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Quote by Siraj Faisal khan

“किताबों से निकल कर तितलियाँ ग़ज़लें सुनाती हैं टिफ़िन रखती है मेरी माँ तो बस्ता मुस्कुराता है kitāboñ se nikal kar titliyāñ ġhazleñ sunātī haiñ tiffin rakhtī hai merī maañ to basta muskurātā hai”

Quote by Siraj Faisal khan

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Siraj Faisal khan

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“I remember one time as a young child playing with friends. Fantasizing, we each sketched our ideal “dream home.” Everyone else drew intricate mansions, complete with elaborate swimming pools and multi-car garages. I sketched the floor plan of a small square house, with four identically-sized square rooms: a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen/dining room, and a bathroom/laundry room. A place to sleep, a place to be, a place to eat, and a place to.. uh.. excrete. It was everything I needed. Nothing more, nothing less. They thought I was weird. I thought their mansions were full of lots of bullshit.”

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“बचपन की यादें, बचपन की समझ लिए रहती हैं। बादमें उनपर जितने रंग चढ़ाओ मगर वे तो उस रंगरेज को अपनी स्मृति सौंप चुकी होती हैं, जो पक्के रंग चढ़ाने में माहिर है।”

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“I opened my eyes to find a pair of eyes the color of matcha infused with lightly roasted cocoa beans, and framed by incredibly long lashes, peering down at me. From memory, I knew that the frown on his face hid a lone dimple on the left cheek. A faint scar cut through his right eyebrow, making him look like he'd been in a knife fight. Some people had argued that the overall combination could be called hot, but I wouldn't go that far. Maybe he could be classified as cute, at best, but I certainly wouldn't be caught dead saying that--- at least not within hearing distance. He smelled as nice as I remembered, too, like citrus, spice, and sunshine. Him. The last person on Earth I had expected to see.”

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“You know what I love? The spaces between I love you. The tap of your fork against the plate and how my cup of wine clicks against our table. The scratchy voice coming from the radio in the other room. The quiet sound of your hand reaching across the table and whispering over mine. How your voice sounds like your mouth on the back of my neck. The soft murmur of our easy conversation. Between these quiet Tuesday night routines, following every comma and right after every pause for breath, is I, love, and you. In the middle of every I love you is a sink full of dishes, whisper of socked feet tangled in white sheets, and gentle kisses against curved cheeks. We lyric ourselves into the laundry that needs to be finished, into the ends of every smile that follows me repeating your name. We write ourselves into the grocery bags we need to carry, the cracks running up our rented walls, the sides of the bed we choose to drag up the sails of heavy eyed dreams. Like the spaces between our fingers, in the spaces between I, love, and you, we wait. The in-betweens have always been my favorite.”

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“By the time he planted his first seed and watched it bloom into a bright white daisy, Hart began to feel what he suspected his mom felt every time she was out in the gardens. The joy sprouted on the stem, and in his soul. While other boys were becoming interested in video games, or sports, or breaking rules, Hart got really into flowers. There were some areas in the garden where the flowers grew so high and bountiful that you could walk through them and get lost in tiny worlds. Whole colorful planets at his fingertips. To Hart, there was nothing like it. Cupping a sorbet-colored ball of dahlia in the palm of his hand, breathing in the musky-sweet notes of jasmine, watching the pollen-dressed bees buzzing in the fluff. The flowers made something in Hart's soul stir. Or settle. Or float. He wasn't sure what, but it felt like he'd discovered a secret that no one else knew about. That all you needed to feel perfectly in balance with the world were flowers.”

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