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Prose
Mango blues!
Within literary writings, fiction and fantasies most often used in a blend to establish the plots that subverts the subtle differences and effects of these two. In a random search, most of prose writings fall in this category with their impregnable steadfastness and inflexibility. Deeply influenced with the colonialist tradition, Indian subcontinental writings too have been displaying similar temptations until the advent of post-colonialist consciousness broadly after the 1980’s. That...
Ode to Safia
Mother, Mother!
Would you wake up?
See the ivy near the window, its growing.
When your blood is turning lifeless on the hospital bed, I can see a full picture; the pieces of which are scattered and have gathered dust with time.
You are not the other, O’ Mother!
The hospital bed is all decked. The lights are glaring. It’s festivity.
Old frame has married dust. Trousseau smelling of naphthalene still fresh, unworn, Mother, is safe in the trunk!
Frozen my lips are! Would you suckle me...
Would you wake up?
See the ivy near the window, its growing.
When your blood is turning lifeless on the hospital bed, I can see a full picture; the pieces of which are scattered and have gathered dust with time.
You are not the other, O’ Mother!
The hospital bed is all decked. The lights are glaring. It’s festivity.
Old frame has married dust. Trousseau smelling of naphthalene still fresh, unworn, Mother, is safe in the trunk!
Frozen my lips are! Would you suckle me...
How I wish I could write to you
How I wish I could write to you.
That here, here in the middle of my arms, somewhere in the dermis, among the nerves, I feel the want of you. How I wish I could write to you, that here, near the cubids bow, between my lips, I feel the want of you.
How I wish I could write to you.
That here, here along the tarsal, within each tear I feel the loss of you. How I wish I could write to you, that here, near the nares, in each breath, I feel the loss of you.
How I wish I did not know writing and...
That here, here in the middle of my arms, somewhere in the dermis, among the nerves, I feel the want of you. How I wish I could write to you, that here, near the cubids bow, between my lips, I feel the want of you.
How I wish I could write to you.
That here, here along the tarsal, within each tear I feel the loss of you. How I wish I could write to you, that here, near the nares, in each breath, I feel the loss of you.
How I wish I did not know writing and...
Zikr in the City
The city wasn't her dream. It was her escape into a perennial numbness. She meditated in the middle of a hustling and a bewildered crowd- rushing to and forth from every possible way- yet static. Almost fixed at a point. The city receded like a ripple.
In her ode to the city she wrote yet another line. The city is a blunt dagger; when it stabs, it doesn't cut through. Yes, one succumbs to it slowly, silently like a dream.
The entire city seemed moving at a great velocity. Twirling in...
In her ode to the city she wrote yet another line. The city is a blunt dagger; when it stabs, it doesn't cut through. Yes, one succumbs to it slowly, silently like a dream.
The entire city seemed moving at a great velocity. Twirling in...
Butchered Wings – A short story
I was trying to run as fast as I could but my poor legs were slowly betraying me. Fear at my back, I was confused where to head? I dropped my shoe to run bare feet as I found it stupid to take just one of the only remaining pair of my old leather shoes!
When soldiers huddled in the morning around the chimney to survive from the biting cold, they had used my shoe as a catalyst to help burn the pieces of charcoal well. I felt disgusted, but then some feeble warmth was reaching me as well...
When soldiers huddled in the morning around the chimney to survive from the biting cold, they had used my shoe as a catalyst to help burn the pieces of charcoal well. I felt disgusted, but then some feeble warmth was reaching me as well...
Kashmir: The blunt innocence
It had been almost a year. His routine had taken the countenance of the most likely. Like many times before, the good news, this time also, had come with a little knocking. It did not allow him to spend much on the planning. ‘It must not matter’, he thought. ‘One does not need to make plans about revisiting the familiarity’, his mind contested and his feet acquiesced with a smile. He was journeying to the northern most peripheries of a physically huge landmass which had been trying...
Kashmir| Wamiq killing: An open letter
Dear mother,
I won't ask how are you, as I remember how you would be at times when I was away from you for a day, for an hour, even for a minute. And now when I am gone for never to return, I do know how you would be feeling. I know you still would be closing your eyes and waiting for this nightmare to end, waiting for this moment to pass by, waiting for me to come running into home and hug you, waiting for the sound of my foot-steps to reach you, waiting for my voice to call you...
Burdens of a dream
The day had gone well with no regrets, no complaints but a thanks to the Almighty for having given the day. She was often on my mind but her thoughts didn't disturb me. I carried on with my transactions and bidding without being much influenced by the occupied mind. A smile was what I greeted the people I had met in the day with. I had helped a blind man cross a much-busy road and he returned this gesture with a smile. I had also smiled at a specially-abled (disabled, what this cruel...
Nund Rishi: A rosary of hundred beads
The book was first published in 1981. It opens with a short ‘Printer’s Note’’ by noted Kashmiri scholar M.Y. Taing. He writes, “Sheikh Noor-Ud-Din’s was an era of intense cultural clash. Islam had won its political victory but it had yet to overcome the spiritual and cultural resistance of Native streams. Its task was not made easy by the preachers of the new gospel, who came from alien lands and tried to bask in the sunshine of swords, out-sheathed by the Muslim victors of the...
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