Saturday, October 03, 2009

“Sitting cross-legged on my own and yet I am not alone… Trafalgar, Trafalgar, don’t let me down..”

And autumn, the darling of my seasons arrived. She arrived at me when I was not looking; but isn’t that the story of unlived lives? And Autumn arrived; I know the exact time and place, where she threw herself on the night, and marked that very moment that separated the night from the sunrise. She marked London for good. She threw herself on the pedestal, right by admiral Nelson’s feet, in Trafalgar square. The winds were quiet. Black taxi cabs going around, red telephone booths standing still, London had the look of an ordinary night; except there is nothing ordinary about a flame under the ashes. And just like that, she confronted me. She bumped into my silence, ever so cruelly if I may, the way she never had. And the sun came out.

And there were footsteps that broke the silence of the lions that guard the solitude of the square. And there was the chilly morning of an Autumn that no one had expected, right there, right then.

There are moments, coloured by falling leaves, one after another, in a city where so much is to be lived. Or not. When the unexpected is too good to be true.

There are pieces that I have left behind in Trafalgar square, in that vast moment when autumn arrived. There are pieces to be collected one day perhaps, when these winds quiet down; when London stops haunting me.

And there is Russell square, and the fields. One can swallow the bitter of the hardest decisions in an espresso shot; and one can stand up again; and one can walk back. There is so much one can do, in autumn, in this city.

And there is Fleet street, where history rests. And there is Soho, where one can forget. And there is Holborn, where early birds have seen sleepless faces part. And there is the London House gates, where a story can end before it begins.

Autumn lies on my mind, on my chest, like a heavy burden. She doesn’t say a word; what’s there to say after all? She had never arrived at me with such conviction . And I am sorry I cannot be graceful. I am sorry I cannot say I understand; for I do not.

Autumn 2009, London.


At 4:28 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Someone has written a very very long and stupid response to your great review of we are iran, take a look:

Its just stupid and they need to be put in place in your clever own way. I would if i could. But i mean how could any one get away with calling a book about a few shomal shahry kids as we are iran. I heard this stupid woman on the radio with Andrew Mar when her book cameout and she sounded even more stupid then her stupid book. She didn’t even sound Iranian but as if she never left her posh school in Kensington. What could someone like that know about iran.

The reviewer in his long chos-naleh letter to you is more stupid than her and tries to critic the bbc Persian review and he even says an obvious lie that it was by a writer he never heard of before. Daryoush Malakut is a famus Iranian webloger how could you claim to be a blogger and not have heard of him before.

At 7:30 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...


Found this by chance. Are you in London?!!

Please let me know

SABZ baashid.

At 10:09 AM, Blogger 123 123 said...

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