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Hala M. Haneef/ Ziva Hind

@_halaism

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Juggling dreams and Duas ✨
(I'm not a template, I'm a person)

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'Days at the Morisaki Bookshop' tempted me in a way that books don't usually tempt- the noisy cover that felt as comfortable as a crowded bookstore, and the title that felt as if taken from a workbook with a phrase that was positioned next to a blank that could add up to anything.

The book was interesting, the first half.
The second half though, I didn't get why the author rushed to the second half. It was cliche, it read like something that was forced to blend in, and a sudden, tragic shift to what had been a mellowed, calm style that was familiarised to us as Yagisawa's style till then.

The first half was nice. For a reader, for any reader.
The idea of spending days and nights, of living and growing in the attic/storeroom of a bookstore, amidst books was enough. It was filled with moments- of the joyous discovery of reading, of finding new favourites, of discovering a new author, of tsundoku (of piled up unreads), of loving a book to reread it infinite times, of healing through books, of meeting and loving through books and through stories, of getting to know each other through shared books, of the pain of forgetting our book, of carrying along a book as a companion, of conversations on books.
Of running a bookstore.
The beauty of preloved books- finding notes, pressed flowers, letters, imagining the generations that had passed on the same book.
Of endless streets of bookstores.
Maybe that's why the second part hurt, the sudden change in the premise of what made the book what it was, was not so much a rise.
The eccentric Satoru with his lovable quirks, and the protagonist Takako- weren't extraordinary, they were ordinary people who lived their lives with simple pleasures and resentment, and acknowledging life's ways of playing hide-and-seek.
The characters were relatable, someone you would meet in coffee shops, and smile, someone who exudes warmth, someone who you would let go.
The book isn't in the least bit extraordinary, it was a book that reminded us not to rush through. It was a ghibli movie in our head, slow, calm and peaceful living.
Where nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes.
It's beautiful.
#ZivaHind by @_halaism

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3 months ago

PC- @val.pageturner

When I first heard of 'The Midnight Library', I was intrigued. It started of as wonder, and curiosity, it's not often that we come across writings that justify the crazy thoughts that we have. Of 'parallel universes'- where every turn we take and every choice we make, every path we choose is lived as separate lives. It's very often that we wonder of such a place.

Nora's choices and her book of regrets, on the doomsplaining of every major life decision she took, reminded me of a thought exercise I had done a few years back- on the 'what ifs' and reimagining a life where I had chosen something else. Like Nora, towards the end, absenteeing the regret would lead to a life of owning our choices, and our mistakes, committing to a life of moving forward no-matter-what. The perfect life exists, for Nora Seed, and for us, not through popularity or richness, but through the effort that we take each minute.
Haig would tell us of how our choices would run its course into other people, affecting everyone around us, even those we never meet or never really cared about.

It wasn't a book that I would normally read, not because it was bad, but because it was predictable, the language young adult-ish, and would switch on and off into self-help monotony. The general idea was interesting, and it was a self-help book, but a pretty good one. It would remind us of appreciating what we have, for we have the best. It would remind us that the so-called right choices that we think that we should have taken, they have consequences too, and not all of them are a good sight. It reminds us that we are doing the best we can, each day, every day.
#zivahind
#themidnightlibrary #matthaig by @_halaism

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2 years ago

PC: @thegoangirlreads

It seemed right that Shantanu Naidu's 'I Came Upon a Lighthouse' was chosen as the book of the month in November in our WhatsApp group. It seemed right because Ratan Tata was labelled for his "compassionate capitalism", for being a "dynast", a "business mogul". It seemed right, to read it during the narratives surrounding Tata's passing, amidst all the voices that would talk only of what he did for others. It seemed right to know who he was as a person, underneath all that. It seems that with famous people, we often forget that they are human- living, breathing hearts, with emotions that range from sadness to joy, their need for friendships and love, most of all- their need for private lives.

Beyond the overwhelming warmth within the words, and listening to 'Shant-aanu' talk of his dear friend 'Mr Tata'; Shantanu tells stories like a dear friend- compassionate and humble, someone you'd love to hear talk.

It makes sense that Ratan Tata is an introvert. For a person silently believing and moving around without seeking attention, comfortable in private spaces and private moments, with a language of their own, and private jokes, it makes sense that not much is known- simply because he choses not to.
Much before Shantanu did, I had likened Tata to Dumbledore, and Azur, and Morrie- to the teachers that turned wonderful mentors. Inspiring, and in turn believing.

Reading along, we are often confused of whether it is Shant-aanu we like more or is it Mr Tata. And then, there are moments that we love Tata through Shantanu's eyes. We gradually appreciate the cheekiness in the intergenerational friendship, and snippets of the beautiful mentorship that happens and just passes, we get nervous at business meetings, we are overwhelmed with the warmth- of not just Tata, but Naina and Amma, Parizaad and Denese and Deepthi, of Winter.

(Continued in comments)

#zivahind by @_halaism

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2 years ago

I had a dream once-
of letters flying out of pages,
or was it something I saw,
it doesn't matter, what matters
is what it means when letters fly.
Do they fly as words, or as
letters in reverse, do they hold hands,
or do they form groups?
Do they fly all at once, or
some of them just leave, on
a random Saturday afternoon,
after grandmothers leave to
put crinkled tea leaves into the
large pot of water to eat with
ginger cookies in the parlour after
their nap.
When the letters leave,
do they wish they hadn't?
Do they wish they could come back?
Do they come back noiselessly,
clinging onto little kids on their second day
of out-of-tune singing classes,
as reminders to grow even after lunch hour?
When letters leave,
can we visit them, in
old letter homes, as vivid
as memories in sepia?
#zivahind by @_halaism

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2 years ago

PC- @love_in_chapters

Rereading 'The God of Small Things' was effortlessly easy, surprisingly. I had made attempts to read it time and again since I first read it at 13; but this time I finished what I began. My adult, more mature mind had evolved to comprehend Roy into what she really is- I don't remember if I liked the book when I was 13, but I grew to like it over the years, I love it much more now. I remember liking Rahel, but I didn't remember why.

Roy came to me in an attempt to salvage my hungry-for-words self to find a book in a city that hardly read. I left it to be forgotten, but remembered time and again, through articles, through lectures, talks, discussions over steaming cups of tea, over afternoons stolen on the bench near the tree- it was surprising, that I remembered so much, the words had become partly mine, words hardly forgotten.

The words, as I saw now, surfaced as the poetic language I would adorn- in my writings, my essays, in speeches, perhaps instilling in the very love for language. A language that Roy teased, that she was obviously so good at.

Rereading easily showed me like why I loved reading so much, as directly as how the stone steps led to the Meenachal, it showed me why I had stopped reading fiction altogether- why something that was a part of me had withered away. After all these years though, unlike the previous time, I chose the book- to re-return- to the book, and to the reader in me that had made a sure comeback after 4 years, a comeback I had done 4 books ago.

The book showed me that I stopped reading because of the laws that were made- of what should be read, of how much. The laws that books shouldn't be reread, that doesn't appreciate mellowness and hustled out the living, into whatever was left without it. Like Baby Kochamma and Kochu Maria before their television screen. There was a pressure to do so much, or stoppit. And I had stoppitted. The laws that had been written before any other law- the laws no one knows why they follow, like the Love Laws.

Continued in comments. by @_halaism

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2 years ago

Lately, I've been missing home- it's a strange feeling to have, because I can't really associate a physical dimension to home. Home is a vague idea that's compounded of memories, and people, and smells, and obscurities. It's not any particular thing.
Growing up in multiple places, amidst multiple values, and drizzles of identities that keep changing and evolving at a pace faster than I would think it does.
Ascribing is easy, and so is to belong- to the feeling, to a nation, to a religion, to multiplicities that keep growing with certainty, and hope. Evolving and growing is challenging, but still something that comforts me- trying and tasting and testing, and being open to experiences and embraces- without losing myself, growing and not 'un'growing.
But isn't home much more than that- isn't it a natural feeling, when we don't know what to feel. In a world so fleeting with experiences, asking us to keep hustling and 'keep on living' and drowning in a life that we would miss out on if we'd stop to breathe; home is comfort.
To let our heart at rest. To be slow. To shut down the world.
Perhaps, it's this feeling that I miss, it's the yearning to feel safe.
#zivahind by @_halaism

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2 years ago

I can survive alone-
I would need only a studio
apartment and
a mediocre-waged job that would
put 3 meals on my plate, and
an occasional afternoon cup
of chamomile or lavender, and
fine dining on weekends; a
membership at the town library, for
a book or two a week, maybe four,
I would call home every holiday,
and postpone my trip because
I was busy- doing nothing.

If no one's there to bring home
takeaway, or to disturb your sleep,
or spontaneous rendezvous at
cafés with university friends, and
latenight video calls with your sister
or brother- arguing over a fight 10 yrs back,
surprise visits to the family just because
you miss their presence, and your life
could use some noise;
If no one's there to disturb your
day, is it solitude? Or are you lonely?

I could survive alone-
but to live, I would need
the kindness of a stranger
who lent me his seat on the bus,
I would need the
half-eaten saliva-coated corn puff
the little boy hands me over,
I would need the excited glimmers as
I walk into a room, the occassional
drop-offs from uncles in cars.

For living, I would need to disturb
someone's solitude, I would need
someone to disturb mine.
#zivahind by @_halaism

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2 years ago

Can you write the poem on my morning tea?
Would you sift the honey'd strophe into whirls of rhymed cream?
Till I would blow softly, drawing spirals, whiffs of smoke, dreamily and slowly,
Sip by sip I would get into the crystal glass, savoury tinge on each drop, then a silent stream would gush and ooze out,
Perceiving the brown ring of quality on the patterned dolly.
So, the cup is-
#zivahind by @_halaism

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2 years ago

About 6-7 years back when my little cousin was still struggling with his broken english, he knocked on my door and asked me on a lazy afternoon, "You eat rice?". For a little guy who had just started school and string words together in a second language, he did a good job of putting the emotion together.
The question has echoed over and over in my life in different forms from different people- from my parents, my younger siblings, aunts, grandmothers, friends, teachers; a question so casually popped as pure forms of unadulterated love- as what have you eaten, or when do you eat or did you like the food, or please don't go hungry, we know how important food is for us.
10-12 yrs even after I moved out of my home, every time I visit my mom keeps asking me what I want to eat- my dad keeps getting me rambutan or shawarma or ask me to order whatever I want from nearby restaurants. Every time me or my siblings travel back to my parents abroad- my grandmom makes sure that I exceed my cabin baggage or my luggage with mangoes and dessicated coconut and peanut chikkis.
It is in this same universe that I saw a mother screaming about her kids having died hungry; worse than kids who are hungry and kids who have died. It is in this same universe that I saw an icecream truck not flashing and singing, but carrying little broken angels; in the same universe that little kids would jump up and down for a spoon of sugar; or be excited about watered down lentil soup.
To the sunshine that we take in each day, unbothered and unnoticed because it seems so normal, isn't there people who sit in the dark- gloomy and a bit scared, because they don't know normal and they can't have it. There's no common ground.
Or is it okay if we're okay, because we're very okay.
But, how is it okay to let people starve?
#zivahind by @_halaism

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2 years ago

What if I tell you that my Paradise, the Heaven that I dream of is flowers and butterfy wings and sunsets, and rivers and tree shaded canopies with netted sunshine, and little squirrels and sparrows and velvet daisies, unblossomed peonies.
What if I tell you that there are endless bookshelves where I'd read on the softest cushions or paint the most beautiful labyrinths?
What if I tell you the Heavens are the fluffiest clouds that I would lie down on as I tell my stories to the stars or the moon and the chirpy pigeons I love so much would follow me to the river banks where I would be the patient and delighted listener as the Prophet would tells His stories?
What if I tell you in Heaven I would be relieved of my pain, the injustice, the wondering what's wrong, because I've left my sufferings in my body?
What if I tell you that we'd sit together in silence, maybe on a bed of daisies that look more beautiful than the saltpans of Kutch on the perfect moonlit night or more silent than the whispers the milky way or the galaxies, and yet we live another world, of un-perplexed little shrapnels of happiness that would echo mountains in silence?
What if I tell you the skies are clear and so is the heart, the love is pure and unfragmented and we would be some place close, somewhere near; somewhere love is untainted?
#zivahind by @_halaism

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2 years ago

Around the time I got my first stipend (JRF), my mom told me not to spend all of it on books. She didn't have to worry, most of it were spent on sketchbooks and canvases and crayons and journals and calendars and stickers, some of it to give myself an impression that I was living my luxury life- on fine dining and random trips with friends, some of it to give gifts to those I love- which was quite a happy part; a part of it went to fund different aspects of my research, of course.
For someone who was the most at peace when reading, it was at this point that I had stopped buying books altogether. It was surprising for me too because the only thing that had stopped me from buying books before was my finances- not even storage space had stopped me. My last book haul was perhaps, sometime after PG, maybe before I started my MPhil.
My reading was beautiful at the time though, I would read without much care and would read under trees or in corners, in coffee shops and in bus stops, I would read anything random, challenging and questioning my interests, I would read authors I hadn't heard of, I would read mindlessly. Borrowing from libraries has also helped me not to be a mere hoarder and actually read the books I bring home- it gave me a deadline, to finish, coz the book was never mine. Over time, my reading has suffered over tight schedules and unstable mental conditions- when I can't sit and read the same, but I still read and without buying books mostly.
I buy books, at times because I can't access them from local libraries or I want to read them over and over because the book has become too dear, or I buy books as gifts for those I love too much.
#ZivaHind by @_halaism

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2 years ago

Does a book become thicker as you finish reading because it was reading you when you were reading it?
#zivahind by @_halaism

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2 years ago