Of melting perfume

Has the soft perfume melted at last?

To the burning fire?

Of a Rendevouz?

The trickling, dripping perfume...

Guilty yet without regret.

At the unabashed rain

Falling naked

To the warm haze

Of a winter sun.

Endless, relentless.

Face the divine, it won't again...

For it knows where it belongs

Dust to dust...

Ashes to ashes...

To be soaked

And never again to be seen!

"The Best Christmas Present"

She sat huddled up in a corner holding the phone close to her ear...warm tears rolled down her red cheeks penetrating her skin frozen with cold. Through the silent sobbing, she listened intently...the music seemed to conjure images and words in her head. School. Green gates. The choir. Red shirts. Santa. Christmas. Its the choir singing. The woman's voice seemed to quiver over the music. She whispered a soft yes. Do you want to hear more of it? This time she could not manage to mouth an answer...she wanted to be there...to be a part of that melody that rose from the choir which had just started the 'Silent night'. The voice hummed along with the old carol. She remembered metro rides...standing in a huddle trying to get the harmony right...of tired passengers wondering why a bunch of stupid, giggly girls had suddenly broken into song. I miss you everytime I listen to the choir sing. She wanted to thank the voice...she wanted to say that she missed singing for the choir too...

They were mornings when the sun shined through its winter haze...squinting at a world getting dressed for Christmas. The big tree next to the piano was decked up and the choir stands were arranged right in front of the stage. Bells, stars and mistletoe adorned the hall. And she missed those days...they were so much a part of her. What touched her was that she had not been forgotten...even though she was miles away....there was still someone who wanted her to hear the choir sing...who wanted her to be a part of the festivities which she so loved...to fill the void that she had left. She felt empty inside. There were no more Christmas celebrations...no more choir practices...no more bells or mistletoe...except that one star, hanging in a distant balcony along with linen....shining in glory to the Lord.

(to Ma'am, with love)

Two Worlds...

Its a long, straight road....long, straight and usually empty, flanked on both sides by big houses belonging to big people with big cars and big bank accounts...the exact sort of houses you know you will never live in, even when you get a decent job, until and unless you marry a millionaire, the chances of which are thin and fat all at the same time. Walking down this particular road, there is the cold air that hits the face...reminder of the fact that winter is settling in...in the air and in hearts of those who reside in these quarters. Traversing this stretch are youngsters with rich parents at home, their faces alight with I Pod screens and Blackberries. Somewhere a man stands in his best evening suit with a glass in hand, waiting for his ill-paid driver to chauffeur his million dollar car (exact amount unknown. but confirmed that it is more than the amount that driver will earn in a year) right up to his front porch, so that his shiny shoes, polished by yet another ill-paid servant remain so. There are other such million dollar cars rushing past. One might spot a couple of fat women, fattened obviously with their husband's salary, hobbling along to their rhythmic heaving breathing and constant bitching, their diamonds twinkling to the street light.

Further down the road is a sharp turn and an even sharper fall...Some would like to explain this particular 'fall' as the angelic descent into Hellfire...but for me it is no such thing. It is just a simple slope as far as the road is concerned with a little police post at the corner, where fat, giggly policemen languish all day drinking tea and watching TV. As we descend...the first noticeable change is the change in air temperature...warm...and warmer still...A narrow lane runs like a crazy little kid, hitting tiny little shops and entrances to mangled, sour-faced buildings with two-roomed apartments. There is a small board by the side that reads "Model Islamic School' and only God knows what would be so very model about it since there is no school visible as such. People throng the narrow street like its a festival...and why not? it is yet another evening...which means there might just dawn a tomorrow. The 'zari' from the last Eid still hangs low overhead and the dark night sky seems to sparkle in gold and green. Young men sit on bikes eating their Kebabs, discussing hot women in burqa. Men in their after-work kurta pajama attire holding hands of little children do their evening 'ghosht' shopping, with their wives gliding silently behind...shy as if it were their first night together. Big pots over slow fire cook biryani...e-special ones, Hyderabadi ones, horrible Delhi ones...and big trays sit beside, mounted with huge pieces of meat swimming in oil and curry. Mullahs in skull caps, avadhi pajamas and unkempt beards sit inside consuming their daily dose of meat and discussing world politics against the Muslims and the glorious past of Islam, often asking the poor boy in his torn shirt for more onions to keep their discussions fueled. Embers fly from the red, hot coal burning in ovens at which men sit turning sticks of delicious kebabs...only 5 rupees a stick. Steel plates laden with kebabs, mirch kii chatni and onions get passed around the mob that surrounds them. Big Kadhaiiz bubbling with oil and sheerah bring the jalebeez to life. Beside it a dog gnaws at a hen's head chopped off that same morning in God's name.

The warmth...it never leaves...the smell of food wafting through the air...the colourful crowds...the life of the toiling masses...This is where India lives...not in the brick walls of the rich but in the simplicity and the warmth of its populace. In these sour faced buildings with poor paint peeling off like the skin of a boiled potato...lives India's soul...its intellect. Lack of opportunity, poverty, responsibilities...but I hear poetry in these ghettos...poetry and harmony...I sense dreams, desires and an inexplicable faith...a faith that people like me will forever remain deprived of...

(in memory of a journey to Zakir Nagar through New Friends Colony)

Black

I can hear the bells

Of celebration

And yet all that rings

Is nothingness.

Like laughter echoed

In a skull.

The lights have stopped

Illuminating darkness.

Nothing creeps

Into that hollow

Empty rattling space.

Not excruciating pain.

No despair.

No joyful smiles.

Not even love.

There is no more whirling white

Impregnated with a million shades.

Only black.

Black it is.

Lighting with its enormous mouth

Recesses far away...

Its eerie touch

Soft like marshmallow

Omnipresent.

Omniscient.

"Paimona"

He placed his massive hands on the table and bent down...and the first thing he laid his eyes on was her. She sat there fairly composed, with the perpetual smile playing on her lips. Something told him it was for him alone. And in that flickering moment, all other faces took on a haze...all in a mesmerizing veil of shadow...stranded in some other world. White, grey, red, green, all smudged...like on a rain washed street...

His eyes exuded warmth...burning flames...he wanted to take her and burn away...into purgation. He smiled. And she blushed. There was intoxication. The traditional Pathani suit spoke of his tribal values...zar, zan and zameen...and the idea tingled her somewhere. Rubab...someone was playing it. Her soul was whirling to it...whirling in a white wave of passion and love. The dance of the wounded. Shukriya, he said. She was still looking into him. Hmm? she wondered...Shukriya he said, his deep set eyes penetrating her. A smile...almost mocking her innocence...

She could smell him now...he wreaked of the mountains, of horses, of honour and of swords...she could see their ruggedness in the firm setting of his jaw...His eyes twinkled with affection...like stars on a clear sky blanketing desert sands on a never traversed landscape. Raisins, soft cooked mutton, pomegranates, the warmth of the tandoor...yes that is what it was...the perfect concoction of strength and warmth...

She was lost...lost in the intoxication of that perfect blend...

Paimona bedah key khumar astam
Bring me the glass so I may lose my self

Paimona bedah key khumar astam
Bring me the glass so I may lose my self

Man ashiq e chasm e mast e yaar astam
I am in love with my beloved’s intoxicating eyes

Man ashiq e chasm e mast e yaar astam
I am in love with my beloved’s intoxicating eyes

Bedeh bedeh kay khumar astam
Bring bring so I may lose myself

The world revolved oblivious around them...but the secret had been shared between...

Acknowledgement of a bond between two souls...

A flickering moment....And his eyes...

The Brother that wasn't...

She hid her face in the pillow...and left patches of moist. Such occasions were often, almost symbolic her age. Perpetually misunderstood by parents, joker of the class at school, non existent love life. Nothing ever seemed right. Then of course, there was the change in ideology or rather the development of one, general rebellion against convention and the struggle of an individual to stand out. All in all life was miserable. If only, she thought, if only she had an elder brother whom she could hug and cry...who would know what she was going through...in whose strong arms she would become stronger...feel protected, loved...if only...

He would have to be strong, yes, that was necessary. And he would be heavily into music. He would play a guitar for sure and he would have wonderful, warm arms. He would have to be sensitive and charming. He would crack jokes at her cost and yet be very protective about her. He would have to stand by her side and hold her hand. He would have to be the coolest brother on the planet. But in spite of all this, the fact remained that her very birth proved that she would never have the elder brother she craved for...not ever. She knew this. And yet in every relationship she had she searched for the brother of her dreams...the man who was going to stand by her and tell her it was alright even if she failed...and be proud of her.

Subtlety was not his last name. He was outspoken and straight forward. He told people exactly what he thought of them. Sensitive, well, you wouldn't want to rub him wrong. His colleagues shivered when he faced them and bitched behind...not that he cared. He reminded her of a Chieftain on horseback...a black horse for sure wielding his sword and at whoever's neck the sword rested died of sheer panic, even before the sword could perform the needful. She exuded independence. Having gotten over adolescence had also made her get over that craving for a male figure. And yet something quivered inside her everytime he smiled or cracked a joke at her expense. It was almost as if the Chieftain let his sword do the speaking and had marked his territory. He loved fighter planes and ships. She loved them too. He loved camping. And so did she. He hated egg plant. She was allergic to them. They wanted to see the same places. They enjoyed the sweetness of doing nothing. They enjoyed reading in windy balconies. No, it was not love. It was plain identification. People bitched. Playing favourites he was. He did not care. Neither did she. When things were made difficult for her, he stood by her, rock solid like the Chieftain guarding his territory and no one wanted to be at the receiving end of the sword. She often looked at his arms and wondered how it would be to snuggle into them. He could not help but touch her gently on the cheek. He was a hardened general but to her he was a teddy bear. If he did not look at her one day, she could have torn the world apart. He would scold her for not doing what she was meant to do. She would do anything to make him proud. And when she would, he would declare it to the world like a King declaring the birth of his heir. And no, they were not in love. He was a brother and he meant it. And she was his little sister.

(dedicated to Bhai Huzoor...)

The Return

"Something is dying...little by little...I feel it every time I return...dying..."

I want it to be new every time I return. I want it to be fresh, blossoming...I want to breathe in the air I was born in and say I have returned...to MY city. When I left, I left with childish dreams of pastures that looked greener...almost like a nomad, only to realise that I was childish and I was dreaming. This time when I was returning, I had dreams again, or rather hopes that I would be appreciating chaos and madness...only to realise that I no longer existed in that chaos...only a faint shadow did...growing fainter by the day...

My purpose of return is almost hazy now...its usually because I have vacations and everyone returns during vacation and yes my parents...I must see them. I miss my mother sometimes, more than I would have myself believe or admit. No one else matters much. I had a long list of friends I would always want to meet up initially...but now I seem to figure less and less in their lives. They have their families, their jobs, their boy friends...and I have lost all patience for them. I cannot even identify myself with people I have spent years of my life with. I don't blame them. No one is indispensible. Neither am I. My list has boiled down to just two.

I returned for one of the biggest festivals in my city...I wanted to smell it like I always did...I wanted to be a part of it...taste it...bathe in it. I failed. I simply failed and I have no clue why. No sooner had I set foot on my soil that I wanted to turn away and leave. Run. I wanted to come back in spite of the home cooked food, the luxury of having to do nothing and the comfort. Come back. My 'Return' has become just a 'Visit' now. Because I always want to come back...I want to come back to my books...to my people...to the place where I am not just a redundant shadow but a functional member of a group, where I am bombarded with assignments and work, where people are expecting me...expecting me to come back...expecting me to Return...

I have been shuffling through all the stuff that I have written through the years to find something appropriate for a publication in my school's magazine and funnily there is nothing that I have ever written about school or anything that remotely mentions it. But I could not live with the idea of not having written anything for my school's Diamond Jubilee publication...the school where I have spent 15 years of my life. Anything that I write will not be enough to actually paint all those wonderful years but here is an attempt to at least try and narrate what school life has meant to me.

Although the memory is all blurry now and only in pieces, but I remember first walking in through those green gates in a red-checked apron...the year would be 1991. I was only 5 and I never cried like other kids did...possibly because somewhere I already knew that this was a home outside home. I remember making green flowers on a pink page of my scrapbook and the teacher telling me that flowers are never green. She didn't realise that I had made green flowers because a red, pink or an orange flower would not look as nice on a pink page! Those were the days when we were making butterflies with toffee wrappers. I remember going up to my classmate, Anuradha during lunch time and asking for one french fry from her lunch box and she gave me just one. Little did either of us know that we were to become best friends for life. We still laugh about our little 'introductory incident'. L.K.G had colourful wooden desks and chairs in those days and U.K.G had plastic ones. We would sit 6 to each large square desk. I can still name all the people who sat on mine...some I am still in touch with and some I have no clue about. I remember never managing to take down everything the teacher wrote on the board in class 1 because I was always so busy talking. I never quite shut up after that.

There was so much excitement when we got to wear skirts in class 2. It felt like we had really grown up and there were certain things that I didn't like about growing up. Like when my best friend became best friends with someone else or when the class formed little groups based on what language they studied as their vernacular. But I remained quite a joker of the class through out.

School made me realise a lot of my potentials. By the time I was in the 5th standard I just knew that I wanted to study English Literature which I actually did and loved. I did music. I painted. I did plays, although no one has ever been able to make me dance. While I was experimenting with the all new things, I realised that I couldn't sing all that well but I kept singing throughout my school life. I was in the choir and played the key board on the school band. We went for competitions to other schools. Some we won. Some we didn't. But it was always great fun, working together as a team. I loved all the celebrations that we had in school...be it Independence day or Saraswati Puja or the Annual Function. There was always so much to do. And I was always a part of whatever my school did. I couldn't help but. It was my school and I was so proud of belonging there. I still am. I still remember all the songs that we sang on these occasions. I remember how I would run away from make up before a play or a performance and Mrs.Ghosh would chase me all over with a lipstick in hand. I loved Sports Day too...not that I was good at any but I loved being a part of the Florence Nightingale House and hoping and praying that we would win. I loved the excitement and the tension.

School changed a lot while I was there and I saw myself as a part of the progress. We got new uniforms. The green walls became blue, which I hated. The school started a band and a magazine. We also started having compulsory extra curricular activities and computer education. The auditorium got air conditioned. And nowadays when I go back to school, I can hardly believe that this is the same place I entered back in 1991.

School, I think ended too fast. There should have been more years of celebrations and activities, of art exhibitions and excursions. School left its indelible marks on me though. I still cannot make myself see someone use a mobile phone in class without wanting to confiscate it and I still cannot bring myself to bunk university. And I guess it was the habit of being a part of everything that I developed in school, that I am still very actively involved anything that doesn't involve studies.

I did not cry while leaving school either because I felt that I needed to leave home with a smile and I knew I would keep coming back to it...And while writing about school today, I realise why I never wrote about such an important part of my life before...it is because I never wanted to spoil or adulterate the emotion that surrounds it by trying to put it into words...I hope to have failed.

It is only on occassions that I get to see you, why not for eternity (2)

Why do clouds float into the sky of my heart and not let me see you

The clouds of desires do not let me see you

The clouds of desires keep me blinded and do not let me see you

In flickering light, in the bat of an eyelid, when I do see you

I lose always, in fear always, I lose you in my eyes

My desire unfulfilled, I lose, Without even batting an eyelid, I lose

Even before my heart swells with elation, I lose.

How will I attain you, tell me, How shall I keep you in my eyes

Oh, where will I find enough love, my Lord, to keep you in my heart

What ability do I have, if you show not your mercy?

If you do not choose to come, none can keep you in their hearts.

I shall not look unto anybody else, I swear by my life

If you say right now I shall give up all desires and all materialistic pusuits

I shall give up all at your feet, without hesitation

I will give up everything, all in your love.

Translated from Rabindranath Tagore's 'majhe majhe tobo'

Life often seems very strange. Turning the pages of years that I have lived through, even though so little in number seem so vast...and I know pages will keep adding. In some places, I scribble side notes and some don't even have page numbers. Some have page marks...pages that I would like to go back to and some have page marks saying...stay away, you don't want to read what it says. And yet I seem to be writing the biggest novel of my life...life itself. A very close friend once said that according to her everyone is born with a purpose, mine being writing a novel. I rejoiced at the idea but little did she know or little did I realise that I already was doing it...I have been writing a novel ever since the day a stray sperm found an egg to hold on to. I am writing a novel even in those long hours when I am sleeping or when I am washing my pile of clothes or when I am cooking to feed my big stomach. I am writing when I am in University, fighting it out with people who call themselves 'Islamic scholars' or when I am chatting up with people who like me have nothing better to do in life. My novel has romantic moments when I am holding hands on a bike in the rain with the man I love. It has dramatic moments of door slamming and copious tears and hugs to parting friends. It also has moments of philosophical contemplation where I sit all alone over smokes and coffee reading Aatish Taseer or when I just stare outside blankly. If only...if only I could write it all down...sketch every movement of mine and of every character that I have around, playing their parts, being who they are. Would it not be amazing? To read after this major novel is over and done?

There is just one simple problem in all this novel writing. There are certain twists in the story that happen without my permission and most of the time they are not even to my liking. Sometimes characters get killed off randomly, characters I would keep alive till the end. Certain characters end up with the wrong characters. And things become messy. And no matter how hard I try, I cannot make my novel work my way. Then it feels like I am simply playing a puppet and someone else is the novelist after all. Someone whom I cannot control but who controls my novel all the time. Freaky. I write well. I could have written an extremely 'happily ever after' novel all by myself but no, this Someone has to have his inputs. Sometimes, I think this Someone guy is like the publisher...you cannot write what he doesn't like! Often, I scream at this Someone guy and ask him to let me write my novel my way. He hardly ever listens. People say he has his own plans. But his plans ruin my plot and I simply detest that.

I want an entire novel to myself, where everything would be the way I want...where Israel and Palestine would not fight...where Kashmiri Muslims and Pandits would live in peace without India or Pakistan's government playing dirty games in their land...where there would be no natural disasters...where not a single orphan will cry...where not a single mother will have to mourn over her dead son's body...where life would be green...where people won't be forced to study what they don't like...where people would be free...free to love...free to be happy....free from that Someone guy, who has gotten into this awful habit of doing things his way...

...where I will sit in your embrace to hear a soft 'I love you' till the last chapter of my novel is written.

Amen.

Yet another day awakens

To the Scarlet skies

Showering tiny, translucent

Droplets of Heaven

On empty, grey streets,

In shimmering light.

The street lamps

Stare wide eyed

Their eyes bright orange

From long, sleepless nights.

The wind sweeps

Dusty corridors

With sinful, closed doors

And windows blank faced.

While little pieces of Heaven

Fall.

Unperturbed, Untouched...

On to shadows

Of grey strangers

Who stand craving salvation

Beneath the Crimson skies

Cleansing...nurturing...loving.

While all beyond the sinful doors

Sleep...a dreamless sleep

In greed of a promised Heaven.

He sat aiming the empty plastic bottle in his hand like a gun at people around, quite unconscious of her observant eyes. The musty September wind danced among the freshly painted green, often shaking the wet haired trees into spraying the soft, moist grass with untimely showers of dew. She didn't like this innate streak of violence that he often displayed so effortlessly. In fact, it disturbed her to the core. And yet there was something so attractive and stirring about his calm face....his akward movements...his striking black hair against the white of his skin. "I like curly hair...soft, black curly hair" he mumbled still pointing his plastic bottle gun. She tucked a curl behind her ear without a blush. He just made her uncomfortable. He never made her blush. "Who are you trying to shoot?" she asked nervously. He put down the bottle and looked straight at her with eyes of coal that would ignite any moment. "Everyone". She looked away, not wanting to let him know how scared it made her feel. "Why do you keep telling people you want to shoot them?" she brought herself to ask. "My relatives were militants....this is all I have ever heard as a child." The matter of fact tone had a creepy feel to it that made her want to hug him and distance herself from him all at the same time. She nodded and kept quiet. There was nothing much that could be said to statements such as these. He seemed to sense her discomfort and the creeping, crawling silence between them. "The military occupied my house" he continued, as if the story were to end on a happy note. "We went to live with our uncle". She had not yet managed to say a word. She wasn't good at consolation and a 'everything will be alright' was hardly appropriate. Nothing had been alright for 69 long years. Nothing could possibly be. "My house is still under military occupation" he seemed to have again read her mind. For moments his house seemed to represent the entire Valley in its microcosom. He sighed and tossed the bottle away. "I couldn't take it any longer...so I moved out" he whispered before taking out pills from his bag and popping them in his mouth with a shivering, epileptic hand.

She mutely watched the devastation.

Love was too ashamed...affection too scared...humanity long dead.

I cling to you like a foetus
Breathing what you breathe
Hearing what you hear.
I am your part.
I am you.
You cannot push me away.
For I live off you.
You are. Therefore I am.
I feed off your love

Suckling at your heart

Drawing at your passion.

Till the fragrance of your faith

Fills my womb.

The slightest brush of your fingers

Leaves indelible marks

That paint my world

That colour my cheeks.

I twist the way you mould me.

I become the way you hold me.

For what am I, if not you?

And what you are...I know not

Beloved? if you please.

Or God? if I choose.

I remember Professor MK from Loreto's English Department over the phone, "Leave it and come back right now. You have no clue the kind of discrimination you will face". She probably should have congratulated me on finding my place after 3 years of intellectual crisis.

I remember relatives making remarks such as, "Will they take you?" or "Will you manage?" or a "Will there be no discrimination?"

I remember my mom going "Why are you spoiling your future? Is there nothing else you can do? What will I tell people? My daughter is doing...? People will think you have changed your religion. You don't care about your mother, do you? You are spoiling your family name..." I spent months, explaining to her every single day of my life that I was doing nothing bad, nothing wrong. I was pursuing what I loved the most. That I was going to do fine.

My dad thought I was kidding, "L.K Advani will come after you" he would laugh. Little did he know that Advani was busy writing his book on Jinnah then.

I remember people suspiciously asking me if I had actually changed my religion or if I wanted to...as if the question would make me hit them on the head.

I have spent an entire year here now...in Jamia Millia Islamia's Department of Islamic Studies. The initial opposition that such an action on my part had given rise to has died down but I still am asked questions about whether I am treated like a step-child by the department. And I wish I had enough words to express the gratitude that I feel for my department.

Yes, I am the only Non-Muslim in the entire department. Many people would think that is a scary thought but actually my last one year has been the most wonderful. And I think that I owe it to my department to talk about how I have felt over this one year and how wrong people back home have been, especially the likes of Professor MK.

When I had first come here, I had no clue about the subject I was going to study or about the city. The environment itself was completely new and I was only driven by this crazy passion to learn Islam and to fit in. My department has always known that I was obsessed with Islam to the point of being a fanatic and yet they have never tried taking advantage of the situation, to force me into a conversion...something that a lot of people at home believe the Muslims always try to do. In fact, no one has ever questioned me about conversion or what I believe at all. Yes, I have been asked for Diwali sweets. But then I am always asked for sweets, every time I return from Calcutta. My Head of the Department, Akhtarul Wasey Sahab would always make it a point to call me and ask me how I was doing, if I was facing any trouble. It wasn't much but I cannot tell you how good it felt to know that someone cared. He soon became my local guardian. On Eid, which obviously I was spending alone, he made me go over by him and stuffed me with lots of good food. His wife and his mother embraced me and we sat chatting for a long time. There are moments that touch you and you never seem to be able to satisfactorily explain them. Such was a moment with Iqtidar sir who I call bhai now...who said I was his little sister and has been by my side through all the ridiculous things that I have done. When he had first called me his sister, I was so touched that I hadn't even thanked him. I managed to do it now and this time he was too touched to say anything. I went through a spiritual crisis. I questioned everything. I hated two professors in the department. They were ridiculous and I made it a point to tell them that they were. I wore a head scarf only to take it off after a few months. I went into Philosophy and then into Sufism and Mushtak Sir read every bit of crap that I wrote during that time. I had fallen sick once and I remember him coming to see me. He hugged me and I was fine. He had lost a daughter whom he missed very much and I called him abbu so that he wouldn't miss her as much. He touched my life in an irreversible way and I touched his. Sunday lunch at his place was the best lunch ever and as a routine I drink tea at bhai's. Every evening I teach bhai's kids English, drink tea and watch him lazily strolling down to say his prayers. Sometimes we discuss departmental politics and how stupid the boys are or why the Muslim community is on a decline or world politics. Sometimes its about how I should be on the Student Association again like last year so that we can plan a better trip. We have a chemistry that spans over politics, education, camping, history, navy and food. And MK talks of discrimination?

My classmates, seniors and juniors have been amazing too. I am always greeted with a namaste and maybe all the Islamic clerics who think thats not right should read this. And I greet them with a salaam. They have voluntarily offered to help me with my Arabic which I am pathetic at. They have never been judgemental about my various crazy experiments. They have supplied notes during exams without me asking. I read the translation of the Quranic verses every time the Quran is recited during departmental occasions. I represent the department while meeting delegations from other nations, attending seminars and other important occasions of the university. Sometimes I complain about how Akhtarul Wasey has made me the face of the department but then again would a discriminating department let that happen?

I feel awfully sorry when people express views such as Professor MK's. And I would like my studying Islamic Studies to serve one purpose if not more. I want people to open their minds a little and to see that there is love and goodness everywhere...that there is no point in defaming one community for a bunch of perverts...for generosity and kindness lives on in people...we just need to have the heart to see and to love and embrace one another. And people like me are in a position to convey to both sides that we as God's people are capable of so much love...if only we give a chance...

I can hear you scream still.

Scream for the one you love.

But what can I

An empty shell do?

I am losing too.

Every minute...every second...

Of this banal existence.

Fighting a world

Now here and then gone...

I am no prophet.

I have known no miracles.

I am told of a merciful God

Whose cruelty is named

Benevolence and grace.

You have no choice.

Neither do I.

But to play His puppet

In His theatre of suffering.

And yet I look unto Him

Like a besotted lover

Relishing pain

As if it were His right

To inflict on what He owns

The burden of poisoned arrows.

The cutting edges of a thousand swords.

If there is something that has ever influenced my life in a big way, I would say it is Islam. I have always responded to the Azan, though not always in prayer. Islam does something to my soul, I don’t quite know what and I suppose knowing it would spoil the pleasure. I can name a million things that drew me to Islam and a million other that make me want to shut my brain to any institutionalised religion. And then I realised that it wasn’t Islam, that is an institutionalised, formal religion that I was in love with. I was, in fact, in love with Islam-ism…the ideology. And somehow the differences between the two are great.

Every time I read or watch a movie about the Prophet and how Islam began, I feel this over whelming sense of awe and admiration. The truth and simplicity that rang through Mohammad’s message drove people to him. And what faith they had! They gave up their families, their land, suffered cruelties at the hands of the other Meccan tribes and all for that one Ideology…that God is one. Islam stood for equality, social justice and human rights and the men who championed its cause had the faith, the strength and the courage to help it flourish. It was not just a religion…it was a revolution to change the prevalent social conditions that ordained female infanticide and slavery. 1200 years from when Islam had made widow remarriage permissible, Indians were still burning sati. Such was the power and potential of that original Ideology!

Today, although Islam is the fastest growing religion, I see that spirit fading, that zeal dying. Like all religions that begin as an ideology and end up becoming a culture, Islam too has become this stagnant pool of do’s and don’ts…of traditions that make no sense in today’s world. Somehow it has lost its true essence…truth, equality, justice seem all a part of its former glory. Divided by factions, misunderstood by propaganda from within and without, destroyed by constant justifications that Muslims think they need to give for everything they do…Islam ends up being no Ideology at all but this entire social canvas where the Syed believes he knows his religion the best because he is from the Prophet’s family, where the Mullah thinks emulating the Prophet’s clothes would take him to Heaven, where a woman in hijab, no matter how UnIslamic is still considered a true believer, where people are intolerant and turn violent at the drop of a hat, where they pray and fast, not out of love for God but in greed for a promised Heaven or in fear of Hellfire.

We need a revolution within. We need to eliminate the frills and fancies and bring back the Ideology that Islam originally stood for. For that surely can revolutionize the world we live in today. The Ideology that changed 7^th Century Arabia can change the 21^st Century too, only this time, the social reforms need to be different…agenda needs a change…one cannot still talk of slavery or female infanticide or widow remarriage. The Ideology needs to be applied to the problems of the age. And this can only happen if we stop complaining and justifying and actually prove in action the basic teachings of Islam…of kindness, mercy, generosity and tolerance.

That face glistens

Like clear water

In the desert sand.

As if King Solomon's mines

Were dancing in the Heavens.

Those eyes shimmer

With an intensity

And fervour so reminiscent

Of Mahomet's first followers.

One breath could perform

The miracles of Christ.

And one hint of a smile

For all of Byzantium to bow.

All the minds of Baghdad

With their letters

Could not, oh, could not

Equal in eloquence or grace.

The dervishes in Turkey

Whirled and whirled

For one glance at a face so divine.

The great artists in Italy painted.

Painted all they could.

But the colours of that Knight in black

Were elusive to their brush.

That gleaming sword

At my neck had asked

Sacrifice! Sacrifice!

And I had only whispered a kiss

Amen!

Why has it stopped again?
This world
To the sound of sobs?
Even in rest it spins
To the rhythm of bottles.
Empty clanging bottles.
Truth or dare?
Little do they know
They are one and the same.
You or me?
Who is it?
Who this time?
You make me suffer.
And I love you all the more.
When skins brush in love
They don't remember colour.
You green. Me red.
Dirty brown or bright orange
You choose.
My god speaks nothing.
He has no colour or name.
He is never and ever.
He makes no difference.
I love your father.
For love hath no Partition.

This cloudy feeling
The Diffusing lights
This excruciating pain
And this uncontrollable elation.
Like a butterfly in flutter around.
Once there and then gone.
The drug. The drug.
It stays and races
In blue tunnels.
Blurry and smudged.
The long drag.
The pause. The silence.
And then the final exaltation.
Time ticks away to a halt.
Space Revolves
Till there is no Heaven and earth.
All is but mangled in union.
Like to lovers in death.

No lover of mine
Battles to be fought.
Battles to be won.
In a world
Fraught with vengeance.
I live
Where the edges
Of swords glisten
In sunlight.
Where walls
Are not walls
But all dust and earth.
I fight
Every living breath
With Self
And with God.
And I threaten
A world
That makes barbed wires
Of excuses
And dwells
In cosy pretence
Of slavery!
I need no love
Or pity
Or a hand here.
I need a revolution.
A stance.
A fire.
Dancing red flames...
A magnificient madness...
And if you are no warrior
You are no lover of mine!

The warm summer air hit his face as he walked into the bus stop, his face still red from the exertion. He had never liked raising his voice but this time he just couldn't help it. He had to say something. It was about him, after all. And now he just needed to go back home...somehow, anyhow, as if everything would be alright once he smelt the familiar dust and heat of the city. This place had always made him feel empty inside...reminding him of everything that had been taken away from him....and yet again, it had brought to him news of imminent loss...inevitable and irreversible. He stepped on to the bus...the AC sucked in all the sweat like a thirsty animal, leaving his skin sticky. Pushing his back-pack into the luggage box above, he settled down. The night outside stared back at him...as blank as his own mind. He just knew he was glad to be on this bus...returning...staying back was not an option at all. He needed to think, yes...thats what...he needed to think it all out. He was jolted out of his stupor by the guy next to him pointing at his pocket. He looked at the name on the phone's screen and with his eyes tight shut, as if to shut out any display of emotion, received the call.
She had been having a bad feeling ever since he had left...like something gnawing at her insides. She was glad he had picked up the phone but he just didn't sound the same. It was just not him. She asked, once, twice what the matter was. He just muttered something vaguely about being tired. "Why returning early?" she said. "Just work" was his reply and she knew something had gone terribly wrong and it was only a matter of time before he broke it all to her. She just didn't know what it was. She just knew inside that it was something terrible and yet something so obvious....so certain...so predictable. Nothing in this world was ever perfect. God had never meant anything to be that way. And their world that had seemed so perfect had to collapse...it just had to have a rendevouz with reality. "Lets please talk tomorrow" was all he could manage.
He stared at the blank window again. He didn't how he was supposed to tell her. How was he to tell her of the choice that he had been asked to make? How was he to tell her that the world was not a nice place after all and that he was in no position to protect her from the cruel cruel world. In fact, he had just been asked to be the one to inflict pain upon her. And if he denied her solitude and separation, he would leave two innocents orphaned.
He knew what he was about to do to her...he dialed her number. She knew what was coming, as she waited patiently for him to say it all.
"I can't." he muttered..."He says I can't or else..." His voice dropped in shivers and trailed off into the music of a rumbling bus, sleeping-snoring passengers, vehicles rushing past on a highway, a dark, tainted sky clearing up to the chirping of birds, a world on the verge of an awakening...where love was a blasphemy still.

To My Beloved Bitch!

I have known her for only a few months...months that have rushed past like lightning, in a blink of a moment. I don't remember how we got talking in the first place. Its all a blur now. I used to see her visit my next door friends. She was shy and quiet...not really my sort. Then she moved into my neighbourhood with another friend. It was supposed to make no difference to me and yet it did...

We bonded over coffee. No one on our floor loved coffee as much as we did. We started as coffee mates. Mugs and mugs of steaming hot coffee and the two of us would sit huddled in my room and talk for hours. We weren't roomies...weren't even friends. We were, as I said coffee mates. We shared practically nothing in common except the undying love for coffee and food. She came from a different country, studied a different subject in University and we practically had nothing in common. She was red. I was blue. What we shared was yellow. And at the end, she became orange and I became green...never to be the same again.

We talked about everything under the sun and beyond it...from Philosophy to Religion to Politics to just Life. When we were together, there was never a single moment when we were quiet or bored or without coffee. We made our own philosophies, came to our conclusions. 'Do you read minds?'...she would always ask. I did...at least hers and she read mine. I knew what she was thinking, and she knew what was on my mind. We were connected...wired together by some strange, invisible bond.

She would cook the most awful soups and I would ask her to make them again and again. She taught me new ingredients...something called 'dil' and we soon found out how it spoilt the soup...how much we laughed! I discovered new recipes, the most famous being iyam kecap and apparently it tasted home cooked food for her. She picked Rajma. She would cook in such large amounts that we wouldn't have to cook for the next few days.

She was the only one who could deal with someone as crazy as me. I would come home and complain about my department...about how hard it sometimes got. And she would keep me going. There were nights when I would sit by her and cry....she would indifferently keep staring at her laptop and ask me to do something that would make me happy. We would sit and curse a number of people including the Provost of the Girls' Hostel, Iranians, some of my professors and some of hers. From pushing me out of bed to pushing me to pushing me to study to looking after me when i was unwell...she did it all. She would come into my room and declare 'your room is very messy' and I would innocently say 'I like messy rooms'. She would roll her eyes and say,'well your room is dirty'. The next day she would come in and utter 'miracle' at my clean room. She is possibly the most logical and analytical person I know...'that is no argument at all' she would say at a grinning me, trying to do her in. We went through a number of phases together - Kantian phase, Carols phase, Westlife-Boyzone phase (all over again), the bad soup phase, the special fried rice phase, I hate religion phase, lets kill the bitch phase, do not be explicit phase, forgive the Iranian phase, cream roll phase, coffee phase, green tea phase, you can't love a married man phase, TOI Crest phase, Speaking Tree phase, etc etc.

I don't know if I will ever see her again. She is going back to her country and I don't know how much modern day communication is going to help. How will I ever drink coffee in the morning or look at another crest edition? when I know I will not have someone beside me to discuss it with? How am I going to wake up every morning and not see her sitting at the laptop? How will my room ever be clean again? How am I supposed to function without her? Yea...I know all the lectures that people will be giving of how things move on...so on and so forth. I know all that. I understand. I agree. But how will I replace her? Where will I find another her?

Hey Bitch! here is to you...I love you.

...Of Anticipation

Two wet drops rolled on to his neck and mingled with his sweat. She clung closer, as if she wanted to say something and yet she seemed to have lost speech. His smell was familiar...so very familiar...the same man smell that filled her every time she breathed. She clung even closer, trying to settle down in the security of his warm being. This is where she wanted to be...

She didn't need a man. She never had. But somewhere it was because no man had ever needed her. And she couldn't care enough. She had liked men who had told her that they didn't like her. She had learnt the hard way that it was not meant for her and that it was how it was supposed to be for the rest of her life...

But there she was beside him...clinging to him like a child...resting on his promises to keep her safe from the cruel cruel world. It was something that she had never felt before...affection. He had given her the only thing she ever wanted...a sense of belonging. He could be with any woman he liked but she only had him and him alone...to love, trust to and belong to. With him, she didn't need to pretend to be strong always. She looked at his face, lost in slumber...his tender lips almost sealed in a smile...at that moment realised that this was the man she wanted to grow old with because she would still be his, even when he didn't have a single tooth left or even when he walked with a hunch. She would hold his hand and be by his side...and bear all pain for him for he was her own...her very own. She kissed his hand softly and whispered..."if only you give me a chance...if only..."

...Of Rememberance

The narrow lanes run helter skelter, almost as if on an eternal quest to spirituality...the sides are lined with tiny shops selling things of this world. Bright coloured Chadars hang in most, with trays of red roses melting away to the heat. Colourful rosaries wait to be prayed on. Fat packets of sweet meats sit piled on one another for a vulnerable customer. Stacks of audio cassettes stand lined up for those searching for an audio spiritual high, some playing age-old qawwalis in loud, throaty voices. Hasty feet, tired of the constant pestering, rest their shoes under over populated shelves. The remaining journey must be traced bare foot. Shoulders jostle as duppattas and skull caps draw to cover bare heads at the sign board that orders a display of such modesty in 3 different languages. Nimble feet tiptoe over dirt, graves and beggars to catch a glimpse of the dome of the Hazrat Nizamuddin dargah. A colourful tapestry of the toiling millions covers the courtyard in front of the tomb. Burqa clad women sitting with kohl-eyed, underfed children, waiting for their men to return from their tributes to the great Sufi saint, bearded old men with rosaries in hand who eye the donation box more than they pray, young boys with rolled up jeans in last minute bargains with God before exams, men with families with rose garlands in hand praying for a promotion or a pay hike, tourists with cameras clicking away to glory, feeling completely out of place, young girls in salwar kameez, desperately looking for their boy friends....

And in the middle of all this lies he...he who has been forgotten in all this mayhem, with a board hanging outside his door to keep women out. Hardly any of the thousands that visit him everyday remember what he really stood for. Beneath all the gold embroidered chadars that people bestow on him, lies a man who lived the life of an ascetic, who had given up on every worldly love for the love of God. Would he really have appreciated if he were to see the rosary armed men outside waiting for money to drop into the donation boxed? He was a man who stood for love, compassion, peace...and all he is now is a commodity, visiting whose grave is seen as a tourist attraction, an entertainment of sorts. Where is the spirituality? Where is the love for God and for humanity that had earned him the title 'Mehboob e Ilahi"?

And where is the devotion of a disciple like Amir Khusrau who for his beloved Shaykh had said,

"Jo kuch maange rang ki rangaii, mera joban girvi rakh le,

Tu toh Sahib mera, Mehboob e Ilahi, mohe apne hi rang mein rang le"

...Of a History in Divide

In spite of the whispering, giggling people that had piled into the room, it remained untouched...as if still in antiquity, wrapped up in history. The wooden floor beneath creaked as feet shifted, trying to catch a glimpse, struggling to capture fleeting moments in a 21st century camera. And it stood in the center of the room, captured in history, mute to what it had witnessed. If only it had struggled, burnt the plans to ashes, if only it could raise a voice, she was sure it would have...

She looked around, at the bunch of people that had gathered around and she instantly knew that no one had felt the chill run down their spine. It was not much, really. Just a circular wooden table with 3 wooden legs. Not really a big deal. As the tour guide started speaking, she floated away, somewhere in time...his voice seemed to drown in the muffled screams of massacred lives in a world gone mad...mad. This was it. This was where it had been planned. This was where a bunch of selfish people had sat down in comfortable chairs over cups of steaming coffee and had planned it all...planned the partition of hearts...planned hatred...planned bloodshed...planned loss. This is where the drafts had been laid...the date...the kilometers in exact precision....the exchange of people based on what they called their god. What they had not planned was the date when it would all end...the hatred...the striving for power...the bloodshed...the partition. That table had watched it all, silently and if only it could speak, what it wouldn't say!

(Written from memories of a visit to the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies, where one can see the table on which the Partition of India was decided)

Musings of Confusion :

I cannot live in fear. I cannot live fearing God. I cannot fear Hell Fire. I cannot fear punishment. I cannot fear at all. I cannot do in fear. My biggest fear is fear itself. I cannot live in greed. I cannot live in greed of things. I cannot live in greed of blessings. I cannot live in greed of a Heaven. I cannot practice a religion in greed of a reward. I simply refuse to follow. I refuse to be a puppet. I only follow the Law of the Universe where I am a mute spectator of change. I wait and I watch. I appreciate as brown leaves swish and sway to the melody of the wind and dance their way to earth. I watch in amazement as innocent blossoms peep out of unfurling green wings. I feel the wet grass beneath my feet and bathe in the smell of moist earth. Everything is a miracle, a miracle everything is, if you drop that guide book with a long list of do’s and dont’s. The sea washing the sands, blazing in the sun say much more about the omnipresent than guide books do. The feeling of nothingness that overcomes the heart when the gigantic waves come crashing, leaving everything soaked in its glory makes one feel tiny in the great scheme of things. You don’t need books to tell you God’s Word…its written all over…in tiny droplets of rain, in the lilting melody of a nightingale’s song, in the flight of a lark, in the gleaming rays of the sun, in the twinkling of the stars, in the silver moon beams, in the scarlet blood of a rose, in the foamy, crashing waves of the sea…the Almighty’s words cannot be written in inverted commas with chapter and verse number at the end. He is written in the red, burning flames of fire, in the cold, moist feel of water, in every molecule, in the tiniest of particles, in every pore of the universe, within and without. He is written in love, in compassion, all in a language the world can’t decode, let alone get a translation done. He is in the impermanence of things and the permanent of all. He is the Law of the Universe…the law that controls and connects in fine, invisible strings, every tiny bit of the universe. He is playing an instrument with uncountable strings, in perfect harmony, melodiously for all to hear. We just find not listening the easy way out for we like living in fear and greed. Little do we realize that the reward that we want for the good we do is right here, right in front, all around, that its cradling us and making us listen to its melodious lullaby played on that instrument with a million strings. Listen, fools, forget ‘I’ for a moment an listen…