POETRY BY KA

  Red Lipstick They whispered, “She must not have suffered—look at her, all dressed up.” But they didn’t see the nights I didn’t eat. They didn’t hear the sobs muffled in pillows. They never read the letters I wrote and never sent. This red lipstick? It’s not vanity—it’s my battle paint. Each swipe says: I am still here. I am still healing. And I am still worthy of joy                      KULSOOM AFZAL

  The Star Still Shines The star still shines in the sky of Balakot, Where our hearts once beat with the promise of forever. The river still flows, Carrying echoes of the love we made beside its banks. The mountains of Kashmir still stand tall, They remember our laughter, While the Neelum River holds the memory Of your worried eyes watching me As I reached down to touch its flowing grace. Dhani Waterfall still whispers our name, It remembers the warmth of your hand in mine, The gentle care in your touch. The cliffs of Neelum still smile At the memory of our fall—clumsy, laughing, together. Everything there witnessed our love: The river, the mountain tops, the stars, the sky— They all knew how deeply we loved. Your love has faded like mist at dawn, But mine still lives, quiet and constant, Carved deep into the valley of my heart.                                         ...

“The Missing Bread” – A Quiet Memory from a New Bride It was the night before our first family picnic. My mother-in-law prepared sandwiches in advance, carefully stacking them with practiced hands. As the bread appeared on the counter, my husband, with a sudden boyish grin, turned to me and asked, “Do you know how to make French toast?” “I do,” I smiled, feeling warm at the chance to do something for him. “Make it for me tomorrow morning before we leave,” he said. But before the moment could settle, his mother snapped, her voice sharp. “What do you need for this French toast?” I named the ingredients — milk, eggs, sugar, and cinnamon. “We don’t have cinnamon powder,” she said sternly. “I can make it without it, or I can grind some sticks,” I offered. “No. These toasts will make a mess in my kitchen.” I looked at my husband. He stayed silent. Still, I promised him, “I’ll make it for you.” But the next morning, as I stepped into the kitchen, the bread had vanished. I didn...

  Title: The Sabotaged Recipe — A Kitchen Where Love Wasn’t Allowed The first time I cooked at my in-laws’ house, I carried more than just a recipe in my heart — I carried pride, love, and a quiet hope that maybe… this would be a moment of connection. I chose to make Mutton Malai Keema , a dish I had perfected at my mother’s home. Rich, creamy, soft — the kind that made everyone ask for a second helping. I was confident. I had done this before. It wasn’t just food. It was a part of me. But in that house, confidence wasn’t welcome. My ex-mother-in-law watched me from the kitchen doorway. Silent, controlling. She didn’t hand me ingredients — she rationed them like I was a prisoner. One kg keema, but only 100 grams of yogurt. Just five tablespoons of balai. A pinch of white pepper. A pinch of black pepper. The green chili paste that adds depth? She gave barely any. And when I reached for more, she snatched the spice container from my hand. “No need ,” she said sharply. And then, prou...

 My Child, Forgive Me I carried you in silence, a secret blooming in my soul— two weeks of love, two weeks of hope, two weeks that changed my world. Your father never knew you, not the way I did. Your grandmother's voice was louder than my aching heart— she forbade your name, your presence, your light. He wanted you, I knew, but when I whispered your truth, his silence echoed louder than I ever feared. Two days later, you left me. Inside my womb, you faded— not by nature, but by cruelty. Not by fate, but by hate. O my baby, you were the fruit of love born in chaos. And still, I loved you more than I ever thought possible. I tried— with every breath, with every prayer. But I could not shield you from their shadows. Forgive me, my child, for the world you never met, for the arms that never held you, for the lullabies I only sing in tears. You were here. You mattered. You are loved. Always.               ...

  "The Dark Blue Saree" It had only been a month since Zoya’s marriage, and already, her world felt like a maze of silent endurance. That evening, after her lymph removal surgery, she was resting at her mother’s place—where love still lingered like an old song, even if pain throbbed quietly beneath her skin. Her mother, always trying to lighten her daughter’s heart, had arranged a small dinner at a nearby restaurant. As the sun set and shadows softened, Zoya messaged her husband: “Can you please bring my dark blue saree from the dowry trunk… and my Cinderella heels?” Those heels. She had loved them from the moment she saw them. Rs. 2,600—nothing lavish, but to Zoya, they sparkled with promise. She had wanted them for her valima, but his mother had scolded her harshly at the shop. “Too expensive,” she had snapped, loud enough for the salesman to look away in awkward silence. Zoya had bought them later. Quietly. From her own dowry money. Just like she had chosen that dark blue ...

"Half an Egg" The kitchen smelled of onions—sharp, familiar, almost comforting. Zoya stood near the wooden counter, quietly chopping what was left of last night’s salad. The onions were already sliced, soft from the vinegar dressing, and she thought, Why waste them? A simple omelette could be made. Breakfast didn’t have to be fancy, just warm. Just enough. As she reached for an egg, her mother-in-law entered, eyes sharp like cold steel. “W hat are you doing with that ?” she snapped, pointing to the onions. “I was just making an omelette… the onions were leftover, I thought—” Before Zoya could finish, the woman walked over, grabbed the small bowl of onions, and—without a word—threw it straight into the dustbin. A clatter. A silence. A thousand emotions trapped between Zoya’s ribs. “ That’s enough ,” her mother-in-law said flatly. Then, as if granting a favor, she handed her half an egg . Half. Broken from the middle. Poured into a steel cup as if it were gold. Zoya did...

  اب مشکل نہیں ہے، زندگی کا ہر موڑ آسان لگتا ہے، ٹوٹ کر بھی خود کو جوڑ لیا میں نے، ہر آنسو میں ایک نئی جان پائی ہے۔ چہرے پہ اب دھوکہ نہیں چھپ سکتا، ہر مسکراہٹ کے پیچھے کی نیت جان لی ہے، کس نے دل سے پوچھا تھا حال میرا، اور کس نے صرف تماشہ بنایا — سب پہچان لیا ہے۔ جو پرائے تھے ان کا فاصلہ اب راحت بن گیا ہے، جو اپنے تھے، ان کی بےوجہ خاموشی کا سبب بھی سمجھ آیا ہے، اب نہ تو انتظار ہے کسی موڑ کا، نہ امید کسی مسافر کی باقی ہے۔ کیونکہ اب مشکل نہیں ہے، اب زندگی آسان ہو گئی ہے۔                                        KULSOOM AFZAL