This section contains some of my recent and published work. All material is copyrighted and may not be used without explicit written permission from me (nadia [at] insanityworks.org).

Cat
[written in 2004]

My fingers curled tightly around the piece of brick, I wait for her to look away long enough for me to throw it. Her eyes flick to one side for an instant, but then return to their calm assessment of me before I can draw my hand up or raise my arm high enough for the throw to count. She looks calms as she takes in my unlaced shoes, my too-big knees that the school feels compelled to display, my tie lying askew over my rumpled shirt, my hair that I have to keep shaking from my eyes. She looks bored.

A crow caws somewhere above us, deepening the silence. The afternoon passes, vast and empty. There is a slight breeze and the smell of dust and cows floats towards us. Mother puts out pails of water for the animals that wander by. My parents say we're to take care of animals because they can't speak. I don't understand, but it is best to remain silent.

I focus on the green eyes that are closing to tiny slits now. I lift my hand slowly and then begin to raise my arm. The eyes open. Calm, alert, superior. It is enough. My arm comes back down of its own accord and I continue to stand there, thwarted.

She sits up and begins to clean behind her ears. She seems preoccupied, but I can see her watching me, daring me to move. I stand and watch her watching me. I can feel the brick in my hand, and when I squeeze my fist over it, I can see its ochre edges and the small white striations that run from edge to core. It's grainy on the outside and some of its powder has settled between my fingers. I know there will be tiny cuts there when I wash my hands. I know the cuts will sting when the soap touches them. I know the skin will split again tomorrow morning when I stretch my hands as I wake up. But then tomorrow's playground dust will settle into the mean little cuts and quiet them for a while.

Tomorrow. I can try again tomorrow. She'll be here. She's always here. But then she will have won again. I will have let her win, and I can't do that. Not again and again and again. I have to do it today.

I feel the brick bite deeper into my skin as I decide. She focuses on me again. There, I can hit her between the eyes. She's holding perfectly still. This time, I raise my hand slowly, lift my arm slowly, tilt my body backwards slowly. She keeps still. She watches with her patient, bored expression in place. This is her domain, not mine: her home, her wall, her piece of sunlight and shade. And I have to drive her from it, make her run away, frighten her into movement.

I tense my body for a final backward swing and her ears stand ever so slightly straighter. Nothing more. I reach and throw. The missile leaps from my hand in a shower of red-white dust and, sailing a foot over the cat on the wall, lands with a dull thump against the tree behind her. She remains still, patient, calm. The cloud sounds like a waterfall settling around me, in my hair, in my eyes, in the creases of my skin. Some of the dust, at least, has reached her and she gives herself a shake before starting to clean it off herself, now ignoring me completely. I want to run at the wall and scream until I get her attention back, but I can't. I can't make myself bear her eyes, her boredom, her patience all over again, though I stand as still as I was before for a stubborn moment. But I must move before she becomes still and strong again. I want to be still and strong and kill in one efficient sweep, but I can't.

My lot is movement.

My lot is defeat.

Stargazing
[written July 2001; published in the Alhamra Literary Review 2005, and at Chowk.com in 2004]

Towering and insensate
the golden form of the Archer
drawn from point to point
eternal equidistance
maintained
but at what cost.
Such straining, pulling
at once outward and inward
spinning yet feigning
effortless poise--stillness.
And this is your nature
to draw and to repel
to inspire and to deny
your light--to withhold.
But somewhere
in your patches
of inky indigo
lies the explanation
of your points of light.
There in your darkness,
your light is made whole
and the unfeeling is made
to feel.

Dream the Goddess
[Published in 2000]

This is a collection of poems written between 1994 and 2000. Rather than put the whole book up here, I've chosen some of the poems I read in April 2003 at a reading held by the Asian Study Group in Islamabad. I'll probably be changing the list at some point.

close

in a forest
dead leaves and bark
underfoot
walking
from tree
to tree
damp air
smells of life
with death
clinging close

the cliffs

generations standing
century after century
watching waves
swell
rear
crash
headlong into cliffs
the sea
watching
ages pass
people change
grow
age
leave
slowly
the cliffs change
smoothed
worn away
time
bending people
drawing up
wrinkling
tearing down
washing away

dancing

wrapped together
enfolded
in time
space
doesn't exist
eternity
awaits
dancing shadows
souls
in firelight
shifting forms
masses
of movement
dancing life
circular
spiralling
spinning
toward oblivion

sing

sing to me
while I sleep
as the rain
sings
to my soul
of ages
beyond
memory's shore
their images
shivering
as dewdrops
in the morning mist.
I have been
this dance
this touch
this kiss
this breath
this pain
this love
this song
...a world ago

nightshine

drops
of moonglow
drowning
in the radiance
from street lamps
their light battling
fireflies
drinking
the stars

healing  

healing?
healing's about
comfort
putting
your hands
together
twining
your fingers
smoothing
a worried
forehead
hot milk
in the middle
of the night
a smile
for no
reason
a look
a laugh
because
you want to
put your
pills
and drugs
back
the ride's
going to end
one way or
another
it's how
you cleared
the bumps
that counts.

blizzard morning music 

my backyard
turned white
overnight
snow so high
the door
wouldn't open
and a cold,
cold
kiss
in the frosted
air
garden chairs
and table top
outlined
in the snow
silence
so absolute
breathing
became crass...
but then two
ravens
with Time
in their wings
landed there...
a blue-black
intensity
shattering
the stillness

sculpture

form
in space
movement
precision
rhythm
frozen
for all time
imagination
made concrete
flashing life
speed
restrained
controlled
determined hands
guiding
leading
turning stone
to spirit
souls
living still
wiser now
in their age
watching
on display
their knowledge
reverberating
within shells
of silence

beauty

it is not
your eyes
and lips
that draw me
to you
nor your
books
nor your form
nor yet
your understanding
or mind
or manner
but how each
expresses
extends
and heightens
the experience
that is
you

nocturne

I carry
silence
with me
and bring home
solitude
sheltering it
letting it
grow
loving
shadows
of a god
human
in splendor
moonrise
to moonset
I wake
writing
from habit
a name
surfacing
in my musings'
wake

and in the dust
asleep
lie memories

what a star sang...

lay your dreams
down
on the altar
of their
imperfections

your soul's
wanderings
these murmurings
of a vagrant
spirit

abandon them

let them float
from you
freed
of their moorings
within
your being
safe now
from the tampering tides
within you,
the ebb
and flow
of your self

and though you hear them wail,
sinking
in the brutality
of the outside ocean,
claimed
by an alien touch,
quell your inward rebellion
your urge
to reach
for their fastenings
and draw them again
within you.

let them go

for what is yours
will return
more perfect
in your awareness
of its absence...

and while you wait
turn

turn away
from the ocean

let your eyes mirror
instead
sky
and cloud
and wisp
and wind
and all
that is
absence

and so reflecting
drown.

The Trip
[Written in October 1996; published in the European Council of International Schools' New International Voices journal in 1997]

Suddenly, she stood up and wiped her eyes. She couldn't take it anymore. He had gone too far this time, and she wasn't going to put up with it. She looked at the tiny scars on her wrists, thinking of how she had tried to escape. Enough. It was his turn now.

Passing by the living room, she looked in and saw him in his usual chair, with his usual newspaper folded on his lap, his usual can of beer in his hand, his usual self-satisfied smirk on his repulsive face. She walked on into the kitchen and shook open the drawer by the sink.

"What are you up to?" he called in his usual grating voice.

"Nothing."

"Get me another beer then."

"Sure."

She walked into the living room through the kitchen entrance, the one he had his back to. Stopping behind his chair, she put the can down on the table next to him. He looked at it.

"Open it."

She did, and put it back down.

"No, you moron!" he shouted, turning to glare at her. "Give it to me! I'm the one who's going to drink it, not the goddam table!"

She handed it to him without a word. He shot her another disgusted glance as he took it and turned back to his reading. It had just occurred to him to ask her why she was standing there like an idiot when he felt a sharp pain, like the burning cold of ice, at the base of his neck. He felt the blood pounding in his ears, and understood...

She had finally gotten all her suitcases into the cab downstairs, and was going through the apartment one last time with a plastic bag, making sure she hadn't forgotten anything. Passing by his chair, she saw the black handle. She pulled the blade out of his neck, wiped it clean, and dropped it in her bag. No sense wasting a perfectly good knife, she thought.

[Last updated: 3 January, 2007]