the boy i love who loves me.

I love how the boy I love loves me back. I love how he makes day trips to far corner of the island so I smile and annoy him throughout the journey. Or vice versa.  Once in a while, we sit in a restaurant eating pizzas with pineapple and so much mozzarella. As the sun paints skies in bright magentas, some Sundays we sit by the beach and admire how sea kisses the pebbled shore a two thousand times. Sea, she’s beautiful. Every Tuesday, we go to our favorite little bakery after work and eat cake as soft as his soul. His beautiful soul that tells me stories about his days of gray. His kind wounded soul no one could ever love. The soul of his he wanted to throw away. That he tried quitting. Once. Twice. The scars. The blemishes hidden. I love how I love every scar of his that no one could ever love. He, he, the beautiful human.

He calls me angel. I’m no angel. But to him, I am. We sit and joke about the sponge cake on the shelves. Funny thing, they named the cake Angel. Drink tea with milk and eat choco creame doughnuts. One day I went to his parents. We sat in his room and did our office work. Ate rice with fishy curry and spinach his mom made and drank coffee twice. Cuddled in his soft duvets and dreamed of having our own little house. With a kitten and pooch and a few cacti on the shelves.

I love how he took me to shop tees in comfy cottons and luminous oranges. Not that I needed to. But he needed to put up a smile on my face. I love how he ran down from his work to see me the day I lost my job. Gave me ten pecks on my forehead and held me tighter. Some days when I want to throw everything away because cereal in the marketplace reminds me I’m broke, he holds me a little tighter. When I see a girl only 2 years younger to me with her parents who shopped for her things that’s worth my monthly income and took her to the hostel in their fancy car, I cry a little. Days like those when I lose every little hope I hold onto, I love how he holds me and reminds me that I’ve things more beautiful.

Once we hiked a rock mountain and when I got breathless, he gave me his hand and fed me water, kept me hydrated until I was the same sushi roll he always loved. Some mornings, he wakes me up with little kisses on my forehead. Tells me stories about his happy days. The days he met me. The days he played cricket. How he felt something so beautiful when he touched my hands. First.

I love his eyes. The eyes that always have million little things to tell. He made me twenty some mini cards for my birthday with a cat on each card we called Guppy. More often, we go hunting down new places, breezy beautiful beaches and wetlands with so much trees. Eat macaroni from roadside shops and berry cakes from fancy hotels. We sit in a sofa and watch cricket together with two cups of chai to sip on.

We both struggle sometimes to carry our professional lives. Offices and unis with too much work that we forget to breath. But I love how it’s never been a problem for us. I love how we snap photos of cat gangs down the streets. I love how we explore places so pretty every week or month that it makes us smile.

I see a life with him. A sweet beautiful one.


will lights guide us home?

It was two weeks ago when it all went from good to bad to worse and the worst. I keep threading words. Thousands of them with pictures I put hours to snap from my camera. Transferring them, editing them and writing words to match that very picture she tells me to. At 9 she tells me she likes ten pictures so I thread words and phrases and spill my precious ink on them. At two she tells me she’s not happy with my ink which took me twenty years to learn from my own. So I change it. Someone else tells me it’s not appealing and appetizing. In a parallel world where democracy is the queen and capitalism is the poor king who’s squashed into half a sandwich, I would have told her to make appetizing food first to take appetizing pictures. But I keep quiet. At four she tells me if she wishes to change it, I need to run back half a marathon searching for pictures because she’s two kids home and valuable things to attend to and she’s far behind the marathon. Instead I have to run half a marathon to grab pictures and edit them and reduce them in sizes and send it back. A little she knew that I had an exam in two days and another in three days and another in six days. I didn’t eat lunch and it was hot to go out and grab a sad looking morning pastry. Too bad I hadn’t had an air-conditioned hybrid with a driver to drive me around. She did. So i tell her. I tell her to find pictures by her own if she wishes to do any change. I sit back in my chair. Two people at the office laugh. Later i come to know that my behaviour was a problem and she asks why! I tell her that I need leave.

And after a week I return after my exams, I feel the ignorance. No work. And no one talks. She comes at eleven and they have a meeting with me inside. Someone tells me I have bad vibes. I lack professionalism and work ethics. She tells me I’m offended and rude and lack motivation and to them, I, a demon in human nature. Tears fill my eyes.

Why is it that my eyes brim with tears every single time? Why is there no answer to my stress other than tears? My friend from Bangladesh tells me he smokes when he’s stressed. And go to a pub and drink through the night. I don’t. I cry. I cry. I cry.

In a parallel world where rainbows kiss skies every single minute of the day. Where a girl shares a chocolate chip muffin with her friend at lunch. Where violets in grasslands smile for twenty four hours, a reindeer tells me “you’re not bad. You’re good vibes.”

I laugh.

Coldplay tells me about when-you-try-your-best-but-you-don’t-succeed’s.

I laugh again. A tear rolls down my cheek.

he feels the world to me. 

he feels so little to himself. worthless at times that it terrifies me. but to me, he feels big. a person so important than the entire universe. a person I would wake up three in the morning to come and see. a person I would come over every weekend to see even if the future seemed so bleak. a person. a friend. a partner. a soul mate. to me, he was all. everything. at times I feel so little of myself that it terrifies my own self. but then the pooch in my ex home saw me as his entire universe. and that’s how it is. you might feel big to someone and so little to yourself or someone else. but what’s important is, having someone to look at you as the whole universe. to love you the way you are. to get angry at you and be completely chilled about it in five seconds. to see you and admire you and love your beautiful soul. to teach it better things and to accept your flaws. but still, a person to see you as the whole universe. 

Because She.


She sends me a picture of her layered up in layers and layers of garments. It’s -12 degrees in Toronto. A few months ago, she bade farewell to the Karachi city lights where it goes up to 40 degrees and above. Her cloths are bigger than her. She, to me, seems a tiny rat wrapped up in layers of fabric. Cute. Little and a tad more cute.

There are days I wake up and worry about the bad writer I am. The one who got rejected. And feared the rejection. Then there are days I wake up and worry about why Farees doesn’t write anymore.

And then, there are days she reminds me of the good writer I am. The days where she tells me to shut up and listen to her. Only her. Her narcissist, kind soul. The days where what she says is a fact and everything else is a fat ugly lie.

When I remind her of how amazing her narcissist soul is, she doesn’t listen. Boy, she never does. Instead, she reminds me of the bad engineer-to-be she is.

When they tell you internet is not where you go searching for friends, don’t listen to them. Because darling, if you carry your brain with your wounded heart, you will find a smile coming from one corner of the internet. A smile as broken as yours but carries life in it. A smile as precious as the morning sun when it slinks through the windows only to kiss your cheekbones.

Because Farees.


She is not the pebbles but stones against my windows. She’s sober but she’s the drunkenly honest sonnets of love at midnight. She. She. She is the teeny goldfish in a jungle stream who tickles you only to make you laugh. Laugh! Laugh like you never did. She’s the cabana in a large forest with warm duets and hot chocolate. She’s bonfire circled by friends I never had and she, a kitten who never leaves my bed.

And I love her.

You’ll be fine.

You look at the blue sky, the bluest of blue skies on one November afternoon. It’s been a year and a little more since you’re here, in an island where afternoons are sunny and bright throughout the year. Your eyes are widened and they speak words which I could no more understand. Is it sadness? Is it confusion?

The sun shines brightly in Sydney. It shines ever so brightly in Colombo. But there in down under, it doesn’t sweat. It doesn’t sweat.

Thousands miles over in Mid-East, the cuisines taste delicious as they look. You walk through hundred something Mid-East restaurants. But not a single familiar flavor you find.

They speak something in a language you don’t understand. It sounds like Shakespeare to a math student in 12h grade.

The girls hear don’t wear red bindis and the naans are so thin here in the island.

It is sad. It is sad but we find a very few of cultures and the majority are racist against the minority, anyways.

‘Where are you from?” A lady in her sixties ask you at the breakfast.

“Well, yes, I was born in…Mid-East…”

“Uh-uh, no! Where are you from?”

I look at you in our morning bed and your body is pressed against mine. The sun shines through the open window and kisses your cheekbones and you breathe a little slowly. So quiet. So peaceful. Your body smells like a field of sunflowers although I’ve never smelled one.

Oh darling, give me all your sadness and the weight upon your whole heart to mine. Let’s forget the world and exist in our own little one. I promise you, you’ll be fine.  

my sadness saddens me.

My depression has swallowed me. Perhaps, I no longer do anything out of depression. My depression is often not sadness. It’s mostly me lying in the bed curled up and wishing if I was in a coma so I would not wake up and wouldn’t be pressurized to pass exams and complete work duties.

I cry with mom and when I see dad.  I cry at the memory of my uncle’s last breath and the sight of the blood patches on hospital bedsheets where my friend struggled for her last laugh and bade farewell because there were so many unwanted blood cells in her body. Leukemia took her away. Although visible to none, both their departures to life have affected me. At times it paints pictures in my head. Pictures of black. Pictures of darkness.

When I was five, my uncle gifted me a teddy cow who had only one ear. He worked in the army and retired way too early. He gave me pastels and watercolors and drawing books. I learnt to draw from him. Now when I see her daughter, my cousin sister who’s married into an abusive man and has teardrops in her eyes way too often, I cry silently.

My dad suffers from arthritis and no one can cure his pain. He sits in a chair outside the house all day long and stares at wee squirrels who come to our garden to munch leftovers of our dinners. He used to sit with us and tell us about animals in Madagascar and Old Russian literature. My father taught me to read.

When I hear my mom who calls me every night, I sense the sadness in her voice and I cry a little. She was an excellent teacher who taught Sinhala. She used to write a lot and I wrote with her. And I wrote. I wrote. i wrote. I learnt the best thing I ever have in life from ma – to write. She still goes to school everyday. But nothing she teaches.

Although none of my parents encouraged or even liked me taking arts as my uni major, they were the very roots of somewhat little skills I have in arts. I learnt to write, to read and to draw.

For my o levels, I did drama and theatre. I never had the courage to act in front of a crowd. The night prior to my drama exam, I cried a river and cribbed a tad too much. My dad worked with me and helped me in dialogues. I got an A for drama.

When I was 16, my friend gave me a 160 page book, plain, and asked me to fill anything I feel in it. I wrote. I drew. I cribbed. I did crafts and painted butterflies and half-moons and shiny stars. Although I never realized until now, she was someone who encouraged me to write and to draw. We both had an imaginary friend who was a reindeer. He, the reindeer died along with my friend.

Last night, when i was too sad and had no energy to take up my office work and complete my uni notes, I curled up in my bed sheets. Tears often filled my eyes. I cried too much and I cried at everything and at nothing. I cried until my eyes hurt and even at 11 in the morning today when I’m writing this, my eyes still hurt.

I feel anxious among people and when I see men who catcall women and harass little girls, I want to punch them but instead my eyes brim with tears.

I work now and although I don’t spend my days hungry, I struggle at getting new things. I find a new phone too expensive and cloths are my enemies. My work which helps me survive involves a lot of writing. And I often struggle to complete the content and meet deadlines. I lie in my bed and stares at complete blankness of white walls and talk to an imaginary cat called guppy.

I don’t know how much it’s connected with my mental health but quite often, I suffer from severe migraines and I sleep 12 hours to cure it. I take strong painkillers a way too often.

The truth is, I don’t even know how I feel anymore. I struggle to find a human being who completely understands me. And I don’t want to fill anyone with my sadness. Because it depresses you even more when you see your depression depressing someone you love. I’m too poor to go to therapy. So more than often, I sit and try to write how I feel and I write letters to my imaginary animals.

I want to feel how it feels to be truly happy.