Writer's Canvas

 A Form of Expression.   Rukaiya Feroz Rampurawala.  Darajah Sabea. Over the years many people have asked me what my inspiration is behind creating art pieces. To be honest, even as a child, art for me was a way to escape boredom. I, without a doubt, agree with what Robert M Pirsig states "Boredom always precedes a period of great creativity." Although now usually in the haste of life it's not easy to be bored all the time, now doing art for me has genuinely manifested into a pure passion, a form of expression I am so fond of, it completely takes over me. I usually like experimenting with all sorts of mediums and crafts, like clay, sculpture making, pencil sketches, water, and oil paints but my fortè would definitely be an acrylic painting. I adore it. I find that painting with acrylics really compliments my somewhat hasty nature, they dry quickly and give beautiful results in the shortest amount of time, and I personally find them more suitable because they are...

An I ndescribable  Feeling. Nafeesa M. Hussain Mirza. Daraja Haadi Ashara. We all know what it is like to miss some one, but out of all those people, does it make sense to miss yourself? I never knew it was possible that there will come a time when I will miss my own self. I miss a version of mine that brought out all the best in me. It showed me my superpowers, and all the capabilities I had of achieving the unimaginable. It was a different version, it intricately shaped me and guided me to stages of perfection that shall hold my hand and guide me step by step - all through my life. That was me in my ' Hifz-Phase' . My version during this period was a magical one. It resembles a fort, with un-breachable walls that protected me from all the worries of the world. Hifz demanded 100% of my attention, it wouldn’t allow my mind to wonder in any other direction that shall bring me gloom. Passing each day in murajaat and getting through my page of Jadeed was of utmost importance ...

 My Tiny Spark.  Words and Art - Fatema Shabbir Wahla.  Daraja Sadesa.      Find that spark that is only yours, and let no one put that tiny, yet magnificent flicker out before it has turned into a majestic flame. There’s a fire in everyone’s heart, do not be the one allowing extinguishers. Never dim your light for the sake of others. Let's keep thriving to make it brighter, for a time with ravaging winds, we need to join hands to save that feeble flickering candle flame.

 PEACE. Naqiyah Shk Abbas Bhai Motiwala. Daraja Sabea. Life is full of troubles. Sometimes many, sometimes little. Hardships, hardships, hardships, But, calmly, you have to sail your ship. Waves will hit you hard, But keep a courageous heart. Not everyone will stay, At the end of the day. But keep them you, as much as you can, For no good is bad, to any kind of man. Unless, he is a foe, Of your lord, and a woe, Then shove him off your deck, To secure thy ship from wreck. And sail swiftly, fearless, To the shore of eternal bless. Where no storms strike, nor thunders roar. An island of paradise, Where peaceful bliss, forever lies.

Blooming Blue.  Art and Words - Ruqaiyah Saasa .      Daraja Sadesa.       Blue has no dimensions, it is beyond limits. It is vibrant, bold, and bright, while still remaining mellow and ethereal.       This painting, 'Blooming Blue' gives the heart and mind the rush of strength to push through the rigidity of the surrounding. In today's world time won’t stay still and growth is inevitable. One must be bold to face the rigidity and without direction it can create or destroy the strength.       The strength one has to adapt comes from within and the strength he posses is beyond compare. These shades of blue for me illustrate the power and beauty of the hue. And indeed having strength in these challenging times. Lastly being courageous which is also known as grace in under pressure.

An Articulation.  Art and Words - Fatema Shabbir Wahla.  Daraja Sadesa.      Painting this horse stirred up a lot of emotions in me, it brought out the free spirit in me which I never knew existed. The thought of riding it - gave me wings in a way I had always dreamt of. This piece of art is not just a painting on canvas but it showcases the entire world inside me. My brush enabled me to express myself in ways I can never truly manifest with words. It helped me to turn the abstract feelings of admiring nature's might, elegance, power, and beauty into concrete! Painting this made me feel powerful in ways indescribable.

Grace.  Art and Words - Marya Zohair Indorewala .  Daraja Rabea. She is like glass, Transparent - so you can see through. The more you wipe it gently, The more it will shine. One can observe their own reflection on her surface, As if she is preserving your image, Inside of her shyly, Projecting directly what is received. And oh, If you break it, It shall be hard to recollect the shattered pieces. Even if you succeed collecting them,  And try assembling them back together, It shall never appear the same. A disfigured glass, displaying a deformed reflection. Should you dare to stroke the fractured scars, Hurt will be your own hand.” Attachments area

Blue and Waves.  Zahabiya Jorbai .   Daraja Tasea - D.Z.       I' ve always found it difficult to find the perfect words to express what truly lies within me. But after journeying through the past two years, I think I have finally found the perfect way, and chance to convey it all.       Art has always been in my nerves since the beginning, experimenting with creative stuff, and luckily being the only daughter, I could easily make my way of getting what I needed ;) . The creative genes I think, came from my mother. She painted ridas and designed them, exposing me to this wonderful talent, and ever since, colors have never failed to fascinate me.      When in school, I always used to participate in art attacks and crave for platforms where I could challenge my creative soul. Then comes the greatest milestone of my life - in the ninth grade, I got fortunate and was blessed to get into Al-Jamea Tus-Saifiyah. I experienced a tran...

 My Escape.   Painted by - Fatema Shabbir Wahla.  Daraja Sadesa.  Yearning for emancipation,  And freedom from these tough times,  Sitting at my desk I reminisce,    The serene moments spent here with my close ones,  A time I really miss.  This place untouched and safe,   Far away from the befallen blight.    When the body might be confined.  Free to wander is my mind.  This vastness and its peace,  Revolting against these imprisoning times!

Today, I'm Taking a Step Behind.     Anonymous.  To all the people who have hurt me, I'm letting go with a sigh, Because I can't change your thoughts about me, So I'll just leave you behind.   I won't shoot bullets in the sky, Nor will rifles of criticism fly, Nor will I throw at you hand grenades of anger, Now, I put my hands up in surrender.   I won't be tormented, with the pain of ‘not being enough’. For I believe, an antidote of love makes me stronger. I'm putting my guns down today, And I'm taking a step behind. My body may be handcuffed, But my mind shall never be seized.   After years of a hunt for the one, who'll love me as I am, I see her now in the mirror, as she says: “Embrace yourself widely and accept yourself as you are”, Now I'll live freely with the knowledge that I am flawed, That perfections are a gift to be awed!   I'll free myself from trying to please others, I see myself wo...

  The Games People Play and the Masks They Wear.  Naqiyah Shk Abbas Motiwala.  Daraja Sabea. It was all carefully planned. Every step was measured. Every Sentence was scripted. Each word carefully chosen; a small mistake could leak the secret and she could lose the game.  Who said hunting was only a man’s sport? It’s a game. Anyone can play. They used guns. But she had different weapons. They would usually hunt for deers. But her aim would be for the lions. She wouldn’t settle down for a “prey”, she liked hunting down the “hunters”!  She was evil with cruel intentions. But showed to be an angel with pure innocence. One might take her as vulnerable, easy to be fooled, easy to be played around with. Little did they know it was all a part of her act, and they were helping her win the game. In fact, ‘they’ were the joke she was laughing at. How easily they would assume her sweet laughter to be a sign of falling in love, whereas it was actually a trap, in which...

  Meeting Deja vu!  Zainab Mustaali Sutterwala.  Darajah Ashera. The first time you saw me, You gave a bewildered look. I smiled," Pleased to meet you.” But you just stood there- shook.   I waited for your reply. You said, "Was it a dream? Your pardi ruffled just this way, And the exact shade of cream?"   I gave a little chuckle, As all that I had to say: "I get that a lot, Almost every week of the day.   All the new things you tell me, I've been there, I've done that. You've heard history repeats itself? But it's never been so exact."   There was conception in your eyes; It was ditto to what you felt. That how easily I had explained. With simple words I dealt.   "It was really nice to meet you." I bid you goodbye, As you still stood bewildered, And gave out a sigh.  

 Another trip to Hanna Lake Zainab Mustaali Sutterwala Darajah Ashera   “Are we there yet?” my grandson, impatiently, inquires the millionth time. “Beta, can you see the house at the top of the hill? We have almost arrived.” his mother consoles him. Yet still, I cannot see. I cannot see our two-storey holiday house. Nor its facade of French windows, for my eyes' current capability is only a shadow of what it used to be during my last visit. My eyes are weak but my sights from long ago help me review the place, as if through a clearer, sharpened lens. Memories from my last trip when I was nine years old.   But I do recall the roller coaster feeling while the car climbs up the steep road which is still there. ”Woah!” exclaims the young boy in awe as our car comes to a halt. I had been as excited as he was- maybe even more. I had jumped out of my car seat in hastiness only to hurt myself on the knees. But thanks to the adrenaline rush, I had forgotten the pain in no ...

  UNPRECEDENTED TIMES   Fatema Haidermota  Daraja 5AF      My friend and her father steered through the busy, run-down streets of her small town in Indore on her new purple bicycle. It didn’t fit in with the setting around her. It was all bright and sparkly compared to the grey and dull broken concrete that surrounded her. It did, however, match her spirit, cheerful and innocent compared to the problems that surrounded her             A little bit ahead, guiding the way to the market was her father. He steered through the flocks of cow carts and people, meticulously following his every swerve. Wrinkling her face in concentration, My friend tried to remember what they needed to buy from the store. She knew they needed green beans, onions, tomatoes, and… what was the last thing? Lentils, she remembered as her father pulled up to the cart.           ...