our land has waged a war against God

mothers in our land name their children after things theyve lost. things they cant have unless they name their children after them. Hayat. Mashaal. Qandeel.

Hayaat is for life itself. existence. to a mothers life. a life to a mothers life. Hayaat. a prayer to live longer. for a son. a hope to stay forever. for a son. a word that feels eternity. but our mothers somehow forget that life is always haunted by death. that every hope is bound to crumble. that every word is merely a languages way of showing off. that their sons even if named Hayaat wont live longer here.

Mashaal is for light. radiating from the dark corners. illuminating the darkest corners. of a mothers life. of a land that is so enwrapped in gloom. light that transcends the murk seated on thrones for long. but our mothers forget that light if its in abundance causes blindness to those who are so comfortable with darkness. that a Mashaal is destined to only fade on our nameless streets.

Qandeel is for lantern. a thing inclosing a light. defying the darkness. shunning away everything that comes in its way. thats what our mothers want their daughters to be. Qandeel. but they somehow forget that it needs to be protected. always. like their daughters. from winds blowing against them. from merciless rains showering above them. from whatever comes to their way. that a Qandeel if remains unprotected… withers away.

our land has waged a war on our mothers. for it neither let live Hayaat nor Mashaal nor Qandeel. it keeps eating away their children like a bloodsucking monster. once a child of separation has grown into a sterile monster. that doesnt let our mothers will to stay alive intact.

bakhtawar says God doesnt live in battlefields. that he doesnt live here anymore.

our land has waged a war on itself. for it doesnt let even God stay here. it doesnt make room for him to stay. it doesnt give him a reason to stay. it doesnt feel his absence. it doesnt fear his wrath.

our land has waged a war against God.



every time a poet dies…

i wonder why with every passing day the world seems more distant. it gets unfamiliar with every sun passing away. with every rotation the earth feels more away from its axis. unable to stand. as if losing the balance. the ground. its solid ground that kept everything so intact. and everything gradually bit by bit falling apart.

the earth now feels in a constant state of mourning. like a widow. no like a mother.  who keeps losing her children. to circumstances unknown. to reasons unimagined. her healing hasnt started yet. because she hasnt stopped losing her kids yet. and theres no healing for her. theres never a healing for a mother who loses her children to circumstances unknown. to reason unimagined. theres only grief. grief that multiplies with time. grief that becomes her language then. mother language. grief of which now her house stands on. she doesnt call it home. it can never be a home. its something like a portal to suffering. a mere grief house. like her heart. and our earth. grief is her synonym now.

i dont know but death of a literary giant always hit differently. so close yet distant. what do we do with this feeling. that we cant put in words. words that have their own demise then. a funeral of words. stories. poetry. books. a funeral of literature. where the only word left alive to mourn is grief. it is bound to hit different and deep.

i dreamt of a gathering. so heavenly so divine. poets eveyrwhere. poets i read growing up. poets i studied growing up. omer rumi hafez khusro fareed waris bhulleh shah and their likes. exchanging wisdom. exchanging words with wisdom. faiz nasir sahir keats shelley derwish naguib agha shahid and their likes writing back to their lands. ode to their respective homes. yes homes they never had. there was rabia emily sylvia eliot  maya christina amrita weaving words with emotions.

it was so sublime. them all together. there were so many words lingering. but what remained so prominent was the aura they had. they all had. something beyond languages they had command on. beyond the nationalities they were born with. beyond any confinement of physical world.

what was there that kept them so united. i believe it was their grief. grief. that was their common language. grief. their nationality. grief. their home. their abode. grief they so heartily wore over their hearts. grief they wrote so eloquently. grief they walk down their streets with. grief they drank down the tea houses. grief their eyes were so accustomed to.

the world was slightly better a place with them. because they shared its grief. they were holding its weight. its burden. with them gone turning to stars. the earth has lost its balance. its grief has piled up so much that it made it lose its balance. every time a poet dies the earth dies a little more. it moves further way from the axis. it leaves the world off balance. breaks its harmony. its peace. its silence. every time a poet dies a language dies along. leaving the words hanging in the middle never to be read again. every time a poet dies the earth dies a little more.






the fading sky

i wrote my poems

to the fading sky

without missing

a day in vain

and waited for it

to write me back

until one day

i didnt send my poems anymore

a poetic vengeance

on the inkless sky

that never writes

i heard a shudder

up above


as if a poem burst

to a thousand words

and i heard the sky

pleading to write

lightening like never before

it rained like never before

i grabbed my pen

to jot a few thoughts

wrapped around

the dying hope

and wrote underneath

‘from aisha

the girl waiting

under the fading sky

to exchange poems’

and i waited

and kept waiting

until i stopped

this time

no thunder

no lightening

no rain

no pleading

to the shimmery moon

i pour my grievances

‘the fading sky

never reply’

to distant stars

i wrote the same

and waited until

i heard them say

‘your poems

made the sky shiver

and dried it out

and its ink to write

and memorized for you

many poems

but couldnt bear

to send them off

and couldnt bear

to keep them all

a small demise

of words

of poetry

occurred a day

your fading sky

has faded away’

honor killing

and another sun

succumbed to despair

and another moon

shunned away

and another sky

turned to ashes

and all the stars

shattered to dust

and all the heavens

shaken to core

but the mighty earth

with ‘mighty’ beings

remained aloof

of crimes committed

in darkest hours

grim tales

of motherland

silent burials

of honor and pride

odes to our

daughters plight


i burnt them down

the poems i wrote

and made them die

a silent death

deeper in heart

i buried my words

choking alone

along my love

never requited

these verses

a final goodbye

to my motherland

whose cities are carried

inside of me

and runs through

whose fragrance in me

on whose sky

i flew my kites

and walked down

whose crowded streets

chasing behind

whose parting sun


for your callous being

wore me out

the burden

no longer

i can carry

the pain

no longer

i can bury


for me

and my haggard pen


in utmost reverence


to thy scared land

we wont write you










it makes me so sad and baffled at both the inherent hatred and humiliation reserved for us by our countrymen for long. so so long. and the ceaseless display of patience and forbearance of my people. two dichotomies. unparalleled. unprecedented. set forth to marvel at the unjust and partial world we live in. often words come heedlessly. sometimes paying regards to my people. sometimes weeping at the cruelties faced by them. sometimes doing both.

filled with spite and venomous hearts

our countrymen pay tributes in parts

nothing but hatred at grim display

nothing at altar but love to slay

enraged, the storm sojourns our home

busting to let the fear roam

charged with treachery betrayal alike

infidels thus the butchering on spike

a tale penned with loyal blood

akin to life shunned in bud

a tale so committed so aching to read

bound to break adamant to bleed

a tale erased from desecrated graves

absolute disdain for our braves

a tale demolished with holy places

aimed at shunning the godly traces

a tale ablaze along our houses

fueling the steady burning crisis

a tale slain with aching dawn

weary of burying and woebegone

a tale hanging in utter darkness

settled on noose and nothing less

a tale seeded with head held high

nourished and fed by heavenly sky

the healing continues…

one step ahead

with heart healed

with soul fluttering

with hopes blooming

with head held high

with eyes glittering

and boom

comes the tiny fall

pushing back

to abyss

of utter despair

bottomless pit

with walls high

so high to reach

with darkness visible

where everything sinks

and keep sinking


we are back

to start anew

and thus

the healing




with wreckage around

and turmoil abound

in forgotten corners

with distant mourners

treading in silence

with utmost abidance

humming the tales

of afflicted ails

of empty spaces

and dreary traces

of hopes, lingering

like hearts, withering

of wearied sighs

and incessant cries

of looming death

and drowsy breath