he was so intoxicated. so enwrapped in love and pain and agony. so madly in love. it made him dance. twirl. but his wails appeared unmelodious. as though he didnt care. his speech remained without rhythms. he cared for none. he was there for a purpose. thats all he cared. to make things up. so he danced. and danced. and sang his wailings out. like a woman. like a peacock. until the world around him joins the chorus. until the chorus burst into oblivion. in trance. a background thing. where he kept spinning. kept humming. like a woman. like a peacock. calling from groves of passion.
many a time he was forced to leave inayat. his mentor. inayat. his inayat. his spiritual teacher. caste prejudice. a flower plucking gardener. to shallow a status. he eventually did. he left his master. his teacher. his inayat.
inayat pointed his folly and called him a lost. he didnt lose his inayat. he lost himself. his way. his path. his awakening. the reckoning.
he knew he lost what mattered. he knew he was wrong. he knew he made a mistake.
a havoc befell. turning his worlds crumble if not in ashes. this made him restless. the parting. leaving his soul in so much pain. in agony. he thought of ways to lure him back. to make him accept him back. inayat so fond of dancing made him learn it. he so ingrained it in his soul. perfected it for him. and came straight to inayats door. nor for a week. or for a month. or for a year. but for twelve years. twelve years of incessant dancing at inayats door that remained closed on him. until he started his laments. dressed up as woman. called himself a peacock. shunning the identity he was known for. the status that made him superior to inayat. dancing. the lowliest of lows. like a woman. worst. yet he was never so proud of him. what mattered there was inayat.
what he was to sing became the song of love. irrespective of place. of time. of gender. transcended across borders. across regions. across people. across everywhere the slightest fume of love still burns. where love still holds great reverence. where it is still celebrated. in memories long forgotten. in tales abandoned. in souls in shambles. preserved in language. in words. in hearts.
tery ishq nachaya. he finally confessed. your love made me dance. like mad. that your love has intoxicated my soul so deeply. that if you dont let the door open this very instant. o tabeeba. o my healer. i might die here. that i know i was at fault. that i should’ve gone with you. that a peacock now calls. for redemption. all here to lure you back. o who have made me dress like woman. open the door. for the sun of his life has faded. and he wont be turning back until inayat brings the light back.
and inayat finally opened the door of his wisdom to him again. he remained so ardent decsiple to inayat that inayat he no longer remained inayat. that love blurred out their conflicted identities. and he became bhulle shahs inayat. bhulle shahs master. that is what he now known as. bhulle shahs inayat.