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Hala M. Haneef/ Ziva Hind

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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I want to write a poem,
it's been so long.
I want to do this for me,
I want it to be
a sanctuary for the
valley of tulips with the tiny
bee humming- not lost,
but getting some me-time. I
don't want it to be perfect, no structure
or rhythm or the right words or
the right metre
or things that would demand either,
I want it to be happy, pristine
and pulsate like the tiny heart
that would roam about in my sleeve.
I want to read it out, to me for sure,
and when I do that maybe I'd
do some voices- as Tweety, as Dory
and even Death Rock if I'm in the mood.
I want the poem to be as imperfect,
as normal, as me, it would be
replaceable for sure- with something
not perhaps better
but newer and which evolves with the world
around me, but I want it
to have meaning,
to be sensitive to what is
and carry and store in a little vault
of the part that I've left behind
as I grew, and then I would
write another poem, which I
would also outgrow. And these poems,
they'd be shrines carved of all that
has died for me to keep on living.
And I'd keep on living.
#zivahind

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Reading Hiba's (@__hibafarook) post, flooded in memories, I say Alhamdulillah, for the courage I took for so many things, all at once, at so many times since then, and for multiple people Allah kept sending my way to give me random prompts when I kept doubting and getting confused and questioning my judgement over and over.
I remember the exact point when I realised what had gone wrong- it was the way I smiled or laughed, I would go through photos over and over and realise that I kept faking my happiness to prove (to myself more than others), of how I am happy because if my life were a movie- it'd be perfect- I would easily fit in all the stereotypes.
But I was growing inwards and regressively.
Two days back at the masjid taking photos with a friend, I felt that I was myself- genuinely happy, I felt the happiness coming from within, as a bubbling breath of warmth, it was then that I realised that after a long time I could finally laugh and be present in the moment, that I realised I'm once again excited about little things, about colours and words, and I smile a lot.
Sometimes I think of how hard it is- the letting go, even when we know it's for the best, so hard that sometimes we cling onto something which we know for sure would poison us- is it because we're afraid of the alternative, that change feels scary because it's unpredictable, that we hold onto what we know and what's familiar, that we avoid it at all costs? Deciding to let go of every single thing that I thought that defined me- has made me realise, that none of them mattered, it only matters if it makes me grow and embrace my inner child, and to live a life of love- for myself and for others.
It also made me realise that no matter how hard I fall, or how much I let go; Allah would always step in to pick my pieces.
#zivahind

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കുറച്ചധികമായി സ്വപ്നം കാണാൻ തുടങ്ങിയിട്ട്.
മഹ്ശറയിൽ മുന്നിലെ സ്വഫ്ഫിൽ ഇടം പിടിക്കണം. പടച്ചോൻ പ്രത്യക്ഷപ്പെടുമ്പോൾ ഓടി ചെന്ന് കെട്ടിപ്പിടിക്കണം.
കുതറി മാറിയപ്പോൾ വാരിപുണർന്നതിന്, ഒറ്റപ്പെട്ടെന്ന് തോന്നിയ രാത്രികളിൽ നക്ഷത്രങ്ങളോട് കഥ പറഞ്ഞപ്പോൾ കൂട്ടിരുന്നതിന്, പുലർച്ചെ കറുത്ത പുതപ്പ് മാറ്റി സൂര്യൻ എഴുന്നേൽക്കുന്നത് നോക്കി നിൽക്കുമ്പോൾ സ്നേഹം ഊതി തന്നതിന്, ഇരുട്ടിൽ തപ്പിത്തടഞ്ഞ് പേടിച്ച് നടക്കുമ്പോൾ കൈ മുറുകെ പിടിച്ച് വഴി കാണിച്ചു തന്നതിന്, പറഞ്ഞ വാക്കുകൾ പാലിച്ചതിനും, നിന്റെ അടുത്തേക്ക് വരണം നീ മാത്രമേയുള്ളൂ എന്ന് തോന്നിയ ഓരോ നിമിഷവും ജീവിക്കാൻ പതിനായിരം കാരണങ്ങൾ കാണിച്ച് തന്നതിനും, കുട ചൂടി വന്ന് മഴവില്ല് വരച്ചു തന്നതിനും.
#zivahind

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I had this (pretty disturbing) epiphany that when I get emotional- happy or sad, I think in poetry, lines play around in my head till I get the annoying need to write it down, materialise in words. A few years back, I had had yet another realisation, that I can't write poetry or string together words as art on demand, I had to feel them in my heart.
It made sense though- why I loved to write so much, yet wrote so little when I 'had' to- like in exams, or when compelled to in Arts Fests due to grudges from friends, or when I had to.
It explained why I could sense what I was feeling, or that something was up, and that it was creating ripples. It was how I could connect with myself, to seek within for answers that make me restless.
It made sense that what I wrote was mostly about colours or flowers or sunrises, of love and happiness, of emotions, of books, of windows, of squirrels and sparrows; in beaches and looking up at night skies, or when I was tired or busy and my mind was cluttered. I wrote of things that made me feel, mostly happy, that made me think, in places that made me think.
Poetry came to me as waves- lines naturally formed, every verse I speak is my heart speaking- in a language I don't understand, in thoughts that doesn't make sense, making ways and connections, from infinity and beyond.
I work as a medium- connecting the universe through my soul, my hand onto paper.
It makes sense that I write more for me, than for anyone else.
#ZivaHind

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I fell from the bed 2-3 yrs back. Thinking of the incident is funny- I tripped over the footboard, and fell down headfirst (because I had just bought a new tab, and was hugging it so tightly so that it wouldn't be scratched) in slow motion, feels like something that would happen to Coyote from the Road Runner cartoon.
Back when it happened though, I remember crying for a while. Well, the muscle spasms and bruises hurt more than I expected it to be, but I cried because I started thinking of what I'd do if something pretty serious would have happened. Who would take care of me? Who would take me to the hospital? Will someone ask me if I'm okay? Or Idk drop everything and stay by my side till I'm better.
I believe in people, and their goodness, and love; but there's something only our parents would do. Or maybe a partner. But you can't expect being taken care of by everyone around, can we? Yes, I said 'taken care of'- sometimes I'm done being strong and independent, I want to be vulnerable, I want someone to lean on to. I want someone to hug me and tell me that it's okay, that I'll be fine.
Sometimes, I want to curl up in the patio chair and wake up to chamomile tea or dad on a conference call, being served lunch, being greeted by a bagful of magosteen on alternate days because I pointed it out on a drive 2 weeks back.
Sometimes, I want to be weak.
Maybe we can take it in ease? Maybe we can do this gracefully? Maybe we can NOT force ourselves, and let it come naturally? Maybe we can ask ourselves to be true to ourselves, to our thoughts, to emotions and not want to embrace every radicalised notion that comes our way?
Can't we normalise seeking connections and comfort, asking for help, reinforce our shared humanity? Won't that stop us from seeking unhealthy attachments and embrace toxicity because, these are perhaps the only people who show us, and we understand insincerely, that we are being noticed and thought of?
Maybe we can be okay being weak?
#zivahind

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And years later, perhaps
when they ask me about my journey-
I'd say it hasn't ended, that
there are cracks on my feet
and they ache because I'm still walking,
not because I have anywhere to go,
but because this journey-
it makes me happy,
and they'll ask of the roads that
I have taken, of how far
I've come- of how I feel;
I'd say- hungry, because
my stomach mumbles
from lack of food, mostly because
they'd understand hungry,
how difficult would it be to
say that, the hunger, it was-
hunger for experiences,
and growth, and moments,
hungry from the heart, from the mind
I believe that I'm a pilgrim,
that I belong and don't
at the same time- that
I'm the universe in an entire
heartbeat, that I'm love
in a winter-morning breath.
I'm a pilgrim, surprised
and happy- and nervous, of
every thing each step holds.
I'll never be tired of the journey.
#zivahind

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Fi Amanillah: I entrust you in the care of Allah
Some things, like the sand I held tightly in my fist during picnics at the desert, would slip through my tiny fingers; some things are too heavy for my fragile heart to carry; some things I'm not qualified to bear- but in every Sujud I'll place it before Allah and He'll load off my burden with love.
I'll pray for guidance, but I've already placed you in the care of Allah, I've placed myself in the care of Allah- and nothing would go wrong when it's in His care. Nothing, and I'm sure about that.
The حب (Hub/love) of my Creator, His نور (Nur/light), that has potential to bear roots and blossoms and fruits, would light up your world, your darkest days and your brightest, so that you're able to love and seek happiness in sparks, just like I do.
What if I tell you that the flowers that would bloom in Paradise, they would spread their fragrance in every one of the branches that'd grow. They would show you the path, the one that's been there all along, the path that would lead you to eternal bliss. The paths of صَبْرٌ جَمِيلٌ (Sabrun Jamilun/ Beautiful Patience), the path where you'd be content with adversity and hardship, the path where you'll rediscover yourself, which you'll fill with love and fragrance.
That path leads to you.
#zivahind

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