arfamasihuddin

www.ArfaMasihuddin.WordPress.com

"Medicine is my lawful wife and literature my mistress." - Anton Chekhov https://m.facebook.com/DeadPoetsMag/

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  • arfamasihuddin 5d

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  • arfamasihuddin 2w

    Loud stars on quiet skies,
    And cloudy mornings on smiling meadows pray
    To the One, for you and I.

    ©arfamasihuddin

  • arfamasihuddin 3w

    The Twenty-fifth Hour

    Smiling on the wall, sits the ancient clock,
    Chiming away - tick, tock, tick, tock -
    The day attends to your curiosity
    And the night courts your dreams
    And between the hours on the clock
    walk our insensibilities.
    The Hand of the Seconds laughs at you,
    And my mind spins a tale that is beyond
    The imagination of the elves
    And my heart beckons to the minutes
    To explain the happening miracle,
    And as we slide away on the island of existence,
    Our gaze looks afar, into the infinite,
    Towards the twenty-fifth hour.


    ©arfamasihuddin

  • arfamasihuddin 4w

    twinkle, twinkle, little star…
    no longer I wonder where You are
    deep inside our hearts so small
    like little secrets of our souls

    twinkle, twinkle, O’ bright moon!
    so many eyes are seeking you this June
    high above, dancing with glee
    you are wishing us all a happy Eid!


    ©arfamasihuddin

  • arfamasihuddin 6w

    10.6.16

    The lamp illuminating the pages of your book as you settle down to feed your soul, is only a lamp. It will illume the words that you are so hungry to gobble, but it will not rekindle the fire of ambition, of productivity, of happiness. Only you can, if you want.

    This journey towards being the best of yourself is not going to be without bumps. But if you have been shown the path, if you have been given the vehicle, then curb that heavy, incarcerating ego and embrace this seraph like a blessing, and forget to frown at sincere honesty.

    Accept the Light of God before you become the Light of God.

     
    ©arfamasihuddin

  • arfamasihuddin 6w

    10.6.16

    Why do you have to run after perfection? What is so wrong with the idea of accepting imperfection in every sense of the world? In our struggle for perfection, why do we forget that as ironic as it may sound, acknowledging, accepting and appreciating imperfections is a less called for, but an important way to attain that much applauded status.
    There is imperfection in perfection and there is perfection in imperfection.

    Incomplete perfection or complete imperfection?


    ©arfamasihuddin

  • arfamasihuddin 6w

    "Yesss!" he nodded his head with a firmness that was nothing but joyful. Simple, little joys.

    His mother looked at him fondly.

    The student smiled and gave him a thumbs-up.

    Sometimes, your patients help you more than you help them.

    ©arfamasihuddin

  • arfamasihuddin 6w

    "There's actually no canteen here otherwise I would have bought him some," it was her turn to be embarrassed.

    The medical student got busy taking histories of the patients lined up in the waiting room of the Family Medicine Clinic. Schizophrenia, vaccinations, diarrhea; amidst the more grave pathologies of the human body, the student simply forget the little boy whose only problem seemed to be an unfulfilled craving for juice. But not for long. As she turned away from her last patient, she saw him again. This time, he was sitting with a pack of crisps and sipping on mango juice.

    "Got your juice?" she smiled at him.


    ©arfamasihuddin

  • arfamasihuddin 6w

    15.12.16

    "Sister, will you get me some juice?" the boy thrust a hundred rupee note towards the third-year medical student.

    "Juice? But there's no canteen here. Where do I get you a juice from?"

    "Son, come here. I'll buy you a juice later," his mother intervened.

    She turned towards the amused student.

    "Doctor, he is bugging me for this since morning. I'll buy him some on our way back," she was embarrassed.

    ©arfamasihuddin

  • arfamasihuddin 6w

    Lovely years ago, when goodbyes were in the air

     
    I saw the dust of our bond sparkle on the sand of farewell.

     
    A few alphabets strung together

     
    And so many emotions strangled,

     
    I wonder how the mist mixed with the water

     
    And irrigated the meadows of our lives

     
    Only to leave behind an autumn that of us like.