; making sure I coloured outside the lines in the picture I drew. However, to the teacher it was quite satisfactory, and I got a smiley-face for it. This was one of the first impressions the school gave me: you had to satisfy the teacher, your own standards of satisfaction were irrelevant and unimportant. Although I was mostly a very obedient student, bitter experiences happened to me as well, some of which still stick

When I was three years old, I told people, “ When I grow up, I’m gonna be a bear .” At age five, I realised that wasn’t quite possible. By the time I turned seven, I had decided I wanted to be a scuba diver/ whale trainer when I grew up, influenced by a video of one I had seen at school. I read books on whales, dreamt of dolphins, and could almost see sharks swimming about in the swimming pool. However, at age ten, I became aware of the fact that I wasn’t brave enough to train whales or swim with sharks, and that it was safer to become a writer. I was already capable of writing poems and devouring large numbers of stories; it wouldn’t be too difficult. At twelve, I felt that my essays didn’t sound nearly as good as my paintings looked, and I was determined I could become an artist when I became an adult. But at thirteen, looking at some of Sadequain’s spectacular murals properly for the first time, I realized my works could never be good enough to be called an artist. Toda

Hello there, I'm back! I was unable to post for the past month or so because I was out of country (on a trip to Turkey!) but now that I'm back and full of ideas, I hope to post more often. :) Anyhow, this post is the first installment in a new series I'm starting on this blog, Stories that Never Made It . As someone who loves to write, I have notebooks filled with stories that never saw the light of the day. Often this happens when I get distracted, when something else more urgent/ important comes up, when I run out of ideas or am unsure where exactly a story is heading. Although a lot of these stories may be underdeveloped or neglected plots, or results of sudden brainwaves, (sudden brainwaves. i get them so often, lol) but I'm sure they could have turned out better had they been given more attention. Some of these excerpts may be very short; around 100-200 words long, while others might be around 500 words in length. However, I believe they all deserve to be displa

To Kill a Mockingbird is a famous American classic, and although I had heard about it several times before and it had been lying on my bedroom bookshelf for more than a couple of years now, I happened to read it only last week. Although I had opened the book a few times previously as well with the intention of reading it; the beginning didn't seem very hooking, so I didn't feel motivated to continue. But - quite contrary to my expectations - when I read it, I discovered that the book  was 'my type', and quite interesting. (I was suffering from a terrible toothache then, and while reading this book I was actually able to distract myself from the pain!) The day I finished reading it, I decided that this was one book that deserved to be reviewed (and also that I had to get my hands on its sequel, Go Set a Watchman ). So here is the review I wrote. :) ---- Book: To Kill a Mockingbird Author: Harper Lee Length: 281 pages Publisher: Warner Books Ye