Abu! We will meet again.

In search of you

I scream volumes 

In hope –

they may travel

voids of your grave.

And surely,  

     I found you –

In eyes of my mother.

In courage and strength.

In tears and sorrow.

In smile through dry lips.

In emptiness of the night.

In eerie silence at home.

In fragrance filling your room.

In the heavy heart of mine. 

Everywhere, 

I found you. 

I do find you.

But,

I still wait 

To see your face-

In the sunshine

Among the crowd at home

Sitting on your sofa

With right leg raised on left,

Left hand supporting face

And right holding my hand

speaking to me

“Don’t worry,

Allah will make it easy,

Everything will be fine.

I’m fine.”

I wait for your words

To come true. 

I do wait 

I will wait for an entire life.

But for now

My love, My beloved

My father.

Stay peaceful!

We are fine. 

We shall meet again

 – in the paradise. 

Promise shall be kept,

Angels will glorify,

And time will be witness. 

~Your Daughter~

P.S: Death can’t be excused, there is no escape. Loss is irreplaceable, but one favour you can do and that is, send “Surah Fatiha” to my Abu. Thank you!

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MŌAJ

My Kashmir.

Kashmir and its heart wrenching narration.

MŌAJ (MOTHER)

Ofcourse not

 “You are safe”

A mother screams.

End to end

Too high, too far

The grass is overrun

The sky too dark, and

Jehlum flowing Red.

Poutrah (Son), Sit by my side

I feel heavy,

I hear screams,

Dying are the blossoms

Mourning the strongest.

Goubrya (Son), Come close to me

Lay your head on my bosom

The fear is, what if

the other is lot more than one?

And among them

You my son The Martyr?

How will I walk?

How will I move?

How will I live?

How will I heal?

Forget everything –

How will I Farewell you?

Goubrya (Son), Come close to me

Lay your head on my bosom

Ofcourse not

“Anyone is safe”.

***

She nodded

Very faintly she spoke

Stole one last look and

Closed her eyes,

Goubrya (son)

Ofcourse not,

I am safe”.

The Love Letter!

Dear Beloved!

Where from shall I start? Wait, let me first ease myself.  It has been my fantasy since long now, to write a love letter because for now it is an obsolete thing to do. I do believe that someday one of my colony pigeons, white in colour with a ruby bracelet in the neck, will learn how to cover a distance between us, but for now we have to bear to settle without that.

Evenings for me have always been blissful and mystic, but that Saturday when you were sitting just next to me it happened to redefine the meaning of romance. Your presence was sharp, clean like a new born baby tempting me to touch you, hold you and let you be familiar to me, but I was too scared of hurting your soft gesture. As the colours of the blaze were setting, I kept watching them as they were reflecting through your stillness. They kept glowing your skin a bit more than that of the autumn struck Chinar leaf, O’ You beauty! You pause me every time I check on you.

Recall, the shiver that did pass around through your strong self. Well! That alertness happened to give me goose bumps. While the cold currents of the wind did touch your rough skin and you got engaged in settling yourself I was busy watching the warmness of you dropping like the droplets of the rain skidding my window pane. Low at noise and much of an elegance.

Remember, the bonfire we lit? Did you notice how the colours of the sky did compliment the fire? The flames were racing into the sky and the smoke was forming patterns like newlywed couples meeting first time in each other’s eyes. An excitement of the stars was clearly visible by the way they were twinkling as the darkness was getting richer with an each passing instant. How shall I define such moment and crypt my words for you to interpret the significance of our being? Meanwhile, I forgot to ask you, were you in certain competition with the moon or it was just another face of you?

Writing to you won’t mature my words to a level of your charm and attitude. Hence, to understand you a bit more I yesterday asked my friend to come with me to see you. She brushed off my meeting by stating, “Let not your affair be public” [followed by a smile]. I paused, didn’t reply, but back in my mind, I was thinking that every day you are being kissed by many and praised by countless then how shall my love be a secrecy? O’ Dear Nature when will you reply?

Love!
(Since ages)
Amreen Naqash!

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~A.N

Who has to save the girl?

Navigation between pages has always been one of my preferred topics and same was true for today. Nevertheless, for a person like me it was today not a favourite, but one disheartening thing to do. I somehow slipped up on a video shared by certain page which was linked up to a recent incident that took place at Kaaw Mohalla, Khanyar on the eve of Eid-UL-Zuha. One unfortunate incident which too will drop dead in the law books against a thirst for justice and ultimately will result in one futile exercise of hope.

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Well, a point here is that what make me write today after a long pause about such incident? I have already written numerous articles about the society’s evils and this too is no exception to them. So, for today what is it that made me once again pour my agony in these scripted lines. It is nothing except the “False show of humanity” that irked me of that video. The journalist is asking a lady who has lost her daughter in one of the heart scissoring incidents, “Tueh paeyth kya chuw mouj waeynken baitaan? (Mother, what is right now happening to you?) , Tueh kya chuw gasaan weayn kenas? (What is happening to you right now?), Tueh kya chuw basaan? (What do you feel about it?) and so on. Come on, Mr. Journalist first you call her mother then you ask her about how she feels of an incident of losing a daughter to the flames of inhumane society? How will you feel when, God forbid, your sister/female parent/daughter will ash down to dust and someone will build a story on how you feel right now about it? Even in a wildest of an imagination of such tragedy will send shivers down the spine. What sort of journalism is this? Disgusting! This is no new narrative, no new crime, ample number of such crimes take place each day, each hour, each second. Forget about getting a space in local dailies they don’t even get a person to mourn. They rest like never existing creatures in the earth full of sorrow.

Hah! This video actually played so bad that I found no better option other than stopping it there and the first 17 seconds have frozen in me. They are pain to watch. Doubtless, this video must have been made to show inhumanity, but while brings down the curtains of shame the discipline of journalism lost its own to “Fake sympathy”.

Offense is constantly clear. It is we who have blindfolded the eyes, it is we who feed it, it is we who actually nourish it and it is we who finally complain about it. It is the S.O.C.I.E.T.Y… even words don’t suit to be merged. Such tragedy!

Let me ask you a few simple questions,

How many times you have uttered when something improper is going on, even in your family or in the neighbourhood or in area around?

Have you ever done anything apart from being a mute spectator? Or being a person who watches and discusses do’s and do not’s at back?

In case you have done your bit, how well your family has supported it?

How many times you have reported wrong? Ever? Or just never?

There are so many questions and so less of an expectance of any right. Change is not one day march that we will shout and the next day it will be served. It is a struggle. It is a freedom from doomed ideology. It is a fire to orthodox ideas, cultural burdens, and above all the light into a deep lesion. To get it, we need to starve for it, else this article is only a burden to trash. In simpler words it is not about “who, when and how will save the girl”, instead it is all about “I will save the girl”.

To the fire

I did surrender myself.

Call it destiny or social iniquity,

But for now,

“I am free”.

No curse, No impudence.

Keep blaming each other

By then I shall return in womb another

I know, all over again,

Everything would be same

Faces will change

While crime will have new name.

~A.N

P.S: The link to video is here  https://www.facebook.com/umaan/videos/10205806342692161/

A Broken Couplet!

surreal-man-with-hands-covering-face1I hear a broken couplet,
On my countrymen’s lips
It is painful,
Mourning deaths.

I see sharing of bullets
On my countrymen’s chest
It is rushing blood,
To unmarked graves.               

I watch sky turning crimson red
On my countrymen’s inward eye
It is longing for an end
Of monarch’s crimes.

I hear a broken couplet,
Over and again
On my countrymen’s lips.
I want an end of a broken couplet,
On my countrymen’s lips.

~A.N

Dream

A wish, a supplication, a desire to see an elegant beauty of endurance, the only conceptual truth that the heart knows and brain keeps trying to carry out. The ability of synchronizing pictures into a flow of a perfect scene like notes of the music aligned on one sheet producing mesmerizing beats and sinking hearts in an ode of classical melodies. A series of phantasmagoria that develop in the darkness of the night like small parachutes of the dandelion forming a beautiful yet too delicate flower. This is a beauty of the dream rising from nowhere, when even the psyche holds no hint if it is playing along the mass lying in the strata of the comfort cozy place, contributing to the creation of a fantasy. The aspiration is just not for a dreamer to see and enjoy, simply for a persona it is an ability to set a foundation during dark and host it as a fortune to the world during the day.

With the Oceanic depth,

Flowing and then resting forever,

Within the cast of the gambler, “the red mass”,

They mimic the truth and the lies of the world.

Away from the lips,

Untouched by the foreign ink,

They die poisonously for one thought,

From where, none ever returned back.

Dead! As if the poet was never born,

The couplets stay, echoing within the core,

To whom the pensive mood was a friend,

And the virtual calmness, the reflection.

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P.S: This is student’s dream. Difficult to understand and harmless to be executed, but enough of strength needed to get it finished.

~A.N