Sweating comfort!

 

10th of June’17

Hotness: 42 degrees Celsius, Feel like: 47 degrees.

‘Oh my!’ I screamed out. ‘Do you still want me to go shopping with you?’ I almost roared on my sister, though she was get-set-go-ready to pull on her chaadar, at my little sign of affirmation—only if I nod, within less than a flash of eyes.

‘What’s so wrong?’ she argued. ‘After iftaar, it will be an over spilling out flock in the markets; however, it is the calm time, for shopping.’ she extended her explanation, as if I were new here—at my dwelling, though she actually arrived here a day before—at her meka.

‘Meet this scorching sun,’ I parted the joint-curtains across the windows to prove her: my excuse. ‘My complexion will be burnt out, you witnessed in me, a little improvement at home.’ I preferred mentioning her my point of negation. ‘Fairness creams are just not more than addiction—you leave only, when pocket pulls out its tongue: mocks at you.

‘Tell me, when then?’ she stuck on the same question while she fed her 6 yrs. girl—she  had thin sparkling eyes, deep black, blurted upon me; her mother: my sister was inserting in her mouth, the big and round sized loaves, in haste.

While collecting my unfolded clothes, out of the dump of miscellaneous other clothes, maasi threw on my bed before an hour ago. I said, ‘Till 5. By then, the anguished sun would be shredded into weak mother-in-law—when she, the mother-in-law settles low, knowing the arrival time of her son, in the evening’ and I smiled in myself, knowing that she would be, now agreed—sooner, or more.

‘Hmm. But keep your words,’ she had experienced my excuse-proof reasons, when she bent on moving out in the sun light and I kind of lazy-home-witch, bent on slithering inside the home: fitting in any best excuse—when she sought herself better alone for shopping.

‘Achaa naa! theek hy.’ I tried to sound firm—and obedient, but my “adaa” sneaked away my head, making me laugh—actually I’m not always a dig-drown-insider, but gradual mood swings lead me so…

‘Shumaila! Do fetch those clothes from balcony, they must be dry now,’ a voice, hit my ears—undeniable source of activation: Ammi’s sound from kitchen.

‘Haan, achaa-ok, fine’ I muttered with careless disposition. ‘Anything else?’ I asked with creased forehead, a smirk set on my thin lips. Sometimes I deliberated questions like these, to pretend myself under predominant set of motherly instructions.

‘It already seems a burden on your fat-soul,’ and she carried on with cooking. She knew my temperament, and she had domestic vocabulary for it too. Never mind, I fancied this way.

I kind of pulled my face, zipped my lips—from unnecessary arguments, went to the balcony.

Screeching light and shelling hotness welcomed me; my eyes were burning, and shut, took couple of minutes when I was able to stretch my eyes. Torturing heat was dominantly ruling the atmosphere; melon-pale color, bathed everything under its tyranny. No cars leaping back and forth—running on the ditched-itched road, no wild cats or dogs outside—though a black n white cat, stays as a non-paying guest in my home—for none, has the courage in exiling out a “bey-zuban jaanwar i.e. a speechless creature”—and, I am perfectly not fit for petting bey-zubans at my home.  Desertness all over, could be sensed: in fact, I felt how right I was to decide to not going out. Ahh! I feel if it this much here, what it could be when we would be replicating our trips to more than two times on a single shop? Think! I had a mercy on me.

Thakk…Thakk…Thakk… a voice shared my concentration, I dropped thinking of my successful excuses. The voice continued its echo, an unpleasant chattering into my ears. A mode under the strongest poignancy, against the super star: the sun, diverted entirely to the voice. I saw three men: labors sobbing under the bare-sky roof (under construction), where nakedness of dominant-heat, was merciless even under the roofs. How could they make it to stand, under a laborious job? Two of them were hammerers—who were continuously torturing the iron rods, against their lengths; third person, looked a feeble aged man: white chest-length beard, a rough turban over his head—seemed undisturbed in lifting up the cement bricks from a shady room to the center either making an arrangement of bricks, or having a count on them.

I wondered at their torture, against their lives—more than the beaten rods and weighing bricks, it was a wholly suicidal situation—where no strap was opted to entangle a soul, a person like me can withstand easily My perspectives are a birth, under a roof, with just small no. of bubbles on my forehead—will be soaked under a fan—caressed under any skin condensing technology. I am shielded under shade, I best afforded myself, at this point of time. I shuddered my pitiless thoughts. Let’s not forget where I stand, is what I truly belong to—and not think across my zone: comfortable excuse. Do not host any empathy, at the cost of your own peace. And, I felt rescued again.

I had already swept off the dried clothes from the rope, till it attained a mountainous height: clenched under my chin. What if I fell upon, with my nose tossed above? Ahh! An excuse for the next time. Lol. Clothes weighed down my curl-cuffed arms, however, what I could see next weighed my heart dropping to the inches into my ribs.

A giant, shaved man in supreme crispy salwar and qameez, walked in slowly, but marginally—allowing his thighs at a distance, owing space to overgrown stomach, as in progressed months of pregnancy, a mother comes up.  He showed up himself, on the under-construction roof where three lung-peering labors, were indulged in completion of their tasks before the dusk—perhaps, the on-wage handovers.

I did not understand my point of staying there, glued feet and bewildered eyes meeting the broadcast under pure merciless Sun. The crisp-shirt man, went closer to the old man in turban and began shouting, though his words were apart from audibility: a loud chaos was heard—his voice had a gravy pitch, one could not distinguish his words, but his volume could easily befall on ears. Moreover, his hands pointed towards the rods; perhaps he was concerned about the length of the rods—he was anguished under the court of heat waves. He took minutes in melting down over the labors, with his flow of compressing tone, but did not seem condensed even after. During his conversation, turban man kept soaking his forehead and face and neck from the wet beads of water; and readjusted his turban.  He barely pressed his tongue to deliver a word, against the greed of embarrassment.

Ten minutes later…

‘Shaista! Where you are left?’ a command poisoned my hearing sense, and I was compelled to motion myself right to the takhat i.e. a large trunk to throw down the clothes. Releasing the cluster off my arms, I realized a tensed wave of hot air inside. But that existing summer heat, was incapable to have me, restoring my footmarks back to balcony.

‘Haan, yes m done,’ without letting myself know what the sound actually demanded, to making a call. I was back to attend where I left. The old  man was alone, who I saw, had curtained his face with his bony-brailed palms, quiet and sustained in his posture, he removed his hands and cried upon wiping off his face—merely tears and sweat—his hiccups were failed to disguise him, in a mourning-pink complexion. He saw towards the sky with streaming tears down his eyes—seemed as he was submitting himself to Him: the One who is beyond seven skies and the closest, farther of  jugular vein—he might be complaining his Creator for being a listener under the earthy lords. What happened in the instant? Where had the two other labors gone? The master have taken them? But why he was left, and pouring himself into broken and split tears under the overgrown afternoon. I saw him, as he was searching something, he grabbed a cloth-shopper under his armpit, maintained his turban, and went away. Down, at the rusty door, his two other workmates called him out, and having him, they went away.

My heart exhaling the pain, testified the tears from the eyes of an old man—his continuous mopping of tears; I remained immovable for minutes. The less fighting courage, in his silence was a heart ditching paranoia; if only humanly soul understands. My voice strangled under my throat, was unable to cope my feelings for him. I felt cruelty of being a spectator, when I had no ear to listen to him, before his tears melt him further. What was there to comfort him? Comfort from the harshness of his lord?

I was sweating, from my hair roots to heels; I can feel my body pouring out the salty condensation, but it remained unnoticed. A small water cloud faded my sights: my eyes flickered upon dropping a continued bead of tears. Standing under the shade, does not make me stop from sweating, I still get the semblance of heat. All hailing excuses, retrieved my state of comfort, but what if I still perspire?  I am unable to secure myself, under the name of “comfort”; there is no comfort when it comes to the harshening of dominance. Old-turban man, did he not think of securing himself? People struggling under-no-weather-priorities, have a life: a painful awakening life, where fueling the stomach, is the least comfort, one could bring at the end of the day. I wiped off my tears.

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

‘Uhm Uhm…Let’s move for your shopping.’ I gargled and spoke with a thoughtful clearance in my tone. I could feel my sister’s gazes on me, she must be thinking of my temporary-mind-make up. Nevertheless, it was me, who actually preferred to sweat. Tapping my hands over the face, I said ‘I am going to splash some water, you get ready.’

 

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The Last Queen (Review)

 

Theme: A lifelong battleship of a heiress of Spain: the last queen of Spain, Juana [Classical fiction]

Development of my thoughts…

The best time to review a novel, is immediately after you have met through the last bytes; to comprise less with the memory-pitfalls. When I perceive anything worth-sharing, I feel enthusiastically responsible to bring justice, while pouring on the readers with a careful selection of my words and truthful perspectives.

Taking this book in my hands, was not the first time to have a classical read; the first classical book “The Bruar’s Rest”, had to be slipped away from my hands, due to official clearance formality—I regretted not reading it.  Although reading a novel, translating hundreds of centuries ago into a fictional language, may seem a tiresome experience, however, I found it breathtaking from the starting till the end.

It took six sweating years of researches and consecutive edits, when the novelist, C. W. Gortner executed this embroidered piece of history with the gap-filling fiction—mainly because the evidences lacked some necessary portions of real-tale.

Frankly speaking, this novel serves as a treasure, to history-lovers; secondly, the stiffed-vocabs abundantly appear on each page, are distracters or tended to distract me—you may disagree, but I have a genuine point. Nevertheless, the flow of the novel, speaks categorically about the bejeweled arts of love, trust, betray, battle, throne, relations, distances, imprisonments, alliances and governance, centuries ago.

A crown on the head, of the true heiress as a queen of Castilian, Spain: was a matter behind love between a loyal wife to his betraying husband, from an obedient daughter to her ruling mother, from a trust-blinded daughter to his unfaithful—advantage seeking, father. Later her son, disregards her behests and left her to continue her imprisonment on her birth soil. All in all, it’s a heart-drenching tale, one must read.

Lessons I encountered:

There were important chunks of lessons, I feel useful to share:

  1. The life of royal people, is a continuous battle— designing tactics to entangle the deserving ones.
  2. A woman as a queen, is a woman first: with instinct spiritually loyal towards her husband, family and land.
  3. When it comes to power, none cares for any other. A father imprisoned his daughter for believing in him; a husband in crushing her blind trust beneath his quest of crown.

 

Post Script:

I review any novel, and claim its perspectives according to my fairly-supporting gumption. There can be many other ideas, I left out; but, as I said memory-picks must be a priority. The gist of “lessons” is argumentative, just because I derived them from the novel, and I don’t feel responsibility to any disagreement.

 

Karachi you’re killing me! (A reader’s glance)

The online-book venturing makes it strangely easier to choose a book for reading, due to immediate reviews—I have a seldom tendency relying on , though I perceive my own conclusions. I am quite used to of online book-fetchers, to get the books laid at my home; yes, I am so relaxation-addicted person. For years, I have been stocking the books, before finishing up with the previous ones. I usually do not pay the wallet-emptying amount for purchasing, never ever: I use pirated books. I adhere, a minimum bucks that have the affordability of carrying maximum range of books, is a true love for me; you may differ and I care mine only :P. By now I am a tempted person, who sees the books with dacoit- eyes; I am satisfied until I have satiated my shelf, however, my mother is the mostly irritated being—seeing her shelf’s lessening compartments. Pirated quality had been my first choice of purchasing: obviously what do I have to do with original quality—the only perception in my mind about originality that prolonged.

However there came a day, when an anonymous’ written-chunk transformed my price-preference. It implied as: “You never pay the price of a book, in terms of return to the turmoil behind each word, each idea, the edition, the plot, the misery pertaining to mental blockages; and the hardships of running after agents and publication houses. You will never see the sweating series of utmost commitment and devotion, the mourning and crying calamities. On the squeeze—as a gist, you just pay for the quality of paper and the publication house—in case the authorship belongs to a newbie.”

It hit me more than being a reader—who I do have a business most probably. A writer in me, tended to judge the cost of a book, when clinched a book in my hands. The book since then, felt heavier irrespective of its physical mass. For the first time, I realized why books worth more than just books, declaring piracy is a crime. Hey! Don’t take me wrong, m not a person carrying tedious lectures against piracy or free eBooks, in my pocket.

Instead of cooking up your brain more, let me tell you that I found and ordered the book “Karachi you’re killing me”. The prominent attractions were: Karachi, my city; a new author, wo bhi Pakistani; and what does she state inside the book—favor or against.

Initial sights of the book…

And I confronted this book, “Karachi you’re killing me”, with a cover having a pistol-palm and random funky-red lipsticks flowing up, yes! You heard me right, flowing up to the sky having an upside down building.

An indian publication house’s name, took me to expect anti-Pak material inside the book.

“Why only Karachi? And why is it killing her?” may be its not. Maybe be she is taking up the credit of speaking “killing darlings” of Karachi. You never know what inside is written, until you stop judging a book cover.

You must be imagining, why I din’t waste my time, in reading the backdrop: the synopsis, oh yeah! I did it too, and it reflected the same.

Inside the book…

My journey to land and stay in a book, is boosted from initial fifty pages; yeah, otherwise I either jump, or crawl, or sometimes skip. Mmm yes! Leaving the book is anyhow, not right; I regret doing in the past. And yeah, I am a bookaholic-shopaholic-homeholic-readaholic person now, and this I really mean it.

Khair! The prominent features of the book, I found and want to share are:

  1. The craze of alcoholic-journalism

You must be feeling weird right now, if not! I did though,  I liberated my weird thoughts to flutter away and never show me the face, until I am done.

Saba’s leading girl, Ayesha has been shown as a devoted journalist who has a kind of endeavor insanity towards her profession. She doesn’t see the light of the sun turning to the light of the savor; and she holds her mind in abiding by Kamran—her boss to the newspaper and both hands in liquor.

I personally noticed that “Asians” specifically highlights “Alcohol” as one important asset of their character. Maybe it’s not in the exasperating life. The terms used for alcohols, indeed raised my knowledge especially when a simple middle-class could only read- to-drink. We have no dance bars around usually, but the prolific numbers out there, in posh areas.

I have read a great no. of novelists and local-alcoholic-bloggers, won’t name anyone; but there was no show-off content-features of branded or unbranded mighty alcohols.

  1. The sexual-dating process…

A severe desperation, is found in the girl-journalist. And more and more is provoked by her friend-type-lmao girl, Zara. This is again as an Asian-style-desperation towards modernization.

Seeing every second guy, there was a lust and temptations boiling up issues.

Reading to the foreigners, takes me not to think about their ritual more n more. It’s just their part of hangout. I did not feel the energizing doze, ever instead when they spoke about intense love.

  1. A hustle-bustle encore of relations…

A point which stirs me and every young soul, is the dilemma. Truly, a dilemma! When we call a word “friend” to any face, we meet and keep no insignificance, to who genuinely a “friend” is…

A number of great many popular movies and series, speak about the love-hidden-behind-true-friendship, which reveals after number of incidental parts. Well, it’s a never-flop-plot in every era  😛 –people die unknowingly on their criminal part of scrutinizing the new-born doubts of love among their friends.

On the serious note, yeah m serious at times too   😛 . The silently crushed feelings beneath respecting the care of the beloved ones, is an utmost sacrificial and it takes longer.

I find that saying “friend” every time doesn’t make you a friend, some feelings need a great deal of distinguishable clarity.

  1. Exceptional metaphoric tone…

Yeah, it happens to be a writer’s part, plotted secretly to sink down the readers.  And keep them swimming until they meet the shore.

I was deeply immersed into the interactive trifle of delicious metaphors, she has co-linked her relative observations and experiences. It is the ferociously greatest part of the novel.

Writers like me, can learn how to adopt the beauty of adding likewise incidents.

  1. Bold slangy voice…

Like many disagreeing points, I won’t feel new or strange to read “English slangs” as a part of writing their usual-speech-stuff. We too adhere in practicing more or less; as Asians. But Romanizing the “urdu slangs” into literature, has created a non-domestic part in her writing.

It amazed me several times.

No. it doesn’t pertain to enjoying such things. But I feel the boldness that encompasses over the heads, with in complying needs of domestic spoken-language.

  1. Sarcastic Humor…

This part speaks a lot. From a common man to a high-profile celebrity, her tone remained sarcastic—disguised in comedy, which made me laugh at times, reading while walking in silence. She did it properly, when one feels the hindrance of shooting right on the forehead, with no risk of regretting the shot.

 

  After words…

As I mentioned, initial fifty pages tries on my patience level.  In this book, the fifty plus pages challenged my genre of reading. But I kept reading foremost, due to the frankly-dramatized tone of Saba Imtiaz. Her words never allowed me to think of daring to shut the book off. Her interaction to Karachi’s environment is deeply submissive. There is a buzz of calamities each after one; she reflected many truths in her sarcastic comedy.

Her daring to speak through her puppet-characterizations, suffices the prolonged –haste of truth. I recommend it to the people, with a dare to bare the extra peculiar tone of Saba Imtiaz.

 

 

 

 

What blocks me is, the fearless fear ~ time to rethink!

What do you always read about Block or Blockage every single time?

What is it?

A ghost?

A nightmare?

A hindrance that drives you away… farther from your goals?

Is that what hinders the progression of my plans turning to the practicality?

I have read almost dozens of dozen posts, comprised of Writer’s Block: the kinds of blocks, escaping routes and ways to minimize its effects. But they all did something very evil i.e. they created a negative impact, out of the whole shell. Now, you would be thinking that I am putting my ink, in sailing the writers’ ship to the coast. No, it’s not.

Sometimes we all are kind of uttered, nerdy—pertaining to creativity. Isn’t it? We all get stuck to a point, where we feel: hammering the nail into the head, can only give us the right solution.  But it’s not correct! It is even not progressive, when you stress over and over again, as a shuttered-obligation. We all possess the capacity to respond, which our purpose asks for. We never pay back to our imaginative quality, the best we could—we always stand a step behind. But this is not something to curse… it’s all natural.

On the contrary, sometimes we are blessed to have, way more tremendous ideas and implications, which we had not been able to imagine, at the first place. Things do behave in a U-turn, showing the different path of what you have anticipated and struggled for.

This is actually diversity, and it leads to transformation.

I candidly state that a block, does not block you or me, it’s the fear that frightens us!

Witnessing a road barrier in your path, you are going to lift it up?  It sounds foolish.

Or

You are going to stay still, till someone gets merciful on you? My answer is: You have to have mercy on yourself. Right!

Or

A reverse gear? Not a fruitful idea.

That’s what my point is…

Blockage is our own birth of fear that stays restless inside us.

Change the side of blockage. Take it positive even when it hurdles in your way, seemingly stop you. The second side speaks of exploring other ways, which you call alternate options. Be adaptable and flexible to the challenging options.

See things can’t be productive on the conventional smooth roadway, driven by a decent driver, all the way long to its destiny. Not every way is even, smooth and straight. The skill of a driver is measured on the diversifying nature of handling.

We do call God-gifted skill has the form of unassembled, continuous revelation. We being humans: sort, and assemble the revelation, and then modify.

Sometimes literary meanings have such a powerful impact on lives that we often forget the true essence of perspective, it takes in itself.

Simply saying: Block is not any stop sign. Instead, you are suggested to take alternate: much focused and modified. Consequently, you are way more variant to enhance quality and productivity.

We are well familiar with a word “Rejection”, we have often dealt with. Many of us, feel the blocking as another name for rejection, from our own inner brain-nerves. But a coin even possess the two faces. I suggest negativity, actually redirects.

I personally toss this word, to see its positive side i.e. acceptance.

I would like to share my theory in this regard:

“I love being blocked or rejected, because it works like a catalyst that regenerates my passion beyond my limits (fears).”

A fear that chooses to frighten us, asks the bravery from us.

And so, a block asks to get yourself free from trivial journeys/techniques.

Letters in her letter!

   Again she half shut the door, again boiling up my agression inside me; again crushing my honor under her feet. She continued to practice, at mightnight, having spied, me and our son asleep. She hid a box, excusing through  the breadth of her dupatta and left the bed-cover in the fine crease; as she was never with me: being with me.
For several nights, she has withdrawn herself,  silently moving  out my life. I never had the courage to assasinate my trust: to doubt her character.
She used to sit with a sleek-aluminium box, in the study room, with a low watt  lamp on. She never saw me chase her. She used to pick to read from a folded paper: letters. Sometimes she smiled reading it; other time she seemed worried; then I saw a mischievious silent-laugh, which she managed to keep herself.

‘To whom she is reading?’ was the question that escalated my eruption. She needs to leave me n my son, if she has something to cook inside her head…I won’t let her assassinate our relation, with her knife. I cannot tolerate this more.
Each passing day, I became harsh and rude on her. I began hating her; I wanted  to reveal it anyway. However, she had questions, which gobbled my soul, I was unable to meet them, as a noble person. I had nothing left, for her.

A day, let me an excuse to disclose what made my life worsen. I found her gone to the market. I don’t want to lose the chance and hastily I entered the study room, and found the box, right besides the books. I did not found any secrecy there, and immediately grabbed it. I sat down, crossed my legs on the floor, with the heart to farewell my betraying better-half.

Inside it, there were number of letters… and I tesfified all papers as love letters–it made me feel ashamed: greatly ashamed of being an honorless man, an unawared and opportunity-giver.

I opened the top most letter: a reckless writing on a pink, single-lined paper. The volcano that shook me, for the no. of nights, began cracking me down to tears. I managed to absorb my tears, with a hand on my face to soak the tears.                        

Each letter brought tides of regretion…the last letter completely shatterd me, a different writing from the previous ones. It said: 

My love Sarfaraz,

I kept all your letters safely, to remind me the love, you had for me once. Your husbandship is a practical approach, where you lost all emotions, the ability to read my emotions… and I too was afraid to remind you: our love. I tried to rewake our love in you, but your each screech, held me back, to abide by your each word. 

I found peace in your letters; I relive the life, we lagged behind. Sitting besides you, makes me feel a faithful wife, but not a woman who got her desired man. I hope to share your words some day, with you.
Your wife, 

Eiliya Sarfaraz

Personalization speaks to the peak!

 

“Although she is running a successful business, but she still possess the potency, to bring out the topnotch product.”

“As a regular employee, I had to job for eight hours, rare one-on-one interaction with the clients, due to which I remained unaware of my individual productivity needs.”

You are already coping with life’s tragic-circles, allow yourself to believe in you; and produce the difference in the society.”

You may have observed the three different pronouns, I have used.

What is my purpose???

~ Pronouns!

No.

~Then?

Take few moments, away from my question. Ask yourself to arrange the pronouns in their ascended form—from closest to farthest.

Tried?

Done? Or Stuck?

I, You and She. Right!

Why am I asking for this ordinal arrangement?

~ Magnitude of distance, is clearly channelized here.

What is the use of this magnitude? How does this work?

~ Here I go:

  • I is the closest and nearest pronoun.
  • You comes after and,
  • She is the farthest one.

The magnitude is measured, when speaker tends to influence the audience.

Am I speaking grammar?

~Oh no! I really have nothing to drag it beyond. 😉

  • When I stood as a teacher, and began to encourage my students, to solve the story sums, they resisted. They resisted until I cracked the nuts; not really I did so, but yeah, I did one thing—characterized myself to break their problems into simpler fragments. They really responded in a positive tone.
  • I joined dozens of face-book groups pertaining to entrepreneurship. From initial till the time I quit my regular job, I kept battling myself… on a definite income-provision. At time, I was convinced to quit my regular job.There was girl, who single-handedly performed many jobs, in an appropriate work-home balance way. Her narration, was quite close to our daily challenges. It doesn’t say that I am easily driven away into hers!It means, I worked with my best possible extent till I stood, to recognize my potential in the field of online-entrepreneurship.
  • A healthy and fit, dietitian involves her own figure-collage, to stimulate the people’s minds towards treasure of health. Why she exemplifies her own? ~ To declare the great achievement merely, but more to help common folks, until they breakaway the fears, that corroded their minds. So that, they can believe in their efforts.

What is the gist of all bulleted- examples above?

~ To introduce the height of personalization in marketing…

Yes, you took it right. I am not here, to speak the formalities of personalization, but yea, I get the need to speak about Personalization itself.

Is this a trouble? A marketing trouble?

~ No. It’s a demanding marketing tool.

It makes easier, in fact comfortable, in testifying your transformation from a nodding-turtle to a fluttering pigeon.

These are not just the words, but a technique. It is involved in every single discipline, by respective experts, to trigger-enhance their productivity; and to better help out the alike-solution seekers.

Most of us, possess common interests; our challenges become common; our failure tracks get to the same way; skills  get  common, our languages, choices, skills, and so, many other things. Any of the similarity above, makes us search the like-minded person or people of a community, where we can meet the challenges together and grow. Thus creating a chain, which would work from one hook to the rest of the knots, establishing companionship and family zone.

This helps in making fellowship and hence, your product maps down through people, speaking out the quality.

I by person, find least gravitation in listening to others’ success tales. I do get touched, by listening to personal transforming catalysts. How they boom their lives!

How it helps?

  • It functions over one-to-one interaction.
  • It creates relations and understanding, among social connections, colleagues and mentors.
  • It marks up the label of authenticity (trustworthy), on your product: most importantly your profile.
  • Inactive people find it easier to avail the services, you offer. They usually observe, the most and then step forward. A comfortable host can better welcome, to a feast.
  • Consequently, it has broaden the paths for entrepreneurship and customization.
  • Independency is the triumphed outcome; where one feels the encouragement and appreciation.
  • A bridge leads to other sub-bridges—making interconnections easier and feasible.

Therefore, I would say Personalization takes from ownership to the heights of empowering: the beings on their self-arms.

And yea, Pronouns do speak about magnitude of personalization.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her name is Shumaila Khan!

She is…..

Hey there…!!

The girl, whose words you are going to be familiarize with, is Shumaila Khan; she dwells inside me.

She is qualified being a Masters in Applied Mathematics. Don’t think of the year! It might give an indication to her most personal asset: age.

Earlier she was eager of teaching, just after her education. Don’t know what stuck her mind doing so?

  • Earning could be one of the reason.
  • Or spending some definite time out of the home.
  • Or a fixed income every month.
  • Or appraising her life-style in terms of showing her up-graded class.
  • Or maybe all the reasons.

So, whatever hit her the most, sometimes she was happier than the clown. Other time, she was as gloomy as a candle.

You see, we are having different masks at the same time.

Oops! By masks, I don’t mean about being disguised. Its like we have numerous wings to rely on…

Am I getting too riddled?

Well I am more this way, when I speak good (infact some evils too :p) about her.

I love her and like her way more… because she is my Self.

She kept on teaching (cheating) on her best until she comes up with very interactive, and personized way of expression.

And guess what?

She began to pen down her emotions into the form of writing.

‘Whoa! What a change!’ everyone spoke out.

‘You are a drowned reader and so, I welcome a new writer.’

‘Shumaila you have a good flair  in writing…’

‘Is this something you wrote? Great ideas and convincing talent.’

‘When I am having your book in my hands?’

O’ my Ghosh! It’s like she begins to fly in the air. She is praised by everyone. She is rejoicing her words…

She has taken herself so rightly, that actually pleased me.

She has some more interests too…

She is maliciously eager of reading books, and collecting them. She has read many novelists:

  • Paulo Coelho
  • Sydney Sheldon
  • Elif Shafak
  • Khaled Hosseini
  • Åsne Seierstad
  • Nicholas Spark
  • John Green
  • Jhumpa Lahiri and
  • P.D. James

She keeps her collection away from her mom’s sight. Why? Because she does not want to see her reading. And what if she has begun writing too?

Well answer to this must be: ‘Do whatever you like. But make the use of it.’

Now, that’s far … far relaxing!

And she is a melodious singer too… She has a born-voice in her, which when she throws out; she has the ability to capture the whole environment. Believe it! She will going to sing some day 😉

Forgot one craze in her, she is a burglar-foodie. She is fond of everything, every type. No matter what is kept in front, seconds later, it will be disappeared. 😛

Her genres of reading and writing are…

She enjoys: motivational stories, romantic stories, crime-based, suspense and thriller; fiction, and tragic stories; non-fictions.

She is now persuading her dreams…

She says: ‘Within an instance, I began grasping the idea of creating stories and creating plots myself. I saw the answers of my character-ambiguity surrounding me around. I began feeling myself, as the owner of my story and therefore, I have started writing to pursue as my dream line.

Initially I wrote for my own blog, then a summary for my teacher, few articles for an on-line magazine, and now working on my draft, which will be a published novel in sha Allah.

This has been a year, when I am pursuing my career as a writer.  I feel lovely, while talking to people having same interests. I am perfectly a book-sick, who wanders to insanely read the synopsis of the unread books.

Well m too talkative, when meet with the words that I choose to introduce myself.’

Articles, that have been published:

The published articles are:

Ambition…

Let’s take her ambition in her words: ‘I am a creative writer, who writes through an ink of passion. No matter, where I belong to… my devotion and honesty will take me to higher opportunities. In Sha Allah.. I am working on my dream to be recognized as a novelist in the coming years.

Along with that I can write:

  • Blogs and articles
  • Reflective writing
  • Summaries
  • Review (on a novel or anything)
  • Rephrasing
  • Story
  • Copy-writing
  • Paraphrasing
  • Precise writing

I am looking forward to dwell in the sincerity of my passion.’

Concluding words by her…

‘Self-recognition is never late. Find in you, the one who is curtained behind fear.’