ALLURE

ABEERA

"We search for love the one that's perfect and beautiful but love is the name of finding beauty in the imperfections of a certain someone", said Mrs.Akhtar in one of her motivational speeches a month before her death. I was not one of her die heart fans though I admired her style of speech. The way her words though discrete yet their effect everlasting. Many of such realities quoted by her linger in my mind from time to time. I like to write them in the small grey diary hidden in the back of my dresser drawer from my mother. Mrs.Akhtar was indeed a great woman but my mom had always considered her speeches a source of my deviation from my studies and she might be suitable to some extent but the fault entirely lies on somebody else. Mrs.Akhtar saw potential in me and provided a platform where I could better explain and explore my thoughts and self, something not the most talented Pakistanis get to enjoy.

My mother often asks me, "Does her advice do you any good?" They do indeed, her pieces of advice keep me on the path I am walking on now. Had it not been for her I would have been someone completely cut off from the world, someone lost and immersed in a world known as THE WORLD OF JINN by the common people. Back in my school days, my Urdu teacher shared her experiences of the days when she argued about the existence of other creatures besides us with those who had no belief in them. I too became quite interested in those things and tried to look into them more than one should have. GOD sets up some boundaries for a reason we are not and must never be aware of. As a result, I tumbled upon things I shouldn't have so I turned the direction of my curiosity to another path, poetry, a path more suitable for me.

Poetry.......hmm...when did I start it? late college days maybe, it matters now? Oh well doesn't matter when but I found shelter in poetry to create a breakthrough from my hectic, busy, and depressing life. To break the loophole. It started as a stress reliever but later turned into something deep. Without realizing I was now writing poems about my life problems, dark secrets, and even about the one who I have hidden quite well for years within my heart. Never had I ever mentioned him to a single soul, not even my twin who is also kinda my best friend too. But to my surprise, it is on the paper without someone being suspicious of it.

I carelessly flip the pages of my diary when there are loud thumps of someone's steps. It's Asra, obviously who would come in such intense cold, up to the roof to call me downstairs for dinner. "Again with this," said she with the most gruesome face making me chuckle at her expressions and I turn back to writing. She sat down beside me on the Takht (a traditional hard wooden bench) "What are you even gonna do with these? Not like anyone would ever read them and if they do I bet they would not understand" said she while throwing her Dubatta (a piece of cloth worn as a part of cultural Pakistani dresses). in my face. Of course, what she says is true yet I have this stupid hope that someday someone would read it. "Or maybe someone will," said I throwing back her Dubatta. "Abeera when will you stop being delusional? None in our family or extended family would ever appreciate these poetries of yours. Think of what would happen if Mama finds out about this" said she with a solemn face. Why it's not a crime. Why must everyone find faults in my interests? "Never, I would never stop it. And nothing would happen even if she comes to know about this" said I with defiance. Her face relaxes as she leans back on her hands on the Takht "With that you can only fool yourself not me", she smirks, I hate her smirks. "I came to call you for dinner. Quickly come downstairs" said Asra as she stood up and went down the stairs. I heaved a sigh as I closed my diary and hid it in my Dubatta.

I went straight to our room, hid the diary, and clipped my hair into a messy bun. Following the noise, I went to the kitchen to find my mother cooking Roti's while Saim is crying for food. I picked him up and sat him on the small round table beside the kitchen door. I wiped his small tears "What happened why are you crying?" asked I in a baby voice. Saim wiggled his hands in thin air trying to explain what he needs when Zara comes in with a plate of nuggets cut into bite-size pieces. I grab one but Zara slapped my hand "It's not for you" and it fell back into the plate. Saim's face lit up at the sight of nuggets. "Abeera" called Mama, I handed over Saim to Zara and began to set the table with Asra.