Zaina Ch

𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗣𝗢𝗘𝗧𝗥𝗬, 𝗙𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗦 & 𝗔𝗥𝗧

[zaallnoon]

Funny how we save our best energy for strangers and our worst exhaustion for home. Morning versions of us are impressive. There's urgency in our steps, sharpness in our eyes. We rush to reach offices on time, meet deadlines, systems. We wear energy like a uniform. We show up polished, alert, present-ready to meet people who barely know us. And then comes the return.

The same person, drained, silent, running on leftovers of energy.

By the time we reach home, we're no longer human-just tired.That's the irony, the vidambana.

We give our prime hours, our enthusiasm, our smilesto deadlines and unfamiliar faces.

And when we finally reach the people who love us, we offer fatigue. No small talk. No patience.

Somehow, the system taught us to perform for the world and collapse in front of our own.Maybe that's the real tragedy of adulthood. We are most alive where we are least known, and most absent where we are most loved.

[zaallnoon]

And when Abida Parveen Said

“Yar Sajan Kadi Mor Muharaan ty Aa Watan” ???

[zaallnoon]

There is something curiously beautiful in Punjabi , the way it allows one to ask for someone’s return without ever demanding it.

The language softens desire into suggestion, turning longing into a quiet appeal.

Its almost like when Reshmaa asks, Tenu wasta khuda da, Waagan watnaa nu morin?” KITHAY NAIN NA JORIN ?

[zaallnoon]

Lost my Chocolate waly Tayabu yesterday.

The man who showed up to our house with chocolates every single time, and kept doing it even after my father passed away, for 20 years !! It was his quiet way of keeping my father’s memory alive. He was kind, strong, and yet his eyes always softened when he spoke about his friend. Through him, I felt connected to pieces of my father that only he remembered. His loss made me realise that when someone leaves, we don’t just lose a person we lose all the pieces of the people they remembered, the stories only they knew, the emotions only they carried. I keep wondering how many memories of my father I’ve lost with him. How many more people I’ve unknowingly lost along the way people who carried parts of him.

Is death painful because a life ends? Or is it painful because the memories attached to them die with them too? Maybe that’s why this grief feels so gentle but so deep. I pray Allah has his mercy on his kind soul.

[zaallnoon]

Allah kabhi insaan ki mehnat zaya nahi karta.

Kabhi kabhi tumhari duaein, tumhari koshish, aur tumhara sabr chup chaap chal raha hota hai aur tumhe lagta hai ke kuch change nahi ho raha lekin ghair-mashhoor tareeqon se Allah tumhare liye raaste bana raha hota hai. Har aansu, har mehnat, har niyyat likhi ja rahi hoti hai. Kuch reward foran mil jaatay hain, kuch baad mein, aur kuch uss waqt milta hai jab tumhe sabse zyada zaroorat ho. Bas yakeen rakho , tumhari mehnat sabse mehfooz hathon mein hai.

[zaallnoon]

It still pains me to think about how I left my passion for photography, a thing I thought I would have kept on doing. It still pains me if I see anything related to art. It makes me feel an ache in my heart thinking about all those lost passions. I should have kept on doing things I loved. Why did I stop it? I do indeed transform it into pretty handwriting and working in my favourite place. But I used to take beautiful photos. I used to find pleasure in it. I used to be proud. It was always my insecurity ruining everything for me. There are always people who are better at art than me. There's always a 'she' who is better. Maybe I was never the most talented or special at it, but that doesn’t matter, because I know now I don’t want to let it slip away again, it’s a part of me worth holding on to.

The artist in me doesn't die. As long as I live, art will be flowing out of me. This "not-talented" me would always be artistic.

[zaallnoon]

When someone dies, it’s never just them you lose , they take themselves, they take us, and they take a part of who we are. Along with them goes our right to ask, that haq only they could give, the quiet power we felt in knowing we could turn to them, the comfort of doors they opened, the pride of knowing someone was there. Suddenly, that presence, that strength we drew from them without even realizing, is gone. Now it’s just you and God, and life teaches you, painfully, how much that person truly mattered, how much power and assurance they carried simply by being there. Life is hard and harder still when you realize the hands you leaned on are gone.

[zaallnoon]

No one will be able to dish out the same amount of love

- of care - that I know I am fully capable of, that I know I make others feel. But why do I always have to be the giver? Why do I always have to care too much, love so hard, receive so little?

Am I cursed to forever be the bottomless pit of wine refilling your pythagorean cup? Am I doomed to an eternity of service of others, a forever filled with unrequited love?

My wants are simple, my needs even more so-progressive conversation, an analyzing ear, and a heart that never stops burning the way mine does— even through all this pain.

Is it so hard to be a person haunted by love? Is it horrifying to be the kind of girl who gives, and gives, and gives? Who hurts, but never asks for anything in return?

Was that my fatal flaw? Because I finally asked for something I most desperately needed? Even if it was something that I continuously gave to you through my times of struggle and despair, even if it was something I asked for because I thought that it was fair.

Am I forever destined to words that always gives peace, but the moment I utter the mere tone of a quizzical thought the world turns against me and I am sunk into a void of questions without answers as punishment for trying to release myself from the reigns of this uncertainty?

[zaallnoon]

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

[zaallnoon]

it all comes down to when jagjit singh said :

ab kisko kahun hamdam apna ? Hamdam to mera baegana tha.

[zaallnoon]

"One of my philosophy professors lectured wildly about love once, yelling: 'When you're in love with someone, that person is the lighthouse of your universe: (I scrawled it inside Science and Poetry in pencil-lighthous of your universe-as if I would ever forget that phrase.) He was a delightful caricature of his position. I could swear he literally tore his hair out while howling at us. He went on, 'Nothing means as much without that person. One of the men in the class repeated, incredulous, half-laughing, 'So you're saying you can't enjoy, like, a vacation, without someone if you're really in love with them?' 'Of course not, the professor replied. 'Not completely. You recognize beauty, but beauty means less if they don't witness it with you. Beauty is less. You see something sublime and your first thought is that they should be there with you.

It's not as good without them. They illuminate. They make everything more."

[zaallnoon]

when gillian flynn wrote "i just think some women aren't made to be mothers, and some women aren't made to be daughters." and when sylvia plath wrote "that afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. 'save them for my funeral,' i'd said."

"being the girls' mother, i should understand them more than anyone. but that's what's so frightening. i don't."

and when mitski said "mom, am i still young? can i dream for a few months more?"

[zaallnoon]

So i read somewhere " Phoolo'n se bharey baagh ka kya karunga mein ? Jab mera pasandeeda phool hi wahan moujood nahi hoga"

And it made me realise ki yeh phoolon ke barrein mei nahi hai balki har uss cheez ke barrein mei jo humari pasandeeda hoti hai

Agar hume humara pasandeeda insaan , pasandeeda loog, ya koi pasandeeda cheez nahi milti toh phir koi humey uske badle mei kuch aur lakr hi kyu na de dey - kya faraq parta hai.

[zaallnoon]

i know we're both just messing around pretending to be whole but look at me. if the train was coming would you move. if the ground was falling from under your feet would you even notice or would it just be another tuesday for you. if somebody stabbed you could it hurt worse than you already do. what i'm saying is that i love you but i think we both drive over the speed limit when it's raining. what i'm saying is that i want to hold your hand and i understand about how you sometimes have to sit down in the shower. what i'm saying is that i'm here for you and if the train comes please move.

[zaallnoon]

when the poet said

“Chaand ko Chaand Na Kehta , Tera Chehra Kehta

Mai Jo shayar Kabhi Hota Tera Sehra Kehta >>>

isnt this the whole point ???

[zaallnoon]

You think you’ve carried the heaviest weight, lived through the deepest ache until one day, without warning, you witness a pain that doesn’t speak, doesn’t seek sympathy, just lingers quietly in someone’s eyes, or in the silence between words. And in that moment, something inside you shifts. Not out of comparison, but recognition. That pain runs deep in many forms, and some people wear it so gently, it almost goes unnoticed. You thought you had it the worst, until you saw a sorrow that didn’t need to be loud to be real and then you see them accept it, carry it, even smile through it. And suddenly, your own hurt doesn’t vanish, but it softens because now you know healing isn’t always loud either. You thought you had it the worst, huh? Yet here they are breathing, smiling, like life didn’t break them a hundred times. It humbles you. It changes you. It makes you grow.

[blogbyameera]

When they hit you with “ No one can replace you ”

but Adeem Hashmi already said the truth “ Ek khilauna toot jaega .. nayaa mil jaega , mein nahi toh koi tujh ko dusra mil jaega ”