Ich spreche etwas Duetsch.

Last year, I decided I should learn German. It was a whimsical notion that led me to do it in the middle of an already hectic semester but once I have a heady impulse about something, there is no stopping me. My mind programmed it as a ‘have-to-do-it’, rather than a ‘you-may-do-it’ impulse and thus the urge was so strong that I decided to take a plunge in the deep waters.

Now to understand my situation, you need to have an insight about my mother tongue, Urdu. Urdu is a poetic language; complex yet sweet. It has 38 alphabets derived from the Persian and Arabic. Basically it is a hybrid language and has adopted words from Arabic, Persian, Sanskrit, Turkic and English. Even the locals find hard to comprehend the true Urdu, given the complexity of its nature. However I, who never had much trouble with languages, neither Urdu nor our provincial language Sindhi, had to brace myself for German.

I enrolled myself in a 7 week class, three hours a day and five days a week, at the Goethe-Institut. There were around 30 people in my class, all of whom were either students or had  9-5 jobs and hence had chosen the evening classes like me. The diversity of people who crowded a room named ‘Berlin’ of the institute, still awes me. There were engineers, doctors, a student of arts and sculpture, people who worked at banks and high school kids, all cooped up in that make-believe Berlin. The class room had a smart board and various other audio-visual aids that helped us learn; and of course a teacher who put everyone at ease and encouraged us to participate. The library had books on all subjects that you could borrow, a newspaper and magazine stand which was always up-to-date, movies with English sub-titles and music DVDs.

Although I had to follow a very busy schedule, saw very little of my family and had to steer myself through very tight spots, I loved each and every moment of that time. I came to love the language, the people I interacted with and enjoyed everything from our feeble attempts at phrasing sentences in German to our jokes at each other’s incompetency.

At the end of the seven week period we were given an option to sit through a test or back off with a participation certificate only. This left only around 4-5 students who took the test as they were in dire need of a certificate stating that they had enough grasp of the language that met the A1 level of CEFR in order to apply for jobs or university programmes; and me, since I had a dire need to prove to myself that I was capable of it and worthy of much more. The test had a written component that involved writing a letter, filling out forms, understanding newspaper adverts; and an oral component. Now, those of you who have sat through ANY exam that was an exam, must realize what a raging havoc your mind undergoes during an oral one. And trust me, when you have to speak in a language you have been trying to speak for the past 7 weeks only, it has a more catastrophic effect on your nerves.

Not trying to be boastful or anything, but I cleared the test with a 75% score and it felt as exhilarating as clearing the entry test of my med-school. However, there, among all those people with all those compelling stories, and my own story of course, I learnt a lot more than German.

I learnt that people around the world are mostly the same give or take some beliefs, mannerisms or scruples. They have the same basic necessities: love, happiness, laughter. They may go about them in different ways but their needs are common. Be it any country or the people from my class.

I learnt to laugh at myself. It was easier to laugh rather than be embarrassed about the errors we made that drove other classmates to gales of hilarity. I now find it easier, to forgive myself for times that I was stupid or yearned for mundane things, because they were errors; errors of judgment. I have now learned to laugh at them.

I learnt to read people. I was surrounded by a diverse lot, who were unpredictable. I felt exposed and a little awkward in the beginning, always unsure of how to respond. I learned that the easiest way was to be myself. I imagined a shelf with various blocks in my mind. I held my corner in the room, which was my mind, while I tried to figure out people and fit them into those boxes in the shelf. I labeled them not in a judgmental sort of a way but more in a self-preserving sort of a way. To this day I have that shelf, because it helps me appreciate my corner in the room without losing ground and helps prevent the clutter of people scurrying around, making me unsure of myself or how to react.

I learnt how strong a woman is. I often got the opportunity to talk to some girls from the afternoon class. Most of them were married and were learning German so that they could join their spouses in Germany. Most of them had never been to school, did not know English and found it hard to translate German to Urdu or as in one of the girl’s case, Afghani who had travelled all the way from her homeland. For them it was a three-way process. They were threatened by the society which has a lowly opinion of ‘ordinary’ illiterate housewives and their in-laws and spouses who pronounce upon them the sentence of a divorce lest they fail to clear the test in time.

I learnt a great deal about life in those seven weeks.

P.s. In case you are wondering, I destroyed the longest ever silence on my blog, a writer’s block.




©2015. Habiba Danyal

Dear you,

Dear you,

As I walk past your room everyday, I see your back. Your hands folded behind your head and your eyes staring at the ceiling. Sometimes you light a cigarette and smoke. You carefully keep  your hand by your side, in a vain attempt to hide the lit stub. Sometimes you switch on the television and all day long the sound fills your room. You turn it up more until it becomes unbearable. But you do not wince, not even once.

Sometimes when you aren’t alone, I stop and look at you. Lately, watching you is all I do. Even when surrounded by people, your eyes are somewhere else. Ergo, so are you. You are with them but you aren’t. In a crowd you are that one person who looks and feels lost. The crowd thinks you are one of them but I know, that you aren’t.

When I take a walk with you I keep my eyes on you. Because I know you’ll watch for hurdles for both of us. I look at you and see you walk with a stride. To someone else you may seem like a man with purpose. But to me, and I know; you are a man who wants to put as much distance between the world and yourself as you possibly can. But now I think, in doing that, you out-distanced yourself from life.

I caught you laughing that day which you rarely do. So I stopped time and rewound it. I picked up the cause of your glee. It was a kid. I know you love them. I searched your eyes again trying to see if your heart was in it. It was, and I was taken aback. I saw life in them like flecks of cloud after a satiating rain. I was taken aback for I thought you were already dead. As dead as me.

Dear you, who was me some twenty odd years back,

I regret every moment of our life. I regret being you and I wish upon the whole universe to undo it all; who I was, to be who I really wanted to be. We spent our lives trying to be the best sons, the best brothers and the best of every relation. We led our lives exactly as it was expected of us rather than how we wanted it to be. And in the process we lost ourselves.

And what is worse than losing one’s own self? Trust me when I tell you this, that you own the world as long as you own your spirit, your hopes, your dreams and your ability to love.

With nothing to give, as I stand empty handed and invisible,


who you’ll be some twenty odd years later.

©2015. Habiba Danyal

The time it takes.

The storm you sent,

my way, retreated;

gracefully swirled round,

back your way.

I tamed it with

an ounce of wisdom,


a whiff of smiles.

While the weeds,

you let grow, pull you down;

your storm brews,

I its new Master.

©2014. Habiba Danyal


This poetry answers the question:

What time is it?

in 42 words.


Alhamdulillah for this year!

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 5,300 times in 2014. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.


There is a big ball in my throat upon which I am choking. I don’t have words. But I don’t want to be quiet. I twiddled with my thumbs for an hour before I started typing. Forgive me for this repetition of emotional outburst, that you may have seen all over the web, but when in grief and shock, you rarely make sense. It’s just words and you and a white wall you want to fill. You don’t bother what you write about, but you know that as long as you can vent your anger out, as long as you can press those squares of alphabets that huddle to make a story, that go out to the world and tell them about you, your grief, your existence, you don’t feel helpless. You want to keep throwing stones in the pond, keep creating ripples until they reach the other end. I do not know what is that “other end” for me. May be its you, or you, or them. But I know this tiny bit of truth, that remorse is never the answer. It muffles all sounds and clogs all thoughts. And that is what the human garbage, the shit-heads tried to do in Peshawer. But we are not going to let them succeed. We do not want martyrs at the hands of a pile of pig-shit. We want our kids to be good human beings, not martyrs, thank you.

They targeted our school, our kids. We’ll educate more. We’ll never stop.

And what a slap it was on their dirty faces when all schools were kept open today, post-calamity.

#PeshawerAttack #16 December #12/16 

©2014. Habiba Danyal