Najaha Nauf's Blog

Dear Nana, 

it's Eid today. the country is in turmoil, the government is about to be overthrown. But I feel for no one as intensely as I feel for myself at the moment because I miss you and I've not let myself feel this way for a while now. I wonder if this is what moving on feels like, sometimes, but then I reel back, find myself staring at the ceiling hours into the night and feeling every nerve ending scream because I can't turn back time. 

Naasith is sick today and it's not the same but it's a little like we're back in 2019 when you told us about your aches and pains. It feels far too familiar, so I understand the frantic expression that's settled into mama's face, I understand the helplessness in dada's, I also understand that I'm not entirely feeling because I'm afraid if I let myself to I might not be able to make it out okay. 

Most days, it feels like no time has passed. But it's day 832. that's... a lot of days.

I wonder if you're sleeping well. If rest looks good on you. I bet it does. Sometimes I envy you because life is becoming overwhelming and I want to be where you are. Other times, I know I'm not ready. Not as you were. I know death came to you at the best moment and it's my most sincere prayer, for myself and everyone I love. For death to come to me when I am ready. Like you were. 

I wanted this to be a letter of updates but I can't help wanting to know how you are. I'll never know, not in this lifetime anyway, and it breaks my heart because you were right here a couple years ago, weren't you? 

Today I wanted to know what age I started speaking in, purely out of curiosity. Ma was quick to note that I was chattering away in response to your endless rambles long before I could even understand what you were talking about. A little over one apparently. and it warms my heart to know that you taught me the words I speak and I learnt from you, before I could even register it. Apparently the standard conversations started with an excited, 'Nangi!' followed by an equally excited, 'Nana?' because of course one of my first words had to be Nana. 

What did we talk about, nana? I wish I remembered. I wish I could recall every word you spoke and keep it in my memory. The more days that pass, the more I am afraid of forgetting the little things. Like the feel of your fingers and the sound of your voice and the ever insistent 'Nangi' because you took all of that with you. Chincha calls me that occassionally, 'nangi', but it doesn't ring the same. It's comforting, but that's about it. 

There's no Eid get-together tonight. It should have been at our place, but given the circumstance, it's understandable, and in a way, better for us too. We were able to have it last time and while I enjoyed being around family, I also felt that nothing's the same anymore. Naturally, we're all grown up and apart, but I think your absence is more pronounced in crowds and every crowded room echoes memories I wish I'd paid more attention to. 

I baked a chocolate cake last night, just to play pretend. And I thought about how you've only ever tried the cupcakes I baked every couple months. That you weren't around when the stress baking started. That the cookies and cakes I failed at baking right didn't make you laugh the way it did everyone else. Because you're not around. But you are, aren't you? You're right here in my thoughts, always. 

I've been at home for over three weeks now. Visited the doctor a couple of times, went grocery shopping twice maybe, but it's mostly been a ritualistic routine of staying home. Ma brings you up every time I talk to her about wanting change. How much change you must have wanted. How much you weren't given. How frustrated it made you. And I understand, and I pray you roam all over the heavens. that you never grow tired of exploring. that the world grows with every step you take because you deserve open skies and rolling fields. And selfishly, I wish the same for myself. 

I'll stop here, because I know you never liked reading unless it was stimulating. You never liked repetition but here I'll tell you again that I miss you and sometimes it makes living very difficult. But you know, better than anyone else, that I'll persist, because it's the only thing I know to do well. Eid Mubarak, Nana. 

Till next time, 

Nangi. 

"Everyone in my life is a stranger, and that includes me."- Holding Up the Universe, Jennifer Niven
Trigger Warning: 
This blog post discusses body dysmorphia and disordered eating. If you are someone who is triggered by detailed narratives of dysmorphia, please click out now. This post is meant to be insightful, but it may not be the most comfortable read.

7:19pm, 

I don’t know what I look like. 

I live in my head, for the most part. 

In my childhood and preteens, my body wasn’t something I thought about, unless it was to understand how others perceived me. Which, again, wasn't at the top of my priorities for a long time. I was the removed kid, who spent a lot of time trying to understand the world, instead of actually living in it. 

Everything I knew about my appearance, therefore, I knew based on what I would hear people say. When I was born, an uncle had apparently commented on my eyes, something about wit. At three, I had tight, messy curls which made me look ‘mischievous’. At five, I had cropped hair and a pointed jaw, ‘split image of your father, you'd make a good boy.’ At eight I was ‘a little on the chubby side, but she’s tall noh?' At ten, the pictures tell me I had a round face and long limbs. 

Everything I ever ‘knew’ about what I looked like, in retrospect, I didn’t really 'know'. 

Because the mirror, and photographs, never showed me a concrete image and I’d always chalk what I saw up to lighting/clothes/context. In my head, there were bigger things to worry about than what I looked like. 

That is, until, all I ever heard were backhanded compliments:

1. At thirteen, “You’re tall, for a girl.” - am I? Or are you just, not used to being around people taller than you? 

2. “How will you find a man?” - because at the ripe age of fourteen, marriage was somehow at the top of the list of things I had to do. 

3. “You’re so thin it makes you look taller. That’s kinda unhealthy.”- at seventeen, this one stung. Because I had grown so used to standing out that anything I could do to fit in, I would. 

Maybe, if I had rounder arms, a torso that wasn’t as lean, maybe then I’d be considered healthy? 

Still, with the stress of having to keep up with life, being a 'gifted' child who was tethering on burn-out, I didn't really have the time to hit 'pause' and revisit those 'compliments'. Life was ahead of me and my head had forgotten my body once again. 

But people could still see me. and people saw change. people feel the need to comment on change, because it's what people do. Maybe it's an itch. Maybe it's all they know. 

Nevertheless, my body was changing and I hardly realized. I was living in my head, miles away from my body. Perhaps, more removed than I had been when I was much younger. 

On the day of my graduation, my grandmother jokingly commented on how I looked like a 'lady'. and I wondered for the rest of the day, if that would be my new identity. No more the 'tall girl', but a 'lady'? 

A day after, an extended member of my family felt the urge to let my mum know I looked like a skeleton wrapped in silk. Something about sunken eyes and sunken cheeks. I watched them from across the hospital room, sick brother holding my hand and I thought about it. I pulled my phone out and looked at the same picture. Yesterday, I saw a lady in a blue and gold saree. Today, she was dead. 

My mother, perplexed, but worried more so, decided that I needed change. Could skeletons grow flesh if they had breakfast everyday? Still, I tried. Years of not having a proper breakfast had left me feeling queasy in the mornings, but for my mother and my weathered appearance, I'd scoff down toasted bread and an egg, near religiously for months. I built a routine out of it - breakfast of bread and eggs, a cup of tea. Lunch and dinner, not so much. I couldn't help but refuse change. 

And life wanted nothing but change for me. 

April, 2020. I write about this time very often but it barely scratches the surface of what my family and I went through. In fact, I think that sentence applies to every single moment that has lead me here. 

I don't see anyone. I don't feel the need to think of my body. My head is floating again. 

Breakfast becomes Brunch, Dinner becomes midnight snacks. 

Everyday blurs into the next. My anxiety peaks, the insomnia I'd been diagnosed with at 15 comes back around in full force - Insomnia Pro Max, if you will. Along with it, the migraines. So I go back to pills, stronger ones this time, because life was getting ahead of me. 

But these were things people didn't, couldn't see. When I was in front of them, all they saw was my body and how it had changed. They couldn't see inside my head. Couldn't see me from within, or how out of desperation, I was scotch-taping the seams to keep it all in. 

Naturally, the comments took a different turn: 

1. "You've let yourself go. It doesn't look nice." - to let myself go would mean I once had it all in, under control. But I didn't. I don't think I ever have. 

2. "This is too much noh?" - believe me I wish I knew where the bar was, because I can never seem to reach it. 

3. and the final blow came around when the same family member, who two years prior had killed me before my eyes, decided I had to know that "You've become shapeless. You should go on a diet." 

Ah. the sacred words I'd seen flashing on billboards and magazines. 

By definition, a diet refers to a prescribed pattern of eating. 

If so, isn't everyone on a diet? 

Still, it stung. 

Because suddenly, the mirror reflected a mismatched array of lumps. 

In grief counseling, they tell you that at the core of some grief is guilt. Guilt because we couldn't be more, do more. because we couldn't save them. because we can't live up to their legacy. because we might one day forget them. because we might have to, inevitably, move on from them. 

My head processed things differently at the time. All my anxiety and grief, all the sadness I ever felt, and all this anger I had for people who couldn't see past skin, all of it manifested into a chilling spiral of self-loathing. 

My body became my head's target: everything about it was wrong. Calves too tough, arms too round, torso too short, limbs too long. 

Yet at its core was guilt. 

Guilt that I had 'let' myself 'become' this. Guilt my head harbored for refusing to think of my body the same way others did. Guilt, that should not have been there to begin with. 

I couldn't walk in public without feeling the eyes on me and recoil. I remember walking through the mall, feeling too big, too tall, too much. I remember locking myself in the fit-on room because I was tired of feeling fabric against my skin, a painful reminder of my body being awfully real.

I won't go into detail about the awful things I put my body through because: 1. It is an awful, inhumane thing to make another person feel less than or too much, 2. the weight of your deeds are the ones measured on the Last Day, not the weight of your mortal body. 

I will, however, tell you what brings me to write this rather vulnerable post. 

Because of my unhealthy relationship with my body and food, I've always experienced discomfort, both psychological and physical, when eating. and any discomfort I felt while my body was begging to be fed, I was proud of. I shouldn't have been. My body has been irreversibly tainted by my inability to perceive it. 

Last week, at the doctors, I was told to "eat when you're hungry, not when you think you deserve it. sleep when you're tired, even if you think you don't need to. be kind to your body if you want to continue living in it," because I have developed allergies to several types of food as a result of my negligence. Every meal I've had for the past week was accompanied by a handful of pills. There's a near-permanent lump in my throat and my stomach twists in pain every few hours, despite the medication. 

Dada, my sweet, wonderful father with his bountiful well of wisdom, despite the things he's been through, decided to sit me down and remind me, one evening this week, that my biggest strength has always been in using my head. "Everything you've ever thought you could do, you've done, haven't you? Don't ever doubt what you know because of what you hear, especially not from those who barely even know you." and I think, I'd like you to know that too. 

As I hiccup ( a not-so-cool new side effect of acute gastritis) my way through this new diagnosis and try to navigate my body towards a positive relationship with food and identity, I'd like to remind you to be kind. to others, because while you may believe your words come from a place a love, they may not be in need of it, and most importantly, to yourself because only you ever know the places and people you've been. 

I've come to realize that this inability to view people as 'bodies' extends beyond myself. I may joke about my friends' heights but a part of me has never considered them to be anything but incredible souls. I wouldn't say I've never commented on someone else's appearance, but I can for certain tell you that I never have, and never will, feel entitled to do so, because those words may only leave my tongue once, but they will echo in the other person's mind for eons. 

So yes, I'm in my head again, but this time I'm also aware of the body that carries it. I listen to it as closely as I can. When the lightheadedness comes around, I've learnt to associate it with hunger than with a sense of pride. When I feel the lump in my throat tighten, I've learnt to stop eating and give my body the time to relax instead of letting the guilt take over. 

We were not sent down to this earth to be a certain shape, a certain shade or even a certain race. Everything we've ever done has boiled down to the choices we made, from the moment we decided we wanted to be better than angels to right now, my choice to share this with you, and your choice to read until the very end. 

So please, choose to be kind. to your body, to your mind. to the people in your life and the people passing by. because one kind word can undo years and years of unkind thoughts. 

Thank you for reading. 

All my love, 

always, 

N x.

Assalamu Alaikum (May peace be upon you)

11:45am

Dear you,

This is an open letter. The letter I dreamed into being, and the letter I never did dream of. This is a letter I had never quite thought of writing and the letter I had written and tucked away a long time ago. 

Yesterday, at the 63rd State Literary Awards, I was nominated for the Best Publication in ( Juvenile ) Literature (read: Best Youth Literature, if I may directly translate the Sinhala title) for my debut work, 'Slow Dancing with The Stars' - a silly little novella about grief and family and the words stuck in my throat. The nomination in itself is a marvelous achievement- to me, that meant someone had read through every page of my little book and thought that it deserved a bit of recognition, a quiet reassurance that someone out there had seen something in my writing that they believed needed to be read and understood. To me, that was enough. I walked into the auditorium and heard whispers of names I'd only ever heard my mum mention in her moments of absolute fascination, saw faces I'd only ever seen on the blurbs of books in our local bookstores. To me, it felt monumental. 

The nomination letter came in last Sunday, when I was helping a dear friend with her wedding preparations. A phone call from the department of Cultural affairs (and for the briefest, Najaha-est moment, I believed I'd offended someone or was being sentenced for treason. Please don't ask me why, my brain has a morbid fascination with all things negative.) Haj, my beloved friend, is clapping like a seal when I tell her it's for a nomination - she's about to begin one of her 'I told you so' lectures and I'm already zoning out. I return home that evening to a beaming mother with a white envelope in hand. She holds my face and tells me she's happy. To me, that was enough. I tiptoe my way into my parents' room and Dada is seated at his desk with a faraway smile. He looks over his shoulder at me and beams. In that moment, I feel safe. He says something about telling others and I tell him I need some time to absorb the information. A part of me believes this is all a dream in a dream. I should stop reading so much Edgar Allan Poe. 

Over the course of the next four days, we tell close family, a handful of friends (accidentally, first), a couple of my teachers. I'm still heavily in denial. Sajla (Anees, author of Refuge, companion to my soul & fellow nominee) and I spend a good amount of time convincing each other that this is more than we could have ever dreamed or prayed into being. To me, that was enough. 

Come Friday morning, I'm whizzed away by time into an Exam prep class where my recitations are flatter than naan and as bland as cardboard (we blame the nerves), a couple of invigilation sessions (where my lovely students quietly coloured out of the lines of their 'cute fairy houses' - ah, Art exams.), and when I have the time to breathe, the power goes off and my phone is minutes away from dying. Cue panic (because I schedule my day on my phone and have an unhealthy habit of relying on it a little too much), that's okay though because Malli plugged it into the van and the day was saved (almost). Friday is a sacred day for Muslims; sacred in a very loose sense of speaking. Holy? I'm not too sure. English fails me when I need it the most. So I spend the little time between work and getting ready in a spiral of prayers: for goodness in this world and mostly in the hereafter, for forgiveness and mercy, for my parents and my family, for my friends and loved ones, for the people I lost to get where I am and for the people I will meet in becoming who I will be. 

You might wonder why I chose to write all of this here, these details that I could easily dismiss and write away with an Instagram caption. You see, I believe in the ideology that every moment has meaning and adds up to create something significant and sacredly unique. That the answer behind most of our victories and anxieties can be found in the way our life plays out. 

The night before, I reminisce about the moments that had to happen, to lead up to the nomination. I think about the first poem I ever wrote - the memory is still crystal clear: 10, seated in the third row in the middle column of 5S, a poem about a friend (Naadhira, I wonder if you remember: it's okay if you don't, because I do and that is enough for me). Something so simple and sweet, brimming with rhymes and speaking volumes about how I was only a child. Then I think about the first fully fleshed story I wrote - 14, seated in the second row in the third column of 9C3, about a boy named Noah and his life built on lies (Saudah, you were the first to read it. Ramlah Amra, you were the first to hear the plot in its entirety. Zimla, you hold the only printed copy of it - please give it back so I can burn it). Then, I think about the first time I read one of my poems out-loud to a room full of strangers - 15, standing in the Lotus room at the American Center, trembling as I read from a page torn off a diary from 1983 (the poem was titled 'Caged'). I think about the little things in between - about Salma Minhar and how her love for writing seeped into me (Salma, you have - and will always - be an inspiration to me), about Madam Hafeeza Ghori and her tin of biscuits (Madam, I still remember how you shook my hand and said, "I hope you don't stop what you've started"), about the collateral damage of turning 16, then 17, then 18, about the books no one saw and the stories no one read, about the poem titled "burning daughter and the debris in her closet", about Ameena Hussein who told me "poetry is thrilling and meaningful, quiet but so loud when written right" (Ameena, your gentle words live in my mind to this day), about a senior who told me I could rival Shakespeare one day and said "you need to believe that you can, you know? you'll only know if you try" when I told her that was a stretch (Amina, you are one of the reasons why I tried and will continue to try).

But when the nominees were read, in the coldness of the BMICH auditorium, when my name rang unfamiliar in the large space and I was declared the winner, I thought of Mrs. Agnes Navarathnam and I thought about Naasih Nauf. My feet carried me to the stage (the fast paced walking is courtesy to Ilma's meticulous Awards' Day rehearsals) and I returned to my seat with nothing but pure static ringing in my ears. When I sat down, when Sajla held my hand with eyes full of joy, when I took a second to take it all in, I felt my heart shatter and it took the rest of the evening for me to piece it back together, one syllable at a time. 

You see, I remember people and moments far more than one would think. Every reprimand and insult lives in the back of my head like lava under a dormant volcano, yet every compliment and encouraging word lives in the barricades and I revisit them often enough for them to be permanent standees on the shrine in my head labelled "reasons to stay". Repetition creates certainty - which is also why revision cements memory. 

By nature, I'm a grateful person. I hold on to the things people have done for me, or said to me, that has helped me become a better person. And my teachers deserve the spot light today. 

Particularly: Ms. Azmiya, who told my mother she looks forward to seeing me every day. Late Mrs. Ashraff, who made me rewrite every word I misspelled. Ms. Shazna, who praised my memory work. Ms. Zainab, who recommended me a new book to read every other day. Ms. Naaziya, who taught me the difference between American and British English. Madam Amina, who believed in me from afar, who taught me how to pronounce 'competition' by making me repeat it in front of a mirror (your attention for detail has become the norm for me and I see a bit of you in me when I teach). Ms. Shamila, who would play scrabble with me on the rare occasion of a no-work day. Ms. Shahna, who was my first literature teacher, who didn't mind when I read Harry Potter in class. Mrs. Minsharf, whose staffroom I frequented for little chats about life and the arts. Ms. Hafsa, who would leave witty comments after every one of my essays (ex: 'how is he narrating this if he's dead?' - found at the bottom of a incredibly detailed essay about a dying soldier, which was written entirely in first person - present tense. One of those Najaha-est moments I cringe at, to this day). Ms. Maryam, who told me I need to figure out how to say things simply (I'm afraid I'm still terrible at that, miss. Many Apologies). 

Then there's Late Mrs. Navarathnam, who ripped the first letter I wrote during my O/L years because it was 'too descriptive', who stood beside me while I wrote my withdrawals and later returned it with full marks and a comment that reads (now in faded red), "you made me tear up. beautifully written.", who also told me I have terrible English and should 'stop writing before you give me an eyesore' in the same week, who called me up when I was on leave during a hard time and said "whatever you need, call my personal number. I will send you the work everyday, send me the answers so I know you're not missing out", who gave me a hug on the day of our results and said "I wanted you to get an A*, see this is what happens when you get absent all the time."  - the point is Mrs. Navarathnam (who we affectionately dubbed Ms. Nava) dealt her cards in a very confusing manner and I was never in her good books - she rarely ever recalled my name ( it was either "Nauf" or "Naja-girl"), but she left her mark and pushed me towards becoming who I am a little more than the others did. 

After that, there was Ms. Nandhini, who was technically my biology teacher but she was always delighted to know what I was up to and sat by me when I would cry unprecedented ( I cry when I'm exhausted and my last two years in school were beyond exhausting). Ms. Zumra, the librarian and my Islam teacher, who smiled every time I walked into the library with another title she'd not heard of and we'd spend a good few minutes conversing about new arrivals and magazines she wanted me to read (You made the library a safe haven for me and it was your recommendation - The Psychology of the Child by Jean Piaget that drove me to pursue Psychology for my higher studies). Ms. Nasika, who would allow me to type 2 am poems and speeches for recitals, and smile every time I walked in with an apologetic look and a class pass (You might not recall miss, but there was a day when you asked me if I ever considered accounting and I told you I was terrible at math. You said "then that explains the poetry" and I use it as an excuse every time I make terrible calculation errors). Ms. Farhana, who went through one of my journals and told me "you have a very bright future ahead of you", who asked me if I'd ever considered learning Tafseer ( I have, miss, and I'm taking an initiative to focus on it, and you'll always be one of the reasons why). Ms. Amana, who took me in for A/L English and kept me on my toes, who helped me during one of the most difficult times of my life and taught me an entire syllabus in the span of three months, who said "Najaha, you amaze me" and meant every word. 

There's two very special teachers who are still a very prominent part of my life: Ms. Fahema, (or Aunty Fahema, if I may), who listens with open eyes and ears every time I narrate some ridiculous Najaha-est moment to her, who reminds me that everything we set our minds on is possible if we believe in ourselves, who read my book within a day and said "there's life in this book, in the spine", who just texted me asking if I was up for a class (sorry aunty, I'm currently emotionally unavailable). Ms. Nazliya, who brought back my love for Psychology and constantly reminded me that I have potential and I shouldn't let it go to waste - who said "the book deserved the recognition" when I told her of the nomination and then "now you have to write more! no excuse!" when I won, because she knows, more than most people, just how much of a toll this book took on me. 

There's so many more people I'm indebted to, for the kind manner in which they dealt with my childish heart and dreams. 

My parents, who I cannot find the words to express my gratitude for. All I have is a prayer that Almighty Allah grants them with the highest, most prestigious ranks in Jannah, that He forgives them for their transgressions and rewards them for their patience, that He makes me a mean by which they can attain blessings in this world and the Hereafter. My maternal aunts, who are more like my own sisters, who have watched me grow from a chatty little bundle of curiosity to a witty lamppost with opinions and still stood by me with the same adoration and love they've harboured for years. May Allah bless them in abundance. Aameen. 

My external family for all their support. The cousin who gave me his copy of Village by the Sea, unaware just how much insight I'd gain from it over the years. The Square and The Mementos and The Pentagram and The Broughs (don't be alarmed, these are just the group chats my friends and I are in). The friends whose art I found comfort in. The friends who I could send passages at random, who'd send me back their honest thoughts. The friends who stood by and with me for longer than I can truly comprehend. The childhood friends who still support me from a distance. The acquaintances who walked into my life and decided to stay. The people who I've never met but have continued to support me like they've known me all my life.

I could go on, to be honest. My gratitude is boundless, my love for all of you runs deep. Above all, I'm thankful to Allah, the Almighty, who penned my life long before I was born, who breathed life into me and has given me so much to be grateful for. He is the reason I stand here, surrounded by love and support and to Him is all praise and honour. 

And now, a snippet from Slow Dancing with The Stars that I think I relate to the most, right now: 

"Is it destiny that I’m writing to you when there’s so many people I could be writing to? Maybe.  Maybe is a funny word, I’m told. A word that means neither good nor bad. A grey area to stay safely in, cocooned by your beliefs and the safety they provide.  I believe the world runs on a predestined course. That everything is happening as it must. That I am here because I was always meant to be here."

I'd also like to thank everyone who has supported my book in any way possible, be it by purchasing it, speaking about it or even sharing a post on it: it means more to me than I could ever phrase, because all I really want is for my writing to be read and understood. Your reviews and thoughts matter more than you'd think, and I hold them very dearly - there have been moments when I've cried over the gentle compliments and candid reviews because all of it feels so blissfully real when I hear from you. 

I'm not a full-time writer. In fact, I made a joke about being a quarter-time writer just yesterday- given the fact that I work part-time as a teacher, and the rest of my time is invested in studies. But the monetary support that comes from every book purchased is an incentive for me to keep writing: most of what I've earned has been donated, because my intention with this book was not to earn, but to give back. Some of the proceeds go towards the funding for my next projects. If you know my previous unpublished work, you would know how different it is to my usual style of writing. So the work that follows this will be different, but it will still be mine and I look forward to your support even then. 

Thank you, for you. For the brightness you've brought into my life, for being here as I work towards becoming a writer who is able to tell the stories of people who have lived lives larger than themselves. 

All my love, 

Najaha x

P.S. Please find herewith the links to my Goodreads Slow Dancing with The Stars on Goodreads and the Ebook on Amazon Slow Dancing with The Stars (E-Book). It would mean the world to me if you could drop a rating and a review under my Goodreads if you have read the book, if you haven't, you can either purchase the book through Amazon, The Jam Fruit Tree Bookshop or by contacting me on my socials. Thank you for supporting a local author :) 

end - 8:18pm

All our lives are brief. 

A strange sentiment to ponder on, especially considering the times we live in. But its strangeness only adds to its truth: our lives are blissfully brief. So much of what we do and say happen within the blink of an eye, and all that's left behind is regret. 

Over the past week, mama and I have been feeling under the weather. We've gone to the doctor, taken medicine, chosen to isolate ourselves at the back of our house. I've consumed more hot water and Kotthamalli in the past week than I have in the past decade. Mama's taken to resting her sore limbs. Dada and my brother don't seem to understand the paranoia. In a way, I find comfort in their optimism. They have more faith in our immune systems than we do. 

For context, in case you were worried: we're down with a viral. I had fever and chills for a day and I got over it pretty quickly, though the body ache remains. Mama experienced it slower than I did - an elongated kind of pain. Makes me wonder, about the way we tolerate pain: I need to get things over with, Mama likes to let things take their time, which if you know the two of us personally, you know is the complete opposite of how we deal with most things. 

The point of this is, our lives are brief. Short. Ephemeral. We live for no longer than we think we do. We are often what we've done, than who we are. We become stories of the past before our stories are even done. 

With the increasing cases of Covid-19 and the constant news of someone or the other passing away, I feel it's time I spoke of a few things I've been turning over and over, inside my own head. I don't know if this will make as much sense as it does in my head, but I hope you understand: 

1. I think of death very often. This, some of you already know. Anyone who has known me well has known how often my thoughts stray to that well defined corner in my mind. It's how I cope with life, most often. By dwelling on how brief life is, every moment becomes something special, something worthwhile. This way, every person I've ever met and every moment we've ever shared is eternally etched in my mind, a step closer to the end of a lifetime. I know it can sound morbid, but believe me it helps; it helps to know life will only ever be what you want it to be, and I choose for it to be a journey. I have a destination in mind and I pray what I do will be enough to get me there. 

2. When we were created, we were given the choice to exist. Every moment of our existence is the result of a choice we made. Though predestined, we've a unique life ahead of us because it's our choices that make us who we are. The Creator of the Heavens and the Earth crafted every detail in our life, perfect in every way, and gave us the choice to make what we can of this life, to be who we want to be and find who we were always meant to be. When you view life through this looking glass, it tends to seem ridiculously easy to survive. And it is, believe me, so long as you believe. 

3. Every one you love, loves you back. Every single one. I need you to understand that love is a spectrum. It's often a journey, not a destination. It's a process. It takes time, like most journeys do. Your love for others is almost always reciprocated. But, not always in the same magnitude, not always at the same frequency. The world is full of lovers. If you look and listen carefully, you'll begin to see it, in every conversation, every glance and every encounter. There is love here, for you, within you, for others and for your Creator. I hope you know you're loved. I hope you know you'll always be loved. And I hope one day, you'll be loved with the same magnitude, the same frequency, by the ones you love. 

4. Art is here to help you. Every piece of literature resonates the same ideas: You are here and I see you. The films you hold close to your heart, the characters you find comfort in; they were created to instill hope in you and you are allowed to steal the courage they give you so abundantly, for as long as you know, art is a companion, not a reverence. Art can only help you if you are willing to help yourself, and art can only show you what already exists within you. When you find yourself seeking for comfort in music, in tv shows and books, you'll often find yourself more drained than you felt before. This isn't because art is bad for you, no, everything in this world exists out of the goodness and Mercy of your Lord, but the role you let it play is what you need to be careful about. This art was created for you to remind you of your Creator. Almost always. Remember that. 

5. The world is vast and it's likely that you feel small, but if life was a Venn diagram, you're at the center of a whole lot of change. Everything you do impacts everyone around you and that's scary. But that's what makes living so worthwhile; you're more important than you can even fathom. You're the reason someone wants to live and you're the reason someone wants others to live. The good you try so desperately to increase and the bad you try so desperately to run away from have long since made you the you that you are today and nothing about your existence has ever been a coincidence. Believe in that. 

So yes, all our lives are brief. We're all heading towards death, some of us at full speed, others in a rickety car made of impossibilities; either way, we know forever is a myth. Life is dubiously miniscule, throbbing in the cavity of your chest as you read this. Grief will haunt you when your companions take the highway, loss will eat at the skin on your finger tips, most days will feel infinite. But joy exists in the crook of your mother's neck, in the callouses forming from all the phone-holding, in the fact that you and I exist in the same dimension, at the same time, and you and I are headed for something more permanent, more real than this has ever been and we're going to be okay. 

So if you're unwell, here's a prayer for wellness. If you're unvaccinated, here's a nudge towards the hope we've been bestowed with (speaking of which, please get vaccinated if and when you can; our lives might be brief but you really don't want to make it briefer than it already is. Vaccines buy you time, buy you comfort and buy you the privilege to live with your loved ones for a little longer). If you're looking for some hope, here's all the hope I can ever give you; you were meant to read this, you were destined to live. If you're grieving and lost and numb and tired and frustrated and confused and lonely and hoping against hope for something good to come out of this life, here's a reminder that
all our lives are brief. 

All my love (and then some), 

N x.

"Sometimes I think if nobody spoke to me,
I'd never speak again."
  - Radio Silence, Alice Oseman.

 10:24 pm, Song Cry - August Alsina

Trigger Warning: 
This blog post discusses anxiety and depression. If you are someone who is triggered by detailed narratives of depressive episodes and panic attacks, please click out now. This post is meant to be insightful, but it may not be the most comfortable read. 

Often, little me lived in Radio Silence. Until I learned how to make friends. But even then, the silence would drag me away and I would take my time returning. Over time, the frequency of the silences reduced, but the intensity increased ten folds. 

And it gets harder, over time, to remain silent. Because the world keeps spinning, and everyone expects you to keep going. Though sometimes, you genuinely can't find the strength to. 

So I find myself googling what it means to feel this way, to live this way. 

10 signs you have anxiety - 

the article makes my fingers itch, makes my breath hitch. I know what to expect. I've spent enough time revising notes on symptom assessment, on diagnoses, on how to spot anxiety in someone else, but never in myself. 

1. excessive worrying - 

Do I worry? I do. I worry about the places I've been to, the people I've walked over, the stories I carry. I worry about where I'm headed, about mornings, about life. I worry about overcooking an egg, I worry about eating. I worry about the weight on my shoulders, I worry about the girl in the mirror. 

But do I worry excessively? Is twenty years worth of worry excessive? What does it mean, to do anything excessively? What marks the point between just enough and far too much?

Why am I worrying about worry? 

2. difficulty sleeping - 

Sleep does not come easy - has never been easy. When was the last time I slept without finding myself in a time loop? Sleep feels a lot like drowning - like January 5th 2020 all over again, defenses down, walking into the deep end, arms wide open, and drowning. Knowing very well that you will, still wondering why you are. Gasping for air. Struggling, then staying still. Accepting that there's really no going back, that this, is the end. and the end feels an awful lot like falling asleep. Heavy Lids, Heavy Head. 

Heavy.

Sometimes, when sleep is ready to take me in, I spring awake and gasp for air. Sometimes, I dig my fingers into my palms, kick my legs against the bed frames - anything, anything to stay awake. to stay alive. 

3. fatigue - 

tired, constantly tired - so tired that when mama comes to my room and tells me, in a gentle voice, to take down the Eid deco from three weeks ago, I joke about how we should just leave it up for the next one - it's not like there's much time left between then and now. so tired that I have four different empty mugs scattered on my shelves - reminders of my inability to function. so tired that when the bedsheets slip off the bed and the pillows fall through the distance between the bed and the wall, all I can think of is how at least the mattress is still intact. so tired that my teeth have grown cold and numb, my day clothes are buried in my drawers. so tired that it feels like I've never known ease.

4. concentration issues - 

finals around the corner - a new subject every week, and every concept I had felt so fond of not too long ago now feels like indistinguishable needles being pushed into the cervices of my heart - reminding me of how much I forget, how much I struggle to remember. work is the only thing reminding me of the passage of time, I hop from Tuesday to Thursday and to Tuesday again like my week consists of nothing more than two days. My students remind me of lessons I've taught them, but I don't recall teaching them any of it. everything, including this, is a blur. 

5. irritability - 

when my brother pokes his head through the gap between the curtains, eyeing me as I stare at the ceiling, he's trying to say he's here but all I see is a reminder that I am not. I tell him to leave, throw him a scowl, get off the bed for the first time in two days to lock the door and clamber back in, heart heavy, head heavy, breath short. The sound of my mother in the kitchen makes me feel like a tree listening to machines chewing out other trees in its vicinity - I wait to be addressed, to be chewed out. always on edge. but when she comes to my room, syrup smile and heartbroken eyes, I pull the pillows over my head, shut the world and her heartbeat out, dreaming of the moment when I'll have the courage to look her in the eyes again.

6. increased heart rate -

at tea time, when I wake up to pray, my heart hammers in my ears - it begs. to be heard, to be let out. My hand rests on the cleft where this abscess of hope rattles its confines. Seated, it feels like I'm running miles into the horizon. Asleep, it plays loud like a soundtrack to my dreams. 

Alive. It is telling me I am alive. That I must survive, that it (and so much more) relies on me, to survive. 

7. sweating - 

Three in the afternoon, the cold sweat drenching my pillow is disgusting. It feels disgusting against my cheek, against my palm but it, just like all of this, is a part of me and I have learnt to let it exist. So it drips, over and into my pillow, accompanying salt laced tears and all my greatest fears. Why does my bed know more about me than you do?

8. trembling -

Over a dinner of things I can't stomach, I tell mama that surgeons have steady hands. We discuss nine year old Najaha, dreaming of slicing open bodies and hearts and minds and getting to know, truly know, what lives within. We discuss my unsteady hands. 

The way they quiver when they aren't holding something, anything- how she has not seen them still for the past month or so. How my legs don't hold me up quite the way they used to before. How my eyebrows and my smile twitch when I leave my room. How I flinch. 

The way every part of me is uncertain and on edge - the way I have lost the little balance I had always clung on to.

9. chest pain/ shortness of breath -

When the coldness of the floor soothes the tired bones on my back, the sound of my brother singing in his room reaches me. It's two in the morning - all the inhabitants of my house are awake, except I have shut myself in my room, again. 

This is when the shooting pain travels over my heart and into my throat - I am torn between gratitude and grief. My thoughts switch between 'Thank God' and 'For How Long?' - because being alive is both the greatest feeling and the deepest sorrow I have ever held. 

I try, then, to let the pain do its thing, to let it exist for as long as it would like to, to let it have its moment of glory. But pain is not humble, is not kind, is not subtle - no, pain only knows to take from the very hand that feeds it, so when I let pain seek refuge in the open casket my chest has become, it feeds off every breath, off every happy memory, off every thought and I am left staring at the vacant ceiling of my unbearably white room, foolishly hoping that the pain will leave if I let it be.

10. muscle pain/soreness -

It is when I complain of pain in my legs that my mother asks me if I'm okay. No, she asked if everything is okay. Like I am everything to her. My legs pin me to my bed, two days and two nights I struggle to walk without falling, without being gazed at like something had gone terribly wrong, like I had become something terribly wrong. The pain feels familiar and even after it fades, the ghost of it lingers in my mind and I take cautious steps to the living room where I remember the time my arm gave up on me - May 2019, when I couldn't write two lines without wincing. And I understand what all of this is - where all of this stems from, what went wrong. 

Anxiety lives within me -

 a festering reminder of incompetence and the fuel that flares up my insecurities. Some days, I live in its shadows, on others, it lives in mine. Like a distant relative outstaying their visit, growing far too comfortable in my home, anxiety takes for itself parts of me that I cannot control. Anxiety takes from me my ability to stay afloat, takes from me the need to care for myself and others, takes from me myself. But anxiety never comes alone. 

You see, anxiety follows a B1G1 policy - always bringing along depression, except I don't recall when I purchased such pain. And each time it feels different, so I can never be sure which is which. So I turn to google again, after reminding myself of Five things I can see, Four things I can feel, Three things I can hear, Two things I can smell and One thing I can taste. 

What does it mean to be depressed? 

Google lists out symptoms again, but I already know what they are. It tells me depression is constant - I know this, it's the only constancy I've known. Here's what Google doesn't tell you: 

1. Depression feels like you're drowning - like you're struggling to stay afloat in a kid's pool, like the air bags and your lungs are both useless flaps of fabric and tissue weighing you down, like everyone else is walking on solid ground and you're the only one sinking. 

2. Depression feels like you're walking backwards - like every step you take takes you a step behind, like your mother left you in the grocery line and the cashier wants to know how you're paying but you've never had a mother (so you know she'll never return) and the cashier is your brain throwing a million questions at you, knowing fully well you have no answers to give. 

3. Depression feels like you're talking to a friend - and this friend understands you well enough that they say exactly what you want to hear, but only because they want to say they tried. Because you were only ever a riddle they wanted to solve, only ever a token of their competence. So unless you want to lose this very special friend, you're going to have to suck it up and deal with it. (Depression is this friend). 

4. Depression feels like everything you've ever loved but couldn't save.

5. Depression makes you feel like you are unworthy of love, like you were never going to make it (so why try?), like every kind word you were ever told was only ever said to you because it had to be said (they were never meant for you), like every avenue you walked down (and every avenue you will ever walk down) was meant to (and will always) lead you here, like a house that no one visits because every one that has ever been in it have only ever felt at a loss. 

I know there will be people who will have questions, I know I will have to answer them someday. I know there will be people who will have solutions, I know I will try not to tell them I've tried. 

I know there will be people who will not believe me, and there will be people who will understand. There will be people who will want to know more and there will be people who will think I said too much. There will be people who will have gone through the same thing and there will be people who will never have to live this way. I know, there will be people who will expect me to tell them I will be okay and there will be people who will expect me to ask for their help. 

But people come and people go, and I will still live inside this body, with this mind, cradling my anxiety and its plus one, surviving because I must, living when I can - So thank you, I understand this has been a difficult read and thank you, even if you find it hard to believe. I could apologize but what good would that do to either of us? 

Some general realizations: 

- I've felt this way for a very, very long time but because I like burying my feelings under layers of work, I don't feel them actively; unless they blindside me. And when they do, I tend to have a hard time dealing with them. 

- I'm learning what it means to feel every feeling as they come, to not sweep them under rugs and to acknowledge their presence. This body is the only body I have, this soul is the only soul that will understand. Learning to sleep when I am sleepy, to eat when I'm hungry, to laugh and cry and dance and sing and live. I'm learning what it means to live. To be alive.

- Writing helps, so much. So does putting my work out there, to be seen, to be held. But I've let the silence and criticism of a handful of people outweigh a plethora of well wishes. I am learning to accept that my writing must be felt, that it will never be understood quite the way I intended it to be and that's okay because that's what sets my writing apart from those of the brilliant writers around me - that my writing will always be an extension of my soul; humming and alive. Still, I struggle, so if I tell you I haven't been writing, I mean to say, 'help me.'

- anxiety stems from a need for control and I'm learning to focus on what I can control rather than what is out of my control: on who I am at this very moment over who I want to be tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. 

- I keep in touch with who I can but I don't talk to many people any more. Not because I don't want to, but because of how tired living can be. I'm trying, to reach out and still protect my boundaries, to treat myself the way I like to treat the ones I love. I do what I can, to stay afloat. 

- death can be the greatest comfort when living becomes exhausting. at the end of the day, we'll all die. and that, is comforting. To know that all this pain will one day be erased and replaced with ease. I pray it will be, for myself and for those around me and for you who reads this. 

- you are never alone :) no matter what your mind may be telling you, no matter how difficult it might be to keep in touch with the people around you. Someone is always here for you, thinking of you, praying that you're okay. So am I. 

I know this doesn't answer much, but I hope this has been insightful. Radio Silence isn't a choice, sometimes, and that's okay. I've put my friends through it, and my friends have put me through it - it gets better over time. You learn to accept the silence when it comes, to live within it and to let it teach you new things about yourself, so you can grow. The silence is only here to give you a break - take it when it comes but let it go when it becomes heavy. You are okay, because you can be, so you will be - you are.

Thank you for reading. 
All my love, 

N x. 

 Here I will document everything I remember because I’m beginning to forget and forgetting is unpleasant. Forgetting is tearing me apart from the inside. Forgetting is making me feel guilty. Grief is a reflection of guilt. I am not ready to forget.

So it begins. The day. 4 in the morning. The sound of my mother in prayer. The kettle, loud. The lights in the hall, bright - if you are not awake enough, it’s as bright as day. But I’m awake. I’m awake and my eyes sting. Not because of the light. Because of a sleepless night. Why was I sleepless? God knows, I’ve forgotten. 

Then, 8am. I rouse awake to the sound of my mother, again. This time, she’s in the pantry. A familiar bag of essentials - dubbed the emergency kit. I know what’s in it- a cooler with injections / gauze for when the blood refuses to stop soiling the sheets / extra bed sheets for when the nurses glare at the stains / a t-shirt / a water bottle / a record of how much water he’s had over the months / the hospital card / the hospital book / a snack for when he feels hungry / a drink - an essential because he refuses to let them drain more of his life than he has / a box of leftovers from a dinner of pasta / පැනි පොල් - coconut pancakes / medical records - or at-least, what’s relevant in that moment / pampers / the imminent sorrow of two parents shouldered by one. 

I am half asleep. My mind is unsettled. Mama is half asleep. But for the first time in a long time, nana is well-rested. His face is strangely aglow. Eyes, watery but alive. Awake. Like he’s seeing colour for the first time. Or maybe this is just me making something out of nothing, but I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Dada stirs his tea as he watches the house come alive. The tv lights flicker in the darkness of the morning.

Here’s what I remember him wearing - a bright blue t-shirt we got him for Eid the previous year, black trousers. I remember the electric blue and black sandals I put on his feet, while complaining to mama about how they were falling apart. Mama says ‘let’s throw them away / new sandals, a good birthday gift, noh?’ We laughed. I remember laughing. Awkward, tired laughter. And him, looking like he had never heard people laughing. Never heard us laughing. Like this was the first time he was truly listening to laughter. A mock mask of a smile was on his face. A ghost of understanding. Like he was saying, ‘I don’t understand why you’re laughing but I’m happy you are because I haven’t heard you laughing in so long and I thought you forgot how to, like I have.’ His mask slips from his face. We talk about him growing smaller, weaker. His eyes sweep over the house like a camera in slow motion - like he’s taking in every detail we looked past. Like he knew he would never return. Mummy recites her daily supplications of farewell, he shrugs as she blows on him - like he knows this is more for herself than for him. I send them off - dada, mama and nana. 

9am, in pajamas, logging into a lecture. Tafsir on Surah Naas. We learn about how faith in the Almighty, is like the body of a bird - one wing of love, one wing of fear. Nothing too little, nothing too much. We learn of balance. Of how life is an amalgamation of sorrow and joy.

Then 12 in the afternoon, I’m dressed in my comfiest clothes, remains of Eid a year prior. Now that I think about it, we all wore remnants of a day of celebration that day. If only we had known what was to come, would we have? I don’t know. Dada is back home. Later than usual. I ask him what held him back - he tells me that the hospital was being unusually difficult today. Like they knew something we didn’t. 

4pm, 

I am in my room. In darkness. Because by this time around, I was more comfortable with being in the dark than surrounded by light. Dada’s phone rings and my heart rate escalates - I don’t know why. All I know is that something is wrong. It has to be. But I don’t know why. I remember breathing slower to listen in. Then I hear the rocking chair creak. I hear my father pull open the curtain on his way into his room. I hear the sound of a shirt being pulled off a hanger. I run into his room. Except I didn’t run. I walked. I crawled. I ask him what’s wrong - he looks at me like he’s wondering how I know. He tells me, ‘something is up, I’ll be back soon. Don’t tell the others.’ By others he means my brother and mummy. He fumbles with change. His face is calm but his fingers are pulsing. I know this is a sign of fear. I fear what he fears. 

6pm, my mind has driven in circles for the past two hours. I’m chasing away what-if’s, hiding from malli because I don’t want him to worry, reassuring mummy when all I want is to be reassured. Then, my phone rings. Mama. Mama is calling. I pick up. She doesn’t wait for me to speak, ‘Lanka or General?’ I’m confused. I’m confused but I also know. ‘How is he?’, ‘Bad. Bad and they want to transfer him. Lanka or General?’ ‘Lanka,’ I say, like it’s the obvious answer, ‘we’ve never been to General.’, ‘exactly. Exactly,’ mama says, like it’s obvious. It is. And it isn’t. How would we know any better? ‘Okay,’ she says, ‘okay. Lanka. We’ll go to Lanka. Tell mummy. Tell malli. Make dua.’ And before I can say anything, before I can ask anything more, the call ends. I am left seated at the sofa in the front, staring at the front door like if I stared long and hard enough they would come back home safe. All of them. Together.

6:30pm, the azan rings through the house. Static from the radio intermingles with my supplications. I am shaking in my seat but I must appear calm. Mummy is afraid but she is calm. She says, ‘it’s okay. I’m sure he’s okay. This has happened before.’ And she’s right. It has. This is almost routine. But today. Today is different. I know it is. My aunt comes downstairs, sits across from me as we break our fast. I can barely swallow a bite of my date when she asks, ‘did they call you?’ I shake my head and my eyes well up. She looks taken aback. She thinks I’m hiding something from her. Except I’m really not. I don’t know why I find myself tearing up in the bathroom. Tearing up as I wear my prayer garbs. Bawling during ruku’h. Pleading with Allah for ease, for relief from pain, for paradise - for a brother I’m so certain I will lose before the morning arrives. I don’t know what makes me cry as I resurface from sujood. My tears will not stop. It feels like the world is ending. It is ending. My brother is dying and I can feel it in my bones and my soul. Like this is the end of all I know and I will not survive this. 

8pm - mama doesn’t answer my call. Dada answers and tells me ‘we’re on the way. We’ll call once we get there.’ And I’m relived. For a split second, I can see a ward. The oxygen tank hooked. Mama beside a bed laden with white sheets. Nana, sound asleep. Dada getting them cups of tea. Them, coming home. Together. For a split second, I am relieved. 

8:30 dawns to the sound of heavy breathing because I am having an anxiety attack over unanswered telephone calls. My paranoia is reaching new heights. I see flashes of an ambulance colliding with a wall. I see nana’s eyes close. frantically I turn to texting the people closest to me. I’m asking them to reassure me but my texts read ‘I have a bad feeling/ I don’t know what’s going on/ they aren’t answering my calls, damn it/ what if something bad happened/ I hope he’s okay’. 

When the clock strikes 9, I keep calling them. Mama, then dada. Dada, then mama. Mama, dada. The lines blur. Neither answers. And then,

An answer. Dada answers. 

Silence.

Nothing.

No one speaks. Five seconds of silence. Then the line dies. I feel like I’m about to be run over by a truck but I can’t move because my feet are cemented to the road. Mummy is worried now. There is tension here. Everywhere. I tell her not to worry. I tell her to go pray. I tell her we can have dinner once she prays. I tell her I’ll call them again. They’ll answer. They will. I fall onto my bed. I turn to media surfing to ease the anxiety. But all I can think about is the five seconds of silence. Then, my phone rings. 

Mama breathes into the line. She sounds like she ran a marathon. Or like she’s been crying for the past half an hour. She says, ‘Najaha,’ and her voice. Her voice crackles. Falls. Dips. And I know. I know at this point. I sit up. I stand. ‘Ma?’ I say, I say this again. She breathes. She sniffs. I know what she’s about to tell me. I know but I don’t want to know. She says ‘nana,’ and I want her to stop but I also want to know, I want time to freeze but I also want to know. ‘Nana passed away,’ she says. She cries. She sounds like she doesn’t believe a word that leaves her mouth. I say ‘no. No no no’ and I mean to say ‘I know’, I mean to say ‘I’m sorry’, I mean to say ‘are you okay?’ But all I say is ‘no,’ like I can deny reality. Then she says ‘he’s gone. He’s gone, Najaha.’ And I’m sinking to the ground in the corridor outside my room. How did I get here? I don’t know. I’m crying. I’m saying ‘nana’ over and over like me calling him will bring him back. Like denial will bring him back. She says, ‘I’ll call you back.’ And I don’t want her to hang up but I also want to be alone. Because I am alone. My pillar of strength is gone. I have no one. I wail. It’s pathetic. It’s pathetic because I’ve known this day would come since the day I was old enough to know what death was. I knew. And still, still I didn’t want to know. I’m wailing and the sound of my wailing brings mummy and malli to me. And all I can say is nana, nana, nana like it’s the only word I know. Like they’ll understand and they do. Mummy is crying. Loud. She’s so silent usually but now, she’s loud. And it’s devastating. My heart breaks over and over for the rest of the night. Malli is yelling, ‘no’ like me. Like he doesn’t believe it. It surprises me that I do. I believe it. Because I knew. Something in me knew. 

10pm, telephone calls. Lots of telephone calls. I don’t like answering them. I call my aunts. They don’t pick up. I’m angry and tired and so grief stricken I leave them ambiguous voice mails like somehow they are to blame. I’m cleaning the house. Why? A funeral needs a clean house. Until I realize, we are in the midst of a lockdown. The chances of a funeral is slim. My brother is not coming back home. When he left that morning, he left for good. I still clean. I still hope. I still cling to the calls my mother makes. My parents don’t return from the hospital. I feel truly alone. The only comfort I know are the letters on a screen that makes me want to cry even harder. I feel alone. 

12am, we are calling up doctors at midnight because they’re threatening to burn my brother. They say ‘we can never be sure’ like a sick boy who has never left his room could somehow carry the virus. Like my brother is not human just because he’s dead. Anger. I know anger. I’m angry. But I’m also desperate. More phone calls. So. Many. Phone calls. Cups of coffee I can’t drink. A dinner I pack into the fridge though I know it will rot therein. Hugging a pillow because that is the only physical comfort I’ve known since the news of his passing - the room haunts me. 

2am, my head pounds under the weight of my grief. It feels like time is playing tricks on me. One moment I’m 4, pushing a pink wheelchair down a corridor, nana, peals of laughter. And the next I’m seated on my parent’s bed, crying because I’m afraid I won’t be able to see him for one last time. Family says the elders need to see him more than we do. What would they know of us? What would they know of him? What do they know except to speak and speak and speak of things no one but they care about? What would they know of our grief? Malli and I riot. How dare they. How dare they even suggest the idea of us foregoing our brother’s funeral. I curse the pandemic. For the first time since news broke, I curse the pandemic. I curse the lockdown, the country, the inhumane urge to demand respect where compassion is needed, the words of elders being shoved down my throat. I just want to see my brother. How dare they. Malli strokes my hair as we try to sleep. We try to put our grief to bed. We breathe. I cry. He wipes a stray tear. He stops wiping my tears when he realizes they won’t stop falling.

4am, 

I adorn a white hijab over a black abaya. What colours do you wear to a funeral that’s more or less a final visit? We drive to the masjid illuminated by street lamps. The stars are bright and terrifying in the morning sky. I am so angry at the world that I want to pull every star down and stomp on them. How dare they shine. How dare they. At the masjid, a cacophony of people. Familiar faces. Grim. A funeral. I remind myself this is the funeral of someone I know. Someone I love. The only funeral I remember is my great grandmother’s - the one where I watched them stuff cotton in her nose and wondered what would happen if she suddenly awoke. I shake that thought away. I walk past the people I know. I see my mother for the first time since 8am the previous day. I want to run to her. Run to her and hug her and cry with her. I want to scream and let her scream. I don’t do any of that. I stare at her, from a distance. We are both wearing masks but even if we weren’t, I know she wouldn’t smile at me. She looks like the world has lost all of its light. It has. It has. My aunts are talking in whispers. The female side of the masjid always makes me feel queasy, contained, so small. So small. I reach my mother and I hold her hand. Her hand feels heavy. Her smile is heavy. She looks like she wants to tell me so much but all she says is, ‘he’s gone, Najaha,’ and I want to tell her he’s in the room next door. He’s right there. That’s his face, his body, his smile. That’s him. There. Draped in white. Motionless. But it’s him. He’s right there. But I know he isn’t. Who am I kidding? He’s not there. He’ll never be there. He was never his face, his body or his smile. I step outside. Dada sees me. He holds my hand. I squeeze his in return. He says, ‘mahal,’ and his voice. His voice is soft. It has always been soft but in this moment, he’s barely audible. In the place of my father, I see the young man who stomped out of a hospital theatre 23 years ago. I see devastation. I see helplessness. And he lets go of my hand. That’s all. He doesn’t cry. His eyes are watery. His face is firm. But his hold on my hand said everything I’ve wanted to know. The birds rouse awake and sing. I hate them. I hate them so much but by God, I feel better. The sky is turning a million shades lighter. Pink. Blue. Purple. Rain clouds from last night. So much I’m forgetting. I forgot it rained. It rained so much, how could I forget? But this is what grief does. It leaves you uncertain, of the truth of things.

6am, I don’t get to see the burial. I get taken home. I comply. Somehow the anger and sadness has melted into a cesspool of exhaustion. I am exhausted. Mama steps into the house and backtracks. She breaks down. She cries. I hold her. We cry. We cry because that’s all we seem to know how to do. It’s all that seems appropriate. Nothing else would make sense. We’ve let them bury a part of our hearts six feet under ground. 

8am, 

Mama is holding his pillow. The last remains of his scent. Of his warmth. She cries, again. I’m resting my head on her lap. I’m crying, again. We cry until the exhaustion puts both of us to sleep. In my dream, I am stuck in an endless void. There is no way out. But, there is light. Somewhere. And it smells like my brother. Like his hand cream and lotion and medicine and wounds and smile and speech. My hand feels held. I dream of him holding me down, from floating further into the void. I wake up to my mother clutching my hand in hers, like she doesn’t want me gone too. 

Dua for the deceased : 

اللهُـمِّ اغْفِـرْ لَهُ وَارْحَمْـه ، وَعافِهِ وَاعْفُ عَنْـه ، وَأَكْـرِمْ نُزُلَـه ، وَوَسِّـعْ مُدْخَـلَه ، وَاغْسِلْـهُ بِالْمـاءِ وَالثَّـلْجِ وَالْبَـرَدْ ، وَنَقِّـهِ مِنَ الْخطـايا كَما نَـقّيْتَ الـثَّوْبُ الأَبْيَـضُ مِنَ الدَّنَـسْ ، وَأَبْـدِلْهُ داراً خَـيْراً مِنْ دارِه ، وَأَهْلاً خَـيْراً مِنْ أَهْلِـه ، وَزَوْجَـاً خَـيْراً مِنْ زَوْجِه، وَأَدْخِـلْهُ الْجَـنَّة ، وَأَعِـذْهُ مِنْ عَذابِ القَـبْر وَعَذابِ النّـار

'O Allah, forgive him and have mercy on him and give him strength and pardon him. Be generous to him and cause his entrance to be wide and wash him with water and snow and hail. Cleanse him of his transgressions as white cloth is cleansed of stains. Give him an abode better than his home, and a family better than his family and a wife better than his wife. Take him into Paradise and protect him from the punishment of the grave [and from the punishment of Hell-fire].'

 Hey there :) 

This has been a much anticipated post, because of its nature and because I spoke about in on IG. If you're new here, I use this blog for a little bit of everything: from opinionated pieces to reviews, from snippets of writing to personal epiphanies. So a disclaimer before we move on: everything written here is based on my opinion and careful consideration has gone into each statement written. I take full accountability for the things I say, so if you do have any concerns, feel free to reach out to me either in the comments or through social media, you know where to find me :)

Today's post is unlike any other, and by that I mean it's going to address something we have been hearing bits and pieces about, without really considering the big picture. 

Fair warning: this is not an exposé. I'm not here to throw anyone under the bus or tarnish reputations. So if you're here for the drama, I'm sorry to disappoint you.

Let's rewind, to the end of last week, when a student from my alma mater decided to speak up about some things she felt were going unaddressed, in the way she saw best fit. I was having a typical Friday morning- rolling out of bed at 11am. Classic Holiday Najaha. Except I also received a perculiar document alongside the message, 'did you see this?'

And I did, see it. Read it. I remember sitting and reading, breathlessly because someone had finally done what we had wanted to do all along: spoken up. For a few minutes after reading this particular letter, I was taken back to my last year in school and some very grueling moments. Recollections of a past I had not quite gotten over were bubbling up to the surface and for the briefest of moments, I was afraid that I would never be able to live past it all. 

And I know what you might be thinking, how dramatic? but the thing is, you wouldn't know unless you've been where we've been. In dingy sports rooms after school, holding breaths and reminding yourself that you're going to be okay. In the quiet corners of a classrooms after everyone had left, wondering why you were the only one who had to keep running through a million things all at once, wondering why people thought you had a choice in what you were doing. 

I'm not going to go into detail about what happened when I was in school, or what happened previously because I am aware now that the management has changed and a lot of things are being taken into consideration for the betterment of student wellbeing. But this letter made me wonder just how much more change do we truly need to see, in order to feel okay? 

This letter went on to being circulated widely, accompanied by a hundred different twisted versions of something far milder than many know and admit. Someone finally spoke up, so now everyone considers themselves a viable advocate to use this opportunity to say things they had always been thinking of. Which is, essentially, what I'm doing too. But there is something else we need to understand before we start blaming an entire institution for the faults of a few. 

There is a reason why certain things haven't changed even though decades have passed and many managements have come in and gone out of the school walls. In my opinion, students are often not treated as the children they are, in circumstances where they ought to be treated as children. I don't really know if that is a communal flaw or something schools in general misconceive, but a pattern I have seen while being a student and a teacher is that educators often consider children to have the same mental capacity as they do. 

Asking a child to juggle multiple things while also ensuring their grades don't slip, when little to no help is offered as additional support can cause irreversible effects in a child. The counter argument here is that 'this will be a valuable experience for your future', which is true but that doesn't make it morally correct. I have seen grown adults leave grand scale events up to children, teenagers who are barely capable of complex neural functioning, in the guise of experience and when something goes wrong, the child is easily blamed for being incompetent, like they had a choice to begin with. 

Gas-lighting is something that has prevailed in schools for years, where educators use manipulative and coercive language in order to get what they need done, well, done. This is something I have seen within the walls of Ilma and no, please don't tell me it doesn't happen just because it has never happened to you. Believe me, these issues are general and experiences of so many different individuals. 

When you treat children like you treat adults, you instill fear in them: fear of failure, fear of being taken for granted, fear of being incompetent. You give them a form of PTSD that is more severe than the ones veteran soldiers experience. When you forget they are children, you also forget that they will not be under your 'care' forever, you forget that when they step out of the walls of your institution, they harbor these fears for a long time. 

You may argue that this formula has worked for years, that so-and-so prospered, that many of our alumni have lived up to the name of our school, and that is true. So many of our alumni have reached incredible heights, but not without having to undergo years of self scrutiny and turmoil. Not without wondering why the world is so different from what the walls of our school painted for us. Not without realizing that the years they spent juggling multiple things in school, were actually years of mental and physical labour they should never have gone through to begin with. (Please keep in mind this is common in most, if not all, schools). You do not realize that one of the primary reasons as to why they persevere is because of their inner strength and need to live past the trauma and injustices they faced during one period of their life. 

This is the underlying problem we should be addressing: the expectations the school places on students, without proper backing. The constant pressure to perform well in all areas, even though no one offers the right guidance. 

TLDR: A student should be able to ask for help from a teacher, without having to question their worthiness. A student should be able to say No, without having their competence questioned. A student should be able to confide in a teacher, without the teacher holding it against the student when the student is at a vulnerable state. 

Now that we have that figured out, let's move on to a few more important things I wanted to speak about: 

1. We are currently in the midst of a global pandemic, which means schools are closed, but online schooling is still taking place. As a teacher and a student, I would like to take this time to let you know that teaching online is nearly as draining as studying online. Teachers have to prepare a lot more when teaching online than they do when they teach on-site. So please, consider this the next time you question your teachers abilities or dedication. If it isn't easy for you to sit in one place learning all day long, it's not easy for a teacher either. We're all trying to make the best out of the situation. We're all trying to help each other right now. Appreciate your teachers, kids :) right now, more than ever. 

2. Too many people are blowing this out of proportion, because of many reasons. 

i. they don't really know what happened but by word of mouth (aka instagram stories and dms), they've gathered a watered down version of what happened and are speaking about it. If you are doing this, please take time to sort through the facts before you jump into conclusions and blatantly insult/defend the school. 

ii. they have always harbored sour feelings about the school, either because of something that happened to them while they were at school or because they felt undermined. To these people, this is nothing but an opportunity to spew hatred. They don't really care about the betterment of the school or the wellbeing of the students. If you are one of the people typing profanity online to express your opinions, take a few seconds to calm down and truly consider why you're doing this. Are you really concerned about the way the school is being run or are you hoping the school reaches its downfall? Please, consider revisiting what you've said and how it can come across. 

iii. different people are allowed to have different opinions, because the world is not made of clones. We're all going to look at this from different angles, but the best thing to do would be to take some time to reflect on if this matter truly concerns you and if your opinion here is valid. If you are someone who was heavily involved in school and have faced some sort of prejudice during your tenure and you're disappointed and hurt to see that it still exists, this is me reassuring you that times have changed, even if it isn't immediately apparent. The management is no longer the same and so many things have become more standardized. This letter was only addressing a few things that still require changing. If you are someone who was not involved in school but are worried about the way things played out, I assure you there have always been ups and downs, as is the case with most schools. Your opinions are valid, as long as you aren't hurting other people in the process. Remember, your words and actions have consequences so always, always check your intentions. 

Technically speaking, when I first decided to write this post, I was fueled by anger and hurt. I was devastated to see that seemingly nothing had changed. My own biases were showing. A friend and I spent nearly an hour speaking about our experience at school and why this letter hit so close to home. But as each day passed by, I began to realize that this could go three ways: a) we could pretend it never happened and let the management come up with a solution, essentially drowning out this 'motion of awareness', b) speak about it, holding the school accountable for change while reliving past trauma and accumulating hate that need not be there or c) consider what happened as an insight into the problems at the root of our education system, discussing what needs to change while appreciating and respecting the efforts taken by this student to speak up. 

I'm aware that this isn't how most of you expected this blog post to pan out, for many reasons. You would have assumed that this would hold a biased retelling of events because of how I worded my IG stories, but months of trying to live past it all has helped bury the urge to bring it all up again. I haven't forgotten what happened, because it really isn't that easy. But I have accepted it and I am hoping to let it live in the backspace of my mind, as a reminder of what I hope to never be as an adult and as an educator. Some of you may have assumed I would bash the school, which really if you've known me for long enough, you know I never would. Ilma has done its toll on me, I can't deny that but it has also given me life-long friends, given me memories I will savour for years and taught me that in order to be my best self, I need to step out of my comfort zone. 

I didn't consider religion, or any religious aspects of school in this post because this post and the problems discussed are rather general and has little to nothing to do with Islam and more so to do with the mindsets of some people in our community :)

That being said, I hope all of you reflect on how you perceive things before you jump to conclusions and I hope all of us heal from the things we do not speak about. I hope our school prospers, because it has always been home to me and so many of my friends, and I hope you have a good week ahead. 

Thank you for reading. Stay safe!
All my love, 

N x.

Hey there :) So it appears I've a lot of time on my hands recently (or I'm completely ignoring the tottering workload from Uni and work) and I remembered quite a few people asked me for book recommendations. Now I really am no expert, considering the fact that I like reading what's familiar over what's foreign and that tends to be a specific, repetitive genre for a while until I get absolutely bored with it (keep reading and you'll get what I mean). Quarantine, however, did absolute wonders and smashed my TBR list to the ground. I can now say I've read all the books I've wanted to read for a long time and that, my friends, sparks joy. Not to worry, however, I still have a few books I'd like to read this year and I'm leaving them for after Ramadan. 
I think I've spewed enough gibberish to create a sorta standard introductory paragraph so off I go to the reviews. I'll be rating them on a 5 star basis where 1= really wish I hadn't read this one, 2 = my curiosity is satisfied but I'm still mad at most of the book, 3 = A good book with questionable content, 4 = A Great book but sth's missing, ya feel? 5 = Stop reading this review and go read this book ASAP. 



            1. The Mortal Instruments Series 4/5 (because Simon deserves better) ★★★★✩
Let's be honest: this series isn't for everyone. I am not a fan of fantasy and adventure stories don't really help my overriding anxiety so I like mellow, gripping stories? the Mortal instrument series is in no way mellow but it was gripping and it included a few things I've always been extremely fascinated by: runes and Dante's writing. If you enjoy learning grueling details about angels and demons and are fascinated with Dante's writing, Mortal instruments is slathered with gracious amounts of it, but it's not overwhelming : it's mixed in with a lot of relatable teenage anguish. Also Simon's great and deserved so much more than the half-witted storyline which I will not spoil, except you should know I would vouch for Simon any day. 



            2. Harry Potter 4/5 (because Snape was over glorified) ★★★★✩
Harry Potter was my childhood and rereading it in 2020 was a wild rollercoaster ride of the fuzziest set of emotions I've ever let myself feel. I suppose there were quite a few things about it that I questioned as a child but understand better now, almost as many things as I question now despite overlooking it as a child. I still stand firm in my love for it though, it was what made writing and reading such a thrilling experience to begin with. And yes, I don't like Snape. I don't think I'll ever understand why everyone loves him, but to each his own.


            3. Twilight 2/5 (there was little to no plot) ★★✩✩✩
Let's take a moment to process that I   picked this series up UNPROMPTED, might I add, and read the entire thing. It was an... experience to say in the least? As someone who's genuinely fascinated by Vampires as a myth, I mean I thought I would hate it a lot more than I actually do. Twilight does have some good points to it - yes, you read that right. One of which is it's no-funny-business approach to sticking to a 'somewhat' realistic portrayal of vampires. But Meyers writing,, well, that's hurdle number one: if you're not fond of repetitive description and similes that are entirely questionable, her writing may not be for you. I do genuinely think that had the plot been less cringe and more believable, the characters would have stood out more, rather than existing for the convenience of a nonsensical plot :) 
My favourite thing about this series was the unhinged manner in which Bella does things? Like she really does not have a rational bone in her body. I respect that. 



            4. The Selection Series 3/5 (I hate love triangles) ★★★✩✩
I'm a major, and I MEAN MAJOR, fan of royal fanfare. Give me books with kings and queens and knights and castles and I will devour them. Except of course no such books exist without the literal headache-inducing love triangles. Can we please, PLEASE, get rid of them already? Love triangles don't make me happy or excited, they make me anxious and I read to find PEACE. Okay sorry I might sound like a whiny child but I really don't see the need for so much heartbreak and devastation when you could just have... had an OTP that everyone ships and enjoys reading about? Was the love triangle my only pet peeve with this book? No, I actually had a lot more to complain about but it's been so long since I read the book and we're already in a second lockdown so no I'll stop here. 



            5. Six of Crows duology 5/5 (JUST READ IT ALREADY) ★★★★★
There are so many lovely things about this series that I have so much respect and love for, including the fact that a literal villain is the protagonist. It's not everyday that you see so much meaningful representation in a book and I'm not just talking about the bad guy perspective. I can't really say much about the book without inevitably spoiling it for you so I recommend you go read it to find out. Inej is my favourite character in the series and I genuinely don't think any other character compares.  


            6. Turtles All the way down 4/5 (I want more of it) ★★★★✩
I remember reading this in one go and having so many little reflections pass through my mind, realizing how everything I know and everything I love are also the things others know and love. This book widens your perspective on a lot of things but a fair warning: it isn't for the faint hearted. Because it discusses OCD in gruesome details, it's not an easy read but it's a really informative and well-rounded book that I genuinely enjoyed and recommend. 



            7. The Hurt U Give 4/5 (GIVE ME MORE) ★★★★✩
Ironically enough, the Hate U give focuses on racial injustice, police brutality and the use of free speech to raise awareness, which have all been timely to 2020's Black Lives Matter protests held globally in response to the brutality shown to George Floyd. You'll understand when you read :) 
P.s. the movie's not half as terrible as I thought it would be but I still prefer the book. 



            8. I'll give you the Sun 4/5 (My head hurt after reading this one) ★★★★✩
Firstly, I did not read a single review on this. I simply dived in based entirely on how fond I was of the title. And it did not disappoint. I was taken aback by some of the content, considering homosexuality is highlighted through the book. In a way, this book drained me. It took a lot for me to complete it and even after I did, I couldn't really piece how I felt about it. All I know is that if you enjoy first person narratives and unhinged teenage reality, you'll enjoy this one. But be warned, I wouldn't read it a second time. 




            9. Holding Up The Universe 3/5 (I kept comparing it to All The Bright Places) ★★★✩✩
For a book written by one of my favourite authors, I had high expectations and maybe, that was wrong on my part. Not saying this was a bad read: it was nice. But it didn't really make me feel very fulfilled. Eating disorders are touchy topics for many of us and fat-shaming is a problem we tend to have to deal with on a regular basis, but the way this book handled it was quite, anticlimactic? Wouldn't mind seeing a movie of it though, it might just be one of those stories better visualized than read. 



            10. The Perks of being a Wallflower 5/5 (READ. IT.) ★★★★★
Everything you have ever felt in your high school years is about to come flooding into your mind with every page you read. Epistolary novels are phenomenal, because they draw you in like no other. The mystery seeps through every page, leaving you at the edge of your seat for most, if not all, of the book. Definitely something to remember. I chose the movie based on this book for an assignment at Uni and it wasn't as overwhelming as the book, but it was a nice watch.



            11. Wonder 5/5 (Innocence was portrayed so beautifully) ★★★★★
I had seen and heard of this book for years before I finally sat down to read it and everything in it hit me like a bullet from every angle. Coming from a family where disability is perceived to be 'normal', I related to the characters in Wonder far more than I can truly iterate. If anything, I didn't want to stop reading. It's bitter-sweet and beautiful. 



12. Throne of Glass 3/5 (I didn't feel very engaged?) ★★★✩✩
I've been asked to read this book by three of my closest friends who are all equally obsessed with the series and I was always afraid I wouldn't like it as much as they do. and what do you know, I was right. I didn't enjoy reading this as much as I would have liked to but it was a good read. I love everything about the royalty described and the idea of a female assassin reigning, but it wasn't something I felt much reading. 



BONUS: Radio Silence (an interesting perspective and some really great characters) ★★★★★
Where friendship and family were more important than grades and love. I can't say much without ruining the experience for you, but do expect some simple twists and a beautifully heartbreaking family.
Update from future me: I'm back to the torturous cycle of work-uni-sleep-work-uni-sleep and I miss reading a whole lot. I did read a lot after Ramadhan and I decided to add them below as well, following the same star-rating method because why not. 



            13. This is Where it ends (Crafted so well it genuinely hurt to finish this book)  ★★★★★
School shooting and violence are topics that can be triggering to many so I'd advice you against reading this if you're faint-hearted. The truth is brutally portrayed in this multi-perspective story where you don't really know much until the very end. Gripping and painful, I would definitely reread it when I get the chance to. 



            14. Eleanor and Park ( What was the point of this book?) ★✩✩✩✩
Initially, I had high hopes for this book because it began with an interesting perspective. But the more I read, the more I realized the author had relied entirely on stereotypes to portray her characters, rather than trying to be original and destigmatizing in any way. It was disappointing, to watch some good writing describe extremely overplayed roles. 



            15. Refuge (Crushing, beautiful and enough to keep you going) ★★★★★
The last book I read was Refuge, by Sajla Anees who is an absolute blessing. Reading Refuge was experiencing war through the eyes of one of the most humane characters. Noora's hope, despite everything happening, was a grueling reminder of how little gratitude we hold for the abundance we are blessed with. There is so much we don't know about the world, but it is books like these that serve as a reminder that Allah is with us, even when the world isn't. 
That's about it for now :) I've received a lovely long list of book recommendations from the lovely folks on Instagram so maybe I'll comeback with a part two of reviews in 2021. 
Stay safe and Stay blessed!-N

1:15pm, 20th April 2020 // edited: 7:20pm, 20th May 2020
Currently playing: Enti Malak, Muhammad Al Omary

Hey there :) I took some much needed time off for no particular reason but I'm back and I hope my stay is longer than it was before. You might have noticed that the blog's gone through a bit of a makeover: the pink was growing very 2019 at a point so i switched it up with some lovely bright hues.

If you've known me for the past 4-5 years, you'd know I like journaling. I like plastering notebooks with all sorts of nonsense. It's both therapeutic and aesthetically pleasing. It's also a great way to gain control of something in your life with very little to lose. Additionally, maintaining a journal is a great way to de-clutter the absolute gibberish your mind spews sometimes. I could talk about this for days but most of you know this already. That's the strange thing about journaling, you already know what's supposed to be done but most often I've heard my own friends ask me just how it's done.

Firstly, take out a sledgehammer and destroy the idea of uniformity and order. Just kidding, Please don't go looking for sledgehammers in this lovely time of social distancing. Instead, understand that there's no clear cut way to keeping a journal. They are, quite possibly, the most customizable form of therapy, in my opinion.

It's a bit like wand-magic, really. 'the wand chooses the wizard', if you know? Olivander was not fooling around with that statement. But Harry Potter aside, Your existing talents/passions choose what kind of journal you'll end up maintaining.

With me, it's a bit of everything. I recall one of my teachers calling me a Jack of all trades. Now that's a rather pleasant phrase, almost a compliment, if you ignore the latter clause 'Master of none.'

There's an incredible variety of journals you can find online or create yourself (like I did). We're all, I believe, familiar with bullet journals. Bullet Journals are a planner of sorts with a chronological order and to-do lists where best fit, a bit of a productivity tracker, if you ask me. Art journals are by far the most difficult to maintain, considering the existence of Art-block. Similar are the Writer's Journals.

Here's a more detailed look into what each type of journal does/can help you accomplish:

1. Bullet Journal
 Like I mentioned previously, they're a planner of sorts. I used to have one when I was in school (you school-goers really REALLY need this) and it might as well have been my saving grace. It helps you document things accordingly. Checklists are a essential part of bullet journaling- the word 'bullet' here means 'bulletin points' not the Bam!Crash!Kill! bullets. You can eye your way through it, honestly. Mine usually contained a spread of the entire year in view so I could colour-in important dates and give myself a headsup about deadlines. Sometimes I'd forget to fill days in and honestly, it's no big deal. Sure, it might seem a little nerve-wrecking but the point of keeping a bullet journal (according to me) is to help you think and plan ahead. It's not necessarily something you need to be completely invested in accomplishing every task for each day, rather it's a process: you kinda get better at it the more you use it. Do: Make checklists (they help you gain control of what's to be done and give you a clear idea of the order in which you're supposed to be doing said thing)
Don't: Cram your day with tasks you KNOW you won't be able to get done. For example, logically we all know we don't wake up bright and early on the weekends so do NOT schedule something important in the early hours of a Saturday unless it's something you have no control over. Honestly, give yourself a break. 
2. Art JournalA lot of my friends are extremely artistic (say Masha Allah, y'all) and they like documenting their art. I am not an artist per se: I mean, I like to draw but it's mostly doodles. So keeping an art journal helps me get an idea of exactly what kind of art I 'can' draw. It's a place to practise your skills, polish your aesthetics and just have a gala time while you're at it. 
Do: Paste pictures that inspire you. Magazine cut-outs and printed pictures are a great way to spazz up your art journal while simultaneously inspiring you to create your own art. Artists have moodboards and colour-schemes they're partial to and mostly, these are documented in Art journals so they can keep track of their work. But this doesn't mean art journals are just for artists: it could literally be your way of figuring out your aesthetic and the kind of vibe you have going for you. For instance, I maybe complete trash in most, if not all, art but I do like painting and using a multitude of washi tape to keep things colourful. 
Don't: Look for routine. Looking for routine in an art journal is as pointless as making laminated signs for a parade about climate change and anti-pollution. It doesn't help anyone. Art journals are a means of recording and understanding where your strengths and weaknesses lie and it is completely okay to have nothing figured out by the end of it. It's the process that counts, as with many things. Art is diverse, different, ever-changing. You can't expect to find an art-style when you're changing so much every few days: art journals help you progress, they do not instill routine or art just becomes very, very boring. 
3. Junk JournalsNow I'm not saying you should dig through your dustbins and paste every bit of debris in a notebook. Junk journals have a strange enticement of their own. I'm sure all of you have heard of the extremely humane phrase, 'one man's trash is another man's treasure' (is that how it even goes?) and this is where it applies. People tend to throw away very reusable things on an everyday basis. Like the absolutely gorgeous pink pouch a silver ring comes in. Or the gaudy looking silver foil beneath a candy wrapper. By maintaining a junk journal, you help de-clutter the environment while also having some seriously beautiful journal pages. Think of it this way, it's like a scrapbook full of mementos. I don't own a junk journal of my own but I do use a lot of things other people would consider 'junk' in my other journals. Like candy wrappers and discarded fabric. They make some interesting spreads actually. 
Do: look for things that have little to no use in everyday situations but would look pretty on paper. Candy wrappers (wow, I've mentioned them like three times now, take the hint!) are really lovely and colourful, it's honestly a waste that all people can think of is the candy within. They're discarded almost instantly and (most often) not in the most appropriate manners (people who throw wrappers on the floor and not in their designated bin, I'm watching you). Just wipe them clean, wash them if you need to and stick 'em in a book. it's as simple as that. 
Don't: Paste literal junk. Please, for the LOVE OF ALL THINGS HEAVENLY, do NOT paste grimy things in your journals. The pages stick and there'll be an awful smell and you'll have your pages rotting before you can even take a passable picture. Am I saying this out of experience? No. But do I want to try this? also No because ew. 
4. Thought journals (Writer's Journal)Ah, now this one's pretty self-explanatory, isn't it? We all have thoughts and sometimes, flipping through those thoughts can be as exhausting as running up four flights of stairs. Most thoughts, especially when they're about yourself, can be negative. And I'm not saying that's unnatural, actually it's more natural than you'd think BUT like i mentioned, it can be extremely exhausting to have to fight these thoughts. A trick I learnt from someone I once knew is to document these thoughts. See when you put them on paper, you give them a shape, a form. Something you can hold on to and do as you please. While mostly it sounds insane to want to document the thoughts you have, it helps you understand yourself over a period of time. There's a certain kind of satisfaction you can only gain from understanding yourself and thought journals help you achieve that pretty easily. The idea behind this is that when you speak to someone else about the thoughts you have or you try and make sense of them with someone else, even if they're your closest kith/kin, you tend to filter the thoughts. You paint a better picture than the one you've been seeing. It's mostly unconscious but it takes a conscious effort. Society has its claws deep in our minds so even our thoughts can be manipulated to cater to what's considered 'appropriate'. By writing down these thoughts, in a book or scraps of paper, you document them for yourself alone. If you're afraid that people will find the book, here's an easy trick I used: burn them. I mean, they're your thoughts and no one else needs to know them but if they're not doing you good by existing, you might as well get rid of them (at least that's what I believe (: ) 
Do: document your thoughts in the way you see fit. You don't have to write them as plain as they come. you can be cryptic. You can turn it into a conversation. You can be as innovative as you want to be. It's your thoughts. Do with them what you please but do not let them govern you because you're the one in possession of them, they don't own you. 
Don't: expect anything out of it. See most people believe simply writing your thoughts down can relieve you of them but I don't think that's a) a very practical way of thinking and b) possible. We tend to expect something from the things we do and the people we help very unconsciously sometimes. With a thought journal, you gain only as much as you give. You cannot expect to be completely rid of what's bothering you once you've documented it: it might even be worse for some of you. But that does not mean you stop. It's a way to keep track of your thoughts, not a way to manhandle them. You'll notice, over a period of time and thought documentation that, the thoughts aren't always negative. No, sometimes you'll find a patch of yellow in the murky black. Or a bit of green on a barren land. It'll help you understand that progress was never meant to be linear.
Now there's so many different types of journals, honestly but this post is getting a bit wordy and it's currently a little too late in the night for me to see clearly so maybe I'll do a part two someday in sha Allah :) let me know what you think.
Stay Safe!-N