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’.

The last will

The dusk approached

And darkness gripped slowly

The nerves were dipping

And the sight was blurred

The traveler of love was approaching

the last mile stone

Rehearsing within was one question

Will you remember me as martyr?

No you will not

My love is meaningless

Meaningless as I am

The heart bled for you

Till I was alive

The color of that blood

Was not red nor black

It was white

And thus ended this life

Worth lived in pain

The pain that was

The greatest treasure of love

Worth admiring, worth remembering

Now I am dead

But the pain remained

Remained as the powerful emotion

But more powerful is its narrative

The narrative is my last will

For all who will fail to be martyred

THE NIGHTINGALE’S ASSASSIN

It was raining heavily. Thunder and wild rain seemed frightening for everyone; for everything. The view was hazy from the glass window but the sound of splash as the rain lashed on to the glass window was imperturbable. The atmosphere within was rather languid than the climate outside; the compartment was relaxing in peace. She was resting her head at the window with eyes closed. Her face calm but some lines of thought were perceptibly etched on her forehead. The Train was whistling, bustling and speeding towards the last resort. The forward journey of train was pulling her backward. A nostalgic drive rehearsed within her. The rest was a rest in past.

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Everyone was on the street just perpendicular to the primary school of the village. Men, women, children – all were whistling, dancing and were setting off fire-works. They were drunk in their celebration. Most of the children, whose ribs one could count were naked and all men in their lungis were looking half naked. The thatched huts of mud, famine stricken paddy fields and stinking water bodies added to the ambience – ambience of a rare gala.

Sara was garlanded and everyone was offering sweets to her; after all she was the reason for this festivity. Sara was the first to pass matriculation exam in her village. It was history not only because
someone has passed it for the first time but she made history because of her gender too. She was a source of pride, a symbol of excellence and an icon worth inspiring in her village and in villages nearby. She was the admirable Crichton for all the tribal girls. Her performance was as different as her appearance. She was an unlikely tribal girl. Her eyes were illuminant and spoke for her intelligence. She had deep brown eyes, striking, worth dying for, the symbols of her calmness and self containment. Sara was fair and tall. She had been studious ever since books and teachers entered her small world.


Boys were singing and dancing in the front row of the small caravan, the men following them in row were beating drum; the sound of drum beating was loud and constant. This happy caravan approached every home of the village and every villager contributed in the noble cause of educating Sara as if their daughter was going to study. Enough funds were raised to admit Sara in a college for her further studies. Sara turned cheerless when she had to leave the village. The orphan Sara looked at her empty hut with hope and hopelessness for one last time. She loaded her luggage in the rickshaw and boarded the bus – the villagers had booked a bus ticket for her. She was sad on leaving her village and nervous about joining a college in city.

Sara made herself comfortable in City College very quickly. Her love for books and hunger for knowledge quadrupled in the new learning environment. One day while studying in the library, he came closer to her and asked, “Do we know each other” and he laughed, laughed as abderian. She gazed at him very keenly and said, “No. No I guess not”. The boy reacted suddenly as if he was ready for it, “then we must know each other, mustn’t we?” “Yes. We can.” Sara nodded her head with both acknowledgment and suspicion. “Do you know we are in same class?” the boy interrupted Sara’s reading again. “Oh really, then we are friends from now.” “I’m Sara” she said. “I know” He replied, “I am Raj”. She laughed for the first time after this friendship deal.

Sara visited her village after a year. It was more pathetic now. Sara noticed while coming to the village from the city that the neighbouring was empty and silent. Sara was worried about the village conditions. In the moon light she walked to the sarpanch's home, who was relaxing on his bed outside the hut with a beedi in one hand. “Oh Sara,” he got up from his bed and greeted Sara. “Come. Sit Here”. Sara gave him a half
hearted smile and asked him, “Why is the nearby village deadly calm, and why does our village look more pathetic now?” It was more pathetic for Sara after coming from the city, earlier she had never noticed that ‘patheticness’. The sarpanch felt uncomfortable and muttered indistinctly. Then after taking a deep breath he said, “Daughter, the situation here is worsening. Some big company has acquired that village, and they are asking for our land too.” The tension and distress was visible on his face. Sara
felt the anxiety. Sarpanch, after making himself little relaxed said, “You don’t worry my daughter. We are fighting against it. You just focus on your studies”

During her journey back to the city she felt the pain for her village entrenched in her mind. She tried, in vain, to get rid of her village memory but it was not possible. Sitting in the college canteen alone she was brooding. The weather outside was pleasant and suddenly Raj came in. “You are here. I was looking for you in library”. Sara smiled. Looking into the deep eyes of Sara, Raj started expressing his self in poetic strains. “Do you know Sara, your eyes are magnetic?” Sara felt little uncomfortable and just smiled. Encouraged, Raj uttered a couplet for Sara

Although your fine, young body gave rise to sighs

I was held captive by your tribal eyes

Sara laughed. “Tribal eyes??” she said and continued laughing. “Raj. You are amazing.” Poetic Raj was all ready to impress Sara. “Sara,” he said and took a deep breath. “Sara. I like you.” Sara was not shattered, nor was it exactly unexpected for her. Raj conjured up his literary tools and started singing

I know we're apart but not for long

I hope that day won’t be too long

As I am here waiting for you

To show and share my life with you

So hold my hand and

Hear my Heart this is for YOU .....

Sara smiled and her deep brown eyes started spilling the warmth which Raj wanted to see in her eyes for a long time. Raj keeps on continuing “Sara you are my nightingale”. “Marry me” said Raj finally. Sara promised to marry him but after graduating next year and after seeking permission with her Uncle.
This was the day of Raj’s excitement. All students were in festive mood. The graduation party was at its full swing. Raj asked Sara, “When you are going to the village?” Sara replied, “Tomorrow”. “And when you are coming back?” asked Raj. Wondering Sara asked Raj “When do you want me to come?” “On 1st of September,” Sara thought for a moment in her typical way of rolling her eyes left and right, and said, “Ok. We will meet on the 1^st.” Raj handed the rose to Sara with a great hope.

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It was the Ticket Checker who broke the silence of the compartment. “Ticket please,” he shouted. “Madam, please, can I see your ticket?” She opened her eyes for the first time, rolled it left and right. “Yes. One minute please”. Some more passengers had boarded the train. It was no more the place for nostalgic journey. But she tried it again, resting her head on the window once her ticket was checked. She realized a moment later that someone was staring at her, trying to read those lines on forehead and waiting for her to open her eyes. She opened her eyes; a man was sitting just opposite to her.

“Do we know each other?” the stranger asked her and laughed. This was the same abderian which she had heard long ago in her life. Then both of them laughed, laughed in their own way, at their own meaning. “Sara!” exclaimed the man. “Raj,” said Sara. Sara felt that tingling calmness again, as a deadly silence descended between them. Everything seemed still. Raj looked into those hazel pools of her eyes and tried to read them again. “Don’t! Don't look at me like that again! It’s no more the same. It’s not yours anymore,” blinked those brown eyes in return for the searing and searching glance that Raj gave.

A hawker entered the train and startled every passenger. “Chae, sir, chae.” “Do you want some tea?” asked the gentleman to Sara. "Yes Raj," she said without any emotion. Holding the tea cup with both hands, it was apparent that she wanted to avoid Raj. He asked, “Why Sara? Why?” “Why is as irrelevant for me as is the motion of this train,” she replied. Her eye was full of angst and anxiety; there was nothing so deep about it now, nothing. All this while tides changed on Raj’s complexion. His gesture was of a man who was about to die for some unknown reason. He tried to probe again. “Where are you going?” “Are you married?” asked Sara in reply. Unprepared Raj kept the cup back and said, “Yes and you?” he enquired. She smiled and pressed her lips with teeth and replied discretely, “It’s not for me. Not anymore.”

Adding her melodious voice to the atmosphere along with the unpleasant sound of train she said, “Do you know what Seamus Heaney says?” “No” replied Raj. She said “he says,

History says, don’t Hope

On this side of the grave,

But then, once in a lifetime

The longed – for tidal wave

Of justice can rise up,

And hope and history rhyme.”

“He is right, I guess,” claimed Raj. “Do you know I like these lines of Tennyson?

This truth within thy mind rehearse

That in a boundless universe

Is boundless better, boundless worse”

“Boundless worse, yes, there is boundless worse,” said Sara crossing her legs. Train was now moving constantly. Both of them started staring outside. There was no thunder. No rain. Moon light appeared. The moon had its own story to tell.

“It was this same weather that day when I was talking to you on my mirror,” again breaking the silence said Sara. “They finally raided our village as the resistance was not allowing them to acquire our land,” tears had left runnels down her cheek. Resting her head on the glass window she started speaking distinctly and discretely, “We are landless. We are dispossessed. Our women were raped; men were shot at point blank.” The Train was slowing down and so was her pace of speaking. In her broken voice she said, “I was raped, raped thrice that night.”

The Train stopped. She gathered her luggage and tried to escape. Raj followed her. “Sara, don’t go… Wait … Tell me. Who did this to you?!”

The Train halted. Sara stepped down. Raj followed her. A battalion of CRPF was loitering about, cracking jokes and laughing. Sara came back to Raj who was standing on the threshold of the train, holding the rod to overcome his nerves, she whispered, “Men in khaki.”

Train started moving. Moon hid under the cloud. Now it’s been years and years. She is dead. She was assassinated

Now she’s been dead nearly as many years

as that girl had lived. And of this circumstance

there is nothing to say at all.

Its silence silences.

O my Love !

Why I cant sleep

From nights and nights

Am I turning into an

Insomniac?

O my Love !

Where are you?

Come to me

Its been years

The days are

Restless

The nights are

Sleepless

O my Love !

Where are you?

All narrators are dead

The narration is struggling

Struggling for an expression

Expression which gives meaning

Meaning not to text

But to our own existence

O my Love !

Where are you?

Hold my hand

Or embrace me

Embrace me

Or hide me

Hide me

In your narrative

O my love !

Where are you?

Tears lost its way

Mind displaced

Spirit no more spirited

Dreams shattered

Shattered not of absence

But absence of presence

Made it noxious

O my Love !

Where are you?

Promise of

Sheeraz garden

Bosphorus bank

Taj mahal

A walk in paris

Is still alive

O my love !

O my love !

Am waiting

Waiting for that gentle touch

Which make me sane

Which deliver sense

Sense of meaning

Sense of being

Am missing that gentle touch

Touch which made me sensible

Sensible not for you

But for me

O my Love !

Where are you?

Night is passing

And soon the

Melody of azan

Will be in air

O my love

Come to me

End my anxiety

Open the chapter

The chapter

Of which

You are the first word

O my love

Where are you ?