Monday, 4 June 2018

Of Saharkhan and my oddly crushing thoughts



Saharkhan was trying hard to wake people up, and there I was, already up, or may be, I didn’t quite sleep and was waiting for him to come by, start banging his drum. I sometimes thought to peep out of my window and tell him that I was up: just to make him happy.

But I never could bring myself up for that. May be, I never wanted him to be happy, or I never wanted anyone to be happy and that too at my sight—too much to ask. I was up, I was up. He was trying hard, so let him be. Why care?

Instead of peeping out of my window and say hello to him, those sounds that reverberated into the air usually brought a smile on my face. May be, he too was happy somewhere. We decided not show our happiness to each other.

Something is not letting me sleep these days. A lot has happened lately—enough to deprive one of sound good night sleep. Some things are happening around, while some happening within; dancing, achingly.

Outside: some were ready to sleep with those who had either killed their brethrens, or had tied them on their vehicles once—not like, those, who were ready to sleep with them, or had already done so several times, were not aware of the fact that they (those they were eager to sleep with) were the culprits—they knew that well, but were at the same time ready to give their fantasies a real shot and sleep with them: sleeplessly.

Picture Credits: Andrew Chui
The incident happened some weeks ago, all set to be forgotten, many might have already, but in my case, it is still there. It keeps on banging disturbingly, it keeps me awake. How could they? But then, why care?

Outside: people were being killed. Now they, as someone recently said, are fed up with the bullets and are now using their vehicles to kill whosoever might come in their way. 

The other day, I saw a picture of a young boy, under the wheels of a vehicle—such vehicles have got another type of license too—apart from the one that is mandatory for the driver to drive the vehicle—this licence is a ‘kill’ license, they all have it. Two at a time.

The long bearded guy was ‘jeeped over’ by a vehicle with two licenses. Helplessly, he was trying to get out the vehicle, but couldn’t. Those expressions on his face are still haunting me, depriving me of some good night sleep. He survived, while the other one didn’t. He too was jeeped over, mind you! Jeeped over by a vehicle with two licenses, mind you!

The Saharkhan must have been aware of both the incidents that I mentioned, but he still got up right on time. He still managed to wake people up—except me.

He tried every night and succeeded in waking some people up, but why have I failed to toss these disturbing incidents out of my mind just to get some sleep until the Saharkhan comes. Why don’t I sleep so that the Saharkhan succeeds in waking me up too, so that one more person is added to the list of those he wakes up successfully?

Instead, I stay quiet. I let him bang around his drum. I don’t peep out of the window. I smile and believe that he too has not been able to sleep. I remain up all night, but he prefers to come out on streets with his drum; waking people up.

Inside: Few abstract things. Let that story be told some other day.

Tuesday, 8 May 2018

Kashmir: a tale of death, exhaustion, pimps and prostitutes


I would like to call the times around me as hell. People are getting killed—not old, mind you—the young ones are taking bullets right on their chests. Pellets are blinding people, and yet again, youngsters are up for that job too, they are on it, without any regret or remorse, thereof.

They seem to have fallen in love with all the mayhem that is around, to reclaim something, which seems to have raced far beyond from them, only to be looked at until it fades away, completely.

All this in front of my eyes, and I think if the same thing happens to continue, will there be enough young men left around to talk to? Let this thing continue for some more years and we will be all dashed off from the face of this beautiful earth; and from the face of this—commonly known paradise—Kashmir.

I don’t know why they call this place a paradise. It drives me crazy, and I am sure, they calling it a paradise must be driving this paradise crazy, too.

Look around, and try to ask, not people, but this paradise itself: is there happiness? Is there any serenity? A big no would be the answer, I bet.  Ask this paradise: Isn’t it growing weary of everything it possesses? Isn’t it ready to throw everything back on the face of the people living on it? A big yes would be the answer, I bet.

Picture: foreignpolicy.com 

Heavens do not witness bloodshed. In heavens, people live and not like what happens all the day round: dance of death—morning shows, evening shows as well.

People don’t die in the heavens, or what they call as the paradise, people actually live in it. But what happens is that we die every day and they get to live in it, what is this paradise? I don’t get it.

Yes, it must be the paradise for them, so they call it one. It is like they are out on a mission to sniff out what appears to be alien: we. They finish us off, all of us, be it those who offer stiff resistance of not being wiped out, and those who are easy to be knocked out. Like what happened to one of the alien some days ago—they crushed him right under the wheels of their chariot, thus eliminated.

Some are even more easier to be eliminated: a headshot out of nowhere, either during he is asleep, or during any damn thing, these other creatures are easy to be eliminated. They don’t even question their elimination, and if by mistake they happen to do, who is going to care?

They are on a mission and they are accomplishing it. May be, they will get it done soon, and this cursed place, their paradise, along with house boats on the banks of Dal, Shikaras sailing on lakes filled with blood, will all be theirs. Who cares, they can have it anytime, nobody lives in those house boats and nobody hops in for a Shikara ride in the lands of dead. Somebody tell them that they can have it all. Right now!

What is the problem? It seems like we are fed up of living. It is not their paradise, or have we given up, are we done?

I don’t know, but the speed of elimination says it all. We have moved far beyond than giving up. We are running far beyond the spot where actually we had to stop, take a deep breath, lit up a cigarette and think: what next? What lane to take? Which way to go? How to proceed? Finish the cigarette, muzzle it under the shoe. But, we did not; rather, we kept on running and running and running. And this endless thing had to manifest into something, which it did in the form of acute exhaustion.

We have exhausted. They were also on the same track, but they were used to pause. Think. Move. Stop. Light a cigarette. Look right. Look left. Wait and then move—they also took deep breathes, rather, thorough breathes: inhaled through their nose and exhaled through mouth, even did some yoga, too.

Yes, they did, we did not, and eventually, they caught us, caught us out of nowhere and are now eliminating us like flies—we have been reduced to more than that of a fly—no matter we think that God is on our side. He is not, so far it seems so; rest, we can talk about it, later, I guess.  

The nation of blinds is in the making; this is what I can tell: a nation where a son is born to be eliminated, so that they can have this paradise.

Paradise that has been rendered no less than a prostitute, posing with all its beauty; its self appointed pimps selling its beauty to attract customers for one night stand, or for more than a weeks stand—in case the customer is interested in honeymoon. She offers it, and offers it all. Her pimps assure customers of her offering it all—a package they call it. All the satisfaction her pimps offer to her customers with guaranteed hospitality: her pimps say she is famous for that—of being a slut with hospitality, and mind you, she hasn’t led them down so far.

In winters, she is a slut with everything hidden under a thick layer of snow, but slut. In summers—Ah! She is hot then—a slut again. In winters, she is open for high-class customers, and in summers, she is open for customers who even stink miles away, but she does not mind. She has slutty rules jotted down by her very own pimps. Never mind.

When there is exhaustion, and something, for which you are struggling, running without brakes, has been turned into a prostitute by men, who also used to struggle, run and run without brakes once, but eventually turned pimps, what miracle should be we be waiting to happen? And do you still believe that God is on our side. He does not side with pimps, and surely not with prostitutes. Give me a break, will you? Let them finish us off and have this slut forever.

Monday, 9 January 2017

Why Writers Write?

Writers are prophets.

They are here with a message to convey. They are on a mission to give life to those emotions which are there, but invisible.

Writers write, because they have to convey those messages which are embedded onto them.

Writers write, because they want to express, because they have got words. Writers write, because they know that they can give life to the piece of paper, lying as if dead on the table. Writers write, because they know that their pen is filled with life called: ink.
Writers write, because they want to heal. Writers are healers, aren’t they? The words they have got are dressed up as healers. When they embrace a wound, they heal it, and heal it forever. Isn’t there too much of pain in this world, what if writers are doing their bit to eliminate some pains, somewhere, from someone’s soul? What if people are relieved of their pain, when these prophets write?

Writers dive deep and express those things that are beyond expression. Those beyond expression things are full of awe, and when they are dressed up in words, and are read, they elevate readers, to something unknown and strange. The readers do find themselves deep within those lines; much in-between the lines

Writers write, because they love to. They love to play with words. They love to create marvels out of 26 letters and a handful of punctuation marks.

Writers write to exaggerate: a positive exaggeration! They stress on a particular things, a miniscule thing, and magnify it. They turn a simple feeling or an emotion into a colossal entity. This magnifying, and this exaggeration, compels a reader to understand such small things in completely different way.  A way where: nothing is unimportant and nothing is miniscule. Writers write to emphasize.  

Writers write to praise; to praise beauty (there can be many other things.) They write to make readers smell a fragrance that was refreshed the air, a decade ago. They write to make readers feel a tender thing that existed a century ago. They write to make readers see a fairy that never existed. Writer, the magicians!

Writers write to be immortal. They say: if a writer falls in love with you, you can never die. Writers write to turn themselves and those whom they love, immortals. Writers write because they fear death.

A writer in love is a catastrophe. A writer in love expresses a lot, but with a tinge of love. He will praise the beauty of sky, and will link it with the face of his beloved, because he can see nothing more. A star finds a place on the face of his beloved. A moon too can be adjusted there. Twinkling of starts finds a comparison with the blinking of her eyes, and lots more. For him, she walks like a fairy. Well, he is a writer, he can do anything. And, a writer in love is surely a catastrophe. For him, there is nothing but her. No solar system, but her. No Moon, but her. No Stars, but her. No oxygen, but her. No him, but her. A pure catastrophe!

Writers write to create: a moon on earth (on her face, or her face) a flower, her lips. Writers create, and they can create anything.

Writers write to unveil the unseen; to uncover the beauty. They write to let the readers fly with their own set of imaginations.

Writers write to bestow their readers with a flight to the wondrous lands.

Writers write to be read as well! We shouldn’t miss that point, should we?











   



Saturday, 7 January 2017

Unlce Jehangir and Kashmir


This is Kashmir, and it is known as heaven on the earth. Very well then! Uncle Jehangir termed Kashmir so, and the world picked it up. Uncle Jehangir came with his wives, with a comfort, I mean, and called Kashmir a heaven. Well, he usually came to Kashmir in summers. And those summers used to be quite joyful and that would have prompted him to term Kashmir as heaven. I don’t think he would have said so, if he would have visited Kashmir in winters, or in the summer of 2016 or the ongoing killing spree of winter, 2017, for that matter.  

These winters, as we listen to our grandparents, are nothing in comparison to the winters of their time, not to speak of winters during the times of Uncle Jehangir. Those would have been harsher. No one dared to visit Kashmir, then.


Well, it is heaven, but not in winters. Shehanshah Jehangir should be made to roam around streets. No, not on his horse, but on foot. Then, I’d like to watch him naming Kashmir as the heaven.

He wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have dared to call it Firdous, as they say. He would have packed his bags, assembled his numerous wives, and would have been seen marching towards Delhi. Frozen roads and icy winds would have made him realise that indeed: Hunooz Delhi Door Ast (Delhi is still far away)

His wives would have cursed him. Numerous wives (numerous aunties), numerous curses. There would have been no room to think that “This place is a heaven.”  He would have been looking to get out of this place, as soon as possible.

This is a place where you need electricity for almost everything. If there is no electricity and that too during winters, there is only 1% chance of taking even a shower and cleaning yourself up. I am yet to see any Kalle Kharaab individual, who can take a shower in the total absence of electricity.  Shehanshah Jehangir should have been brought to Kashmir in 2017, without servants, but with his numerous wives and without electricity. I’d like to see this word heaven coming out of his mouth, then. I am sure that this word would have preferred to stay indoors.

Summers used to be very joyful until 2008. This joy and merriment is now, lost in our summers. Kashmir isn’t heaven during summers, too. Had there been a Shahanshah Jehangir now, he would have called Kashmir a beautiful slaughter house. Ah! I feel bad for Uncle Jehangir, he has lost every chance to call Kashmir a heaven, even in summers! He has got nothing to give to the world now.

Summers kill and winters freeze those dead bodies. Summers spill blood and winters turn it into ice. Summers boil the blood up, and the winters boil it down. Summers bring about passion and revolution, and the winters make us crave for even a shower. Summers fill this land with slogans, and the winters choke them down (mobile phones, too needs electricity; so no sloganeering!)  Summers bring about tension and fear, and the winters, too come with fear and tension (of cold water in the morning, and ‘battery about to die’ message with a cry of my mobile phone.) Summer comes with a dream of freedom. I discuss it in the morning: “I had dream where in I saw: people from that side of tunnel were applying for visa, to visit Kashmir.”  And winters, too do come with a dream of: electricity, a warm tub of water in the morning and a mobile phone with a charge of 99% left to use. A dream: in summers and in winters too.

I am a Kashmiri with a diverse set of thoughts. I am passionate about everything. I aim high during summers and aim equally high during the winters. That’s me! Collars up! I desert everything during summers, I aim high. Then, I beg, I still aim high.

Uncle Jehangir, Kashmir used to be heaven during those days, and not today. Don’t try to visit Kashmir alone, or with your numerous wives. You may die of tear gas. Your wives may lose their eye sight, pellets may welcome them! Aren’t they more into sightseeing? Don’t let them visit downtown please! Pellets shower there frequently. Pepper gas may choke them! Beware, uncle Jehangir, beware!


So don’t visit us, till you too, will have to apply for a visa to visit Kashmir. You may call it heaven then, but now there is no room for that.

Sunday, 26 July 2015

Listen To Them


In separation from you I turned to the moon, I turned to these stars. The sky is aware of tears. It has seen that unending stream of tears flowing down through my eyes. The moon has been my companion when you weren’t. This moon is so beautiful, just like your face but it listens to me patiently, unlike you. It just listens to me. This sky is the witness to my pain---the pain of separation. This sky has always embraced me to hear my voice---voice which has always carried gloom and agony with it. This sky has let me to shed my tears---tears which carried your reflection, whenever I shed them.

I have talked so much about you with the moon that it now knows you better than me. If I know the dark page of your existence so does this moon, this sky and these twinkling stars. These stars seem to be twinkling, you see them. They are telling you that we know you. They are talking by twinkling. They are telling you how I have suffered in your separation. They are telling you to feel that pain of that cruel separation. The moon is fading away just to tell you what the separation is and what it brings upon one which gets caught in it. 

Do listen to them. Do hear what they are trying to convey. Do they tell you that how much I love you? Do they? If they do, then please tell me. I want to know if they have been able to look deep into my eyes where, only you exist: your reflection. I want to know.  If they could, then why can’t you? Why not? I see you in everything. I see you everywhere: If I can why can’t you? What is hindering you?

The moon, the stars and this sky have got to tell you so many things---listen to them. Listen: they speak the language of love soaked in separation.

They speak of you.

They speak of me. 

Tuesday, 16 June 2015

The Redness


The redness of your eyes,
the brightness of your face,
that melody in your voice,
has let me build a gap.
The unending cruel gap,
which nourishes my love,
extirpates the admiration.
With you in front of me,
everything thing seems dead.
Tell me what to praise?
the dead one or the beauty like you?

I breathe you in,
I breathe you out,
you run through my veins,
you make this heart to beat.
Tell me what to admire?
the dead one or you my love?

A touch of you,
enough to make immortal,
with a touch, infusing life,
with a  touch, turns autumn into spring,
a touch worth of everything,
tell me what to crave for?
a lively touch or a dead sigh?

The redness of your eyes,
the brightness of your face,
is all the treasure I have,
the state of death or life,
does that matter,
if that redness and that,
brightness stays with me?

Death will be a life,
if you are there.
Life will be a death,
if your aren't.





Monday, 15 June 2015

Autumn within




Tell these leaves that unlike you I never see the spring. I never see the greenery. I never see the life. The autumn is in my veins. The destruction is within me. These colorful flowers and green leaves cannot tell you what the autumn is all about. Ask me and I will tell you the reality of autumn: the autumn creates a hole within you---a hole of separation. The autumn has destroyed me--the autumn of separation—the separation from the spring. Ask me how is it to crave for spring? Ask me what the longing for the spring is?

They saw the autumn and now they are in full bloom. But, I have lived through the autumn, the harshness and how it peels off my skin. Don’t ask these leave, ask me and I will tell you how my dry skin made sounds when crushed. Don’t tell me about the fragrance of these flowers: the fragrance of autumn has made me forget all other wonderful fragrances in the world--the fragrance of pain, harshness, agony, separation and you. The last one ‘you’ is suited to make me forget everything.  Don’t tell me about the chirping of birds. The sound of my dry veins, craving for blood, made every sound meaningless.

There is autumn within me---a decades old autumn and what lies outside is the reflection of what is inside.

Autumn, autumn and autumn: with no sign of the spring to come.

Friday, 12 June 2015

MYSTERY


Who are you? A mystery which is trying to give life to all those feelings within me which are lying dead from decades? Your words carve out a different person out of me---a person who is a stranger to me---a person who is full of those emotions and feelings which I destroyed long ago. The impact of your words has been unimaginable. I am afraid of that day when our eyes will meet. I just dream of that day, I know that may not be possible. I love the way you try to keep things secret but the things between us will never remain so. As a dreamer I always dream---dream to touch you with eyes. A touch with hand will not be so gentle---let me try my eyes---dreaming to touch you with my eyes. Who cares about reality? But you can’t stop me from dreaming either; let me dream.

I am afraid of that day: the day when this mystery will unfold if front of me. I am afraid that the person full of emotions and feelings living within me will come out of this cage, what will happen then? That person has become your slave. The slave of unseen eyes, the slave of unheard voice, the slave of feathery touch which never occurred, the slave of that fragrance of your hair---fragrance which is enough to make one feel out of this world. Imagine when unseen will been seen, unheard will be heard and what never happened will happen then? Imagine, just imagine.

You never paved a way to make this dream a reality and you never will.

Be whatever you are: a mystery or a stranger but, be there. Be there if you want this blood should run through my veins. Be there if you want me to write. Be there if you want this emotionless and stone hearted fellow to make you cry. Be there and let me see your tears running down through your cheeks and meeting at the chin. 

Be there.

Saturday, 30 May 2015

STATUE


I am trying to speak. I am trying to make these words to reach you. These words while trying to reach to their destination fall into a deep gorge in between you and me. They die by splitting into numerous unfathomable pieces. I can see the funeral of my words and I am standing here helpless---helpless to infuse life into my own words---helpless to give them a new life. But, in spite of being their God: the creator, I am failing to do so and with their funeral everything comes to an abrupt halt.

Now that I am here to write about you, I am not able to hold this pen properly. I am not able to make an image of your existence. I am no longer able to smell that fragrance of your hair---fragrance which once used to transport me to the heaven full of pleasure and delight. I am no longer able to feel that touch of your skin. I am no longer able to express that hypnotizing, mesmerizing and spellbinding effect of eyes. This deadly gorge is widening day by day and with it everything is breathing its last. Your tiptoeing no longer makes my heart to sink. The sound of your anklet no longer compels me to get up and dance. With every breath I am taking in, you are becoming a lifeless statue for me, which is not in a state to make me feel anything divine; the statue which has been carved beautifully but not having the power to turn me on. It doesn’t switches on that ‘beauty lover’ demon within me---the demon which was your slave; who danced on the sounds of your anklet. It no longer turns him on.

The beauty is lost, the passion is lost. The void is increasing. We are fading away from the scene. I am running short of paper. The pen is refusing to move on. I am your creator and here I am: destroying you; destroying you by not writing about you.

Let this void annihilate you.

Friday, 8 May 2015

YOUR FEATHERY TOUCH



This hole inside me is widening with every passing day. The darkness of this hollow is making me to become invisible. It is widening, and one day my entire existence will be annihilated by this hollowness. This hole is within me, it is eating me up with its harshness and abrasiveness and I am looking at it with a smile on my face. With a smile to hide my inability; these swollen eyes of mine are the witness to what this cruel hole is doing to me. Puffed-up, red eyes; but you can’t see that. The one who has bestowed me with this hollowness knows it very well. He knows that this hole is eating me up---destroying me. If it could have been up to me, I would have told this hole not touch my heart. Pulverize everything but done touch this heart. Don’t let your dark shadow fall upon this heart which my beloved has lightened up and this all I have. This heart once had feathery touch of my beloved and from then on it is bright---saving my existence. Destroy everything but don’t touch this heart. If you want then pull out my eyes but spare my heart. This is all I have from my beloved as he took away everything but this heart was left here. Was that deliberately done or my beloved forgot to take it away? Whatever was the reason but this is all I have. This darkness which is approaching me is all set to tear me into pieces. Scatter me everywhere. But, all I want is to spare this heart. All I want is to spare that feathery touch of my beloved---the only touch my beloved bestowed me. That touch wasn’t a physical but was something which had its effects on my heart. One day when I took out my heart, it had the imprints of my beloved. Those beautiful imprints of those fragile and minutely carved fingers; Afraid of this approaching darkness I put inside me to at least save it from this ugly darkness. But this darkness is hell bent to destroy everything. I want to cry but I am not so weak. I want to scream but who is going to listen in this world where is everyone is deaf and dumb?

I am destined to perish then let me give this heart to my beloved. It will be safe there like a pearl is in shell. I am not worried about my heart but, about those feathery imprints of my beloved on it.

Come Oh! Beloved take this heart away and let this darkness annihilate me. Let me exterminate and let you live with my heart within your heart.