Written by
Fatima Hafsa Malik

Currently living in Lahore and working my way towards a post graduate degree in General Medicine, I sometimes feel like I am two people: the doctor and the writer. While I struggle with both aspects of my life every single day, I find that I still manage to surprise myself. And the people that I encounter constantly do the same. Whether they are good surprises or bad ones, one thing about life remains certain: it ain't over till it's over.

Here

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Here, the air is thick with
cries and gunpowder –

Blood smells sweet
when compared to
death

Heads are easier
to count
than limbs; there is a
pair of each, you see

People
transform before my eyes,
from humans to
Muslim to
Shia to Sunni
to Sindhi to Muhajir
till they are as unrecognizable
as charred flesh

Somewhere, the air
reverberates with loss and grief
and unmistakable joy when
names are put to breathing faces
and intact arms and legs

Exploding in eloquent sights
almost touchable and life-like,
love unfolds in every
inch of this 12 by 10 hospital room –
but hatred lingers too
in muted whispers and hushed silence
so no one comes together

and wheelchairs and stretchers
and beds are just
inadequate
for this barrage of
humanity

Is homage
due more
to the living
or dead?

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• A BIANNUAL LITERARY MAGAZINE BROUGHT TO YOU BY DESI WRITERS' LOUNGE •

Volume 12

Dog Eat Dog - December 2013

Verse

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