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.

Missed Call

Missed, in the innocent hope of a return;
In the abyss of regret,
I burn;
We hence begin to learn
The unvalued worth
of love, of human life.

This Earth shall
never see your gentle face
Smiling and laughing
despite your pain…

For a poet borrows birth
in misery’s depth.
A poet dies
of the suffering of
A poet dies
in the knowing of
his life’s bitter-sweet
for shadowed departure.

The Bird of Love (takes flight?)

Pity the fool who claims
to have fallen in love;
to have fallen in love
with a fool like me…!
What shall you gain,
except for a desire
to reflect on yourself
in the name of love,
in the name of a love
that is true in YOUR world.

And, what shall you gain,

than a desire perhaps,

to deflect yourself,

to despise yourself,

in the name of a ‘love’,

true only, in your world.
This love for a dame
As wandering as I,
As gentle as I,…
As ‘deceiving’, as I.

Though yes, of course,
I never deceive for the sake
Of deception,
Or to settle for some other
object of affection…
But there’s nothing here
you would like to own;
Not even this heart:
this lump of flesh,
this vessel, of blood…?

My blood a life,

a life not mine,
only to be shared,
never surrendered
And never given away:
Given away, so as to
render me lifeless!

This heart belongs,
truly, to the one,
Who strives not
for the sinful bliss
seized in the chimera:
a mistaken feeling,
of possession.


“Be mine”, he says.
I say, “Be yours first.”
He says, “I AM mine.”
I say, “So am I.”

He looks at me,
eager, “So are you, what?
“No, I am mine too,
just as you are yours.
My madness, for me;
My laughter, for me.
And what could you share,
but only a few hours,
hours by the clock?
You share your body,
But your eyes block me out,
Block my passage to your soul.”

Taking my words
for a passing remark,
for a poet’s thought:
fleeting, yet haunting;
He tries to convince me,
“My soul is yours.”
I answer,
“So you thought to give me
what you want for yourself,

the least?”

A wise bargain indeed,
coming from a man
too much of the world;

a world, strange indeed,

to a stranger as I.

A (Lingering) State of Meditation

In a state

Where the arrogant, grimacing sky,

In a state

I was once astounded by;

In a state

Of a day, on a look-out for the night…

In a state

Of obliviously pending hours,

In a state

Of the presence of peculiar powers;

In a state

Of existence, of a known defiance,

In a state

Of Life, indeed a trusted alliance!

In a state

Of kingliness, in unison with sainthood…

In a state

Of sainthood,

In sync with the breath,

In a state

Of seeking, in pursuit of attainment

In a state

Satisfied, within not being satisifed!




Untitled Silence

I’m nobody to say anything about anything.
I reserve my right to be silent,
at least till everyone disappears;
Till I could avail the luxury to be on my own,
Once again:
Once again, of all those times,
Very rare times, too rare indeed!
This time around, my desire to know me,
To know you through the knowing of me,
Is not just a want, it’s a desperate need.

Who am I to say of anything at all?…
Anything that relates to your stranger’s side,
I won’t be made of what I defy,
I shall try, though, to swallow my pride!

I hurt my hand today, once more,
Once more, forgot the preceding story;
Only when I felt the soreness of the sore,
Did I snap out of a presumed glory!

Who am I to be, and to bask in that Being!
Who am I to look, when so tired of seeing!
Who am I to hear of what ceases to exist!
Who am I to long; on the longing, to persist.
When I seek to endure, in an effort to resist:
Through my selected resistance, I choose
A freedom to exercise; to exercise a Will 
Whose right is denied, every moment
by a corrupted human illusion:
Death in motion, and Life all still.

That Fateful Matchbox in a Romantic’s Room

We spend a significant amount of time with our own selves: We read, write, sing, sketch, listen to and play music, paint, meditate, also sort of self-medicate..and then, there are also those beautiful moments when we totally forget to define or label who we are, and just act it all out, though that seldom happens with me to its full bloom!

And if and when we have to communicate with each other, we have our little gadgets to connect us, among us. We have more technology at our hands than our ancestors ever did; and some of us even feel a little too grateful for that fact, in their own capacities!

We inhale, look at the stars, exhale the smoke, breathe in the surrounding aura, close our eyes, dream a little, breathe out. We fade into scenes and then fade to black, sometimes while being white to another world. We care about the moment in that moment, and forget about Time!

We have imagined our own respective realities before they even embarked on journeys of their second creation. Sometimes we have dreamt episodes of our lives even before they started, but the beauty of Life in these 3 words still maintains, lurking around always, just like ever: ‘You never know!’

We can make ANYthing happen in the story of our being, as long as we believe that it can be!

Most people around think, that we have a fatal sickness of acting as seekers of beauty, happiness and peace; we know that in their world’s terms, we have the chronic ‘(dis)ease’ of Life symptoms happening to us, the Light Seekers, in a way at least! 

A Hermit Now

I confess that I got strayed,

By the bees in home-made marmalade;

By your smiles, perfected to never fade…

While you flew through your escapade,

I barely rode across on a horse of jade.

For you, it was a moment, intoxicated;

For me, a realm, where I stayed,

Where I stayed and till dawn, prayed:

Mercy, for the sake of earlier homage I’d paid,

For my soul to exempt of its evil cascade.

You laughed, as I wept at the irony to arrive,

That heals no one, keeps nobody alive.

My vision was mocked at, provoked to only thrive:

My life, more organic; only tiny pieces to contrive:

Unresolved pieces, pretending not to be alive!

Thus the anti-thesis begins to die in its birth,

Reborn every hour, like a child’s little play…

The innocent death it dies each night,

Followed by hope for a better day.

She was otherwise, but a hermit now;

In fear, not to break her precious vow.

Written: 01-09-2012