Chalain phir viva mein mulaqat hogi.

Dear Sir,

I still remember that horrible and unfortunate day, probably 27th of May, 2016, when our househelp came to my room and told about your demise. I instantly jumped out of the bed and got so paranoid that rushed to dad and later on, sent someone to your house to really confirm that you were no more. Funny, isn’t it? We don’t care when people are alive but struggle to wrap our heads around their death news. Not only a teacher, you were my neighbour too.

I visited you so many times during you illness and throughout your absence from college, sometimes to come to the news of your ill health and admission in hospital, other times to be greeted by a sad smile of your dad that you are taken to another city for a better consultation and at times, just to the hours of your bedrest. Every visit broke a part of my heart to only realize how rapidly your health was going down.

That last meeting with you at your clinic is still vividly clear in my memory – a weak smile, determined yet sad eyes, concerned thoughts of a dad about his children, lean body, tired voice, shaking soul but a lot of contentment in each word you uttered. I still find it hard to shrug it off of my mind, that deep melancholic sight I breathed in. We have crossed paths, exchanged greetings and just wished the best for each other so many times in this very street that I walk in on daily basis with the only change of the absence of your classic old Mercedes that was a trademark sign for us all students to know about your presence or absence at college. I am sorry and I am guilty to confess that, like any other student, when I felt super-saturated by the many blood diseases and neurological disorders that you taught – I have wished to not see the Mercedes in the morning that would refer to your absence and a free class for us. I apologize. No matter how much us all, as students, would get irritated at times and the class would seem unwelcoming; I believe everyone can say it with surety that you have been and you always will remain as one of the best teachers of general medicine, my most liked one – your competence, knowledge and insight command over your subject made it a favorite to me.

I look at your house and it sends chills down my spine to realize how the going of a single life can change so many other lives connected to it – your family has moved from here, your clinical setup isn’t there anymore, the parking area of the blue Mercedes is empty and haunting – the worldly system is going on but you are not here. Your patients kept on coming even after your death and I couldn’t absorb the fact that they notified it at the gate about your absence – it broke me to even read that piece of paper. Do I have to shout the loss of my loved one at the top of my crumbled lungs? Is that the only way I can be heard? I couldn’t even study from your lectures for the paper as everytime I came across them, the sight of your name torn a part of my soul into two halves. It was your legacy that I still find myself to be the very best with all the topics being taught by you – from blood to neuro. I hope you feel happy about it.

I know my mates usually think I am mourning the loss of someone that I just knew for his teaching way, too much, but what they don’t know is, you weren’t only a teacher but having lived in the same street for 5 years, the bricks of your house and the people inside it felt like a family. What they don’t know is breaking the news of your death to them killed me then and the thought of it now, kills me again. What they don’t know is some people might not be our immediate family but their passing empties us from inside. And above everything, after all, who are even they to set the standard for grief? For isn’t grief the loss of a will, the will to continue by rephrasing our sentences from IS to WAS for that one person.

After some time our medical school’s journey will end; the system of university will keep on moving like it goes now, many people will graduate, medicine classes would follow their normal routine, your colleagues will come and go, someone will teach blood and neuro, coming batches won’t eve know you, stages and exams will be conducted the same way but there would be only one part missing and that is you. Horrible, isn’t it? It takes us a death to realize how important life is, a permanent absence to value the presence of someone, a void in our heart to appreciate how full it was. The lessons that you have taught me, both big and small, will stick with me for the rest of my life and while I would never be able to say a greeting to you at your house door or to pass by you in college and hear you or to see your blue trademark Mercedes, know that the warmth of your presence is felt every second of the ticking clock. I look back upon that time spent in your presence as so important in the development of the person that I am today. You taught me discipline. You taught me dignity. Much more than General medicine, which was what you were supposedly teaching me, you taught me that I could achieve more than what I or other people thought that I was capable of. I could be a success, instead of a clown. I am thankful. I owe you so much for this but can you hear me?

You’re missed, so much, deeply, every day, every moment.

With a deeply hurt heart,
Your ‘parosan’, as you would call me.

P.S: When you were done with your part of teaching medicine, at the last day, you told us all, “Phir viva mein mulaqat hogi.”
We are done with the vivas, we are in a new class now, you never came to meet us.

P.P.S: Even though it was mostly dirty, that Mercedes was literally so attractive and classy!

Speak and you shall be heard.

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For as long as we can remember, Peshawar has been talked about on the front line for its sudden sour situations and many security concerns. From the city of flowers to the city of funerals, every day had a new tale of strained announcements and grief. But amidst all the chaos, nurtured were the brains of ambition, passion, dedication, devotion and a zeal of change. A change that would bring out the best from the land, look for the neglected gems and to reinforce the positive traits for a better future. A change that was crafted by a bunch of emerging young minds full of hope and a will to do something different and hence, came into being, this little new baby which has now turned into a fully fledged, grown-up family; The Model United Nations Khyber Pukhtunkhwa.

What started off as an experimental effort back in 2014 has now transferred into the gold standard of a platform where every individual could voice his/her opinion, talk to the like-minded colleagues and get an incredible opportunity to learn, grow and expand the horizons. With an enormous amount of success throughout the previous two years, and after gaining confidence of the known figures, touching peaks of excellence, opening doors of betterment, opportunities and motivation for many talented and underrated gems; MUNKPK family with its chapter of 2016 is back again, bigger yet better this time and with a bang that could be heard across the corners for its quality work and with the motives of achieving higher milestones.

The opportunity is open for all, the doors await every mind seeking a lifetime experience of brilliance and thrill, whereas the hosts expect you all with the expectations of a lively event that will set bigger levels for the followers and change the typical mindset regarding this city which has given gems to this country and continue to do so.

Let us combine to do something big, let us join hands and step forward for a roller coaster ride of brighter and bigger chances. Do not suppress that voice, it is your identity. Do not kill that idea, it is your creation. Take the charge, let’s speak – for we shall be heard.

ذرا نم ہو تو یہ مٹی بہت زرخیز ہے صاقی

Register now, here.
Visit the website.
Don’t forget to see us on the other side, that is, the facebook page.

Guest post by Aroosa Mushtaq.

Tap, tap, and tap!
It resounds into my ears
the water in the bathroom
the faucet leaking
spilling onto the floor,
Slithering – gently and slowly,
sifting away.
I ignore the sound
the disturbing noise,
but it continues.
Seething, slinking
it perturbs my conscious,
slowly sinking,
it invades my mind.
Exasperated, I open my eyes,
and rub sleep goodbye.
My hands sneak out
testing the outside temperature
it is cold, so cold
but the water’s dripping.
“Oh! For Pete’s sake,”
I grumble and turn
pushing the covers off
I make for the bathroom
and there, that menace!
The water drips into a pool
I make my way over
and with one swift motion
make the faucet run dry.

 

Sleep doesn’t come back
and there’s little else to do
maybe a shower then
maybe a nice little hairdo.

So I clean up and dry
I tie my hair into a pretty bun
I take out the red heels mama bought me
and I wear them with my tutu.
I sit on my bed
all made up like a prima ballerina,
I make sure to wear that new lipstick
And I’ve painted my nails red.

 

Thud, thud, thud!
It blasts into my ears
my dreamy conscious asks
“Oh! What the devil now?”
It’s my upstairs neighbour
that stinky old retard
always fixing things
always hammering nails.
He runs up above
as if it’s his little playground,
He’ll rupture a bone, I’m sure now.
The blasting continues
loud bangs on the floor
Impossible to ignore
I take a long rod,
longest I can find
But it doesn’t reach up.
So I climb up on the bed
I jump to reach the ceiling.
One, two, three!
“Jump”

The rod pierces first, taking me along
through a bit of plaster and dust
towards a very shocked neighbour.

Guest post by Nishat Shuja.

The Dream

A crazy dream

of an admirer, so serene,

He came to me while

I fell to the ground underneath.

 

He was my fantasy,

A person with such charm

Alas! I was nothing but

a lady with much fatuity

 

He was a magnet,

and I, the metal.

My heart burgeoned to him

As he looked at me.

 

While I was still noting

But,

A colourful clown

Sucked up by the ground

Half way up, half way down.

 

He was becoming blur

and I was waking up

I did not want to open my eyes

But the sun and the birds;

they revolted against me

 

I felt grumpy and

I woke up to see

the clown shoes of my dream

lying in front of me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guest post – A short story by Aroosa Mushtaq Malik

Bakhtawar barged in through the door. Her chaddar had slipped off her head, and a look of sheer panic and agony tormented her face, for she knew it now: there was no saving her daughter from the merciless mob.

They were on the doorstep now, banging on the wooden door. A small chain lock was not enough to keep the men out; men who howled like wild animals set free from captivity, like hounds, let loose on prey. She wrapped her arms tightly around her daughter, who cried soundlessly in her arms, awaiting her fate.

Forcing their way in, knocking over everything in the path, dust rose around their feet as they stampeded into her room. Bakhtawar could only scream as the men lunged at her daughter, pulling her from arms and dragged her outside. She was stripped off of her clothing in the street, the men tearing her esteem apart, shaming and ogling her, finding excuses to touch the swell of her nubile breasts, brushing palms against her pelvis. Bakhtawar’s cries were muffled amidst the wild shouting of the crowd. She wanted to laugh at the irony of it too; lustful animals, the lot of them, stoning her daughter for honor’s sake.

She was taken to the boys’ playground where a football match was already underway. It stopped as the crowd lugging her daughter emerged into the playfield. The players stopped in mid-runs and mid-shouts and the ball bounced off someone’s leg unnoticed. They paused and stood, mouths agape. She watched them lead her daughter among the vultures, her path blocked by other women.

“You heartless animal! They will kill my daughter. Have you no mercy, have you no shame? She’s naked among them. My daughter…”

Bakhtawar wept in the tangles of arms that kept her from going to her daughter.

Guest post – A story by Nishat Shuja.

 

It was the day when my world collapsed. I could not save my brother instead I continued to watch with disbelief as he was shot in the back of his head. I was so helpless. Why? I told him it was not a good plan but he was determined to leave Damascus. His stubbornness took his life. I remember gazing at him as he took his last breaths in my lap. I wish I could have died there with him. It was hard enough to realise that our parents were killed in an airstrike and now he left me as well.

Asil sat in a hospital bed in Riyaq after fleeing Syria in the middle of all the chaos. She cursed herself to have survived with some bruises while Hayan became a target in the border clashes. These were common punishments to Syrians who tried to flee to Lebanon for safety.Sons getting killed in front of their mothers’ eyes and brothers bidding farewell in sisters’ hands was a regular practice.

“It was Hayan’s plan to escape the chaos” Asil cried while talking to a nurse. “I knew it was impossible but he did not listen. He justified by saying that we were going to be killed back in the homeland eventually, so why not try our luck for once”.

He ignored the fact that luck is scarce for Syrians. Nobody there is sure to see the dawn of a new day. Each day is a continuous effort to survive till the next. And there have been numerous Hayans who died similarly or more brutally by the violence. Some were beheaded while others were shot. Most were escaping to Lebanon but it was a fool’s gold for Hayan. This calamity left Asil a soulless body and made her a living corpse.

First love.

A shooting star over her head,
Those shiny, twinkling street lamps,
Empty pathways and silent longings;
11:11, make a prayer!

She stayed quiet and slowly uttered,
“Him”.
Instantly then,
The aching heart whispered;
“First love never dies”.

Just a fraction of second,
Shuddering the shoulders,
She continued walking,
“Some hopes always remain unfed.”