I have recently read three books set in the turbulent world of Afghanistan. Two were moving fictional stories - Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns and the third an awe-inspiring true account of one man’s humanitarian work in Pakistan and Afghanistan.

I read A Thousand Splendid Suns first and it had a profound effect on me. Not only did the novel educate me on Afghanistan’s recent history, it plunged me into the daily reality of war and oppression. It left me feeling incredulous, humbled and deeply saddened as I began to fully comprehend what the Afghani people have experienced over the last few decades.

Three Cups of Tea, the story of Greg Mortenson’s adventures in establishing over fifty schools in rural Pakistan and Afghanistan, therefore came as a relieving reminder that, despite the stranglehold that hypocrisy and exploitation has on many parts of the world, it is still possible to breathe in lungfuls of fresh air. Read more…

I lose myself in Your arms and the raindrops that fall onto the still water of Your heart. My fear washed away by the mossy dew of Your smile.
How long have I waited to lose myself? Only You know. And the distant light that glimmers in Your eye shares my secrets.
A river, carrying all water drops to the ocean, breathes a sigh of relief as it opens into the wide expanse of water where the memories of its journey are lost to a new presence. A vastness that envelops all fears and soothes them with soft murmurs like a mother to her child. Read more…

In the immense, swarming hive of London, it is easy to avoid human connection. Much easier to avert one’s eyes or block out the city’s voices with the headphones of one’s iPod.

So, it came as a pleasant surprise when I stepped into the crowded bus on Tuesday morning and was greeted by an older man with a trim beard, sparkly eyes and a jaunty hat. Our eyes met and we smiled at each other for a few moments. During the short bus journey, I turned to look at him a couple of times and he returned my gaze. As the bus approached its third stop, I felt a hand touch my own. I turned and the gentleman said ‘Goodbye’, before he alighted.

The other passengers around me were oblivious to this exchange, but it touched me deeply. There was something mystical about the encounter. Read more…

I want to write and write and write.
Unfurl words,
curled like new ferns
inside me.

It is almost painful.
A joyful, beautiful pain
that breathes in
in-formation
through my senses.

Finally.
To pick up a pencil and
release, release.
Into this compact notebook
that promises to carry my dreams
on a sailboat into the night.

Oh, I just want to let them flow out
like rainwaters along the edges
of paved streets.
Flow out and trickle
into ears and eyes
and open like flowers
in moist mouths.

Moist mouths that kiss and whisper,
and relish shapes
of poetry.

Black morning.
Clouds, muggy and moody,
Smother the mouth
of the city.

Thousands of bodies
Slide to the grind,
Underground.
Faces straight and indifferent.
Lost
in folds of paper
and fatigue.

Walls plastered with
Where to go
What to wear
What to buy

Thousands of bodies,
Thousands of faces.

Each a different form
of an endless You.