Masiha

#poetatheart

be-dam hue bīmār davā kyuuñ nahīñ dete 

tum achchhe masīhā ho shifā kyuuñ nahīñ dete 

( Faiz ) 

The ailing are silent, their breath slowing down 

The elixir they need you tightly grasp 

Healer you are but in name alone 

The cure they crave you are holding back 

( trans --- priya vks )

Prayer

sab kī puujā ek sī alag alag har riit 

masjid jaa.e maulvī koyal gaa.e giit 

(Nida Fazli)

In this we are alike that we pray 

How we pray sets us apart 

To the masjid hastens the maulvi 

The koel sings with all its heart 

abundance

#APoetAtHeart
awaken at dawn
inhale the melody of bird song
feel the gentle fragrance of
rajnigandha on dew moist skin
reach out to the feathery clouds
lazing in the hazy morn
Life is abundance, cup it
in both hands, let the elixir
quieten your thirst
for more
and ever more.
(priya)

eulogies

what a torrent of words !

words are easy
words come effortlessly
words require no sacrifice
of comfort
words don't demand
lives of perfection
words allow claims of
kinship with icons

imagine a world
where every word
carried the price
of having to live the life
that we now so glibly admire
would the eulogies still be as eloquent ??
(priya)

my mont blanc

#APoetAtHeart
I was gifted a Mont Blanc once
not that I could much differentiate
it from my Reynolds
but I was told it was special
so for years it remained in its box
till I decided the other day
I would begin writing letters
not just to old friends
or lovers or love lost
but to people I have barely begun to know
the hunt for a letter pad took a week
the Mont Blanc then refused to cooperate
either because it had run out of ink
or Zuckerberg had sent a secret mandate
frustrated I scribbled in a hand writing
I was not quite proud of ( Sister
would have tut tutted no end !)
and then the thought struck me
hey, a letter needs a stamped envelope
so the letter remains in my book
of favourite Urdu couplets
till I can make a trip to the antiquated
post office and wait for an interminable
period to buy an unattractive yellow envelope
its addressed to a friend in Kashmir, by the way
it might never reach, because Kasmiri muslims are
not patriots , are they, they cheer for the Pakistani team
as did I always when Imran Khan looked like a God
descended to send pulses racing among gullible young girls
but nobody questioned my loyalty
though my taste in men seemed suspect to many

the world has changed beyond recognition
my Mont Blanc has taught me a valuable lesson
(priya)

a new name

#APoetAtHeart

Its Sunday
a day as good as any other
I think I will adopt a new name today
not my father's
he loved me, but nearly killed me
with his larger than life dreams
not my husband's
he seems to think it grants him unlimited
ownership rights
on my soul heart and body
not my mother's
she lives an insular life, having put behind
her all her aspirations since papa died
I am not much of a patriot and therefor rule
out Bharatiya
Some Punjabi traits are irksome and remind me
of Kiron Kher so
here too a firm NO
Perhaps I should look
to the life I want to live
to fly high to fly solo
above worldly turmoil
amidst rolling clouds
there IS a name for me then,
a name for Life's aficionada
I think I'd like to call myself Priya Garuda
(priya)

the cruelest month

#APoetAtHeart

Eliot was wrong, you know
August, not April , is the cruelest month
if it rains, it floods
and nothing remains behind
as the furious waters carry away
lives and things and dreams.

if the Gods disappoint, farmers hang from the
bare branches of forlorn trees
leaving behind wives and children who look
as if carved in stone
they do not even blame destiny

in torn tarpaulin covers , grains rot or become
rodent feasts while distended bellies
beg for a single wholesome meal
and die or live lives worse than death.

road repairs come to a halt, and house painting jobs
are put on hold , even polishing of dull sofas
in chandelier lit rooms gets postponed
so the breadwinner stops at the theka, and returns home
to beat up the frail wife.

knee deep storm water enters the lowlands
of the slumlords and so does sewage
the tarpaulin roofs leak, and he says, let the rains
pass, I promise you repairs and recompense.

August is particularly depressing for me
it is the month of my father's birthday
whom I lost twenty years ago, at sixty.

I don't know whose sorrow is greater

I do know Eliot was wrong
perhaps he wrote in a different century
in a different country
for a different reader
but if it be so
why do we read Eliot at all
(priya)