Thoughts on Karbala

 

I. Love 

Think of five people 

you owe everything in life to.

We all do. 

A Father perhaps, a Sister,

a Teacher, a Friend, a lover .. 

it could be anybody!

Stay faithful to them

and prepare yourself

to toss aside everything for them, 

as if it were nothing,

even your life,

if it comes to that. 

Bearing their love

like a flag, 

with pride and courage,

like Abbas, the 'Alamdar', 

and you would have loved,

and lived a life

worthy of a death 

worth remembering!

II. Patience 

Love like you are in no hurry,

nowhere else to get to,

no place else you'd rather be! 

Love like the river loves the moon. 

Patiently.

Waiting for the clouds to part,

to be able to catch just a glimpse. 

Even if it were never to be! 

Waiting like the Euphrates,

for Abbas, 

to get to it, to fetch water 

for the Children of the Prophet. 

Rising and crashing 

in helpless desperation!

Pining, writhing perhaps in the knowledge 

of the tragedy that was to be! 

Love like there's no truth 

greater than the one truth your heart stands testimony to! 

And you'll see, when your heart bleeds, 

and you toss that truth up at the skies,

it shall rain blood, 

and when you hurl it at the earth, 

it turns into seeds,

from which an eternal crop 

of resistance shall grow! 

Love patiently, 

burning through the night,

believing the dark doesn't stand a chance! 

If you must love at all, 

love, believing there's 

no other reason to be!

III. Derision 

Let them. 

They mock you and spread lies, 

when they know they can't contain your truth. 

And so to control the narrative,

they deal in lies. 

They'll call you rebels without a cause, 

they'll say you defy, defame! 

They'll hire minions

to ridicule your ideas

and laugh behind your back, 

in condescension, 

and to plot your fall. 

Let them. 

Let them, knowing well 

that they too know, 

in their hearts, 

they are contesting the incontestable. 

Stand firm 

like Qasim, 

like Ali Akbar, 

like Husain! 

Stand tall like the Martyrs of Karbala,

staring tyrants in the eye, 

unmoved by fear, 

steadfast in the knowledge 

of the triumph of truth; 

Certain 

and Enduring. 

Raise the truth up for all to see, 

like Husain raised Ali Asghar, 

up in his arms;

his infant son;

to be seen and shot! 

Be brave! 

Let the armies gather! 

IV. Perseverance 

Hold still dear heart, 

with assiduous courage. 

For if the heart 

is a vessel, 

it must contain! 

The fear of loss 

can only be won

by facing loss. 

Let the Daggers stab your chests, 

let the Arrows pierce your hearts, 

let the Spears burst through your backs! 

Hold still. 

Hold still like Husain, 

on the night before the battle. 

Gather your friends 

and give them the chance to leave. 

Summon your enemies

and let them know

you do not wish for blood to be shed. 

But having said that, 

say what you must, 

and never that which you know is not the truth. 

No matter what. 

If battle it must be, 

battle it will be. 

Draw out your swords!

Paintings from the Collection, 'The ark of Salvation', Exbt. Rome, 2020

The Glasshouse

It feels like there's this curse, 

and everytime I try to build 

something beautiful, 

it comes crumbling down. 

Do you know the feeling? 

Ever seen a rainbow

come crashing down? 

And fall flat on the ground, 

like a deflated balloon. 

Shattered beams of coloured light, 

falling down from the sky, 

like shattered glass,

coloured glass, 

myraid colours crashing down, 

all at once, 

the Requiem playing in the background, 

in D minor, 

sad as hell! 

Like in a dream, 

only it's not a dream. 

Like the rainbow was a stained glass window, 

held up in the sky, 

opening into the out and beyond! 

And suddenly somebody pulled back the out and beyond, 

from above your head, 

and the window came crashing down!? 

Sometimes I feel the loss, 

like the loss of a dear one, 

the sharp pangs of pain

it arouses in the deep inside, 

as if the deep inside is some sort of a  mirror reflection, 

of the out and beyond, 

that was pulled away suddenly! 

Remember? 

In the last verse? 

So that all subsequent verses, 

are left writhing in pain on the inside. 

Like the inside is only the outside turned inside out! 

Preposterous, right? 

Yet, everytime I build 

one of these beautiful glass houses, 

painted glass, 

myriad colours, 

glistening splendid, 

some part of the sky 

comes crashing down, 

and the house falls on its own head, 

killing all the inhabitants in their sleep! 

Every single time, 

leaving a part of me

mourning the loss, 

like the death of a part of me!

And it's not a passing thought, 

that would trouble you 

now and then again, 

it's more of an intuition, 

this curse, 

the sort of thing you know

you can't possibly escape, 

not in this lifetime, 

and you know it with a certain certainity. 

There's something about these glass houses,

or perhaps it's about where I build them;

troubled waters, 

rivers of smoke, 

on the margins of the acceptable,

and the borderline of what's sane! 

Perhaps always too far along on the faultlines of human accomodation. 

These cursed dreams of mine! 

Dreams of freedom, 

dreams of love! 

And the most blasphemous of them all, 

the dream of being yourself! 

Dreams too audacious, 

even for the Earth to carry it seems, 

dreams that take up too much space, 

under the sky! 

Fragile Glass-houses floating astray

like clouds, 

on the narrow horizon of Being.

March the 15th, 2024

One half of it

And so you stand hanging your head low, 

Shoulders drooping, 

like the bug-bitten, moth-eaten leaves 

of dying trees in an abandoned graveyard! 

Like a ghost, 

weeping at your own grave, 

because that's the only 'you'

'they' will accept!? 

No my dear, No. 

Don't give them that right. 

Don't let them tell you, 

your worth and value.

Don't let them dictate your fate.

Why? 

Well, because that's a non-transferrable ticket, 

but also because they don't understand. 

Because they have no idea 

what you have been through. 

And they don't care! 

But you know. 

You know how hard you tried, 

how you've spent two thirds of your youth struggling with the thought, 

'What's done, can't be undone. Can it be?'

Because they made you feel guilty, 

for making the choices you did, 

never caring about the why. 

Because they never bothered about the causes, 

and could conveniently deny the context, 

while caring only about 

how efficiently you delivered, 

'consistent emotional availability'

and 'unfailing loyality'

and 'unwavering committment', 

as if these were commodities, 

tangible things that you were

holding stock of, 

but not delivering as promised! 

While they themselves failed 

to deliver that one fundamental thing, 

basic to all human relationships, 

just one thing that you ever asked of them;

Empathy! 

But that takes genuine compassion and humanity, 

and that would mean 

them, having to lower

their sham super-human standards, 

to meet your 'fallen' virtue, 

and is too much to ask for! 

Because they are 'too good for you', 

while you are such a 'low-life!' 

And so, they don't care! 

Come on, I mean, 

you can't let them dictate, 

these sham super-humans, 

full of their own selves, 

and their hollow pride, 

how you think of yourself,

or what you did or didn't go through! 

Because they have no idea 

what it feels like, 

when the roller coaster puts you on the spin off, 

after a heart-break, 

sending you flying to one partner after another, 

like an inanimate particle, 

helpless, 

reduced to instinct and survival, 

just because you are human enough to let things affect you, 

while they aren't! 

And no matter how much you stress on the monogamous in 'But I have been sequentially monogamous',  

they always only hear the 'sequential', 

and how the 'sequential', 

hits you, 

on the rebound

back from the wall of their perception, 

and always makes you feel 

small and dirty and oh so dismissible, 

and feels like a punch, 

that you feel in the soul! 

Every single time. 

And all this while they haven't hurt you any less, 

because not all hurt 

has to be direct 

or verbal. 

Because some of it can be so insidious, 

starting out slow, 

as small everyday indiscretions, 

that program you 

to accept being punished, 

day by day by day, 

till you are convinced

you can't be loved, 

and demanding that you be loved, 

starts feeling like a crime! 

So no, my dear! Don't. 

Do not judge yourself too hard. 

For they have no right to ask you to, 

when that's all they are doing anyway, 

while all you have done in the last ten years, 

is get up every morning, 

feeling guilty to have hurt them 'that one time', 

and spend the good part of every day, 

hard analyzing

your own behaviour, 

though in your heart you know, 

how even something that sounds as 'risque' as, 

'hyper-sexuality' can be a trauma response, 

turning a very beautiful and natural thing into a complusive obsession, 

that kills you inside, 

day by day, 

egging you time after time, 

to consumate perfectly healthy friendships, 

and only you know 

how much you have resisted it, 

because 'that God -foresaken woman' and 'that horrible friend of your's',

were the only people 

who cared, 

and accepted and understood you, 

and you didn't want to lose that, at any cost. 

Yet how you ended up hurting them, 

the people closest to you, 

because that's the only assylum you knew, 

and you didn't know

who else to go to 

and how else to heal the pain. 

Because two people making an 'Awesome Two-some', 

is not a magic pill you swallow, 

and wait for the effects to kick-in, 

and make you a 'perfect husband' and a 'perfect father' and a 'perfect person', 

overnight. 

You try, you fail, you try again, 

you fail again, 

you give up, 

and all of these are perfectly valid human responses to relationship trauma. 

Because no matter how hurt 

they felt, 

that one God-forsaken time, 

if your trying was never understood, 

never accepted, 

it would never work, 

because that's not how trying works. 

Because while one half of it 

is trying, 

the other half is being understood. 

So if you are not ready yet,

or ever, 

to 'fall in line' and understand,

what they have been trying to make you understand, 

all these years, 

it's okay. 

It's okay because maybe you just can't. 

Because maybe you don't need to! 

Because while you also started off, 

inspired by love and guided by knowledge, 

seeking all the right things; 

meaning, purpose, love, 

things happened on the way, 

because things happen! 

Things you did not know how best to deal with, 

because we don't, sometimes! 

And they hit you so hard

that the pain is still too fresh,

and the scars are too ugly to show to the world, 

and the cuts run too deep inside! 

And because healing can be hard,

when there's still a child-shaped void in your heart, 

that can only be filled with love, 

and your teenage self still feels those bullets of betrayal burried deep inside the skull, 

and your adult self only knows how to hold on to,

the first semblance 

of peace and sanity, 

like a drowning person, 

clinging to a floating log!

'Peace', 

you tell yourself, 

'Peace and Sanity', 

over and over and over, 

as if it were a chant! 

As if life is merely survival, and that's all there is to live for! 

So no, it's not okay;

them telling you, 

you are not good enough, 

or done for and over. 

Don't let them. 

Don't let them and don't you hang that head low, my dear! 

And know that no one deserves to spend their life wondering, 

why 'what's done, can't be undone'! 

Because it needn't.

Because that's not how living works. 

Because while one half of living is about knowing you'll be dead one day, 

the other half is about knowing, 

you aren't yet!

Friday, 8th of March, 2024

Delete, delete, delete

Do you ever delete deleted messages from a group conversation? 

A message that somebody has already deleted, 

so your deleting it 

means nothing de facto, 

not to that person, 

not to the group, 

yet, 

deligently, 

time after time, 

you delete them. 

And it's not even as though

it's fun! 

You find it tedious, 

often so that you do it

begrudgingly;

runny sleepy eyes, 

and an aching thumb, 

grumbling, 

in the middle of the night, 

just before you fall asleep, 

sometimes even after! 

So you could sleep at peace, 

safe in the knowledge! 

If you do, 

I hear you, my friend! 

Life can be unbearably hard sometimes, 

Even unnervingly so, 

but you'll make it through. 

If you don't, 

you don't know the first thing about trauma. 

Lucky you!

Love letters

In countries where love stories are censored, 

lovers write to each other in codes.

And they call out to each other

from their graves, 

to haunt the silence of the night. 

Lovers, when they can't suckle

the sweet honey of desire

from each others bosoms, 

they suckle it 

from the bosom of longing, 

unconcerned, 

challenging the distances that be! 

Like Sun birds, 

on a lazy winters' afternoon, 

feasting on the luke-warm nectar of honey-suckles, 

leisurely, 

in no hurry, no place else to be! 

 

And so one day I'll write a poem about love, 

and write it in unsparing metaphors

and brutal epithets, 

and call it 'Pegions', 

and write it down on my body, 

and write it down in blood, 

and hand it to you,

wrapped in a colourful Keffiyeh, 

so it'd be as honest as truth itself, 

but only you would grasp the trope!

January, the 30th, 2024

For the children of Palestine

 We come from the earth, 

we come from Coal's legacy. 

We are here, 

we live. 

And while we live, 

we create meaning where there is none. 

In Spring we sing songs of abundance, 

and in Autumn

we dream dreams of Spring. 

We live. 

We burn in the Sun, 

we rot in the fields in the rain, 

we send our roots deep down 

into the bedrock of existence, 

and extract life from where there isn't any. 

We live. 

And when we die, 

we carry our share of the burden of earth's sorrow under, 

and allow it to turn us into coal, 

till memories of the life we lived

fade into dust, 

and then in death, 

we burn again, 

and we burn bright. 

We live. 

We are from the earth, 

we are from Coal's legacy, 

we don't live death, 

we live even death.

6th December, 2023

Butterflies

So we met again today

and you said, 

I would now again

turn parts of our conversation

into poetry. 

Why would I? 

For what I feel in my being, 

upon your touch, 

isn't poetry at all! 

It's a rage mostly, 

sometimes a calm, 

a Tsunami often, 

even a Tempest, 

but certainly not words. 

To think of it, 

what I do feel in more expressible terms, 

is a metamorphosis of sorts. 

Icebergs in my mental landscape, 

melting from the warmth of you, 

and rivers springing

from underneath rock-beds, 

and forests sprouting out

of where there was only 

rot and decay, 

for long long years!

And long encapsuled bits and pieces of me, 

turning into butterflies, 

incessantly fluttering their gossamer wings, 

in my stomach and in my head, in my dreams! 

So if at all I do turn what we have into poems, 

it'd have to be on the richter scale, 

and in nautical miles and cubic feet per minute, 

and it'll require me to have the might of the earth, 

and the strength of the winds, 

and the depth of the seas! 

But I only have words!

November, 30th, 2023