The Poet & His Discontents

Secularism in India

2008-03-03T09:34:00.004+05:30

He swats a fly,
belches, looks up
to her burqa-clad smile.
"Do you have underwears?"
"Men or Ladiez?"
"Do I look men to you?"
"Sorry! Babban Ladiez...
Ah! What size?"
"Ninety-five! Ummm...what colours do you have?"
"Blue, green, and brown!"
"All men's colours!" she frowns.
"What colour do you want?"
"Pink!"
"Babban! Nintey-five, ladiez, pink!"
"Do you think it will fit me?"
The baniya flashes a toothless grin,
"How can I say that...I mean..."
"Badtameez! Look at the way you're spilling!"
She slams the counter, stamps a roach,
storms out of the shop.
The Baniya nevertheless wise calls out,
"Madam! Please do stop again at my shop!"

This poem is for Mahmood Farooqui. It is inspired by an anecdote he told me. :-)

Closely Observed Trains

2008-02-18T19:08:00.002+05:30

Would you believe it
that "Closely Observed Trains"
was a film's name
in Nineteen Sixty-eight?
It was critically acclaimed,
an Academy Award winner,
even before I was conceived
one early winter.

But four decades later
I am changing slowly.
There are white streaks
in my sideburns,
a morbid fear creeps up
when I meet loved ones
as if one of us will pop off
before next such loved moment.

I recently discovered
my body speaks too.
I am distinct from it,
I am not what it is.
And now I sleep nursing dreams
of six-pack abs, youthful hair,
of rising early, jogging anywhere...

But strangely when I drive on the stretch
saddled between Nizamuddin and Yamuna's stench
I closely observe trains that I do not intend to catch.

© February 18, 2008 Dan Husain

Cliché

2007-10-23T09:36:00.000+05:30

Every second edict
in the leaves of my
how to write bible
teaches me to avoid clichés
as if, to use a cliché, they're plagues
but each time she flings "love"
at the end of her sweet nothings
or nobody's forward mails,
the world in my vision blurs
shrinking around the edges
of l-o-v-e's four letters.

© October 23, 2007 Dan Husain

Breach

2007-10-02T02:32:00.000+05:30

Such is the fate
of each and every word
that refuses tonight
to come out of my head;
(as if my arms slithered up my nostrils
and pulped them to death)
laid to rest in a watery grave
stretching from your eyes to your ears.

And then we slept in deathly silence
half loved, half betrayed.

© October 2, 2007 Dan Husain

May I Borrow Some Love From You?

2007-07-30T16:53:00.000+05:30

May I borrow some love from you?
I know you've lent it to him.
And no, I am not asking you
to take it back from him.
Just a momentary transfer,
just enough for me
to put a smile on your face.

Lullaby

2007-07-14T23:19:00.000+05:30

I have bartered peace
for a memory of you
and now it wishes me
to put to sleep every thought of you.
I managed a lullaby but
it reads a poem for heartburns.
I wish I had a word for the moment
when skin shed crackles on the desert sand.
I wish I had a word for the moment
when coal instead of blood pumps in my vein.
I wish I had a word for the moment
when heat snivels up my nostrils, melts my brain.
I wish I had a word for the moment
when your silence pours down my gullet as acid rain.
I wish I could barter again
peace for a moment
where our eyes meet and
a sweetness lingers between them.

Birth

2007-07-05T16:21:00.000+05:30

I see your face
but it's not there
only my eyes conjuring an image
and no, it's not love
love doesn't make one an artist
it is nothingness that makes one
scratch lines on an empty canvass

The Bookstore at The Street's End

2007-05-03T02:06:00.000+05:30

There is a bookstore at the street's end
that sells the dreams we once dreamed.
I didn't know of it till I walked into it;
and the balding salesman eager, flashed his

wisdom-stained teeth, "Sir! I know
what you want!" His eyes yellow
(No, he wasn't jaundiced, or crackbrained)
acquiring a musty glow, unfeigned

that comes from a lifetime of browsing
through reams of unsought pages. "Nothing!
I'm just curious but what'd you think I want?"
"A book of dreams; dreams that yet taunt

your growing wrinkles, grey hair," he shrugged.
"Really!" I looked askance. Stretching six-feet across
the display gallery, he picked, "Your Dreams - Rich or Macabre."
But astonishingly, the words bedimmed, and in my hands

bore another's name, another claim.
I peered hard, 'Who is the poet? Oh! It is but me!'
"Hey! What may I pay to buy this book?" I asked.
"Nothing! Write and gift us this very book!" said he.

(c) Dan Husain
May 02, 2007

We Steal Your Senses: The Initiation

2007-03-28T09:43:00.000+05:30

With words we construct
a sarai ten feet by eight,
a river of magic,
fire, blood with
a bridge of smoke,
a building of three tiers
stacked over it
with fairies in it
throwing pearls
at the piranha
floating
in the river of magic –
With words we create
all this and more
on the proscenium
of an auditorium.

But beware!
These are not tales
of horses and mare,
of fairies and angels,
of Lord-smudged gospels.
Here desires heathen
would deepen with
every twist of the tale
that you choose to veil
your senses with –
Your senses Ha!
Like some former lover
are no more
a part of your tale.
Like a bedouin’s loot
in this bazaar of lies and truth
they’re up for sale.

So we wait at the gates
of the kingdom of Afrasiyaab,
the sorcerer supreme,
the king of devils and djinns
before whom sixty-thousand
warlords
each with an army
of a hundred thousand
or more
genuflect, kiss his girth,
wash it with their blood.
He, The Arrogant One
whose kingdom
runs from The Upper West Quarter
to The Lower East Trough
even he,
even he bows
to Zammurad Shah Bakhtari,
also Laqa, the ultimate in sorcery
but only a wily old bastard
with fungus in his teeth
and beads in his beard
who sits on a throne
smelling of his own faeces.

Together they fight
Amir Hamzah –
The Lord of Conjunction,
Sahib-qiran,
before whom the moon
and the sun both bow,
whose valour instills fear
in many who’d kill, tear
with their swords and their spears
and not once show remorse
even they, when they’d hear
his name their pride would run
like a disease from a medicine.

But the point where
we choose to enter –
our senses surrendered –
the point where we
let ourselves be
in this magical world,
this magical world
where the difference
between the real
and the imagined
is perhaps a trick
between the awake you
and your sleeping self,
the point where we enter
is the one where Amar Ayyar,
confidant, friend, chief trickster
Amir’s lieutenant, masquerader
has murdered Mahtaab Jadoo
and has in a jungle taken refuge…

© Dan Husain
March 27, 2007

A New Year's Party

2007-01-02T11:00:00.000+05:30

That there is room for other conversations too
is a thought, a double-edged sword
for me,
and for you.

My friend on the next bar stool
is mesmerized with your heaving breasts,
your slender frame sitting straight,
laughing, sipping wine, while the world waits
to genuflect before the moment
when the woman in you will glow.

“Yes! Yes! I know what the world has come to!
Hunger, intolerance, head-butts, Zizou!”

Please! Please take note of what I’ve become too
but I don’t know how you do that
I forget my misery; laugh at your jokes.
You caress my cheek, playfully pat.

“No seriously! I mean there are more bombs than childbirths.
Ask a man gone casual walking in Baghdad, Madrid.”

Somewhere the ghazal singer croons Faiz…

“Aur bhi gham hai zamane mein mohabat ke siwa…”

Ah no! I remember “dukh” in the original work.
“Dukh” is stark, naked, intensely painful than
“Gham”; a ghazal singer's mellifluous, melancholic version.

“Ha! Here speaks the poet
whose only tool to a woman’s heart
is semantics!”

Everyone titters, I feel naked.
You giggle, wink, blow a kiss.

“Don’t you think it was chilling to watch Saddam today?
As if he’s walked into a bar asking for a table!”

I feel a shiver up my spine.
Raise my glass, toast the wine.

“Long live America!”

We all laugh.
“I love your sense of humor.”
But I wait for the inevitable.

I wait for the moment
when your own thoughts
conspire, chain your heart.
I wait for the moment
when my poetry's logic
play tricks, seal your lips.
How long,
how long can you duck, efface
before my joy trips on your face?

That there is room for other conversations too
is a thought, a double-edged sword
for me,
and for you.

Ah! She sings my favourite Momin ghazal now…

“Ulte wo-h shikwe karte hain aur kis ada ke saath,
betaaqati ke taanein hain uzr-e-jafa ke saath.

Maanga karenge abse dua hijr-e-yaar ki
Aakhir to dushmani hai asar ko dua ke saath.”

Tonight is An Unusual Night...

2006-11-06T13:46:00.000+05:30

Tonight is an unusual night.
I have no memory of you,
I crave no more for you.

I do not feel grand,
no untied strands
to string them in a poem for you.

But once I was bitter.
I wrote poems about darkness,
drew blood
from my sunken hollowed cheeks,
saw my apparition in the mirror
a body of a poet, a soul of a whore.
But I do not feel that anymore.

I do not see any metaphor
hinge on your pendent, armlet, tiara,
on your resplendent anklet, mascara,
on your kohl, eyeliner, rouge,
on sundry embellishments of your beauty.
Oh! What a fool, what a stooge
I’ve been to believe
in a stupidity that must,
must always poetry
be a muse’s slave?

That must I,
I must stave in
every thought, every misgiving
on which I constructed
a world for you
in my half-drunken
poetic renderings.

I think I will, I say I did.

But now when I have killed
every essence, every single conception
of what I am, of what I be
I brood – is it love
that I do not wish for love
anymore?

festivity

2006-10-28T00:17:00.000+05:30

tilak smeared foreheads
with white skull caps
is not an everyday sight
but this is what happens
when our eid-spirited selves
run into diwali's bright lights

Death...

2006-09-29T00:29:00.000+05:30

What a shame to let go of a month without a poem, so I cheat again and treat you with an old one. Oops, hope you won't mind this. Not really one of my favorites. :-)

Death
Like betrayal
Lingers at the corners of love
Ready to stab
Just when you expect it least.

Death
Like woman’s smile –
Bewitching, mesmerizing –
Ready to bind
Just when you think you’re done with it.

Death –
Perhaps when I embrace betrayal
Or free self from the trappings of love –
I will turn around
And embrace you too.

Death till then
Is only an epistemological hell
Three stanzas beneath my verses.

Coffee in Times of War...

2006-08-23T17:01:00.000+05:30

Just the other day a friend asked
Have you ever tried war poetry?
War, I said, I haven’t seen one.
I was only born in seventy-one.
I’ve often seen pictures –
Oh why pictures! Even a painting
in a restaurant once –
of a Sikh General
making the Pakistanis
sign the surrender.
And then I grew up
reading lessons, history
about World War One and World War Two,
Plassey, Panipat, Waterloo,
War & Peace, The Day of Armistice,
the ancient tales of the Mahabharata,
the Muharram majlises, Karbala.

But then who needs textbooks?
Television brings live - Beirut.
And if this isn’t enough there are movies –
A Bridge Too Far, Platoon, Killing Fields.

But no, I have never seen a war.
I don’t know what it means
to sit through blackouts, power outages,
to hold my breath and wait
for a bomb to detonate.
I don't know what it means
to have splinters of plastic and tin
pierce through my clothes, skin.
I don't know what it means
to lose an eye, to lose a limb.
I haven’t seen my child without her head.
I don’t know what it means
when a mother grieves for her dead.
The closest I have seen a man’s guts
split wide open was from a scene
in a movie called Saving Private Ryan.

I don’t know what it means
to run from desk to desk
in a dank office corridor
asking for compensation
for a son dead in a war.

I don’t know…

My words trailed in the wispy heat
of Delhi’s August afternoon street.

I am afraid I am not qualified
to consider myself a war poet.

My friend cursed himself
for bringing this topic up,
dunked his biscuit in his coffee,
as I waved to the waiter,
May we have more of these, please!

Mumbai, Mayhem & T.S. Eliot

2006-07-19T15:52:00.000+05:30

Last night I read Eliot.
These are strange times to read him
and more to discuss him with a friend at Marriott
as we sip wine and eat lamb-steak,
expostulate (that’s a big word) against double-speak,
heresy, hypocrisy, a bureaucrat’s bid to block blogs,
America’s complacency, Israel’s capacity to bamboozle, shock.
My friend chuckles, he’s recently been to Tel Aviv,
is well acquainted with Israel’s potential for mischief.
And then, my friend burps, sighs,
“Aren’t we lucky to be alive?”
But then trains were never our aspirations in rush hour drives.
We’re probably waiting for the Metro
for us to shift to public transport,
aspire then for a workplace
between Versova and Ghatkopar.

(…the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table…)*

The conversation shifts to extra-marital affairs, orthopedic surgery –
Professor Matuknath Chaudhary’s love discourses for his paramour Julie.
(I think Matuknath has balls
to turn his life into a brawl
and stand for what he believes
while the news channels gloat at this sleaze.)
But it is politically correct to take pot-shots
at him and I further it with parental duty, guilt.
I talk about my mother’s rheumatism, her knee…
Why is it that women suffer more from arthritis?
Has there been a medical research on this?
My friend shrugs, I don’t know though my mother also suffers from it.

(We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!)**

The bill is paid. We step out in the early morning rush.

(Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
“Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.”)***

I am grateful to my friend, and
he says thank you for that rib-tickling performance.
This is the best we can offer to each other –
Moments like bric-a-brac, friendship as a tag –
A mathematician and a stand-up comedian.

I stand smugly satisfied at this sight.
The rain assumes the muggy Mumbai night…

(Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.)****

Notes:
*From T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
**From T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men.”
***From T.S. Eliot’s “Rhapsody on A Windy Night.”
****From T.S. Eliot’s “Preludes.”

Dances With Hope

2006-06-20T15:28:00.000+05:30

Like a glistening street
on an autmn day
hopes play mischief
with my dreams,
make them sway
and I let the moment ferment
its own sweet little tale
as it gels with the afternoon sky -
ephemeral, azure, refreshingly pale.
They make me drown
in eidetic images
of a life unlived,
your beautiful face,
a balmy smile,
and a dream unfulfilled.
And I may take a day off
or perhaps a lifetime
to string these pearls
in an eternal rhyme.

© Dan Husain
7th January 2001

PS: I thought the whole month will go without a post. Didn't have anything new so I pulled out this old poem. I wonder I'd write like this anymore. I don't fully approve this. :-)

Tripped...

2006-05-27T02:07:00.000+05:30

There is a thought on my tongue.
Wonder what it would’ve done
had it cloaked itself in words
but I remain clammed up
and let my silence burn
her stately veneer’s hem.

But many moments later
this moment will unfurl upon her.
Poised on the Metro escalator,
with the sweat breaking over her brow,
she would not know what hit her
or on her tongue tastes bitter.

Death of A Poem

2006-04-14T01:34:00.000+05:30

In a few hours from now
they’d pull down the shutters
and leave a stark street
to a poet’s imagination
as he’d grope in the dark alleys,
burnt on cigarettes
and cheap whiskey,
wondering
where in this pool of scrap
he’d find the foetus
of his once deserted poem.

But I’ve known many a poet
who in the stench of their thoughts
have lost the serendipitous joy
of constructing unsuspecting metaphors
that would cense the bosom
of their once shared love with their muses.
They stumble back now
to this scrap
of what the world was, what it could be
rummaging for their once aborted themes.

© Dan Husain
April 14, 2006

These Days...

2006-03-25T23:29:00.000+05:30

I

These days
I find everything staged:
the words of comfort you plant,
the concern that I fake,
the platitudes that we toss,
twirl, throw into each other’s face.
How brittle is our truth
that we wrap it with pretexts
believing love holds good
only in certain contexts.

II

The other day
at Carter Road,
when the Sun was
a speck of orange in your eye
and the world
a soot covered portrait,
I felt I had a poem for you
but then, these days, I don’t write poems.
I look for words instead,
words that would miff the silence
you puncture our conversations with.

III

In the quietness of the night
when you twirl next to me
I hear shrill screams
of our unsaid thoughts.

I then strain, strain
to hear your silence...

© Dan Husain
March 25, 2006

The Line...

2006-03-13T01:28:00.000+05:30

Between the here and there,
between courage and fear,
between love and longing,
between knowing & belonging,
between fisticuffs and handshakes,
between letting go and heartbreaks,
between knowledge and wisdom,
between thoughts and action,
between inertia and initiative,
between certain and tentative,
between criticism and mudslinging,
between ignorance and awakening,
between you and me,
between they and we
there is only a thin line
dwindling somewhere in your mind;

step across it!

© Dan Husain
March 2, 2005

For Freedom, We Fight

2006-02-21T09:37:00.000+05:30

“For Freedom, We Fight” -
fluorescent words
glimmering under car lights
on a wall
against which we once leaned,
our lips entwined
in a life-giving kiss.
Oh! I so much wanted freedom then
to break free from the shackles
that fettered our unsanctioned love.

But now my moist eyes
only see fluorescent words
glimmering under car lights
on a wall,
that’s just a wall
in this ugly city;
defaced, an eye-sore,
mouthing metaphors –
mere slogans from history –
and then it dwindles out of sight
with a vague phrase prancing in my head.

“From Freedom, We Fight”.

© Dan Husain
August 30, 2005

Peace & Its Discontents*

2006-02-11T22:47:00.000+05:30

Here! Right here!
Let’s draw a line
and reach an understanding
albeit hesitant
that we will not
step across it.

But then who is to decide
what is righteous?
The loose ends, the cul-de-sacs
in the labyrinth in our heads
often spill on to the other side;
barbed spaces
where our tolerance resides.
And then the discontent,
fermenting underneath with gnomic intent,
like Azaan at the crack of dawn
will pierce through this uneasy peace,
shattering it
long after stillness has settled
in our clattering teeth.

© Dan Husain
February 11, 2006

* A tribute to Edward Said. It is the title of one of the books he wrote on the Israeli-Palestinian Peace accord. This is for the passing away of a truly great scholar.

A Long Evening Walk...

2006-01-30T23:56:00.000+05:30

Under a cold-blooded sky
pigmented with your thoughts
I walk from stillness to motion

but with each step the truth peels off
as colors do from mildewed buildings,
as the skin does from freshly healed wounds

and I wonder,
in a mist-gathering hug,
was the world more colored at standstill?

© Dan Husain
January 28, 2006

Fuel

2006-01-26T23:15:00.000+05:30

Two hundred years from
The first aerial bombing
We would have burnt
All the earth’s gasoline
And yet our thirst
Be unquenchable.
We may then slake it with blood
Flavored with our own hate-fables.

© Dan Husain
January 21, 2006

Crossroads

2006-01-14T22:36:00.000+05:30

There is this little boy
Who stands everyday
At the same intersection
Selling the usual ware.

He smiles at me, winks,
Taunts, even pleads
But I just ignore.

But then I wonder
It can’t be hope alone,
Someone must be buying too
For him to stand there
Day after day
And weather indifference.

© Dan Husain
January 11, 2006

The Fan

2006-01-07T14:53:00.000+05:30

In your head
There is violence,
Malice, jealousy,
Unquiet silence.

And you think
The same for me.
It strains your
Casual repartee.

How you wish a knife
Twisted into my guts.
Spit on my face, see it
Sullied with your insults.

But when we meet,
“Oh! I love your poetry!”
“Ah! Just wordplay!”
I quip with feigned modesty.

©Dan Husain
January 7, 2006

Mother: The Idea of A Poem

2006-01-06T14:47:00.000+05:30

The poem generated much discussion at a writers' forum Caferati. Finally, I thought the debate merits a response from me - the poet: the original mischief-maker. I am posting my response here for your perusal. Thanks & best regards.

The Idea of A Poem

I think I had some inkling that this poem will generate much discussion. And I also knew that the reactions would be varied.

I am not into lengthy post-creation discussions. They bore me to death. I think they’re best confined to classrooms. But often there is a widening gap between the instinctive gut-felt acts of an artist and the informed nitpicking of a critic. And I guess for sake of fostering understanding (I am not sure what ‘understanding’ I refer to here!) it’s best that the artist speaks for his or her act.

The Genesis of ‘Mother’

Yesterday, I had some time at hand before I had to leave for my play’s rehearsal. So, I picked up Amitava Kumar’s book ‘Passport Photos’ and continued reading from where I had left last. The book is an insightful peek into post-colonial literature, the travails of immigrants, and language and the idiom that it acquires for people across social, national, economic, psychological, religious, racial, gender, et al barriers. The book is innovatively structured. Each chapter reads as an entry in a Passport.

I was at the chapter titled ‘Sex’ when I stumbled upon a discussion on the Dalit (I hate this categorization here but I think it is relevant in the context of the point that I wish to make) Marathi Poet Namdeo Dhasal and his collection of poems called Golpitha. Amitava was talking about how Dhasal brings forth a whole host of issues in his poetry – brahmanical hegemony, patriarchal family structures, gender repression, violence, etc. He intends to shock and at the same time throw it in his readers’ faces and disconcert their smug social superiority and indifference.

The poem that particularly hit me is Dhasal’s “What Grade Are You in, What Grade?” In Amitava’s words, “In this poem, almost in a ritual manner Dhasal very powerfully details what the Brahmanic Hindus consider defiling: a menstruating woman, a dead cow, meat, sex.” I quote the translated poem for you.

“Fucked a menstruating woman? Fucked her?
Dragged around the dead cattle? The dead cow?
Rubbed the grindstone? The grindstone?
Known what hayale is? Cow gut?
Saved stale bread? Ate it?
Sucked the marrow? The marrow?
Fried the giblets? The giblets?”

It also serves “to document what had been the duty of the Dalits, the pariah castes condemned to the outskirts of Hindu life, performing the tasks of traditional scavengers.”

While all this was having its effect on me, my thoughts kept hovering around the violence against women in recent times that few of you have mentioned here. Strangely, the poem also reminded me of a line from a dialogue from my current play “Where did this come from? I thought we had guzzled every drop of alcohol in the house!” And also about the Ummayyid Caliph, Yazid, who allegedly raped his mother in an inebriated state and about the movie ‘Gladiator’ where Nero is making advances towards his sister. The violence of these thoughts erupted inside me and everything strung together as a poem.

The Post-creation Blues

There is again a lengthy discussion as to how the original version got transformed into its current form. I do not wish to get into that as this apologia of mine has already run into two pages.

Nevertheless, at times art is a conduit for importing larger issues from inaccessible, often intellectual and elitist, spheres into more knowable territories of mass cultures. I guess I was attempting to weave in a grave issue like gender violation into something as perfunctory as an act of reading newspaper and sipping our morning tea. And shock ourselves in seeing that apathetic face of ourselves where we feel by maintaining a steely veneer or an ostrich like attitude we’d get the better off the situation.

But the last I am looking here is poetic brilliance or an attempt to resort to sensationalism to promote my poetry.

I am only experimenting with ideas, issues, forms and see how wider perspectives, that may serve some purpose, be incorporated into my poetry.

Thanks for bearing with me.

Best regards,

Dan Husain

PS: Oh! One last thing. Poets and Actors don’t have any morals or speak from a moral hierarchy. We can’t burden ourselves with such weighty things. :-)

Mother

2006-01-05T08:46:00.000+05:30

The Original Version

Have you ever guzzled
The last drop of alcohol
And raped your mother?

This is what we do,
Metaphorically,
When we grease a palm
And cut a tree.

© Dan Husain
January 4, 2006

Mother

2006-01-04T15:14:00.000+05:30

Have you ever guzzled
The last drop of alcohol
And raped your mother?

This is what we do,
Metaphorically,
When we read
The morning news
About a woman’s rape
And sip our tea
leisurely.

© Dan Husain
January 4, 2006

A New Day

2006-01-01T12:35:00.000+05:30

The street yawns a new day
Pouring soot that smells of hope
As it slithers and wakes slowly
To grimy walls and early morning smoke.

We stretch in slanted morning sun,
Hanging freshly washed dreams on clothesline
Peeping just above meshed wires, neon signs
And kiosks selling fortunes for a dime.

The groggy flight down the stairs
To pick milk, news and the bread
Is greeted with swirling eddies
Of dust, scrap & stench instead.

Amidst morning tea stall stoves,
Mendicants & gaping passageways –
Life draped in diesel fume
Is a Hobson’s choice, a shifting sand dune.

© Dan Husain
March 9, 2005

thirst

2005-12-26T22:35:00.000+05:30

i burn here for her
as she slithers in her lover's arms
isn't she a chalice brimming with poison?

Metamorphosis

2005-12-26T14:08:00.000+05:30

they've put today a monument
where once was an empty space
and changed forever
my pristine past,
my virgin landscape

Winter

2005-12-23T22:34:00.000+05:30

Each time I pull the quilt over me
It’s like slipping within a question mark
That hangs over my bed
Prodding the false warmth
With which I sleep this winter.

But I know nothing of winter.
I see it only in the news clippings of cold waves
Or in the shivering of a mendicant
Pressed against my car’s window
Or in the vaporous breath of an illicit lover
Exhaled across my married face.

© Dan Husain
December 23, 2005

I Dig Out Few More Haikus & Senryus From The Past...

2005-12-22T15:46:00.000+05:30

Summers they parch;
My lips they crust
I drink from thee.

Winters they freeze;
My lips they crust
You warmth me.

....................................

Hanging
amidst conversations are words
that we never said.

Your poem
waltzes on my lips;
I forget my own.

My New Play

2005-12-21T02:04:00.000+05:30

I have to be a drunken sod in a new play
And charm women who, to my wit, are blasé.
I have funny lines filled with malapropism,
An awkward gait with quirky mannerism.

But we’re not playing Brecht, Beckett or Pinter,
Not even Tennessee William’s ‘A Cat on A Hot Tin Roof’,
We're merely adapting a genteel Irish tale to an Awadhi winter
And yet we find men across cultures a farce, a spoof.

© Dan Husain
December 21, 2005

PS: The play is 'Aristocrats' by Brian Friel. Our adaptation is called 'Mirza Bagh' and will be staged in Delhi in March, 2006. Watch the blog 'Doing Delhi' for more details. :-)

Ecphrasis: The Gobbled Sun

2005-12-20T08:38:00.000+05:30

So now
you've gobbled the sun
and framed it
in your barge shaped heaven
thinking you've it all
under your thumb
but God may yawn
like a gaping black hole
and spoil your fun.

Ecphrasis: Christina's World

2005-12-19T15:24:00.000+05:30

Painting: Christina's World by Andrew Wyeth

Christina

Gossamer laden dreams
Of yellow mornings
On green acres
Where air redolent
Of love, longing
And your wildflowers
Wafts through
My poetic musings
Possess me
Spin words
That spill out
Like your portrait
Mauve dressed
Maybe pink
Staring across
Green acres
Lit with yellow mornings
To a barn
Where once
Our love blossomed
But now
It wears thin into
A gossamer laden dream.

Evaporating in your sighs;
Crystallizing
Maybe in my poetic themes.

© Dan Husain
June 25, 2005

last night...

2005-12-19T12:43:00.000+05:30

last night
the thought of you was unusual
i didn’t know how to deal with it
as you were also here...

Spring. . .

2005-12-17T09:02:00.000+05:30

last night
we spoke in hushed tones;
words irrelevant
falling intermittently
on our ears
with silence an interlude
devouring words
we wish to hear
the most.
I puckered my lips
and kissed
your flushing cheeks;
your lips broke into a smile
and my world within bloomed
like zephyr on a muggy day,
like child's smile making mother sway,
like death to terminally suffering,
like breath to one drowning, gasping,
like Sufi chants to a mystic,
like chiseled prose to a critic,
like thoughts to a brooding scholar,
like discontent to one who cribs, holler,
like power to those who wield it,
like spring's outbreak on a snow laden field.

© Dan Husain
February 17, 2005

Pursuit

2005-12-16T09:23:00.000+05:30

Between the lines beneath the words
Often lies hidden men’s intent,
I only seek tales – true or false -
That will make us all content.

A Plebeian Dream

2005-12-13T08:52:00.000+05:30

From the land of yellow dust
Where the air is redolent of nostalgia
And everyman hides sorrow in his breast
Comes a soul with a bag filled with paraphernalia.
He meets me at the local mart
Tired but in his motives – steadfast.
He says he is looking for a place
To bury his sorrows and quietly efface.

So we sit at the local joint
Eat chicken and while our time.
From the conversation I learn
That he met an accidental death,
Left behind two daughters, a son
And a grief stricken wife on bed.
He says he had a dream once but…Alas!
It still hangs on the clothesline in his backyard.

Saddened, I offer him my humble abode -
A place where he may freely spread his soul.
He politely refuses, seeking one last desire -
If only the bag could meet his fate on the funeral pyre.
I tumble the bag to find a crumb of bread,
Torn job ads, matinée tickets, few unhealed wounds,
And an old woman’s photograph, perhaps like him, dead.

© Dan Husain
April 26, 2005

Early Morning Haikus...

2005-12-10T14:54:00.000+05:30

had it been
just a coffee session
you'd have come

*****************

the truth often
is a lump in your throat
when you lie

Proseonama

2005-12-10T09:42:00.000+05:30

Ok! The make over has been done! You may read my updated new prose blog here. :-)

http://proseonama.blogspot.com/

Cheers & thanks,

Dan

Just A Thought!

2005-12-09T14:21:00.000+05:30

I've been posting only poetry on my blog. Though if you'd dig deep into the archives you'd find a short story and maybe a thought or two but nothing else. But now I am thinking I should post more of my prose.

I have another orphaned blog of mine called 'Adha Gaon' or 'Half A Village'. I didn't intend to title it that way but it was my first day at blogging. I had no clue and I was half lost in the maze of instructions thrown at me. I clicked on something and lo! I had a blog staring at me with a title 'Adha Gaon'. It is actually a novel written in Hindi by a distant granduncle of mine. The novel is very reminiscent of Marquez's 'A Hundred Years of Solitude'. However, by the time I read Marquez my granduncle had already bid adieu to the world. I couldn't ask him whether he was influenced by Marquez but in a conversation with a friend of his, another littérateur, I realized that it was coincidental that both the novels had a similar structure. They both were written almost at the same time and none could have been influenced with each other. The novel 'Adha Gaon' went on to win the Sahitya Akademi Award and was later succesfully adapted in a sitcom titled 'Neem ka Ped'. It was also translated into English by Gillian Wright and published by Penguins.

I remember at a dinner conversation I told Gillian Wright that the title they've chosen is outrageous. The first Penguin print titled the novel as 'The Feuding Families of Village Gangauli'. Why couldn't they just literally translate the original title - 'Half A Village'? That sounds better. Gillian agreed with me and said she didn't have any choice as the decision was Editor's. However, when the next edition came out Penguins had changed the title to 'Half A Village'. Some relief!

Anyways, coming back to where we were I think I should retitle that blog and use it more for my prose writings. I think I should start by posting an article that I wrote after reading Amitava Kumar's 'Husband of A Fanatic'. I like that piece and I think is a good way to begin if I wish to hit the prose road. What say you?

I'd love your comments. They always encourage and give me hope in my despairing moment when I doubt my ability to be a writer/ poet. :-)

Cheers

Murtaza Danish Husain

Surrender. . .

2005-12-08T12:31:00.000+05:30

The Unabridged Version

We just have a promise of a meeting
And I am already filling this evening
With colors – ochre, gold, deep pink.

But every shade that I choose
Is assumed by thoughts of you

And now all I wish
Is to spread
Like a pinch of vermilion
At the crescent
Where your hair
Lords over your forehead.

Forever...

© Dan Husain
December 05, 2005

Surrender. . .

2005-12-05T00:30:00.000+05:30

i wish to spread
like a pinch of vermilion
at the crescent
where your hair lords
over your forehead

forever...

The Irony

2005-12-02T21:49:00.000+05:30

Often when nothing to say,
We speak –
Tossing mouthfuls
That clutter space
Meant for feelings.

Often when we must speak,
We prefer silence –
Stifling feelings
That urgently plead
For an eloquent dress.

© Dan Husain
March 18, 2005

Of Uncertain Dreams, Of Uncertain Conversations. . .

2005-11-30T09:15:00.000+05:30

In an uncertain dream
An apparition stares at me,
Blood on his temple, his lips stretched,
Perhaps smiling.
Is he an angel, is he me?
I don’t know.
He says something
That I don’t understand
Wrapped in a dissolving realm
He’s gone before my stretched hand.

I sit before her
As she talks at length
Of her experiences with love,
(As if she has understood men)
Devotion, matrimony,
Conjugal bliss
But I think she has missed
The excitement,
The defiance,
The madness,
The ability to love
When all is lost,
The infinite suffering, and
The morning after: limping.

In another dream
I have suddenly tripped over
A murderous thought
That ruthlessly clobbers
Claws, rips apart
This child like innocence
And then vanishes
Like a beautiful woman
Mocking at my pedigree.
I try to break free
But she binds me – her smile
Ravishing, carefree.

In a different afternoon
Amidst friends & coffee sessions
I have suddenly lost
The thread of the argument.
There are voices raised, agitated,
High-pitched drama mixed with intellect.
(But in our hearts, as the argument rolls,
We become detached more & more).

Amidst rising smoke
And half-burnt conversations
I wish to get up
And walk away.
May be you wish me to stay,
You hold my hand
And smile.
There is still the ache in the heart,
There is still the simmering urge,
There are still unexplained abandoned sentences,
There are still moments unspent
But I have made up my mind
To get up
And walk away.

Dan Husain
Musings from an uncertain date…

. . .

2005-11-24T11:11:00.000+05:30

you steal moments
in this ever drifting evening
even when not here

When Words Fail...

2005-11-23T00:18:00.000+05:30

Oh! I am
Entangled again
In this
Web of arguments
That you’ve spun
With your deft tongue.

No, it was not
Meant to be like this.
I thought
I had my wit.

I came prepared –
Jokes, poems,
Best of quotes,
Men’s thoughts cloaked
In their best prose,
Even l’esprit d’escalier
If worst forces
A tongue to be a rapier.

But now all is lost.
I'll have to content with
A moment mocking while
Words on my lips frost.

© Dan Husain
November 22, 2005

Salim Joshua at A Soirée. . .

2005-11-19T20:00:00.000+05:30

I

So we must end the conversation now.
It has hung long
From the Rembrandts and the Rousseaus
(cheap imitations
mounted on dreams
sundry & parvenu)
That your silent walls adorn.
But you wish to speak
About the trivialities that tweak
Your propriety, your idea
Of what the world is, of what it should be.
I feign interest
(how may I tell you
I am part of the world that you hate).

II

We sit at the bar.
Everyone has assumed a role,
Everyone is a character.
London is no more a fad,
New York may still pass.
“So I was at this glistening
Office of glass walls
On the 67th floor of Chrysler
At Lexington Avenue”
And then throw in the punch
Of how you spent the weekend
Scuba diving in Aruba,
Lounging, smoking pot
At Luna Lodge in Costa Rica.
The boys are agog.
They’re too eager to fill you in
About their training stints in Düsseldorf.
(I sigh! The farthest is
Karachi in the west)

III

We sneak into a quiet corner.
The evening trails as a wispy fragrance
On your wine laden lips.
I wish to drink the moistness,
Feel your heat against my breath.
My hands rustling against your breasts
But suddenly you break free –
Coquettishly –
“Wait! Let me see
Where my darling husband is?”
(Bitch!)

IV

We sit with our bellies full,
Courgette and prawn dolloped with soufflé,
And break into idle chatter, pitter-patter
Sprinkling names –
(The conversation strains – someone coughs!)
The stiff upper-lipped editors at Knopf,
The haute couture,
The avant-garde,
The ‘here’ and ‘now’,
The ‘whys’ and ‘how’,
The ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’,
The ‘must do’ and ‘have musts’
Discerning eyebrows,
Dancing flamenco
With waspish tongues:
Shreds of half-understood conversations
Heard at someplace else –
That may ease this evening of discontent.

(But in our hearts, as the evening stretches,
Dreams fizzle like smoke
From a gun’s nozzle.)

And then…whimper!

© Dan Husain
July 14, 2005

PS: I wrote this poem in July. But I shared it at an offline writers' forum and revised it based on fellow writers' inputs. Well, most people like the revised version. I hope it works. The earlier version is somewhere in the archives, if you wish to check it out. :-)

Love is not lost...

2005-11-18T15:31:00.000+05:30

love is not lost
it is only hidden
in the folds of the wrinkles
at your smiling lips' edges

love is not lost
it just quietly serenades
in the pauses
that we space our words with

love is not lost
it is there
like your blue bedspread

waiting

while you go about
with your daily chores
with your humdrum routines...

(C) Dan Husain
November 18, 2005

The Muse's Laughter...

2005-11-17T12:46:00.000+05:30

I have sat and watched
The ‘me’ in her getting marginalized
And there is nothing I could do
But trail her laughter
As wistful lovers do…

© Dan Husain
July 19, 2005

Which one of my faces do you like…

2005-11-17T09:33:00.000+05:30

I have lost a face
amongst few I have
and now you wish
me to be honest,
sport a smile,
act for a while;
stretch the furrows
over my eyebrows,
twitch my nose in
a cute portly pose
till I have a face
that may please your gaze.

© Dan Husain
November 17, 2005

Unfulfilled...

2005-11-12T18:21:00.000+05:30

It’s seven ‘o’ clock.
We’re on a neon-lit street.
The day slides off as a grimy thought
From granite window sills
Of resplendence selling
Many splendored dreams –
Grander than the ghettoes
Where our stories breed.

It’s seven fifteen
We’ve walked from here to there –
A portion of our lives –
Searching for an answer
But we do not say
What we need to say
And thrash our tales
Around a softness
We wish to feel.

It’s eight ‘o’ clock.
This is all that you can permit.
The last bus to your house
Is revving, ready to leave.
And now we’re left clinging
To the moment
When the clock strikes seven,
When the street is neon-lit again,
When the evening gropes for metaphors
For faint hopes glowing within you, me, us.

© Dan Husain
July 28, 2005

The Wish...

2005-11-04T12:40:00.000+05:30

So much depends
Upon
The single strand
Of hair,
A petulant eyelash,
Swish, swash,
Drifting effortlessly
Now sitting pretty
On your nose.

Oh no! There it goes...

My world shrinks
Into a wish
Dangling from it.

I cup my palms,
Catch it
As I titter
At your joke.
I don't want to lose it
As I lose myself
In your
All-pervading charm.

© Dan Husain
November 1, 2005

The Sighting of Eid Moon...

2005-11-04T04:22:00.000+05:30

I look for a silver crescent
In a sky cloud ridden

But I keep losing it

Like your pleasant face
In a crowded market place

Karma...

2005-11-04T04:15:00.000+05:30

It is always like this.
I have to love you
While you stand apart
Warm, indulgent, drifting, lost.
Like my best poem for you
tantalizing, teasing, within grasp.

And then it eludes

Diffusing

Like a hazy memory
Like a morning dream
Like a vague thought.
Like a . . .
Like . . .
. . .

:-)

© Dan Husain
November 03, 2005

Consummation...

2005-10-31T21:41:00.000+05:30

Embers
They burn, hiss,
Crackle, glow,
Simmer under
An ash-laden patina
Like the worlds we live –
A trapezing heart
Masked with
A mild demeanor.

But when the flames erupt
They consume
What you & I
So dearly saved
For cozy afternoons,
Bliss jingling days
And leave in their wake
A charred carcass
Of a love never meant to be.

© Dan Husain
May 8, 2005

Musings...

2005-10-28T23:11:00.000+05:30

There are two ways of living life - successfully and unsuccessfully. Successful is when your name is a brand, you have a collective body of work that has altered or enriched the world/ times you live in and you have a bank balance where you do not live from month to month. Unsuccessful is everything else. :-)

This is Not what I wrote for you...

2005-10-22T01:36:00.000+05:30

there is a poem within a poem

as it swells and stretches
words on paper

trying hard
to break through
myriad hues
with which i paint
my obvious feelings

but no, it won’t rest
till i have waded

through

trippy metaphors
trailing anaphors
toppled similes
lying crushed
at the margins
of my poetic hubris

and strung a fresh one
stripped off my pretensions

hope brimming my eyes
wishfully plead

you smile

ahh…my words
breath awaited
sigh relief

© Dan Husain
October 19, 2005

My Muse Tonight. . .

2005-10-13T22:17:00.000+05:30

Hope –
It’s my muse tonight.
It drinks wine with me.
Gurgling, gushing
Down my gullet –
A bitter taste –
Churning my innards
Till I vomit
Blood and disease.

But no, I won’t miss her.
Hope is here

Like a muezzin’s call
From its soaring minarets
Beckoning me
To summon faith,
To look straight
Into the night’s face,
Shut my door
On her

And keep
In this dank musky room
My flowers in full bloom.

© Dan Husain
October 10, 2005

PS: I watched ‘Cinderella Man’ today with few students of mine. After the movie, as I drove back, I kept hearing the song ‘The Great Beyond’ by REM. I guess this is my complex response to the events of today’s evening. The phrase ‘flowers in full bloom’ is taken from REM’s song. I hope I am not nailed for plagiarism and this sleight of words get passed as creative freedom. :-)

If We’re Two…

2005-09-25T13:21:00.000+05:30

If we’re two
Then why do
I see one
Wispy-shaped shadow
Mocking
At the brazen sun
Gliding past
Or even
Falling behind
On the turns
We take
On a road
To nowhere.
Ambling aimlessly
Perhaps lading
Empty-eyed wishes
With few
Heartfelt moments
That may roll down
Our cheeks
When the one
I see
Is two again.

© Dan Husain
May 1, 2005

Elegy

2005-09-13T11:07:00.000+05:30

In silvery moonlit nights
In orange dew laden dawns
In fantasy's intoxicating flights
In memories that twist and haunt
In rising tenor of Sufi chants
In faint hopes that wishes grant
In prickly summer afternoons
In cathartic rains of monsoon
In splashing water of Ganges
In romance's defiant madness
In a mother's peaceful visage
In a prophet's impending presage
In a child's loving embrace
In a woman's beautiful face
In brisk walks on glistening malls
In rush hour traffic snarls
In heady conversations & coffee sessions
In this soul's self seeking moments
I do what I do best
Lay few unfinished thoughts to rest.

Copyright ©2002 Dan Husain

the poet as a lover . . .

2005-09-08T10:19:00.000+05:30

these trickling drops of rain
that traverse from your eyes to your lips
and then break into a surreal flame
urge me like a moth to hum paeans
and perish at the threshold of our kiss

:-)

© Dan Husain
September 8, 2005

Your Smile. . .

2005-08-25T20:37:00.000+05:30

I wish to drink poison today
From your life-giving lips
'Cause nothing gives rest
To a besotted heart
Than words riding on
A beloved’s moist breath.

But you choose silence,
Smile –
Throw in
A riddle or two,
Knotting
This heart in multitudes.

…And I sit here
Untying each knot
Into a poem for you. :-)

© Dan Husain
July 7, 2005

Stolen Moments

2005-08-18T10:29:00.000+05:30

She:

His breath rests on this face
Words falling intermittently on the ear
He kisses softly on the cheek,
I struggle to save the moment forever.

He:

She looks stealthily at me
I sit engrossed though aware
She smiles quietly and leaves,
Ignorant that I have treasured the moment with her.

©Dan Husain
Memories from some other time…

The Bride

2005-08-14T14:43:00.000+05:30

She opens her bleary eyes.
Henna colored hopes carousing on her palms
As they softly brush aside
The bewitching locks of her hair
From her insouciant cheeks.
My gaze charmed.

The vampish curves of her lips
A prelude to fantasy -
The Elysium.
Slit open into a smile that
Smacks my fortune as if
Draping them in her colors.

She stretches her arms
Beckoning,
Seeking the simmering me;
The space between them -
A refuge where our love
Perpetually wishes to dissolve.

© Dan Husain
March 23, 2005

I Vacillate. . .

2005-08-02T12:28:00.000+05:30

I vacillate…
Between hope and despair
Between sanity and desire
Between love and anguish
Between truth and myth
Between pain and ephemeral transcendence
Between salvation and purgation
Between now and eternity
Between thee and my destiny

© Dan Husain

Infidelity

2005-07-22T05:12:00.000+05:30

You pull down the jalousie -
A metaphor for your jealousy
As it filters through
Your doe like eyes, your gaping mouth,
The lissome strokes
Of your hand brushing
Against my face.
I pull you in an embrace
Perhaps telling you in my own way
Let it take place, let it take place
This doesn’t in any way
Encroach on our love’s space.

©Dan Husain
May 26, 2003

Salim Joshua at A Soirée. . .

2005-07-15T22:37:00.000+05:30

I

So we must end the conversation now.
It has hung long
From the Rembrandts and the Rousseaus
(cheap imitations
mounted on dreams
sundry & parvenu)
That your silent walls adorn.
But you wish to speak
About the trivialities that tweak
Your propriety, your idea
Of what the world is, of what it should be.
I feign interest
(how may I tell you
I am part of the world that you hate).

II

They sit at the bar.
Everyone has assumed a role,
Everyone is a character.
London is no more a fad,
New York may still pass.
“So I was at this glistening
Office of wall glass
On the 67th floor of Chrysler
At Lexington Avenue”
And then throw in the punch –
The Exotica! –
Of how you spent the weekend
Scuba diving in Aruba,
Lounging, smoking pot
At Luna Lodge in Costa Rica.
The boys are agog.
They’re too eager to fill you in
About their training stints in Düsseldorf.

III

We sneak into a quiet corner.
The evening trails as a wispy fragrance
On your wine laden lips.
I wish to drink the moistness,
Feel your heat against my breath.
My hands rustling against your breasts
But suddenly you break free,
“Wait! Let me see
where my darling husband is?”

IV

We sit with our bellies full,
Courgette and prawn dolloped with soufflé,
And break in idle chatter, pitter-patter
Sprinkling names –
The photo shoots with Condoleeza Rice,
(or is it Condella – someone coughs!)
The stiff upper-lipped editors at Knopf,
The haute couture,
The avant-garde,
The ‘here’ and ‘now’,
The ‘whys’ and ‘how’,
The ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’,
The ‘must do’ and ‘have musts’
The discerning eyebrows,
Dancing flamenco
With waspish tongues:
Shreds of half-understood conversations
Heard at someplace else –
That may ease this evening of discontent.

But in our hearts, as the arguments roll
We become detached more and more.

© Dan Husain
July 14, 2005

When We're Dead. . .

2005-07-10T23:17:00.000+05:30

When we’re dead
Strange people crawl into our intimate spaces.
I see the aunt who spewed venom
Washing utensils in a kitchen
Where once we chopped coriander and cucumber
With other assorted vegetables
For a salad that I fussed and you fretted upon
But in the end we did relish eating it
Over a meal of courgette and prawn.

And there is this uncle,
Weeping profusely next to my mother,
Who always thought I am good for nothing;
A wastrel who lived off his parent’s deeds.
He once said he had a job for me –
A sales executive in a respectful company –
But we knew in his motives he is suspect;
He only intends to oblige, to humiliate.

Oh! There is this beautiful cousin,
Who once was besotted with me,
Washing her lovely daughter’s nappies
In a bathroom where once I washed
Our little girl’s clothes and yours too
When you lay nursing after a painful birth giving.
And as I rinsed them dry
You smiled through the slit of light
That fell across the bed,
Your lithe body, your blessed face.

And there they sit, my friends,
Huddled around my forlorn father
Who only shakes his head and sighs –
If he had to die
Why did he take his life?
Why didn’t he also perish
In the same car accident
That snatched his wife and lovely kid?

© Dan Husain
May 5, 2005

PS: This poem was written after an extended tragedy in my family. An uncle of mine lost his wife and daughter in a car accident and then 20 days later committed suicide. I wrote this poem on his day of funeral. This is my humble tribute to the lovely family of Shakeel Abidi, Deeba Abidi and Sara Abidi (She was only 16).

Breakdown

2005-07-05T07:44:00.000+05:30

So she says she is hurt
Tossed up and thrown
By flippant waves
Of my carefree words
At jagged stones
That her perception constructs.

So I wonder throat parched
In early hours of a thawing March
Didn't she see peeping, beckoning
Between the lines, behind the words
My love for her,
My indifference for others?

© Dan Husain
March 25, 2005

Betrayal

2005-06-30T23:54:00.000+05:30

Drowning in silence
The moment shrieks
At the gnawing violence
Of this mind’s deceit
But the eyes reveal
What the lips conceal -
A promise broken
And a melancholic defeat.

© Dan Husain

Upside Down

2005-06-30T07:50:00.000+05:30

A few months back I was sitting in a hospital lounge and I picked up a magazine, The Week, to while my time. The magazine had an article on existence of God and detailed some chemist or physicist, Dr. Unwin's work on God's existence. Dr. Unwin used Bayes theorem and the concept of conditional probability to prove God's existence. He began with the premise that the chance God exists is 50:50. Then he threw in more information and revised his a priori probabilities. The iterative process continued till he exhausted his set of information. The end result was that the probability that God exists is 2/3.

I picked it up from there and wrote this.

Upside Down

Upside down
Like a sage’s tale
Spun in a Darwinian yarn
We receive life’s wisdom-
One day there is God,
The other nothing.

In a sprawling precinct of a mosque
From the member to the mehrab
I see strange bedfellows-
Descartes conforming Islam.
But between the matter and the myth
Between the sword and the scythe
God waivers like a quark;
Like a twist in a tale
Poignant, humorous, stark

I turn a page
There is ‘Paradise Lost’ in its verses
I turn another
God struts in probability’s realm with Bayes.
A million tongues sprout here
With a million words on their tips
But I have heard of a chemist
Who works backwards to reach forward.
He says the chance that God exists is 2/3
(Surely a smaller fraction than 9/11)
And unwittingly he is named Dr. Unwin.

©Murtaza Danish Husain
August 7, 2004
Revised February 22, 2005

I had the option to use the english words for arabic words member (pulpit) and mehrab (arch) but I retained the arabic ones purely for the phonetic effect. Similarly, I am not sure whether Dr. Unwin is a physicist or a chemist but I have retained chemist because it conveys subtle drama.

Darkness. . .

2005-06-22T09:06:00.000+05:30

So the orange sun
Of our once heady love
Has slid past
The gray arch
Of our everyday horizon.

And now a vacuous sky
Screeches at me
Like an anguished cry
Of a beast slain
By a butcher’s machete.

I turn my back
On the graying memories
And let the dusk
Settle in cavernous chimneys
Bellowing smoke
Like funeral pyres
Of the day
That has just met its end.

Softly the darkness shrouds
Trampling twigs and leaves
That you fondly buried
In your diary of poetry
And good deeds.

But I draw blood from eyes
Seek redemption for
Sunken hollowed cheeks
As I stare at the reflection
That the mirror throws –
A body of a poet;
A soul of a whore.

© Dan Husain
June 17, 2005

Confabulations

2005-06-04T16:01:00.000+05:30

There are days
When I see afloat
In your iridescent eyes
Many hued happiness
Teasing me,
Beckoning me
To paint
The rest of my days
With it.

I am wondering,
Still musing
When you gently knock me,
“Why?
Are you drowned in my eyes?”
I emit a coy laugh –
Wish I wasn’t
Carrying the burden
Of being wise.

And hence we go from here
To bougainvillea-laden street,
Orange morning,
Silver bleached beach,
Alfresco caf้e
In Parisian neighborhood
Where we, carefree, laugh till
Time stands still.

ฉ Dan Husain
May 10, 2005

Bazaar. . .

2005-05-10T10:09:00.000+05:30

In the bazaar of conscience
We sell vestiges of notions
That we held close to our breasts
When home was mother’s lap
Or humped spaces on crooked boughs
And bliss two candies worth
Or a splash in village ponds.

But now we have sold
Our dove-eyed souls
And like a majestic eagle peck –
Blasé to the emanating odor –
The dead pigeon’s flesh; and when bloated
We leave the rest for others
In nature’s design to feast upon.

© Dan Husain
April 19, 2005

The Trivia of A Brooding Mind - The Complete Series

2005-04-23T10:33:00.000+05:30

I
The Trivia…

Perched on a mountain top
With icy winds
Against brazen cheeks
And a writhing river
Amidst mottled green
Life perhaps is a spectacle
And a handful of perspectives
That we bequeath
Our hearts’ each twist.

II
The Brooding…

In the middle of
A dreary afternoon
I woke with a start.
My throat dry
Bruised with a thousand sighs
With voices within
Like a million cries –
Enough! I plug my ears
I wish to hear
Your euphonious voice
Before I slide into sleep again.

III
Falling Apart…

Lost somewhere
In our efforts
To carve
Our separate worlds
Is perhaps
That nascent feeling
We lovingly nurtured
To drape
Our days with.

IV
A Spanner in The Works…

It was just a face
No more than a pattern
An entity in space
Of many seen in a tavern
That waits its end
At the corner of a shabby street -
Morose, moribund -
Epitomizing mediocrity's defeat.
And though it reflected much,
It said nothing.
An average man's fate is such;
It's sealed before the morn begins.

V
A Scene at A Café…
Epilogue

I place my hands on yours.
You quietly withdraw: unsure.
Our silence engulfs
A million wishes unsaid.
I wish to say
But you place your fingers
On my pouting lips –
“Don’t ask!
I have no answers.”
But when did I seek an answer,
I only pose the question –

What is life
If not
A glimmer of love
In your gaping eyes?

© Dan Husain
April 22, 2005

Union. . .

2005-04-22T00:17:00.000+05:30

Like dust
Rising in whorls
To an iridescent sky
My words reach your lips
Seeking refuge in
A beloved’s smile.
You drink from them,
Your thirst satisfied.
I look above –
Nimbus clouds in
A summer sky.

© Dan Husain
April 21, 2005

Portrait...

2005-04-14T09:51:00.000+05:30

Scratched beyond recognition
At the margin of today's paper
That lies soulless
On your coffee table -
As we talk unsure, hushed
Our voices sliding into pauses abrupt -
Is perhaps my face
That you so fondly drew
Knowing it's me on the phone for you.

© Dan Husain
April 13, 2005

A Poet's Dilemma

2005-03-31T23:28:00.000+05:30

Drunken metaphors
Cavorting to strange rhythms,
Hauling sackfuls
Of allegory, even cliché
Pilfered from a Bedouin’s caravan,
Spice-laden, my words,
But their aroma
is lost to a critic's blocked nose.

© Dan Husain
March 30, 2005

Earthquake...

2005-03-24T07:46:00.000+05:30

Rendezvous…

2005-03-24T07:39:00.000+05:30

They’ve just met
And he is already lost
In the wafting aroma
Of her mesmerizing plots
Of a life spent together -
Lazing, weening
Through an Eliotesque afternoon
Or a Parisian evening.

They’ve just met
And he has already travelled
Through soulful lanes,
Self-reflecting alleys,
The landscapes that her
Words weave –
From the giddy heights of Mt. Sinai
To the meandering Ghats of Kashi.

They’ve just met
And he has already
Measured his life in slots.
So much for a rendezvous
That trips between
The real and déjà vu –
A confession in his soul’s Mecca
Or a pilgrimage to her charm-laden Jerusalem.

© Dan Husain
March 17, 2005

Afternoons & Jacaranda Smell

2005-03-24T07:37:00.000+05:30

Latticed windows & thatched roof
Partly shroud a room full
Of conversations. We stretch our legs.
Our tongues wag, our heads sag,
Dust laden tales spring
From our minds’ recesses.
Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick
Drearily the afternoon clock ticks
Our heads swell
With jacaranda smell
As we’re sucked in -
Sucked in -
Our tales’ loose ends.

And thus we escape from
Escape from

Latticed windows & thatched roof
Partly shrouding a room full
Of conversations. Where we stretch our legs.
Let our tongues wag, our heads sag.
Dust laden tales springing
From our minds’ recesses.
Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick
Merrily the afternoon clock ticks
Our heads swell
With jacaranda smell
And we happily stay
In the loose ends of our tales.

©Dan Husain
May 26, 2003

Your Poem...

2005-03-14T00:57:00.000+05:30

Mystic shades
Of green and blue
Interspersed with vermilion,
Laced with brocade
As if murals
In ancient Babylon
Is how I see
Your gilded words
Stretched taut
On the strings
Of your ephemeral thoughts;
At once arresting, piercing
A stake through my heart.

© Dan Husain
March 3, 2005

The Demon Within...

2005-03-14T00:55:00.000+05:30

Clamoring sotto voce
Are few thoughts
Of how we dress
Moments into words,
Feelings into verse,
Smiles into long sigh
And few escaped breaths.

Of how we knit life
Spent in fleeting days
Into a lyrical song that
Our lovers’ lips embrace.

Of how we string a tapestry
Of torn identities,
Angels & demons within
Into a Hamletonian ‘To be or not to be!’

© Dan Husain
March 11, 2005

A Moment...

2005-03-13T10:15:00.000+05:30

When we meet
I always feel
We’re about to part.
I sit there flushed.
Eyes coyly looking
At your pouting lips
Gleefully tossing words
That bind me,
Cast a spell,
Smite me.
You playfully poke,
“Speak!
Or has the cat bitten your tongue?”
And I don’t know
How to tell you
That in this moment
You have my heart won.

© Dan Husain
February 27, 2005

God of Plenty

2005-03-13T10:11:00.000+05:30

Often when the dust
Flies in your face
Eyes half closed
You’ll conjure an image
Of situations
That never arose,
Of gestures
You never posed
And the moment let goes
The trepidations of heart,
Trivia, bonhomie
And a prayer once sought.

Morning
Seems the best time
Eyes swollen
Perhaps a fresh mind.
You raise your hands
Up to your head
Reflect profoundly
Before besieged by the day ahead
But the lumps in your throat
Feverishly pitch their hopes
On what always evades:
A man’s guts and a woman’s faith.

Ensconced in her arms
You see the emotions surface
Amidst the mosaic patterns
Of her evening dress
But you have no choice
Except to align, follow.
Rejoice for reasons
Long felt hollow
And if the evening wears thin
Rid your soul free of vanity
A prophet once said
There exists the God of Plenty.

©Dan Husain
February 26, 2005

Moksha

2005-03-10T12:41:00.000+05:30

She just posed a question
As why have attachments
If all they lead to is pain,
About vanity of love
If only it binds and chains.
Her face is radiant,
Smile obscure, eyes sad,
Dress saffron with blue vignettes.
The mole on her right cheek
Often in so many ways speak
Of the womanhood she epitomizes.
I sit here in silence,
I have nothing to say.
I wish the moment could stay
And she’d understand
Often men find salvation
In such pain.

©Dan Husain
31st October 2001

Love, Longing & Parting...

2005-03-10T12:36:00.000+05:30

In your smile unfurling
There are moments folded
When our eyes met
And our tongues
Were at loss for words.

On your arms stretched
Wishful thoughts traverse
Of a life unlived,
Bonhomie, fond embrace
And nights spent on moon-kissed beds.

In your furtive eyes
When we kiss and bid good-bye
Lurk thoughts that forever question
If this is a moment
Why can’t it stretch till eternity?

© Dan Husain
February 28, 2005

A Lyrical Existence

2005-03-10T12:30:00.000+05:30

Hinged
On your hopes
Are my dreams
Like a pregnant thought
Waltzing
On a poet’s lips
Crushed
Under the muse’s smile
Yet brimming
With a lyrical life

Pinned
On your face
Are my smiles
Like a lover’s hope
Playing hide & seek
With his dreams
Fluttered at the prospect
Of a rendezvous
Yet assuring
This is real not a déjà vu

Sinned
Are the thoughts
That play mischief
As we softly hold
Each other’s gaze
Lyrically existing
In a moment
That perhaps
Foretells
The rest of our days

Ó Murtaza Danish Husain
December 29, 2002

Fakers & Fakirs...

2005-02-23T00:19:00.000+05:30

Let us be together,
You & I,
And weave a web
Of wispy tales
And huggable lies;
Of truth and deceit;
Of two faces we have
And the worlds
In between – whirling.

Let us be together,
You & I,
In this flimsy world
Of words and feelings;
In this space
Between dream and awakening;
In these tit-bits
That nibble at hearts
And leave us – dangling.

Let us be together,
You & I,
In a conversation
Ridden free of deceptions,
Imbued with hues
That paint
Our respective milieus;
Persistently chaffing
Fakers from fakirs
But then our eyes meet
Your smile – redeeming.

© Dan Husain
February 8, 2005

I Love You, I Hate You

2005-02-08T13:44:00.000+05:30

“I Love You!”

Her euphonious voice rang in my ears. I hugged her tight; her soft cheeks against mine, smelling her freshly shampooed hair. Her little arms clasped me. Her voice was sad but I had no way of knowing how she really felt. What did it mean to be seven and leaving your father? Did she understand the repercussions of a life away from her father? Hindsight teaches us valuable lessons but at an age when the world is an unfurling dream, what did it mean to say she was leaving?

I kissed her cheeks and said, "Baby! Daddy, in some way, will always be with you…” but what was I saying? Wasn't it too abstract for a child to understand? If I wasn't going to be there with her then what did it mean to say that I was always going to be with her? She saw my eyes welling up and an indescribable expression broke upon her face. An expression of hurt and helplessness mingled with an untarnished love that reflected her sensing of my pain and her inability to do anything to assuage that pain. She was silently pleading, "Daddy! I Love You! Please don't cry!” and I realized I couldn't burden this moment with stupid adult sentimentality. I broke into a smile and spoke the opening lines of her favorite bedtime tale, "Once there was a mouse with a verrrryyy looooong tail…" She broke into a giggle and I hugged her with all the love I could muster in my heart.

My estranged wife stood there, with moist eyes, perhaps? We both averted each other's gaze. Why now? After everything why this mushiness now? I stood up and, without looking at her, shook her hands, and said, "Take care and have a nice trip." She replied looking straight at my face, "You too!” I was taken aback by her directness. Nonplussed, I looked at her. She had a sad but determined look in her eyes and a pleasant smile on her face. I couldn't play macho in this moment…what the heck! I stepped forward and hugged her. "Take care!"

But this was 12 years ago. I had promised then, that I would visit them, in the US, the following summer. I had all the intentions. But the swirling eddies of diurnal struggles sucked me in. Dad's health was failing. He had a liver disorder. And the doctor had said that the only solution was a transplant. I had been at my wit's ends. Our resources were dwindling. A business venture I had launched with a friend had gone sour. I lost heavily on that. I had mortgaged our house to obtain a loan for my wife's education abroad. So that option was no longer available to me. The uncertainty of my financial situation kept me from seeking financial help from my friends. I didn't know when I would have been able to repay them. However, Dad had some savings from his lifetime of toil in the dank, musty corridors of the government secretariat. His savings, at the very least, were able to avert the everyday crisis in our lives. But more than resources, I guess, it was Dad's failing will to survive that made things worse. Mom breathed her last two years ago. A massive heart attack; she collapsed in the middle of the day doing what she had done all her life. Preparing lunch for family and guests. We rushed her to the hospital but it was too late. Dad was broken man after that. Whenever I suggested a transplant he would say, "What for, son? Let me go in peace".

Then, in the early hours of the morning, one scent-laden April, two years later, Dad said good-bye. I felt numb as I sat in the hearse next to his body and drove to my village 500 miles away from Delhi. My mind was blank. I liked my Dad, then why, at times, did I feel guilt-ridden? Why don't we ever grow up to be the sons that our Dads want us to? In those dying moments we had looked into each other's eyes as we quietly acknowledged each other - no words were uttered, no statements made, no will dictated - just a sinking, all-pervading silence. A father acknowledging a son and vice versa.

Now began the struggle to earn a livelihood. A bank balance that allowed me to walk across the counter and buy a round-trip ticket to US…round-trip? Why? Why would I want to return to India? Why couldn't I just acknowledge the hidden truths of my heart and cross the bridge? Ok! Something to think about later! First, the money. I didn't have enough to start a new venture. I had been out of jobs for too long. I was sure I couldn't get swanky assignments anymore. I had applied to couple of newspapers but they told me I wrote well but given my lack of professional, journalistic writing experience, they were afraid they didn't have a position for me. I tried enrolling as agent on one of those commission-paying jobs - the mutual funds and insurance kind, you know - but soon realized there was no ace salesman within. It was too humiliating to call people up only to face their curt refusal.

I finally applied to a school for a teacher's job. Mercifully, they liked me and gave me the job of teaching the senior secondary class. But the salary was pittance. I kept writing to them, telling them I would visit the following summer, but I barely had enough to survive. Meanwhile, my wife finished her doctorate. Now she had to repay the loan that we had taken. She knew I wasn't in a position to do that. She needed to earn it back. Her Ph.D. secured her a respectable job at a decent middle rung school in US. She started building her life afresh - her immediate objective being the repayment of the loan. Over the next few years she worked hard and, without faltering even once, repaid her loan. Finally, the last installments came up for payment. She flew down with the lovely one to settle the loan and sign the documents that would necessarily free the home. I was seeing them after a long eight-year period. I was overwhelmed by the occasion. I had asked a friend to lend me his car. I was there at the airport all dressed up with flowers. And when I saw them walking down the aisle I was… Anyway, this charming young lady next to my wife floored me. I drove them to my humble abode but soon we had very little to share. I guess, somewhere within, the chord had snapped. Except for exchanging pleasantries and odd bits of information we didn't have anything to share. She was warm, cordial but distant. And my daughter, she seemed loving but unsure as to how to deal with a father who had been absent for eight years.

It was a short visit and, after three weeks, they packed their bags and left. This time I didn't make any promises about visiting them the following summer. We both knew I couldn't make it there. Our initial correspondence soon dried up. She had more and more responsibilities at hand. And, I felt, she had finally found her mooring in life. Perhaps love had blossomed again. My daughter had grown up and was in university now. She was into theatre, music, boyfriends, etc. and an aging father was not a top of the mind thing anymore.

Then one day, I realized that the communication had dried up completely. It had been six months since I last heard from them. By now our marriage was a joke. I didn't know whom to write and what to write. I just wished they were fine.

As I stepped into my flat today, I saw an envelope in the mailbox. I picked it up. The US postage stamp on it put my heart in overdrive. I opened it and found a card inside. But what was this…my heart sank! I think she had come to know of my philandering past. The reason her mother and I had become estranged in the first place. It was one of those cards on recycled paper. Save the environment kinds. Inside were the words,

‘Mom is tying the knot again on Xmas evening. I don’t know you as a father but as my mother’s husband - I Hate You.’

© Murtaza Danish Husain
February 1, 2005

I Hate You, I Love You

2005-02-08T13:42:00.000+05:30

'I Hate You!'

The words pierced my soul. I just stood there holding the I-care-for-the-environment card, smudged with my daughter's gruesome, heartfelt emotions. My world was crumbling inside. The last vestiges of filial relations were getting blurred as I stared at it. I suddenly noticed the motifs: the Hallmark Cards Inc. in bold black print, the sedate Ms and the flourishing Ts…aww... kid of the new age… bad handwriting (I remember Mom was so particular about our writing with a fountain pen on that four-lined 'English Copy'… What had my wife been doing? Didn't they have those four-lined notebooks in the US?), the rough texture of the handmade paper, the bamboo splinters meshed and grinning through the texture - I noticed everything. Everything! The stage the card had transformed into, the words, as characters prancing on them and once in a while a word unmasking itself to show eidetic images of a life that couldn't be, that was never meant to be, that didn't exist. I stood there, a spectator, an outsider.

I didn't have the strength for anything. I went straight to bed, falling supine on it.
My eyes closed - events, faces and emotions, whirling in my head. I don't know when I drifted from the real to the surreal, from the physical to the metaphysical, from reality into a dream…

In an uncertain dream
An apparition stares at me,
Blood on his temple, his lips stretched,
Perhaps smiling.
May be he is an angel, may be its me
I don’t know.
He says something
That I don’t understand
Wrapped in a dissolving realm
He’s gone before my stretched hand.

I sit before her
As she talks at length
Her experiences with love
As if she has understood men.
She speaks of devotion, matrimony
And of conjugal bliss
But I think she has missed
The excitement – the defiance, the madness,
The ability to love
When love’s labor’s lost,
The infinite suffering, and
The morning after’s limping.

In another dream
I have suddenly tripped over
A murderous thought
That ruthlessly clobbers
Claws, rips apart
This child like innocence
And then it vanishes
Like a beautiful woman
Mocking at my pedigree.
I try to break free
But she binds me – her smile
Ravishing, carefree.

In a different afternoon
Amidst friends & coffee sessions
I have suddenly lost
The thread of the argument.
There are voices raised, agitated,
High-pitched drama mixed with intellect
But in our hearts, as the argument rolls,
We become detached more & more.

Amidst rising smoke
And half-burnt conversations
I wish to get up
And walk away.
May be you wish me to stay,
You hold my hand
And smile.
There is still the ache in the heart,
There is still the simmering urge,
There are still unexplained abandoned sentences,
There are still moments unspent
But I have made up my mind
To get up
And walk away.

Walk away? No! I got up with a jerk. My throat parched, my eyes red, perspiration on my forehead as I stared at the clock - three 'o' clock in the morning. I emitted a long sigh and fell back in bed. I wished I could have betrayed this cold heart for once. I wished I could be a child again, crying.

Days went by as my health deteriorated. However, my family was oblivious to my condition. I managed to send a cryptic, congratulatory note to my wife. A few friends came forward to keep tabs on me and to ensure I wouldn't slip into an abyss. I would often joke with colleagues that I now knew, from first hand experience, what psychosomatic meant!

Then the monotony was broken one day when I came home to a message on my answering machine. My wife, sounding a bit distraught, informed me that our daughter seemed aloof, had been behaving rather oddly and that she had suddenly decided to take a trip to India. But given the nasty card she had sent me, she was a bit embarrassed and even felt awkward about getting in touch with me. She asked if I could help arrange her trip and ensure that she would be well looked after when she visited. I was thrilled. This was heaven sent. A smile broke on my face. I picked up the phone and immediately called up my wife. We were perhaps speaking after 4 long years.

"Hi!"

"Oh Hi! So you got my message! This is a pleasant surprise!"

I smiled. "Yeah! I just couldn't help calling after hearing this news!"

"Yeah! She's been behaving strange. Just kind of take care of her and see that she gets back to her normal self. She just doesn't open up with me. And because of that balderdash of emotions; she is too embarrassed to get in touch with you straight."

I let out a nervous giggle. " Nah! Don't worry. I'll fix everything."

"Will You?"

The pun jabbed me hard. I suddenly lost color.

"Oh! I am sorry! That was mean. Anyways, please take the flight details."

"No! That's ok! Yeah please."

"And do keep me informed…"

"By the way! Congratulations!"

"Thank you! Will you please take the details…"

So, I was back at the airport to receive her. She looked gorgeous but a tad too sad. She smiled at me and said, "I am sorry Dad!" I hugged her, "Daughters don't need to say sorry to their Dads." And so we began building upon those 14 odd years of lost time. Some personal exile this has been!

But the floodgates opened when I took her for a movie. I guess it resonated her personal life and she wept copiously, in the hall. I found it strange. When we got home I politely asked, "Is everything fine sweetheart? Why are you so tortured? What is the grief that gnaws at you? Didn't we both agree the other day that we are best friends? Won't you let your best friend into that soft, velvety heart of yours? The harshness of my world has made me sore.”

She hugged me and broke into tears. Wailing. I could feel the pull on my shirt. My collar and shirt, wet with her tears. She was crying inconsolably.

"Daddy…Daddy… please help me! Please help me Daddy! I am pregnant! I can't tell Mom! I can't tell anyone! I have no one to turn to! Please…"

Oh Lord! Why did you make the poor soul suffer? I hugged her tightly.

"Don't worry child! Daddy is here! You've got nothing to worry now! There can only be smiles now. We will take care of everything. We will weather the storm together and no one will know except the two of us… Often I find happiness… At the corners of your smiling lips …"

She looked up at me, incredulously, her innocent eyes searching my face, "Will you Daddy?" I was transported to that scene on the airport, 14 years ago. My little girl hugging me but this time I was pleading silently, "Baby! I Love You! Please don't cry!"

Oh! I didn't want to burden this moment with my stupid adult sentimentality. So I said with a smile on my face, "Once there was a mouse with a verrrryyy looooong tail…" She broke into a giggle and hugged me with all the love she could muster in her heart.

"Daddy! I Love You!"

©Murtaza Danish Husain
February 4, 2005

A July Night

2005-02-01T10:51:00.000+05:30

On a humid July night
Your breath caresses my cheek,
A sweet symphony traverses through my body
And it suddenly begins to speak.

I stealthily stretch my hand
Under the soft melting moonlight.
You coyly begin to open,
Urging us to transcend to a greater height.

I press my lips against yours
And you slowly begin to dissolve.
My body begins to ache for you
My soul yearning, wishing to evolve.

Amidst a seducing silence
And your tender embrace
I slowly enter you and a strange peace
Transcends on your face.

Our bodies move rhythmically
Entangled in a divine communion,
I whisper softly, “ Come my love…
Stretch till eternity this blessed union.”

©Danish Husain
April 27, 2001

Mortuary Blues

2005-02-01T10:15:00.000+05:30

Slithering
Through her soul
Are few uneasy thoughts.
A blob in her throat,
Her voice choked,
She stretches her hand,
As if a magic wand
Will bring it all back,
The unfurled glory,
The murdered dreams,
Her son that lay, perhaps, dead
(She doesn’t even know it!)
Amidst the decomposed heap,
She stretches her hand
To reach out for what,
I don’t know.

She may be a Muslim
Or a Hindu, who cares
In this urban milieu.
Haven’t we all died
In our own mother’s eyes
So many times, whenever she wished
For a son or a daughter
To hold her if she falters.
But we all had our reasons,
Perfectly justified reasons.
It’s no different here,
She only looks for a son
Who is not there.

She wades through
Broken dreams,
Dreams that have
Macabre faces now.
She stumbles,
Gets up, only to stare
At a charred face.
Maybe he’s her son,
Maybe he’s not.
She lost her reason
Long before she lost her son.

I stand quietly
With a list in my hand
I don’t know who’s who
All I have here are few names.
A stink greets us
My soul silently pleads
Silently pleads to her
To quickly confirm
That this room
Does not have her son.

I am just a municipal clerk,
Doing an honest work,
Diligently counting the dead
To earn my humble bread.
Arrey…this is just a mortuary!
I’ve seen worst crimes
Just at a spin of a coin.
The crime where one kills
One’s own conscience.
In this age of karseva and jehad
I wonder whether people ever heard of a word called ittehad.

She straightens up, sighs
Looks at me with moist eyes.
Her face though sad
Is at peace. She says,
Does it matter? Does it matter that this room has her son?
Even if this room had her son,
It means nothing.
I quickly extend my hand
Expecting her to grease my palm.
See I’ve been kind enough
To let you in, and
To let you search for your son.
She replies despondently
They took it all away in the riot.
I shrug my shoulders,
Ok! For once I shall be magnanimous.

©Murtaza Danish Husain
August 26, 2002

Wounds...

2005-01-31T12:36:00.000+05:30

Wounds –
Festering, puss-filled –
Often like a scourge,
A private hell –
Sourly remind of a body
Rupturing with filth.

Wounds –
Like an ingratiating grin,
Skin deep or within –
Are like men bestowed with greed;
They just bleed.

Wounds
That tongues lash
Smother hearts; leave it gashed,
As if pitted with
Burnt-ends of cigarettes.

And the wounds that heal?
Huh! A scar to scratch,
A dead skin to peel.

© Dan Husain
January 30, 2005

A Moment Amidst Chaos...

2005-01-31T00:48:00.000+05:30

In the here and now
As the moment pauses to breathe
Our eyes meet again
On a crowded street…

Shall we acknowledge,
Shall we avert?
What about the days
When we lyrically existed
In each other’s gaze?

Stomping feet, rising dust,
Soot in our face
We hastily measure
The shortening distance between us.

But the rising whorls of our silence
Stealthily suck the street’s din
And in a flash we find us back
In the chaotic patterns we live in.

©Murtaza Danish Husain
January 24, 2005

Suroor...

2005-01-31T00:45:00.000+05:30

Words that trap you
Shackle the very wish
Of yours to break free… from me

Like vignettes
At the margins of your portrait
Entwining, entangling, ensnaring
This biblical velleity
To taste the forbidden
Fruit of your Eden
But the swirling snakes
Of heathen desires
Raise their wispy heads
Of gnomic intent and size
To only find themselves gnarled
At the margins of your portrait

You look up from the poem
Oh…and all that remains are…

Your kohl lined eyes
The purple stained lips
And a crooked shape of once a snake
At the margins of your portrait

©Dan Husain
January 18, 2005