Do Good Work

Before the first bout, ringside
His words cut through chaos
“Do good work”, said Coach
Seemed a good place to start -
Simple words of encouragement.
Alas, this life mocks simplicity.

Stepping into the battleground
Hubris made me wonder
It’ll yield to me, kneel to me
I hop, spring, take a swing
I miss spectacularly, and
Take a loaded glove square.

Bashed bloody and senseless
Here I lie on the mat
Hands up, shielding in vain
Trying to survive in the game
A question burning hot
How do I survive this barrage?

For as I take in cheap shots,
And the jeering from the crowds, And the debilitating self doubt,
And the crushing fear of defeat,
In these monstrously unjust odds,
How do I “do good work”?

Paint Me A Picture

What does it mean, to hurt?

She knew it, had read about it, experienced it with causes as varied as one's life presents, and understood it insofar as her comprehension had depth. She knew it, as a feeling. However, that her prudence, morality, creativity, insight, rationality, predilections, empathy, verily her soul owed themselves to a deep-seated, poignant hurt, registered that tumultuous afternoon of an ambushed reunion with her father.

In a world of independence, individualism, nonconformity, and ambition, the institution of the family had mutated to propaganda rather than a bedrock of human society. Her mother had chosen to separate from her father, immensely dissatisfied with the state of her marriage. She found her husband insufferable, and despite several attempts from him, her parents and even their marriage counsellor of brokering peace and creating a fresh start, she was inconsolable. The discord ran so deep in her that she successfully convinced the court of law to is…

Paar Chanaa De

“Our maker beholds in agony, the repercussions of his dastardly deed - to have made us as one soul, divided into two beings, separated by an unfathomable distance. He weeps for us Aa’isha…”
It comes again, the numbness in his being, a grief so immense, he has no choice but to lie down paralysed on the cold hard ground, clutching his letter in a wincing vice, hidden from sight. The stars, lights, quiet and winter offer him no solace, cold winds freezing his tears. A broken heart can be healed, but how do you heal a broken soul, so tormented that it disintegrates reading its own words?
Suddenly he feels a deep rumbling, emanating from the bosom of the earth, and now the sky is awash with burning white light. “This is it” he wonders, “it’s too much even for him now.” He relaxes his body, eager to meet his maker, and the letter flutters away. The next second, it’s all over and he sits up dazed and confused, trying to make sense of what happened. He feels his hand clutching empty air, and …


Reign in thy tempest, my heart!
The sun can’t help storm-chasers.

Provoke they will, the unpleased.
Bestill regardless! thy duty is to love.

Seduce they will, the divided.
Bestill regardless! thy duty is to bridge.

Destroy they will, the departed.
Bestill regardless! thy duty is to honour.

Repel it will, the crowds and cacophony.
Bestill regardless! one holds thine hand.

Capture it will, the solitude of books.
Bestill regardless! a beloved awaits.

Bestill my heart! Halt your pursuit!
For happiness, chases thee.

Ye Heedless Imbecile!

Timeless, I'm born, blessed to live generations! Where once decades passed in the blink of my eyes, your indifference now makes these days last eons for me. Why do you punish me so?

It was not always so, you know. I was more than an ornament to you once. You seem to have forgotten that when the world left you behind, I stayed, your only companion. It was I who swallowed your silent tears whole, brought you sleep in your insomnia, solace in your malaise, peace in your vexation. But, even in this newfound callousness of yours, I just can't bring myself to be vengeful! I thought it would be easy to let this disregard poison and infuriate my being, and one day perchance go down in flames, freed from being a useless ornament, and to my fathers who came millennia before you. Alas! it isn't!

I see you watch the big black hole in the wall, the ludicrous thing a sorry excuse for a bard who shows derivatives of the epics the masters once preserved in me. Oh, how they turn in their …

A Parting

Look, as the red sun retires;
Dying light heralds a parting!
The long day draws to a close,
And ere I go, I wish to hold you!
The hollow of my chest gapes,
Ever growing to a dark chasm!
Afraid I am of the melancholy,
That grips me in its vices so!
An east wind rises, buffeting me,
Chilling to the very bone! My Love!
Come! Make haste, ride swift,
Embrace me and deliver my soul,
For such torment, it cannot bear!
A parting, ’tis so, but come fare me well!
Kiss me so the heart may beat,
Evermore in your desire and love!
Bless me, so the stars shine ere I go,
And I promise, a rising sun I’ll bring to thee!

Boyhood in Ghazals

An enviable fortune it’d be, If only all those questions, Those dramatic exclamations, About my age, came with a penny!
This repute, not just on actions, But is founded on my playlist, Filled with “Oldies” to say the least; Justified then seems their reactions.
However this I now make clear, It’s not just the soft melodies, Jubilant thoughts, poignant tragedies, But their first memories, that are dear.
A boyhood spent in ghazals, Lazy Sundays on father’s lap, When innocence wasn’t entrapped, And life was free from troubles.
Hence, “Main zindagi..” when Rafi says, It reminds me of father’s advice, Of the strength to fight life’s vice, And of the promise of good in coming days.
Sure, Netflix now rules my Sundays, However, just one note, word, rhyme, Cues nostalgia of a long lost time,
Of ageless songs and my golden days!