THE EXCLUSIVE

In the winter of a sunny day
On a chariot i found my way
lost in my puzzling memory
couldn't found a word to say

While we crossed many mile
I found myself in an exile
With the chariot running fast
hence, the broken feeling pile

I asked myself that question
I use to ask again and again
what is this love? For which
dies the lover without single gain

Thus I found the bright sky
blooming with the sunlight
then asked my irking mind
what make this sky bright?

While the chariot passed
the flock of people, and
the bustling day bazaar
leaving just the helpless hand

I found the flowing river
fresh in vision,serene in flow
while the soft waves over
the river make it really grow

Then strike the question again
what make this river glow?
what mystery all they hold
while we move, the enigma flow


In the feeling of intense dejection
I watched the world in abnegation
I conquered the fever of chilling wind
but continues this journey of separation

All what is in the sky and in this earth
teaches us the eternal lesson of love
while the nature sings in musical tune
In exclusiveness lies the virtue of love

What makes love a beauty, an
endless tale; an exclusive feeling
in each others hail; till we express
shines the love without dieing

I got the meaning in this midnight
at the corner of a dead shop
left the chariot and i walked, in the
exclusive darkness without being stop

The relentless shadow

You, the only source of pain today

the fountain of endless melancholy

You,the treasurer of deep sorrow

the sailor in river of colorless blood

You,O my shadow have killed the desire

to live without the shadow under no sky

You, the shadow of my own self

can I run away from you today?

Blockade

And the mind is blocked

the emotions are choked

i am lost, lost where

in the senseless questions

and insensible answers

i have nothing to give

nor i am capable to receive

am a cloud without destiny

a wind without destination

reason has the answer

but wisdom has no meaning

the self is in crisis

the beingness in vain

the spark of hope

is the fire of death

Mere Dil Mere Musafir …

… only something that has no history can be defined - Nietzsche

The alchemy of mixed emotion is driving me back to home. The route is intensely packed with the viruses of temptations which distract me from the very destination which I am seeking since the birth of my conscience. The word ‘Home’ always make me cynical about my sense of belonging. The perplexed question for me is the question of belonging. Where do I belong? I don’t know what deserves to be known or claimed as home. Will ‘ I’ be considered as homeless till I discover ‘The Home’ for my ‘self’ – the self which always seek home for eternal serenity. In this unknown journey towards the eternity the self of mine remains an object of anxiety and melancholy whose subject is skeptically clouded with optimism. Amidst the time of travel, home of mine is the heart of the beloved – the source of distant yet closest affection, which is powerful enough to make me insanely conscious

wired in the same old question

which is rooted in history

history which is rooted in us

we come out of history

and history comes out of us

life is simple or complex

its history and historic

but simplicity of life

is in the complexity

and complexity is simple

if 'we' create history

a simple story will be written

in most complex fashion

the story of our love is

simplest of emotion

and complex in reaction

... and hence continues my travel towards the destiny of simplistically complex love ...

The Destiny

Walking down the street in the cloudy atmosphere, with rain dropping down in intervals reminding that future is not as clear as the summer sky. That street opposite to his office never leads to nostalgia but today with black sleepers in fair legs, that muddy street jammed with RTC buses and rough riders took him to that tea store in the corner. The cigarette in his left hand was silent as the smoke never found the way to get out. He never tried cigarette, this was his first time. As all beginners he was nervous and shy too, he bought it from the small tea shop that usually sells cigarette and gutkha and earns more from it than tea. He never hurried to ignite it rather choose to walk with cigarette in his hand and his mind was furnace of thought burning at the highest point though his body was not only calm but appears to be freezing. The cold wind blowing in the monsoon was delivering more anxiety than serenity to him. He walked further on the same street questioning himself with cigarette on his red lips. Isn’t serenity a form of anxiety? He asked himself. The cigarette didn’t met its destiny yet as he failed to find any match box or a lighter. Holding cigarette itself is relaxing, he said to himself. Thus he never bothered to find a match stick.

The sudden honking reminded him that he is off the footpath now and was walking right in the middle of the muddy street. He repositioned himself. What was it that derailed me without making me feel that? He once again intrigued. The traffic, the flow, the haste of drivers, the restless honking, overtaking from all side in the narrow road is what a road can witness as its fate. He suddenly kept the cigarette back in his shirt pocket, the blue striped shirt which he loves the most. That eatery came in his way, he entered inside without giving a second thought, and the reason was simple it started drizzling and he left his rain jacket at home while leaving in hurry though he felt that he is missing it he never bothered to pick it up.

The shop was silent though not empty. Every table was occupied either by some couple or men waiting for someone, may be for becoming a couple. Do you have Pav Bhaji? He asked at the counter. Yes, we have replied the man in his middle ages. I want one and also a tea, he said. Ok! Reply the cashier. He gave the token to the man standing still near the tava. Make one pav bhaji he said in a very cold voice and find a place to stand and wait. Few guys in their twenties were sitting in the table next to the tava. As their laughter’s echoed in the hotel, he again went back to his imaginative question bank. What make them so happy? He said to himself discretely. They all look poor from their dressing, I guess I have more expensive shirt, he said to himself

Is laughter a sign of happiness? Not always he replied to himself. Sir, your pav bhaji is ready said the man. He gave him a smile and thanks with no emotion. He took his plate and went to last table. He ate alone with no one to share neither his plate nor his questions. The traffic signal adjacent to the hotel witnessed its own end as the traffic became restless with the pacing rain. Everyone was rushing towards their destiny without minding the color of signal – red, green or yellow.

Shall I try the cigarette now? He thought as the cigarette in his shirt pocket was asking for justice. But there was no shop around and the rain was heavy to cross the road and find a matchstick. He suddenly jumped to the counter and asked for the tea token. Those boys were still there, they were in best of mood. He thought to sit with them and find his answer at least share his time, not the sorrow. But he was reluctant, the reluctance to share – share not only feelings but time was his defining feature. The enigma was his expression of feeling itself. He took the tea and sat just near the shade from where the rain water was rolling down to the ground. He felt close to this, his memory sent him some signal from past. He smiled and then closed his eyes. He sensed someone close to him, someone very close. In his deep brown eyes the dreams were unending. He opened his eyes very slowly with a feeling that someone is waiting for his open wide eyes. He took his time, the sound of splash and the continuous honking was meaningless for him. He took the first sip with a style, took a pause and pulled his cigarette out again – did a rehearsal of smoking and again kept it back in the pocket. He felt an attachment with the cigarette, the cigarette which conceals untold secrets and choose to become smoke but never reveals what it contains. Does the array of smoke wants to tell us something? He questioned again.

The cigarette with white filter was becoming a part of his self; he felt an intimacy with it, a sense of holiness for that cigarette ignited within him. The cigarette romanticizes with smoke why not to romanticize with cigarette itself, he said to himself and smiled.

What makes an evening complete? A cigarette, tea, rain and beloved this time he questioned himself and replied without giving himself a time. He suddenly thought to walk back to his office – the bigger reality of physical existence. He took the same route as he passed the half way, a girl in her teen age with her hair witnessing her play with rain and her dirty clothes were expressing her romance with fate. I am hungry she said with a pain. Her voice break his deep silence embedded with the train of question. He searched his wallet but he found nothing in it. Impulsively he took that holier cigarette from his pocket, gave to that girl and walked further ….

time doesnt fly

time doesnt fly

when nothing works

you find yourself in dock

you find yourslef lonely in dark night

you find yourself lost in desert

you find yourslef gearless in limitless sky

time doesnt fly

when nothing works

ambiguity gulps the beingness

the way lost in complexity

the darkness exist as process

the end is wait and the beginning is desire

time doesnt fly

when nothing works

from the hole of dream

we emerge as super being

the dream is not in time

and no time is for those dreams

time doesnt fly

when nothing works

Speechless

The mysteries shrouded

Over the frozen river

The wind concealed

Essence of direction

And finally superseding

The natural oeuvre

Of ‘musical equity’

He Killed him

And asked

Why are you killed?

The speechlessness replied

Haven't you existed?

The Lost beingness

She was infront of me

As my own mirror

The reflection of self

Was invariably deceiving

I tried to transcend time,

Travel across borders

But mirror can’t be reached

By transcendence

The reflective calmness

On her face

Entrenched the power

To win the storm hit ship

Save the muddy hut

From the thunder of mountain

Once lost in her eyes

I feel the beingness

I am not a writer

I am not a poet

I am not a writer

I dont know

what is poetry

I dont know

what is writing

I know only

You exist

and hence exists

beauty of relation

I express this beauty

I express this relation

I expres 'you' as 'me'

I am not a writer

The dawn at tehrir

Till the last corner of belief
Determined to get beheaded…..
To the epitome of fidelity oh Friend!….
Let the blood be presented…..
There be no thugs left, be sure…
Obliterate it from each country ,you headed
No traitor of land be respected..
Cut the head of every serpent.
Why there’s bloodshed of weak…
Cut the hands of murderer instead
Let the monarchs be pulled out their throne..
On the platform of’ Freedom’ they be crushed…
The Valley of Nilel be reverberated with enchantment of truth O God!..
For that glory,O Friend sail against the stream…
One day ,I m sure, the land be filled with truth and justice
Oh the followers of hope!walk ahead
The warriors of land of desires ….
Lets walk!oh stars of hope

(this poem was originally written in urdu and later translated by Syed Tarique Ali,I am thankful to him)

The Last Stage

You again raised the finger towards the fate

And I was again searching ‘me’ in your destiny

The traveler of love always live in travel

The destiny remains the same

We walked across the bridge of anxiety

and reached the garden of serenity

At the beginning of love

I was restless to hold her hand

And hence we reached the final stage

where she was desperate to hold mine

On ‘Grammatology’ [The ‘meaningless’ poetic narrative]

The text in cynicism

Asked the ‘other’

Why as text you supersede me

You as my binary always

Exploited me

Always censored me

Always tried to fix my meaning

You crippled me

You made me meaningless

You made me textually impotent

The coherence was incoherence

The paradox was the meaning

The discourse of my ‘self’

Was hijacked by ‘other’

Now I want my meaning back

Now I want my ‘self’ back

Now I want to rule my own discourse

The ‘other’ replied

With more endurance

With more sublimity

But with equal textual energy

You are my ‘other’

And I am yours

Nor do I supersede you

Nor do you

Instead of giving your ‘self’

The meaning

Give me the meaning

And find your ‘self’

You are free for infusing the meaning

Your freedom is above the ‘mythologies’ of discourse

When we fell from text to meaning

The paradox is the only discourse

The essence of binary

Is the essence of suppression

The essence of helplessness

Do deconstruct what you have

The ‘meaningless’ production

Will be your meaning

We are the most powerful

Potential text

Ever born

Ever used

Ever expressed

Ever deconstructed

We are born in era of

Derrida, Foucault, Barthes

Lets not forget

The ‘meaninglessness’ of our text

Gave the meaning to their ‘existence’.