LIFE (For Mubashir)

Only the person, says our barber,

who sits in my working chair

is a customer. The rest,

who wait, can leave anytime.

Waiting seems like

an aqueous island between oceans,

an intertestice of infinite possibilities

between two accomplished impossibilities -

one can pace up and down,

one can go or call or chat,

smoke or have tea,

kill someone or kill oneself.

All those who wait

can never be customers,

he's right. In his waiting for people

how closely he

misses Life,

all the while keeping

three chairs

for one customer.

POORE SAAL KI AADHI NAZM / پورے سال کی آدھی نظم

Muhabbat ka December

Gham ka pur-malaal aasman

Dard ki shadeed baarish

Aur tanha Bheegta mai

Yaadon ki chaadar tang

Aur safar taveel

Judai ke January ki barf

Pighlane ke liye ab

Tamaam yaadon ko hi

Jhulsana hoga

...

December ki thithurti nazm gar

February mein yun utregi

Sochta hoon

Zindagi Kaise guzregi

محبت کا دثمبر 

غم کا پُر ملال آسمان 

درد کی شدید بارش

اور تنہا بھیگتا میں 

یادوں کی چادر تنگ

اور سفر طویل 

جدائی کے جنوری کی برف

پگھلانے کے لئے اب

تمام یادوں کو ہی

جھلسانا ہوگا

...

دسمبر کی ٹھٹھرتی نظم گر

فروری میں یوں اُترےگی 

سوچتا ہوں

زندگی کیسے گزرے گی 

The Birdfeeder

The birdfeeder outside burns

with a grainy tongue of taste

attracting birds as moths -

Pigeons and Mynas, the usual visitors

but also Crows and Eagles,

sometimes Bulbuls and

Thrushes.

This year, however,

we had unusual ones -

Parakeets -

visiting in groups

like college students

bunking classes,

missing the whole semester 

during peak summers.

Yesterday our neighbour called

requesting to ensnare

some of these tiny rackety rascals.

But we don't . . . I answered

and it dawned on me

how love is a trap for some

and trap, love for others.

and You

My nocturnal fortunes were never fair:

I couldn't ever see

Srinagar skies with you,

gifting you shapes in the stars

sliced like cakes,

whichever shape you wished.

Stars, skies and shapes 

I lost everything;

I lost the shape that emerged

out of your womanly body

into motherhood.

Your gustatory shift from tea to coffee,

I lost too,

your sartorial mutations.

I lost your acquisition 

of driving licence

or the coordination you acquired 

between your hands, feet and eyes

that was absent

in your life.

The alignment of your lips and tongue

is not the same as I left them quivering then,

I have lost the sound

of words

that you pronounce differently now.

I lost in a lifetime

what others gain in one

And you

And you

And you

FOR MY DAUGHTER

Fragile glass sheets

sliding down the rocky mountain -

that's how your mother's life has been;

always on the verge.

She has more twisted ankles

than steps on the ground -

Losing hairpins, and books and bracelets

and people,

raging all the time, furious and impatient,

she could never carry herself.

It is not a miracle that she carried you

Within her

without losing,

It is her sheer will.

Now that you are here

she is back into the rocky life

of breaking and losing,

of anger and ferocity.

You, my child, carry half

your mother's burdens and her outrage.

You are your mother's daughter

You will carry her well.

A BROKEN UNIVERSE

I have a broken-hearted friend

with a wound

as deep as universe

wherein he resides.

He gloats facts all the time:

Universe, he says, is 95 percent darkness.

Every galaxy has its own black hole.

He goes on in the similar way

about Plants, Animals and everything in nature,

except Humans. He has no insights there.

Blinded by people. Hurt he is,

wounded, betrayed and broken.

He sees no 5 percent light there

neither any galaxies.

He's addicted to those videos wherein

old, antique broken things are repaired, restored.

And I understand why:

The videos are a metaphor for a condition

unattainable.

For years

the poetic interpretation contented me

until yesterday when 

I asked him the reason:

"Lucky bastards dig up an antique treasure every other day".

Aatish Paraston ki Ek Devi / آتش پرستوں کی اک دیوی

Shakhon se ubalti rui

Jab pedon ke badan se utar kar

Shehar ki sadkon pe bikhar kar

Kinare kinare saujati thi

Tou ek chingari se usey

Jaga kar

Jhulsa kar

Hum phir hawaon mein uda dete they 

Ladakpan mei  aag se

Kise ragbat nahi hoti

Muhabbat nahi hoti

Magar phir zindagi mein

Samjhdari ke ek mod par

Mujhe aatish paraston ki

Ek devi mili

Rooh jiski aatishi thi

Aag se raakh

Raakh se khaak

Aur khaak se gubaar banana

Jiski zindagi thi

Har woh shay

Jo uske badan ki hidat se guzri ho

Jhulasna uski taqdeer thi

Apne badan se utre kapdon ko

Supurd e naar kar

Ghanton unhe taka karti

Hawa karti

Hansa karti

Phir us raakh ka naseeb woh jaane

Mai raakh ho chuka hoon kya?

Ab mai jo uski utran hoon

شاخوں سے ابلتی روئی 

جب پیڑوں کے بدن سے اتر کر

شہر کی سڑکوں پہ بکھر کر 

کنارے کنارے سوجاتی تھی

تو ایک چنگاری سے اُسے 

جگا کر 

جھلسا کر

ہم پھر ہواؤں میں اڑا دیتے تھے

لڑکپن میں آگ سے

کسے رغبت نہیں ہوتی

محبت نہیں ہوتی

مگر پھر زندگی میں

سمجھداری کے اک موڈ پر

مجھے آتش پرستوں کی

ایک دیوی ملی

روح جسکی آتشی تھی

آگ سے راکھ

راکھ سے خاک

اور خاک سے غبار بنانا

جسکی زندگی تھی

ہر وہ شے 

جو اسکے بدن کی حدت سے گزری ہو

جھلسنا اُسکی تقدیر تھی

اپنے بدن سے اترے کپڑوں کو

سپرد نار کر

گھنٹوں انہیں تکا کرتی

ہوا کرتی

ہنسا کرتی 

پھر اس راکھ کا نصیب وہ جانے

میں راکھ ہو چکا ہوں کیا

اب میں جو اُسکی اترن ہوں؟

مغالطہ/Mugalta

THERE'S NO LAST CIGARETTE FOR ANYONE

After billowing the last

cloud of smoke from

the cloudy mouth and

stubbing it out into

the Moon ashtray,

something always remains

burning between the luscious lips of

mind. A poking stick some

call desire, some dream, some

prefer to call it fantasy, some

call it appraisal, some promotion,

some craving, someone something . . .

By the end of it all, there

always remains in hand

a new cigarette.

FOR MANSOOR

A poem in your memory

has been long in coming -

dying alongside you

would have been the alliteration,

buried in the grave with you,

the aesthetic enjambment. . .

A mourner is an inveterate gravedigger.

But today I realized,

walking in your shoes,

touching the ground as You 

dovetails poetically.

Poetry still has not arrived,

the shoes are here on the page,

the poem is strolling.