Posts Tagged ‘Urdu poetry’

A caravan of mourners

December 4, 2015

I am afraid of this wretched evening.  Sitting in a corner of a whole emptiness is me.  Clock ticks its seconds.  Evening passes by.  “Waqt ke sog mein lamhoN ka juloos, jaise ek kaafila e nauhaagaraaN..”  In sorrow of time, this procession of moments, like a caravan of mourners..

Things need not be this bleak always.  But evenings are not things.  Evenings don’t understand.  Perhaps, evenings are like people trying hard to make you happy.  Evenings don’t know to leave you alone when you need to be left alone.  Evenings are hell in the same way as Sartre said “Hell is other people.” Evenings are not nights.

I woke at 1 a.m. last night.  It was the same room, but the emptiness didn’t feel empty.  It rather felt serene.  Why can’t we have all nights and no evenings?  I’ll perhaps need some other evening to find an answer.

Last night, when I was awake, I was actually feeling calm, at peace with myself.  If I think of it now, it feels like it was a complete different person.  Perhaps, it was me; a me very different from a me I am at evenings.  I checked my twitter.  I read my book.  I hummed my poems:  yuuN gumaaN hota hai garche hai abhi subah e firaq, dhal gaya hijr ka din, aa bhi gayi wasl ki raat.. It feels like – even though it’s a morning of separation – the day of staying away has just gone, here comes the night of togetherness..  At night, even separation doesn’t feel like a separation.  At least, it didn’t feel like that yesterday.

But it’s not a night yet.  It’s an evening, and a wretched one at it.  I am sitting in a corner of a whole emptiness.  The clock is ticking its seconds.  The moments are passing in a procession, like a caravan of mourners.

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I cannot stop writing

March 1, 2012

I often get a question:  “How do you write?”  It has a wide range of connotations:  “How do you get such thoughts?”; “How can you find time to write?”; or just “Why the hell you stress yourself after a workday? Don’t you get tired ?”  The answer is simple for me.  I write because I write; I cannot do otherwise.  I cannot live without writing.  It is not about writing a blog or writing online.  Writing online is kind of a perversion, because I cannot write on-paper for many reasons.  Writing online has its benefits too; I get a quick response and I can refine my thoughts if there is any odd thinking.

I never knew myself for years that I can write.  I was a reader; reading for my own pleasure.  I never understood at what time my reading changed from “just reading” to “a reading experience.”  At some point in my reading career, without even knowing myself, I started interpreting things in my own way.  And I started to realize whatever I had read until then was just a reading practice for the years to come.  Earlier, I used to devour hundreds of pages in a day, but it was just a preparation.  Till then, I hated poetry.  I had never brought a poetry book from library.  I never understood why people write poems.  It was all because I had never read good poetry, or I had not learnt interpreting things till then.  All this happened around my early twenties.  From around 19 through 21, I was turning from a “reading reader” to a “writing reader.”

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