Digital Drawings and Texts

Digital Drawing with Pro Pencil on iPad, 2025

Colored pencils and pastel on canvas paper, 21 x 29 cm, 2025

Drawings

Colored pencils on canvas paper, 21 x 29 cm, 2025

Drawings and Texts

Graphite on paper, 21 x 29 cm, 2025

Graphite on Canson paper and transparent paper, 21 x 29 cm, 2025

Felt-tip pen and graphite on tracing and Canson paper, 2025

Feltipen and graphite on tracing paper and Canson paper, 2026

Feltipen and graphite on tracing and Canson paper, 2026

Embroidery, Audio, and Texts

Thread, pen, pencil, and fabric, 2026

Once upon a time, I was walking slowly in a small and beautiful garden. I felt as if the sounds of the world were coming from far away dim, like a radio playing in an adjacent room. The sound was there, but it wasn't clear.I looked around and thought that there would be many mango trees here, just as I had seen in my childhood. I searched here and there, but there was only one mango tree. On it, there was a single honeybee. It was completely alone; it had no companion. When I went closer, I saw a yellow and green mango hanging from a branch. It was half-ripe and half-raw. Nestled among the green leaves, it looked very beautiful. I went closer and saw a green mango on the branch as well, and it was raw. There was a cool shade under the tree, and my heart wanted to sit down. A squirrel was jumping here and there; it too was alone, as if searching for someone. Seeing this scene brought a slight sadness to my heart, but looking at the mango, hope rose within me.I went near the mango, smelling its fragrance, and thought: if it had a voice, if it could talk to me, what song would it sing? I wish there were other mango trees besides this one so that there would be more honeybees, more squirrels, and the sounds of the rustling of leaves sounds that I can only hear with the help of hearing g aids and that those sounds would reach deep inside me .I thought, "I will write now." I began to write what those broken sounds were telling me. What I could feel, she was saying. And with these words, I began to weave [my story]. I learned this art from an old woman. She had taught it and told her to make it in a complete and correct way. But I could not make it like she used to make it. My embroidery was also just like my voice broken.Whatever I heard,I wrote, it would not be complete or perfect. And whatever I wrote or embroidery I did, that too was broken and fragmented and knotted.I kept writing; I kept writing as much as I understood. Then I thought, what if I were to hang it on the wall or on the ceiling and look at it, how would it feel? Perhaps then its voice would become clearer and more audible to me. But to people, it all appeared broken and fragmented.

This is my story.

You should read it.

You should listen to it.

Feel it as much as you understand it.

ایک وقت کی بات ہے، میں ایک چھوٹے سے خوبصورت باغ میں آہستہ آہستہ چل رہی تھی۔ مجھے یوں محسوس ہو رہا تھا جیسے دنیا کی آوازیں بہت دور سے آ رہی ہوں، مدھم، جیسے ساتھ والے کمرے میں رکھا ہوا ریڈیو بج رہا ہو۔ آواز موجود تو تھی، مگر صاف سنائی نہیں دیتی تھی۔

میں نے اِدھر اُدھر دیکھا اور سوچا کہ یہاں بہت سے آم کے درخت ہوں گے، بالکل ویسے ہی جیسے میں نے اپنے بچپن میں دیکھے تھے۔ میں نے ہر طرف تلاش کیا، مگر وہاں صرف ایک ہی آم کا درخت تھا۔ اس پر ایک اکیلی شہد کی مکھی بیٹھی تھی۔ وہ بالکل تنہا تھی، اس کا کوئی ساتھی نہیں تھا۔

میں اس کے قریب گئی تو دیکھا کہ ایک شاخ پر زرد اور سبز رنگ کا ایک آم لٹک رہا تھا۔ وہ آدھا پکا ہوا تھا اور آدھا کچا۔ سبز پتوں کے درمیان وہ بہت خوبصورت لگ رہا تھا۔ پھر میں نے ایک اور سبز، کچا آم بھی دیکھا۔ درخت کے نیچے ٹھنڈی چھاؤں تھی اور میرا دل چاہا کہ وہیں بیٹھ جاؤں۔

ایک گلہری اِدھر اُدھر اچھل رہی تھی۔ وہ بھی اکیلی تھی، جیسے کسی کو ڈھونڈ رہی ہو۔ یہ منظر دیکھ کر میرے دل میں ہلکی سی اداسی اتر آئی، مگر آم کو دیکھ کر میرے اندر امید جاگ اٹھی۔

میں آم کے قریب گئی، اس کی خوشبو کو محسوس کیا اور سوچا: اگر اس کی آواز ہوتی، اگر وہ مجھ سے بات کر سکتا، تو وہ کون سا گیت گاتا؟

میری خواہش تھی کہ اس ایک درخت کے علاوہ بھی بہت سے آم کے درخت ہوتے، تاکہ اور شہد کی مکھیاں ہوتیں، اور گلہریاں ہوتیں، اور پتوں کی سرسراہٹ کی وہ آوازیں ہوتیں جنہیں میں صرف اپنی سماعتی مشینوں کی مدد سے سن سکتی ہوں، اور کاش وہ آوازیں میرے دل کی گہرائی تک پہنچ جاتیں۔

میں نے سوچا، “اب میں لکھوں گی۔”

میں نے وہ سب لکھنا شروع کر دیا جو وہ ٹوٹی ہوئی آوازیں مجھے بتا رہی تھیں۔ جو کچھ میں محسوس کر سکتی تھی، وہی وہ مجھ سے کہہ رہی تھیں۔ انہی لفظوں سے میں نے اپنی کہانی بُننا شروع کی۔

یہ ہنر میں نے ایک بوڑھی عورت سے سیکھا تھا۔ اس نے مجھے کڑھائی کرنا سکھایا تھا اور کہا تھا کہ اسے مکمل اور خوبصورتی سے بنانا۔ مگر میں اسے کبھی بھی ویسا نہ بنا سکی جیسے وہ بنایا کرتی تھی۔

میری کڑھائی بھی میری آواز کی طرح ٹوٹی ہوئی تھی۔

جو کچھ میں سنتی، وہی لکھ دیتی، مگر وہ کبھی مکمل یا بے عیب نہ ہوتا۔ اور جو کچھ میں لکھتی یا جس کڑھائی کو بناتی، وہ بھی ٹکڑوں میں بٹی ہوئی، ادھوری، گرہوں سے بھری اور منتشر ہوتی۔

میں لکھتی رہی، جتنا میری سمجھ میں آتا گیا، اتنا لکھتی گئی۔

پھر میں نے سوچا، اگر میں اپنی اس تحریر یا کڑھائی کو دیوار پر یا چھت سے لٹکا دوں اور اسے دیر تک دیکھوں، تو شاید اس کی آواز میرے لیے زیادہ واضح ہو جائے، شاید میں اسے بہتر سن سکوں۔

مگر دوسروں کو یہ سب کچھ صرف ٹوٹا ہوا، بکھرا ہوا اور ادھورا دکھائی دیتا تھا۔

یہ میری کہانی ہے۔

تم اسے پڑھو۔

تم اسے سنو۔

جتنا سمجھ سکو، اتنا اسے محسوس کرو۔

دیکھتے رہو…

اور محسوس کرتے

Below the Bridge and On the Bridge

Below the Bridge and On the BridgeI was watching from an abandoned house, between greenery and hard rocks. Gunfire filled the air, and fear stood all around me. Khaki men were running fast, shouting, “Fire! Lie down!” It felt like a war around me; my heart was shaking inside. Then I looked down below the bridge. A man was swimming in pain. Two trembling lives were floating there, fighting to stay alive. “Swim… float… don’t give up,” the water seemed to cry. They were weak but still holding on, struggling for life. Then I looked up on the bridge; a martyr had fallen there. He gave his life in courage and bravery in that moment of fire. Then I looked down again; another martyr was there too. Both heroes were found by love and struggling till the end. Two lives, two silent sacrifices, one was on the bridge, one was below the bridge.

Dedicated to my uncle, who was martyred on the bridge in Rangpur, West Pakistan, and my brother, who drowned while saving his two sons from drowning under the bridge in Thakot, East Pakistan.

Sounding and surrounding at The Museum of Loss and Renewal Residency, Scotland 2025. Photo credit , Caro.

Writing, photography, digital art, and drawing.

There was once a father who had grown up without parents. He carried emptiness inside him, but to ease his pain he gave his daughter a love that was strong and over protective. For him it was armor. For her it was a shield of light, wrapping her in safety.When the father vanished, the shield broke into pieces. The girl, disabled and unheard, was left alone. At home she was compared and shamed. At school she was mocked, compared and bullied. When she spoke up she was providing material things to keep quiet. Without her father’s shield, she felt like a shadow no one wanted to see.But in her silence, another world opened. She could not hear as others did, yet she heard the whispers of stars, the prayers of trees, and the quiet voice of her father’s love. The silence that others pitied became her secret gift. Still, anger began to rise inside her like a storm. Every insult was a thorn. Every laugh was a stone. But the storm was not to destroy .it was a fire waiting to become light Or flowers. She no longer wanted pity. She longed for justice.From the storm she changed. In one hand she held a sword of truth,which is holding at the back in the other a torch of fire. Her father’s broken shield melted in the flame, becoming gold once more. His love was no longer outside her it burned within her torch.A great mirror appeared before her. Those who mocked her looked into it and saw their cruelty reflected back. And in the same mirror, the girl stood whole, crowned in light. What was once hidden could no longer be denied.In the end, she stood tall, crowned with fire. The stars and angels of silence lifted the sky above her. Darkness melted at her feet. She still carried anger inside, but now it was a controlled fire. When someone tried to bully her, that fire exploded not to harm blindly, but to show the truth and bring justice. She was no longer behind a shield. she had become the light herself. Her flame was eternal a light of justice that no darkness could ever put out.

Sketches

Contact

Reach out to discuss art or collaborations.

saadiahussain2002@gmail.com

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