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


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


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


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.

Wednesday, 5 November 2014


A fictional account

People are talking and have informed the lady that her son is dead!

Since the morning they are telling me your son has been killed. People are preparing to bury him in the local graveyard.  But how that can be possible? I myself combed his hair in the morning when he left. I prepared dinner for him. Yes, I have cooked his favourite dish ‘Yakhni’ for him. He told me that he will be back in an hour or two and now you are telling me he is dead? You people need some rest. You have turned mad. My son will come back soon. He will be on his way; he might be stuck in traffic.  

Yesterday he handed me some money and said that he will be saving some money every month and with that money he will buy me new gold earrings. Every time he saw me wearing these old silver earrings, he used to get upset. He used to say one day I will bring you new earrings that too of gold. He has to save money for them.  It will take him 4 more months to save money for gold earrings. He is working hard and I do trust him, he will bring me the new gold earrings.

He has worked harder. He has to marry off his sister. He has been lately saving money for that as well. He is handing over every hard earned penny to me. Please don’t tell me he is dead. I beg you. He has to fulfil the promises he has made me and to his sister. He can’t leave us alone.

And the body arrives:

Get up my son! See your mother is calling you. Get up I have cooked your favourite dish: Yakhni “Su kuss kheye poutrah?” (Who will eat that my son?)

Why isn’t he responding?

He cannot be dead!

You had promised you will bring me the golden earrings. Who is going to do that now?

Who will marry off your dear sister? You were going to save money for her marriage.

“Thoud Wathtaa Janaana?” (Get up my beloved?)

And the lady is lying down on the floor, unconscious.

Friday, 13 June 2014

First '8' Seats Reserved

“First 8 seats are reserved for ladies” The sticker bearing this message on the red background, can be seen almost in all the mini buses which are running on various routes in Srinagar city. And we can see how that message is ignored most of the times. We can say that that sticker is just like a common advertisement we find in those buses. One can see that those 8 seats which are reserved for the ladies remain occupied most of the times and the female commuters are forced to travel in an awkward position. The female commuters while travelling have to face difficulties of various forms and a person who on daily basis travels in such buses can easily understand what forms of difficulties I am talking about.

We do have our female college and school students, employees and others travelling in buses and the incidents of eve teasing in such buses have increased drastically. Now, the female folk are not even feeling secure while travelling in these mini buses. I have seen many, college and school female students preferring to reach their respective institution either by asking their parents to drop them there or by travelling that distance by foot, they usually avoid to board a bus. And those who are unable to do so are bound to board the bus and face the consequences.

Recently when I was travelling on one such route in a mini bus, to which we usually refer to as ‘TATA GAED’ , what I saw was that three guys in their mid twenties cornered a lady of almost same age group and in no time the body language of those guys went from indecency to worst, and unfortunately no one really noticed the scene. I caught them, but I couldn’t protest, keeping in view the state of my body, I was not in the state of resisting, they were all giants and they could have thrown me out of that bus in no time. I will not tell you that I just got up; slapped them and dragged them out of the bus, no, that will be an exaggeration on my part. I just looked at them with disgust and thought that it might work.  Luckily that lady somehow managed to grab a nearby vacant seat and got rid of those beasts on wheels.

Many such incidents have happened and are happening and this issue is not getting any attention at all. There is an urgency to address this issue which is alarming in nature. Today it was the sister or wife of Mr. ‘A’ who faced this, tomorrow it can be your sister, your wife or mine, for that matter.

As discussed, officially there are 8 seats which are reserved for ladies in every minibus running on the city roads. Now let us ask a simple question to ourselves that is, are these 8 seats sufficient to be reserved? Can’t we have more than eight ladies travelling in the bus? What about them? Let us say that those reserved seats have been occupied by ladies, what about those who standing right there in jumble? Can’t they fall into the hands of such human beasts which have lost the ability to distinguish between the things around them?

The only solution which at this point of time is coming into mind is that of running a separate bus service for the ladies on all the major city routes initially and with the advent of time this chain of separate bus service for ladies can be extended to the various other routes of the valley.

If normally there are 10 buses playing on a particular route, we can have additional 5 buses meant for the ladies only. This concept if implemented can ease up the travel for ladies who travel on daily basis on the major routes of Srinagar city.

If seen carefully, somewhere deep down into the hearts of people they want something new which will ease up their routinely travel. This step can be a new and innovative step in this direction. For its implementation we should not wait for the government to analyze the issue and form a committee to study the issue, then after a decade they will come up with a report and again after a year they will forward some typical recommendation. No, in this way it will take a lifetime to address this alarming issue. We have the solution and its implementation should not take much time. For this, the local transport companies, which are right now in the business, should take up the job and offer such type of bus service in the city in its initial stage, which will be exclusive for ladies.

I am hopeful that the response to this exclusive service will be huge and these transport companies (if they will take up the job) will have no hesitation in expanding this ‘Female Exclusive Bus Service’ to other parts of the valley.