updated 3:37 AM GMT, May 26, 2015

The journey to the graveyard- a short story

Kashmir - where bullets drench youth in a pool of blood, mothers bid adieu to their sons while showering rose petals amid sobs. It leads them on a journey of unbearable pain that haunts them forever.

Of Memory and Desire

Of Memory and Desire



Often when this lazy moon here
(A fluorescent smear on black skin of night)
Rises slowly
From behind this winter blighted tree
And mist of silence
Hanging between its solitary branches
Percolates into

  • Syed Rabe'a Bukhari
  • Category: Poetry

Short story: a beggar-woman

She was waiting for the cab as a routine in the morning. Meryam had but missed her cab today due to her glasses having slid it off the back-edge of the table on the sill. Putting the glasses on she we

Deep Shadows

Deep Shadows



His Heart,

the palimpsest of desire

where in 

Cupid's arrow sealed the whole.

Left him what?

Nothing was all that sprung red.


One fine day,

he knew he was accursed

When he

realized he could not

The Road -- a short story

Though it sounds strange, but sometimes I think that the local bus transport corporation drivers, even buses and conductors in Kashmir are secretly taught the concept of Différance by hardworking acad

The pink chewing gum-- a short story

The pink chewing gum-- a short story

A decade ago I saw her on the road. She went to the nearby shop and in a twisted Urdu accent, that is trademark of Kashmir girls, asked for a pack of chewing gums. After crossing the road, she tore th

The poetic physician: Momin and his art

It is an unfortunate occurrence that if there are many outstanding literary figures in any era, only one or two will figure in the general public consciousness. Elizabethan England had no shortage of

Narrating agony

The Half Mother, by Shahnaz Bashir

Hachette India, 2014


The life of man is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short, wrote Thomas Hobbes while describing the political uncertainty of 17th century En

Rubble – a tale of the oppressed

She was there for the second time. Same over trodden dusty road; same refreshing green fields coming to fruition with a yellow tinge, same rain swollen muddy brooks entwining the lush green fields, da

A poem of a Palestinian child

Don’t cry now Ummi, don’t cry now, rest now Ummi, sleep,

It’s over Ummi, no more pain, no more suffering, no more grief.


I see the fear in your eyes Ummi, thinking what’s going to become of me,


  • Zeyara
  • Category: Poetry