“Believing the Gallows!”


Taking our clocks back by a year, I remember the 8th Feb as just another ordinary day, smuggling and crossing over the thin line between the two dates, eight and nine. Too calm to hold the secrets of execution, very much strong to maintain the silence, leading to the gallows and still briefing us about nothing. 

Like the faithfulness of a man, it (time) too fell prey to an anxious silence, a deserted belief, destined to the beautiful morning that faked a life like an icicle meeting up the bright rays descending from the sun on an unexpected harsh winter morning. 

We all are destined to death, for its beauty and in hope of paradise we keep briefing ourselves about good and bad. But who knows how, where and in what situation we going to leave. Indubitably, no men stay immortal, though remembrance makes one so.

9th of February, as in today, would have never meditated enough to be remembered for an age to come, generations to move on but the tragedy made it believe the smuggling agony by the seconds that passed by. Over the will of Almighty no one’s supremacy does rule. This to him was known only difference is we would/could have never believed the cause to have been so.


“To ‘HIM’ we have to return,
Today or tomorrow, it will be our turn.”




“Dolesome Voice”

The bride left with no colours

Habilimented in the velvety white.

Close to the nature,

Relinquished by the crowd.

Youthful! Yet too tired,

Not of the dead cells but of the silence around.

Alone strengthening the voice,

To be heard and accompanied by someone nice.

Riding into the forest of no notes,

Searching the owner of the old ragged boots.

Smell of the skin and arch of feet,

Still same since the moment they were tamed.

In remembrance of the soul,

That smuggled into the last winter snow.

Leaving behind an impression of the hope,

Guiding an unknown to the path lone.

Like the waves reverberating from the river behind,

She believes one day sound may travel to her life.

Dolesome voice



A letter To My Mother

Dear Mother

Salaam, I hope the days would be bright and the seasons quite serene at your place. You know mother, Today I took my pen to write the hardest of truth happening at your home. Now the sun doesn’t rise as it used to, the morning chirp of the melodious birds now go unheard, the day remains more enveloped in the dark clouds than in bright sunshine, the sun now shies away and people call it sunset, night isn’t known for dreams anymore but the insomnia is something that is more. The plight of this restless heart I want to convey you as no one can understand me so nicely as you.

Mother! The time since I have opened my eyes in this world full of charm and beauty I have grown up watching how in your garden blossoms turn to flowers but from few years why so many turn to weeds whom we want to pluck off, rather than keeping along. You know now eyes have become dry and the hearts have turned to half a pound weighing stone. It’s hard enough to even carry it along. Mother you know well, the garden looks beautiful when the trees are well enveloped in the pleasurous color green, flowers seem beautiful when petals are spreading eye pleasing colors, and the green carpet spread for miles but now this is no more accepted. Now your garden loves to stay naked as the if autumn has taken off the pride. Mother now the preference has turned around, withered tree and barren land is all that is looked upon. These aren’t the orphan words but the tale how the pride of your garden is being laden with dust and a termite of doubt has made place to heart asking “Do you still belong to the valley of the saints” ?

Mama, I have many questions and they all have the same origin, Modernization and Westernization. Dear, I don’t understand these two newly developed civilizations. You have taught me, that modernization should be in thoughts, in views, in the way of communication but our society is changing, I am disturbed, I can’t understand, I am frustrated. Mother the people who are simple, who wear Salwar Kameez are not modern any more. They are treated quite differently by the society. You know when I visit a shop with big names I am not being attended as the modern people are, although I hold quite hot crisp bucks in my pocket. You have not taught me real modernization. Mama if my brother would not have gifted me the new cell I would have not been treated well at the shop, thanks to Khalla she called at the right time and the salesman got an eye on the phone and he placed the racks down. I can’t understand this kind of attitude, this is irking me. At one moment we remain no back to quote Ralph Waldo Emerson – “Nothing is more simple than greatness; indeed, to be simple is to be great.”; Leonardo DA Vinci – “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.”; Douglas Horton – “The art of simplicity is a puzzle of complexity” and many others but at second moment we forget all in the fantasy of the gimmicks played by the society.

“Hidden under the curtains for the entire life, Simplicity paid as the last rites were carried through midnight.” — AN

Mother I don’t understand what are we waiting for? Our culture has changed all together. Today marriage is not celebrated as the union of two souls in our place but for the advertisement of wealth. The more the sounds of crackers are heard, the more warm pockets the owner has. Even though sometime the case is all together different the owner is drowned in the loan but no, he has to show the world how rich is he or should I say society is provoking him to do so. Yes! It’s the society which is responsible. Mama, It’s me, it’s you and it’s us who are responsible for such things.

Mama, why we remain quite to what we see around? Why we have blindfolded our eyes as we sit in the bus? As we walk through university gardens? As we go to different public places? Mama! kuch samaj nahi aaraha (Mother! I am not able to understand anything). Mama can’t we change it? I can’t see the land of the saint’s turning to land of devils? Mama, please guide your children. Please ask the your people to think over it. Please.

Mother! My hand is tired enough and heart overflown with pain and regret. I am dropping my pen over here and hoping for you to hold me in your lap again. I want to sleep and dream of the old beautiful garden where the innocence of the child was the lonesome treasure, where the shyness of the girl was here only jewel, where the truth of the heart was the word of the tongue, where the song of mother was the most mesmerizing sound to the ear and the food cooked by her was the real delicacy. Mama, take me back to that paradise and wake me when our garden would have turned same. Love you Mama

Thank You Mother.

Your’s loving daughter.


PS: Mother is no other than my motherland “Kashmir”. I am addressing to our MOUJ KASHEER.

Published in daily newspaper Rising Kahmir.


Also published on Kashmir Forum but with a little change in the name.

Letter to “Maej Kasheer”

Humanity: A Fantasy

Gather courage & listen to me this night

My voice must have gone unheard

But my scars aren’t hidden from your sight

O’ you lame’s of the society and murderers of humanity

Why you made it rich man’s friend and poor ones enemy?

Spot me; I am a dweller, thirsty since ages standing among you

With the strength to shout out for peace and stand for truth.

I am a challenger, a breeder of humanity

Nor my words, neither my deeds need to be proved

I stand by Gaza, I bawl for Palestine

I raise my voice for the brutalities done in Kashmir.

I am a vicious storm for the criminals of harmony

Those who smuggle it in the royal ceremony

O’ Mother of humanity, come and save me

From those imbecile’s who are trying to crib me

I am burning in agony, dying in pain of the shackles

Bruised body, weeping wounds, left prey of the prickles

Frenzied by the custom of barbarism

It’s a time high, save the world from the storm of anarchism

Light up the candles of freedom today

Fuel them with spirit to win and brighten up each allay

Wrap the naked faced lost in ceaseless gloom

With the care and passion to let it bloom

Let them breathe under the tree of your serenity

And enjoy the shadow of your incredibility.



I am the land known for its

Beauty that adds me among places serene

I am the land known for its

Orchid trees.

Some call me crown of the India,

Some call me the windpipe of Pak,

But none tried to ask me to whom I belong?

Neither cared enough even of my one thought

Well! Let me speak who I am,

I am the witness of murders done under midnight beam.

I am the witness of the screams,

  Those which echoed between the mountains strong

And got digested in the canopy of pine trees.

I am the witness of the harsh cold nights

When I was burnt to death alive.

I am the witness of the truths

For which people come with stones in hand on the streets

I am the land of tortures and miseries.

I am the land holding mothers cries

For their unripe berries.

I am the land who has to pull the knife down through its chest

To hold martyrs, whose skin spreads fragrance

 Like the newly grown roses in the paradise’s bed.

Still I do have strength and resist walking alone

Roar off my words in the rain

Of the bullets you shower on me as insane.

Keep ma’ words in your mind and grave them in your veins

I will never let the struggle of ages go in vain.

The blood of innocents and wails of mother’s

Searching for their child’s grave

  Keep my blood boiling on

Strengthens my spirit and builds up my morale

To erupt on you as a volcano and blew you off

Even if the ages will turn on

You will spot me speaking same

Till I achieve my status of being the country free

And see saluting my own flag with dignity and fame.




Snowflakes hadn’t kissed me yet

Ha! Frost already turned to my way and got set

Numbed eyes searched for my own

Flooded in dreams, to get assuasive feel,

Of those world ridden wounds and screams

The one those fallen prey to droplets

Cutting off from icicles, dipped in blazes red.

Spoke the brutality of its words smashed to dust

Echoing the tranquility of the deserted land crowned with rust

They stood enough on springs to cast the film for fame

Alas! Forgotten have they, screening are they one’s own shame

Buck’s out of this gloomed place could turn their pockets warm

Doomed in their bungalow of thoughts lingering for charm

How could they satisfy soul witnessing this burning farm?

Astonished by this, I turned to way other

Kissing the bladed chest of the mother

Was an angel of her through frame another

Rested she had for years at grave unmarked

Screaming, “O’ child mine yell off, it’s you their embarked”

Melancholy in the wind turned me too dumb

To answer for any query,

I was too numb

Lingering was humanity by its own wistful arrows

They shot blindly on fleshed walls,

Germinating deep sorrows.

Yearning for years,

To wipe off tears from eyes left to weep

By insane people painting red, and

Leaving them in sleep deep

Couldn’t resist enough,

Ran off from the place

Gloomful climate traced my path,

Asking me for my unknown race

Bleeding eyes sunken deep in fear,

Worries and cries

Ransacked by its own

Being listening to chair holder’s excuses and lies

Chronically addicted to this showcase

Of the treasuries who rhyme every time

Ha-ha! Tale it has become now,

To lay one and condemn by the ton

Hardly anyone does feel bruises,

Except the family that has faced shot of a gun.

Morns do wake up my land,

Even where the sun tries enough to shun

Faith breathes and dusk clenches,

Quilt of hope to be ready for another run.


7:02 PM