The Same Old Story

Last song to make me feel,

Like I'm real to this dream,

Last breath to make me see,

How fake people can actually be,

Maybe today's the worst day of my life 

But I'll survive, 

Cause after every dark night, 

There's a bright day, 

That covers it all away and I get a chance to be,

A part of you that somehow wants to move out of me,

So, can you see who I am,

Falling down from heavens ground, 

Cause I'm the only one left here begging

Beauty is a curse that makes you want to trust,

That makes you want to burn and turn to dust,

But the story's getting old,

Even though I'm told,

That you have to let go of what you hold

Frozen in a moment so cold that i forgot who I am,

The broken hope inside my head taught me how to stand,

Cause you cover it all away when i get a chance to be,

A part of you that somehow wants to move out of me, 

I've taken away all of my fears, 

I'm bringing you down with me 

I've opened my eyes to something real,

You could never be close to me 

Can you see who I am,

Falling down from heavens ground, 

Cause I'm the only one left here begging

You were a curse that made me want to trust,

That made me want to burn and turn to dust

But the story's getting old, 

Cause I had been told I'd have to let go....!

(M.S.Khan)

The Revolution!

From a land very far far away; 

I can see a glimpse of light. 

A new sun ascending its land,

Start of a new era that grips the fate of an infant.

The pyramid now stands with honor,

The sphinx of a ruler now rusts in the corner,

The Nile now flows with a tide;

Decades ago it had lost its pride.

But why my land still lives in a dark?

The people here! will they ever spark?

Ignorance before credence!

Death of a crowd in grievance!

Splashes of tears then curses the eye,

When one wishes to quickly die.

Generations hanging in the balance,

It's the time to swing the wheel of gallant.

Raise your head up my boy!

Passion is your feat and destiny is the sky!

Break the faces of those who seize your freedom,

Dump those monsters who dare to eat your edam.

Slumber is a curse ask a raider who lives inside,

Forfeit the fear of battle just go there and fight.

Please don't be ashamed of death!

Cos' martyrs never fall from the peak of zenith.

The statue of robin hood awaits to be consecrated;

The tales of bravery are yet to be scripted...!

(M.S.Khan)

The Little Things!

Head like a rock spinning round and round;

I found it in a hole sitting upside down.

Paint me a wish on a velvet sky.

You demand the answers but I don't know why?

Cos' in my mind there is no time.

But the little things they make us so happy!

Just being the loser that plays lost and found;

All I want to do is live by the sea,

Standing by the edge of an ugly bree,

Hiding under the coat of a garden pea, 

Cos' it's good to see you're free.

Still those little things they make us so happy!

So what would you say if I said to you? 

It's not in what you say it's in what you do.

You point the finger at me but I don't deceive.

Close your eyes my friend and pretend to believe;

Cos' one day your mind will soon conceive.

That the little things they make us so happy!

Just then, close your eyes

Fugitive and illusively wise;

Colors of her soaked in dyes.

Hours when no one rescues twice,

In troubles and gambles she burst in cries!

Just then, close your eyes;

And play with the dream that lets you retry.

When words become lime and pale,

The fear inside her tends to stay.

Her smile bows down and begs for bail,

The time rushes as a ship to a quay.

Just then, close your eyes;

And play with the dream that lets you retry.

Jammed packed in the world of ten;

The day when the world pays no damn heed,

The evening when a farmer flatters a sore hen,

Misty morning when she incurs with the curse of greed.

Just then, close your eyes;

And play with the dream that lets you retry.

Like the branches of a fruitless tree,

She's never sure if she's nearly late.

Never been the one she wants to be,

When amazed by the crippled and her fearless gait.

Just then, close your eyes;

And play with the dream that lets you retry.

Please Forgive My Fear!

I walk on space,
On air so thin
I fear to fall.

Dear God forgive me
For my fear to love
For being so small
In a world so big
Forgive me for not wanting pain
For seeing it first before joy

I know I shouldn’t look first,
At how easily I bruise
Or harden my shell to outside touch,
Or hide within my self,
Or stare with dead eyes

Forgive my fear
Of reaching out over empty spaces,
For taking all the love you give
And giving nothing in turn

When next I shy, nudge me to try
When next I sigh, nudge me to smile
When next love needs, steady my feet
That I may be here,
To brave my fear.


(Anonymous)

The seashore!

I sat by the seashore, all alone tonight,
Thinking of you in the setting sun’s light,
You and I, baby, we were completely same,
Like a soul cloned in two bodies,
Like same heart, but different brains.

Remember the seaside, we used to enjoy,
Used to dance with the splashing waves,
We kissed lovingly under the moonlit night,
As I sang you serenades.

You held my hands, swore never to leave,
But all I hold now is sand,
The sand that, like your memories,
Is slowly slithering out of my hand.

Who knew you would do infidelity,
And run so far away from me,
Choosing death over me as your partner,
Leaving my soul to search for you longingly,

I feel like a pebble, sitting on the beach sand,
Orphaned and cold, ever since you left my hand,
These waves are all I have, for they took you away,
And so I await my turn, waiting at the shores for eternity.

                                                                                                                                (M.S Khan)

Only God I Saw!

In the market, in the cloister — only God I saw.

In the valley and on the mountain – only God I saw.

Him I have seen beside me oft in tribulation;

In favor and in fortune — only God I saw.

Neither soul nor body, accident nor substance,

Qualities nor causes — only God I saw.

I opened mine eyes and by the light of His face around me

In all the eye discovered — only God I saw.

Like a candle I was melting in His fire:

Amidst the flames outflashing — only God I saw.

Myself with mine own eyes I saw most clearly,

But when I looked away into nothingness, I vanished,

And lo, I was the All-living — only God I saw.

                                                                                                             (Baba Kuhi of Shiraz)

Note:- 

Baba Kuhi is an Iranian Sufi poet-saint. He spent many years in retreat and prayer in a mountain cave just north of Shiraz. He died in 1050 A.D., and was buried just outside of Shiraz, on a hill called "the green old man" (Pir-i-sabz). It is said that just before Baba Kuhi died, he made a famous promise that if anyone could stay awake for forty consecutive nights at his tomb that person would be granted the gift of poetry, immortality, and his heart's desire.

I met my Love after 7 years!

I met my love after seven years,

When my life had finally changed its' gears,

Frozen like statue;  my reaction was never clear,

Either recall my haunted past with fear,

or welcome the babe with holy cheer,

or sit idle and do nothing but stare,

I saw my love after seven years,

Her fluffy cheeks turned pale though,

Time is a foe; I realized too,

Eyes drenched with twilight,

Never dreamed to spare that cruel night,

Her smoky lips and golden hairs,

I saw my love after seven years,

The night when the moon glazed and stars twinkled,

What about me a loser? who musted and trembled,

I thought a lamp of hope would really lit,

But later it turned out nothing but shit,

For an instant I dreamed of her and me in a fairy ground,

Priceless palace where no one was there to found,

Dancing in her fingers a approached closer to her cheeks,

Woke up; The waiter brought me some kebabs and sheiks,

I ate them quickly as I was falling late,

My life, my love, my girl, my fate,

She smiled again as she used to do,

Her elegant feat stole my heart though,

Soaked in the memories of past,

The time me and her had a blast,

As every love story has a twist,

I wished I had never experienced that quest,

The envy of others caused my demise,

I wish now I had killed those three blind mice,

I claimed to be a man of versatile,

But never knew my love was too fragile,

At an instant, I caught an eye-contact,

Her elegant sight had the same impact,

Her fainted face soon revealed the time that had passed,

Me; out-smarted, out-dated and out-classed,

At an instant, she was gone,

Like a thrilling mist of Armageddon,
The die-hard patient then, searched for Teressa the nurse,

The moment his life was doomed with curse,

I resisted even though I wasn't that clever,

I believed that our love would live forever,

Shocked to death plus eager and keen,

D'you you really know what I mean?

History is mystery; either Nixon or Zedong,

I inquired myself, "Where did it all go wrong?"

The day I made a home of plastic clay;

Those noons when I heard depressing tunes of fray,
Those evenings I cried lonely in my loft,
You're my night angel that turned Lara Croft.
There are four and twenty million doors 
No matter my gardens grow the shiny ores,
I'm all done with life's endless corridor,
It now seems I don't care no more.
A flying dove dies as a rotten rover,
Oh boy! my love then flashed 'Game Over',
I met my love after seven years,
A night later; when I bursted with tears...!

(M.S.Khan)

Ghalib's Legacy

Mirza Asadullah Beg Khan — known to posterity as Ghalib, a `nom de plume’ he adopted in the tradition of all classical Urdu poets, was born in the city of Agra, of parents with Turkish aristocratic ancestry, probably on December 27th, 1797. As to the precise date, Imtiyaz Ali Arshi has conjectured, on the basis of Ghalib’s horoscope, that the poet might have been born a month later, in January 1798.

The death of his father and uncle during his youth left Ghalib with no male-dominant figures. He then moved to Delhi.

Ghalib’s early education has always been a matter of confusion. There are no known records of his formal education, although it was known that his circle of friends in Delhi were some of the most intelligent minds of the time.

Around 1810, he was married into a family of nobles, at the age of thirteen. He had seven children, none of whom survived (this pain has found its echo in some of Ghalib’s ghazals). There are conflicting reports regarding his relationship with his wife. She was considered to be pious, conservative and God-fearing while Ghalib was carefree, unconventional without any scruples, and arguably not very religious, in the strict sense of the word.

Ghalib was very fond of drinking and gambling (in this respect, he himself admitted he was not quite a strict “Muslim”). Gambling used to be an offence in Delhi at that time and he was even apprehended once for having indulged in it in his own backyard. Ghalib also had an affair with a courtesan who quite admired his poetry. There still exists the First Information Report filed against Ghalib in Kotwali ( “Police Station” is a more convenient term in modern (English) language), Daryaganj, New Delhi that relates his rivalry with the then Kotwal when it came to the courtesan.

Ghalib never worked as such for a livelihood but lived on either state patronage, credit or generosity of his friends. His fame came to him posthumously. He had himself remarked during his lifetime that although his age ignored his greatness, it would be recognized by later generations. History has vindicated his claim. He also is arguably the most “written about” among Urdu poets.

He died in Delhi on February 15th, 1869.

Showering encomium on Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib’s poetry is like employing rich epithets to describe William Shakespeare’s tragedies or Salvador Dali’s surrealistic strokes. Ghalib’s couplets are what he is. He is Urdu poetry. That is all you know, that is all you need to know.

Ghalib’s death anniversary falls on Feb 15. Should it be marked? If yes, then why is it important to mark creative individuals’ birthdays and death anniversaries? Perhaps to remember them? If recalling the important days in their lives makes a difference with respect to carrying out research on them, aexploring hitherto unravelled facets to their works and lives, then why not?

But sadly, despite Ghalib’s undisputed stature as a literary colossus, we’ve yet to decide whether he was an Indian or defied geographical boundaries.

In Pakistan we don’t seem to ‘own’ him as we own Allama Iqbal, Faiz Ahmed Faiz or Josh Malihabadi. Yes, scholars have undertaken tasks of ‘understanding’ his works or of Ghalib shanasi (which means getting acquainted with him), but one feels that the vital ‘ownership’ factor is amiss.

So why is Ghalib important to be considered as one of our own? Answers:

(1) he enriched the Urdu language by almost exhausting the possibilities of linguistic inventiveness and creative ingenuity.

(2) he had the temerity to explore undiscovered lands in the realm of poetry that prior to him weren’t even thought of as plausible literary subjects.

(3) he blazed a trail for many a creative man to indulge in ghazal-writing like never before… and the list goes on.

To Ghalib composing poetry wasn’t a leisurely pastime or a part-time job. He was dealing with existence, warts and all. He was just 13 when he got hitched to an 11-year-old girl, Umrao Begum. They had seven children, none of whom survived, and passed away in their infancy. It was but natural that Ghalib was crestfallen. But he never turned bitter or vitriolic. He had seen life eyeball to eyeball. And was an admirer of nature and all that is beautiful.

That is precisely why his verses brim with love for the sensual and the intangible, coupled with thebare truths of being. He knew half-baked measures would make him a run-of-the-mill poet. Yes, he was an iconoclast. Yes, he was alcoholic. Yes, he was a gambler. But these social evils (if they are that) have nothing to do with his extraordinary skill or perceptiveness. He was every inch a poet, top-notch at that. As Intizar Husain enthused about Jaun Elia, Ghalib’s personality had become anextension of his poetry.

T.S. Eliot has given world literature an irrefutable dictum: poetry communicates before it is understood. Ghalib exactly achieved that. Even to those readers for whom Persianised Urdu or intricate phrasing is a tad knotty to comprehend, his couplets appear readily accessible.

For example, every reader of Urdu poetry is familiar with the following two lines:

A worthy picture doesn’t need description/

The paper on which it’s drawn is self-explanatory attire

Yet it is not a simple idea to grasp, but don’t we all love it truly, deeply and madly?

Or for that matter the couplet which is often ascribed to the death of one of his children:

  Ghalib’s verses brim with love for the sensual and the intangible, coupled with the bare truths of being. He knew half-baked measures would make him a run-of-the-mill poet.

  You say we’ll meet on Judgment Day/

Isn’t this gesture apocalyptic in itself?

This is the work of an artisan as well as of a genius. The couplet is fraught with etymological possibilities. It sounds personal. It has a mystic ring to it. It has an air of worldly wisdom about it. And seems easily identifiable.

Even when Ghalib tries to be a bit impish and light-hearted, compromising on contextual weightiness, he wins the reader over by virtue of his brilliant wordplay.

You don’t let me kiss but keep looking at my heart/

You think that having me for free would be a worthy bargain for you

Mir Taqi Mir was a great poet, period. But he has many imitators, if not successors. Ghalib had neither a predecessor nor a successor. He scaled heights that not many can even think of. According to an adage, you are always alone at the top. Ghalib is alone, for sure.