Sounds of nothingness

Today again,
sitting beside the old chinar
I search for the voices. The thumping
boots have shot the Bulbul I am told
by a seven year old
whose pheran is still warm.

You must visits us, he insists
seventeen odd people in a shallow dig
marked by a stone, that’s my home.

Uncle Ganie likes blue eyed people
and he knows Abu will find
us all. He promised to come
and see me play after asr prayer;
cricket matches are long at times!

I ask him about the stone.
Not the shale one near the stream
Arshad lives there, not us,
of the size of my fist,
haven’t you seen it before?

A thousand of them, I have.

All in a hurry, silence prevails,
I must go.
The curfew starts at six.
Who knows I would be shot again,
Today.

Whispers of wind

Words fly by me
like a super train on its magnetic track,
like an aircraft piercing the dead sky,
like a Shikara wading through fumigated Dal.

Nausea stirs their meaning, their form,
like fumes of an exothermic reaction,
like monsoon clouds on Himalayas,
like faces of dead in a fake encounter.

Do they fear abandonment
like the wish of every child to grow old,
like Sohni clinging on to molded clay,
like Dhoks of the detained shepherds?

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Of songs, seas and remembrance

Lost songs of monsoon rains
echo with forgotten drumbeats.

I look for you,
in the voids,
between the beats.

The seas rolled themselves up
and now hide in memories,
vanishing like time;
yet seeping into the voids, like time.

How was it before?
Oh, not the drumbeats
but the void and memories
and the songs too.
Write about it on a paper

and roll it, into a jar,
and throw the jar onto the seas.
Let the seas remember
the first songs and the monsoon,
let the waves rumble with drumbeats,
like memories, and fill all the voids.

Have you ever been consumed by an idea
like a walnut, hollowed out from inside.
No, not by breaking it
but by letting it be
on the table, untouched
until it begins to roll itself
and cracks on the floor,
only to find the void
that exists within it.

Yes, ideas are powerful
but so are they – consuming!

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i paint on
the shadows of time1435
and whatever was left behind
in absentia.

whimpers are benign
and loss, sublime
the nude dementia,
speak of heaven to me.

hovering, towering
the gates of dawn
the squeaky Azaan
find me, will you?