Tooba

staining it with my work

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Intersection (2019)

Lines are derivatives of our lives governing natural principles. Intersection is the point of commonality of multiple lines. From that conclusive point occurs a change of form for any geometric figure. While human life changes form every now and then either through displacement, or through coincidental changes, this cohesion leads to the creation of a new experience.

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This is one of the letters Frieda wrote to her friends. Frida Kahlo was a Mexican Artist who later married Diego. Frida met an accident early in her life and most of her work reflects her personal life. Diego deeply admired Frida’s work though their personal life was not as smooth. Frida is remembered for her self portraits. She is an artist is who is read widely across the globe. 

Georgia,

Was wonderful to hear your voice again. Every day since I called you and many times before months ago I wanted to write you a letter. I wrote you many, but every one seemed more stupid and empty and I torn them up. I can’t write in English all that I would like to tell, especially to you. I am sending this one because I promised it to you. I felt terrible when Sybil Brown told me that you were sick but I still don’t know what is the matter with you. Please Georgia dear if you can’t write, ask Stieglitz to do it for you and let me know how are you feeling will you? I’ll be in Detroit two more weeks. I would like to tell you every thing that happened to me since the last time we saw each other, but most of them are sad and you mustn’t know sad things now. After all I shouldn’t complain because I have been happy in many ways though. Diego is good to me, and you can’t imagine how happy he has been working on the frescoes here. I have been painting a little too and that helped. I thought of you a lot and never forget your wonderful hands and the color of your eyes. I will see you soon. I am sure that in New York I will be much happier. If you still in the hospital when I come back I will bring you flowers, but it is so difficult to find the ones I would like for you. I would be so happy if you could write me even two words. I like you very much Georgia.

Frieda

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“When, as happened recently in France, an attempt is made to coerce women out of the burqa rather than creating a situation in which a woman can choose what she wishes to do, it’s not about liberating her, but about unclothing her. It becomes an act of humiliation and cultural imperialism. It’s not about the burqa. It’s about the coercion. Coercing a woman out of a burqa is as bad as coercing her into one. Viewing gender in this way, shorn of social, political and economic context, makes it an issue of identity, a battle of props and costumes. It is what allowed the US government to use western feminist groups as moral cover when it invaded Afghanistan in 2001. Afghan women were (and are) in terrible trouble under the Taliban. But dropping daisy-cutters on them was not going to solve their problems.” ― Arundhati Roy

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Boho Girl!

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Poetry Magazine Weekly Podcast for April 3, 2017: Momina Mela reads 'prayer is better than sleep' - The Poetry Magazine Podcast

The editors discuss Momina Mela's "prayer is better than sleep" from the April 2017 issue of Poetry.

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You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore. You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days. Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God. But let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another, but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Kahlil Gibran

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We pay our storytellers. But my stories are free and your presents are much too dear. I was beginning to like your things. And I was beginning to like living without them

Karen Blixen, Out Of Africa (1937)

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phir sabā sāya-e-shāḳh-e-gul ke tale koī qissa sunātī rahī raat bhar jo na aayā use koī zanjīr-e-dar har sadā par bulātī rahī raat bhar ek ummīd se dil bahaltā rahā ik tamannā satātī rahī raat bhar

Faiz Ahmed Faiz

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Remember that you and I made this journey together to a place where there was nowhere left to go

Jhumpa Lahiri, The Namesake (2003)

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Raat yun dil mein teri khoyi hwi yaad ayii

Jaise verany mein chupky say bahaar a jaye

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Zia Mohyeddin reads out his letter for Parveen Shakir. 

“ Shairee mein ghairee iss taran nahin dali jati jaise chai mein shakar”

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She has the gift of accepting her life.

Jhumpa Lahiri, The Namesake (2003)

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Daily Wisdom!

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Blessed is this day, for I have met Shams of Tabriz. # So when Shams asked me this question, it was not simply a comparison that he was after. He wanted me consider how far I was willing to go to efface my personality in order to be absorbed in God. There was a second hidden question within his first question. How about you, great preacher? he was asking me. Of the seven stages, which stage are you at? And do you think you have the heart to go further, till the very end? Tell me, how big is your cup?

Elif Shafak, The Forty Rules of Love (2009)

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I  saw my life branching out like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and a husband and children, and another fig was famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor and another fig was Eee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and  another fig was Contantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic Lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch was this fig tree, starving to death, just because I could not make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and everyone of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go back, and, one by one, the plopped to the ground on my feet.

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (1963).

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“...I could not have bought that moment and I am sure I can’t relive it in the same way. In the end home only exists in metaphors and language idioms.”