This blogger has been travelling since the last two weeks: visiting the various Sufi shrines in India and meeting up old and new friends. And, after years of silence, my inner music found a voice. But the gods had other plans.

Since the 27th of that wretched December, everything has been overshadowed by the ghastly murder of Pakistan’s best known and perhaps the only national leader.

I was in Ajmer Sharif, India, on my annual visit to pay respects to the great Khawaja when I heard about this ghastly incident. Having returned from the famous dua-i-roshnaye (the pre-sunset prayer), the state of calm, my friends and I were jolted by this news. For the first few minutes I could not believe it and hoped that this was a repeat of the October 18th suicide bombings where Benazir Bhutto was miraculously saved. But it turned out to be horrifyingly real and painful. I was numb for a few minutes and thought of my beloved homeland and our collective lives.

To say that this was a great loss would be an understatement. Benazir was always a symbol of hope and change; and to imagine a country without hope is pretty drastic. Thus the shattering of the individual and collective hope, the faces of her three young children and her larger than life, and beautiful persona mingled with tears and a deep pain that refuses to go away.

My leader is not dead, she is immortal now – she faced the bullets with grace and proved that she was the most courageous Pakistani politician of the recent times. Pity for Pakistan that lost her.