Coming of Age

Dust-storm Selfie


The curls, Mother,
they get more troubled each day.
The black quietly fades into stranger grey.

A whisper evades….

Prayer as a melody:
a wordless melody of the aching heart,
escapes into infinite pastures of the gods.

The throes of longing were always,
That Glory of White, dazzling,
as water crystals in the summer sun;
Whoever said it’d ever be easy!?
Whoever did, a fool in vain was one!


The countenance escorting her presence befalls as a thousand questions showering as meteorites, on my awed face.

I have always known, for what now only seems centuries, that God is with me. In this moment though, my doubts are enhanced and my fears of existence, a little reinforced.

‘What is this state? What are these sounds enveloped in it?’, I find myself lost in this transfix of a controversy once again: Hadn’t I been a fool, yet again, to presume (without much evidence) that I was perhaps rid of the recurrences of this condition!..?

It all comes from Allah, I must not forget that either. This ‘condition’ I must own as my own; there is no attempting to escape the inevitable: else there is then further madness.

There is already enough madness here…not insanity, but pure madness, the good one. It’s the sort of ‘good’ that can occasionally turn bad too, though not without some useful consequences often then.


‘I know you are sad, may I help you?’ I ask. He doesn’t reply. I gaze at the innocent child masked in that cold face, from behind those dark-circled eyes. It is not all that hopeless, there is still a flicker, a shine there. He turns away that mask of a face, wants to hide the shine again.

He closes his eyes. I return to the realization I have to go, I have work to do. We are fortunate we met on the street and not elsewhere; or you wouldn’t have been able to shut your eyes so much at will, I couldn’t have walked away with so much ease.



Written: 09-09-2016.


Nazm 28-08-2016

(Roman Urdu):


‘Chalo phir, khud ko yunn tanha kiyay detay hain:

Ke apni hasrat’on ko hum fan’aa kiyay detay hain.’

Anarkali! Apnay haathon se kharaa ker hujra,

Ke qaid-e-ishq se aashiq’on ko rihaa kiyay detay hain.


Jis khalwat mein khud ko patay hain, khud ko khonay ke baad:

Uss hasee’n khalwat mein reh ker alvidah kiyay detay hain.


Tamasha hai gar’ puri hayat, intizar-e-marg mein,

Khoj-e-tamashai ki nazr, khud ko gawah kiyay detay hain.


Khwahish-mand’ thay hum bhi kabhi shayad uss shauq ke,

Jis shauq-e-zindagi ke hijar se ab nibah kiyay detay hain.


Written: 21-08-2016.


“I asked her how it felt to be stuck in that box, to which she replied….”

I asked her how it felt to be stuck in that box, to which she replied....
I asked her it how felt to be stuck in that box, to which she replied….

….I made a box for myself; Well, I didn’t quite ‘make’ it on my own, completely. I was assisted by others (including my mother, who at the time thought a box was a good enough space to be in). And what’s worse: I started LIVING inside this stupid box, and perhaps ALL the time. And what did I turn into?…An almost corpse inside a coffin-like box.

Now I’m breaking free, from the nuts and bolts of metallic, mechanic conventions. I am breaking free after years of scratching at a supposed coffin, so many times being convinced in my rusting heart that I WAS actually dead! Thank God, for the first beam of light I felt on my face…

And you know something? ———- I am now grateful for being in that box then. It was so beautifully decorated and that too, just for me (or so I was told), that at first I felt guilty for wanting to break it, and to break out of it. But all those experiences taught me many precious lessons of life, jewels that I wouldn’t have been able to claim otherwise!


I shall highlight here, the top two:

First, convention DOES (begin to) appear beautiful to the one ‘locked’ inside it, after a certain point…
And why not? —————–

Those aesthetics have been conditioned so in the minds (of the majority), as these very minds begin to forget that not everyone (including themselves) has to adhere to similar parameter(s) of aesthetic. And those who do so, are for the most part just being disloyal to themselves and to the entire human race in turn.

Second, the one striving for freedom must be equipped with adaptability skills.

i. When you’re trapped in, you learn to survive against the toughest, most unwanted conditions (provided you recognize being        involuntarily trapped).
ii. In the (later) process of breaking out, the same survival skills help you be creative and to persevere, in devising your escape                      route!
iii. Once out, the free bird doesn’t get things sent down from Heaven for free. She must struggle hard in all kinds of weather, and                    have strong wings to fly long lengths and tall heights, and to stay vigilant in case she might get lucky enough to find a small flock.


But simultaneously, she ought to be aware so as not to burn herself out in the scorching sun, and to make home in whatever the journey allows…

       For she knows, nothing within the journey is permanent, other than the winding journey itself!




Struggling to conceive a non-visual  God

In the nucleus of an eye, clouded, stained;

Battling to lie to the trauma of Life,

She makes love to a barely surviving

Fantasy of Death.


Pull out the plug now:

Let me breathe in another sphere,

Even if the breath be yet another sigh:

I insist, pull out the plug now!


My heart, over-fried in the oil of your affection,

Lit ablaze by an insatiable quest,

Feels such a mess!

I wonder, how and why it beats!


You know well, to teach a wanderer to stray.

What must belong nowhere, ought be on their way.