When you sat among tulips:

Smooth you sit, and roll your languid eyes
the kohl in them carry a purpose of night
Amidst flowers you bloom
this smile when you let

You caught some fancy
while looking left
it is me who is rolling
the wind in the tree.

Undisturbed by the delight
your face gives me
I slowly settle
in these solemn lips.

The wind carries me.

Beyond a Boundary- 25th March 1992

We settled early that day in front of our burly Bush TV set. A bevy of cousins had landed in our house. In Tony Greig’s words ‘it doesn’t get bigger than this’. An entire nation gasped its breathe, Kashmir of ’92- where almond bloom was sparsely visible, and thaw of spring carried blood stains from another wounded winter. Such were those times in our forsaken part of the world. For now though, only one thing mattered. Only one prayer played on our lips: from Makhdhoom sahib to Dastgeer sahib shrine, the early morning Khatem-e-shariefs reverberated with a green swing. 

A huddle was created in our living room- in a house 200 years old, on the banks of what was once a beautiful watercourse: Nallamar. Cricket had caught the imagination and fascination of youngsters like me in Kashmir that damp spring. It was March 25th, and Pakistan was playing England in the World Cup final. 

After winning the toss, Imran, once again making a statement at the toss, in what is now a famous cornered tiger crew neck shirt, chose to bat first. In the team meeting prior to starting the game, he told his players that Gooch looked nervous.  

When Pakistani openers began their innings under a sun swathed Melbourne Cricket Ground; first few boundaries resonated with Narrey Takbeers in our part of the home. It was our burrow today. We were allowed to do any thing. The joy though was short lived, and Pakistan was reduced to 24/2: Sohail and Raja both cooling their heels in the pavilion. It was left to the old war horses to once again resurrect the ship. Javed and Imran built up an ideal partnership, to give a platform for a young dynamite Inzamam- fresh from a match winning knock in the semi-final, to launch yet another heavy-duty attack. He tore the English bowlers apart, receiving a roarous applause from Melbourne to Malkha, all the way. Wasim joined the party too with his little blitzkrieg; 249 on a big ground, with a handful bowling attack seemed enough. Grandfather disagreed. England bat low down, he argued. Perhaps, it was the old evil eye he wanted to deflate. Superstitiousness runs deep when it came to Pakistan, I knew all too well. 

When Wasim got Botham; caught behind the stumps, of what Beefy till this day maintains he never edged, the revelry knew no bounds. Botham was dangerous and nasty, in equal measure. His insulting remark on touring Pakistan few years back, was given a good reply by Aamir Sohail, who nudged past him while he [Beefy] unwillingly carried himself from the crease. The taunt was carried into the following summer, when Pakistan toured England. Skipper Gooch, pleasingly clean shaven that day, fell to a brilliant catch by Aaqib Javed in the deep. Unusual to use such words for Pakistani fields men. This seemed to be their day, got another assurance. ‘That for a world cup final, is a great great catch’, quipped the suave David Gower in commentary box. Graeme Hick- the prodigal adopted English son, widely tipped as the next batting sensation, fell to a Mushtaq googly. Englishmen failed in reading it from the hand, Warne assured us in many next Ashes contests. Lamb and Neil Fairbrother threatened to take the game away from Pakistan, when Imran- he could not possibly get a trick wrong, threw the ball to Fairbrother’s Lancashire team mate Wasim. In two brilliant in-swing dippers, Wasim sealed the game, castling Lamb and Chris Lewis. Gooch many years later conceded that one could possibly only admire such skills. From then on it was just the matter of time, though the oddly built Derek Pringle did give us few jitters, with some lusty blows, allowing Grandfather once again to remind us, ‘Angrezan chhu kahim ti batsman’. But this was Pakistan’s day. Imran, perhaps justifiably too, got the last man. ’It’s up in the air, Rameez Raja coming under it. Pakistan win the World Cup’. The line played day in and out in my mind. It still does. Pure magic. Pakistan were the world champions. 

Looking back at events, and events such as this, prompts one to think that they probably define the whole decree of a generation. Mine for one was totally under its duress. Inzamam was a house hold hero, prompting one of my friend in school to write Haq (Inzamam’s green jersey in WC had Haq written over it) on the back of his crisp white school uniform shirt. This was baptism by fire. And there was no hiding from it. That summer and in many other summers and seasons, we played those scenes over and again. We all wanted to bowl fast like Wasim, bat like Inzamam, somewhere wished to catch like Aaqib in the deep, and run all over the ground in mad hysteria, throwing the ball finally in air, and clamp arms over a team mate. For a people in grips of an ugly war, 25th March 1992 remains forever a mirage in desolate memories. 

Kashmir flood 2014- The Tragic Tale of a Woman

Fates of Kashmir and Habba seem to be entwined. Born into a poor peasant family in the 16th century Kashmir, the mystic poetess - the empress of Kashmir - Habba Khatoon needs no introduction. Married early at age 16, Habba or Zoon was left withered atrophy at her in-laws. A cruel mother-in-law and an indifferent husband could never harmonize with her feelings. But Habba’s bosom was filled with love, and promptly, as in a fairy tale happens, the royal emperor, Yusuf Shah Chak, who was once contemplating by the stream, heard her heart-wrenching pathos. Their eyes met. It's those split-seconds when you disposes yourself of plan or ambition. When you give yourself completely to the golden fate filled moment. The emperor fell for the damsel and married her. The wind man had other plans in store though. The earth that delighted at her bare feet and wind that played with her long hair, soon conspired against this celestial love. Yusuf was captured by the Mughal King and sent to Bihar, where he later died. Leaving Habba again behind. Left to lament his loss, the night wind carried her voiceless cries for years, till she died an unknown death. Waiting for her Yusuf!                                                        

Oneness:

While I was in Kashmir in mid September, trying to do my bit, the overwhelming human spirit in us swelled my eyes numerous times. Young university students had hastily set up a relief camp on KU campus. With no fanfare and gimmicks to take mileage out of, they went about their work quietly; requesting people like me, who were visiting, not to take pictures. Brave human stories were coming out from all over. As it was, nature’s fury had fist cuffed the bourgeois in uptown Srinagar. Partisans, shikarwallahs, factory workers, cart pullers,  jobless youth- without giving two hoots for their own lives, went on about rescuing people from submerged parts of the city. Food supply from rural Kashmir (parts which were dry like Ganderbal, Sopore, Baramulla, Shupiyan)  to Srinagar city was immediately ensured. The absence of government and state machinery was literally never felt. 

                 

Uncertainty:

The mood in Delhi was sombre. Amidst packing relief items, bound for Kashmir, I filled a carton of white shroud. It is unexplainable to put that moment in words, to foresee a fellow countryman being draped in white cloth for his final journey. Kashmir had just witnessed the most devastating floods in more than a century. Past week had been probably one of the longest weeks of my life. Almost no communication was possible with folks back home. We’d spaced out; thousands of us expats here. 

                                               ———————————————

With almost 20-30 flights being operated every day by various airlines, the ATC at Srinagar airport must have been going through some harrowing time. Not that it crossed my mind once. I wanted to be home as early as possible. A late afternoon flight it turned out to be. Just as we entered into the Valley through the Pir Panchal mountains near Banihal, tragedy below was visible. Brown muddy water had submerged almost the entire valley. Due to many aircrafts scurrying for whatever little landing space Srinagar airport has to offer, it gave our pilot a chance to take a detour along Srinagar. He took a right, and kept hovering above The Dal, and the boulevard. Amidst the harkened solitude of this bygone lake; the Lydia air played its tune too. Or was it only me that heard it, in the voyage of my longing. Turning back, we flew across towards the mountains of Gulmarg and Yusmarg. Thin craggy peak of Tatakoti was lit under this mild afternoon sun. It looked like a thin jar, carrying an immortal drink. Like meditating sufis, the mountains were calm, quiet. Tiny little hamlets, straight out of a Charlotte Bronte novel - must have been near Shupiyan - had visible impression of impending fall. Swathed under balmy afternoon Kashmir sun, where thin line of lean poplars run with an air of flourish, a land yellow in summer, its funereal brume rolling over paddy fields, and you felt a deep sorrow, the kind of melancholy you feel when you’re with a pretty woman and the sun is going down. Kashmir the cursed damsel, with a thousand scars perched in her bosom - its air breathing fey, ruined, star-crossed her fate. There is something austere too about her beauty. You can’t help but, fall in love with her. What else does a mad lover anyway do over such beauty?

It was in one of those nights, those long sad nights, when eerie silence from thousands of kilometers far, I could take no longer. Driving late night over a freeway, thoughts and mind securely placed in my sad land, I envisioned Kashmir as a woman. Battered and shredded. You write sad pathos over her, while at the same time admiring her beauty. The descriptions of paradise satisfy the hunger for beauty. We, narrators of flimsy imagination, prose and poetic, know the sky will never forgo its many evidences. A confined woman, and we love her, and we believe she loves us too, living or dead.

Jhelum: A week after it unleashed its fury. 

The Darkest Night: Saturday, 6th September 2014.

Is death looming in Srinagar? Long, painful and poignant.
People wait, held up breathe- for water level to recede.
They can't do much, other than just wait, as slowly and slowly
the crawling death in the face of this brazen fury engulfs them.


Few hastily written lines, hours before Jhelum broke loose in Srinagar. 

Rasul Mir- Keats of Kashmir

Dooru is a curious village, slightly off beat in some sense- a few miles left of  NH1. The famous spring of Verinag lies ahead, to the north. Small muddy hills, that run up to tall Pir Panchal mountains when you look upwards, as far as Wadwan valley- playmate with yellow mustard fields in the most natural ways. The blend is so uniform and subtle, that it strikes one instantly: unvexed. Vast space perfectly formed and colored. At fall, when the leaves turn crimson, the whole aspect of the village turns polychromatic. 

The fields are littered with tall Chinar trees, whose wide shade provides shelter for farmers, when tired after working in their fields. I listened attentively in the fields, to the sound of leaves in the chinar trees…. a shy, soothing sound descending from the far reaches of its twigs. Leaves of the summer whispered modestly, quietly finding me alone- away from the material world, they transfer me to a quiescent world. A world where a poet wrote ballads. Where he serenaded along his sleepy village; where he played, he danced; and he wrote. An evening of one such brilliance must have fallen that year too from these skies, that I was looking at now. Love must have loomed along the dusky pavement  I was walking now, and vaporous hills, that year too. A sad melancholy that unreqited love carries, must have filled his lungs, that year too. An abandoned well, a rusty bucket soaking up little drop’s of night’s first dew. I was here to watch a play- played years ago. 

The play is about a mid 19th century careless young chap named Rasul; who loitered around in this village, with no purpose and will. The spring had passed by, he sang and found no meaning. The old world sparrow warbled its chorus. When the blossom died and fruits swelled, the prickly pear fell for his Fanny- like Keats did. He was under her spell. The young lover stirred his garden under the same skies, the trees of all climes he befriended, chirpy birds feeding on hay listened to his ballyhoo, his thoughts clinged to like an alcove in the whirlpool.

His sad plight in the days could no longer be a secret- when one fine day, that fairy of his dreams- that petite mademoiselle of unparalleled beauty and grace, walked up to him. The splendor hung aloft, this romantic union was a priestlike task. 

What happened later is unknown with many versions. Was it Rasul's unrequited love- that gave way to such romantic pathos [Here]. We may never know. However, the poet resonates through his verse, more than a century later, as powerfully as he did in his village of boondocks.

There were no flowers there. They squashed them all these years. I found one, yet, and carried home. And that, was my small tribute to our Keats.  

Meti rooz dama
Roze darem channe lou’l..r

Shroney daar soun sinz
Bengeri garem channi loul’l..r

Adde vech’ta kecha paam jarim
Channe lou’l..r

-----------------------------------------------------

Pleased I’m,
That I fasted in your devotion.

Golden ivory bangles
That I designed in your devotion.

You see my beloved, I could blot this slander
for what? but only your devotion.

I made a will.

An epithet on my grave

will they write

Of my strife and conflict

following my shadows
supplanted my blithe.

Of half smiles

and certain distances

years never lived

and moments wizened.

Of tears that dried in my eyes
the hope drained in many nights
when longed and wept
in pining and her lust.

Of that ceaseless solace

and downbeat poems

that no one heard
silence grew
when foxes howled
such long nights I wept.

Of those bespoken wails

and footless marks on snow
Nay the sand,
between two worlds
fix my feet, will you?

Of that unheard thunder

and cloudless rains
dark and beautiful
keep my head still
it isn't easy here.

Of wrapped nights 

and dog-tired days

strong cedar smell

I waited for this
death only brought
us close.

Let me have her now
I waited for this.

What will they write on my grave?

Bury me beside her, I made a will.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Basaan chum bei mar ma

Veyn ha chum akkoy tamana

Channe brande kane talha

Mei gochum mazaar asunn.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It seems I may die
and I have a last wish to make
Below the portico of her house
dig my grave.

Winds of Sorrow

Why doesn't the wind that makes trees rustle tell you how much I miss you.
That every passing moment- a moment where I die and fly in this wind of singing sparrows-
the longing only increases, like that timeless night: of sadness, yearning and cold tears.

Can't you hear O my beloved, or has my pain been consumed in the sea of morals that separate us.

why doesn't the wind that disturbs the sand on my pavement below
tell you how much I love you.

why doesn't the wind tell you
when I close my eyes at night, all I see is your face
and when I open them to the first rays of a morning, all I want to see is your face.

why doesn't the wind tell you of this rift
I created in my heart till yours
where did it find a way but?
In our memories those winding roads of barren hills
had left no trace, or so we thought.
It isn't only love that travelled those roads
years ago.


why doesn't the wind tell you.

Turkey Part III: Konya and Ankara (Mevlana Rumi-Shams)

Konya and Ankara:

Mevlana (Rumi) and Shams had locked themselves up for more than week now. Rumi's followers were bothered- who was this delirious Shams, he who has casted a spell on our scholar, they would wail in despair. Unmindful of what was brewing in the streets of Konya, the rumor mill was rife- Rumi and Shams continued their enclosed contemplation, immersed in meditation and spiritual talk.  In a dimly lit room, twinkling in wisdom, Shams spoke to Rumi : "They keep reminding everyone that on the Day of Judgement all human beings will be forced to walk the Bridge of Sirat, thinner than a hair, sharper than a razor. Unable to cross the bridge, the sinful will tumble into the pits of hell forever. Those who are virtuous will make it to the other end, where they will be rewarded with exotic fruits, sweet waters and virgins. This, is in nutshell, their notion of afterlife. I tell them Mevlana, is there a worse hell than the torment a man suffers when he knows deep down in his conscience that he has done something wrong, awfully wrong? Ask that man. He will tell you what hell is. Is there a better paradise than the bliss that descends upon a man when bolts of universe fly open and he feels in possession of all secrets of eternity and united with God, Ask that man. He will tell you what heaven is. Motivated by neither the fear of punishment in hell nor the desire to be rewarded in heaven, Sufis love God simply because they love Him, pure and easy, untainted and nonnegotiable."

While they were contemplating these issues Rumi suddenly closed his eyes and uttered the following lines:

"Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu, Buddhist, Sufi or zen. Not any religion or cultural system. I am not of the East, nor of the West…..My place is placeless, a trace of the traceless." 

Konya is Turkey's 'Bible Belt', treading delicately on the path between its historical significance of swirling Dervishes and citadel Seljuk culture and its modern importance as economic boom town. The city derives considerable charm from this peculiar dichotomy of old and new. 

The only reason for me to come to Konya was to visit the Mevlana museum, the former lodge of swirling dervishes. The Green Dome as it is popularly known as, is located in the old part of Konya- offering a savory treat to lovers. While entering the mausoleum through the main gate, a persian calligraphed couplet welcomes you. It reads: "This place has become a shrine of lovers, the ones who are incomplete before are now complete". I may not have grasped the power of this couplet while I entered, such claims are wide and frequent at all spiritual abodes. However, a little later when I was leaving from the Green dome, on a crisp Konya day, in the lambency of mild winter sun, I was transcending; what I seeked, was actually what was seeking me. 

Inside the mausoleum under the fluted dome is the Mevlana Tomb (the largest) flanked by that of his son Sultan Veled and other eminent dervishes, all covered in shrouds with gold embroidery. In a very bizarre way, the tomb of Mevlana's father Bahaeddin Veled's stands on one end, leading the devotees to believe that Mevlana was so holy that even his father stands to show respect. I sat for sometime near Mevlana's tomb, hands folded- lips silent; my heart had a thousand tongues. I prayed. I don't know when was the last time I had prayed, but here I was opening myself. In the mystical cramp my soul floated. I surrendered my mangled spoils, I freed my scars, I left my wound open- the pull of force, the tug of gravity, the pianos of pining poured from my heart into this ocean of love. It heard me. It convinced me. 

There are various other important things to see in the Mevlana museum. Notably the original Masnavi dated to 1256 A.D, with beautiful persian calligraphy. Or the dervish cells ( where dervishes used to live). There are some personal Mevalan belongings too- the turban and cloak.

Immediately after visiting Mevlana, I set out for searching Shams Tabrizi's mausoleum, taking directions from passers by. Shams's mausoleum is right in the center of the old Konya. The esoteric feel to this small tomb, which has lot wood work inside, most of which is new, is not surprising at all. Shams pertinent to mention here,  had coerced Mevlana to leave his comfort. The meeting of these two men was like meeting of two mighty rivers.

I spent rest of the day in Konya tip toeing through the Tile museum- which has outstanding collection of ceramics from Seljuk times  and the museum of Artefacts and wood carving. 

On advise of a friend, I tried a Konya speciality- Etliekemek- which is basically bread with tender lamb meat. It tasted heavenly. 

My original plan was to travel back to Istanbul from Konya. However, I chose to stay for a night at Ankara. I'm glad I did so, for I loved Ankara totally. Right from its 1920ish Train station to clean wide roads. A very modern city, built by Kemal Attaturk in 1920s- the stout Turk did not step foot in Istanbul for 9 years, resolving to built a new Turkey, away from the legacy of Ottomon's that lured in every creaky street of Istanbul.  

Ankara has a very strong bohemian culture, which I got to witness in Alkizay- a central potpourri of student commix. Over a street dotted by maple trees, which had the flavor of spring beginning to cite, people played music, sang songs and by late evening encroached these streets into episodic and highly alluring sale of second hand books. They had everything from Che's Motor cycle Diaries to Fuhrer, from Kafka to Nabokov. Sadly, for me, mostly in Turkish. 

In the two weeks that I travelled across Turkey-from Istanbul to Izmir on the west coast and then to central Anatolia in Konya and Ankara, perhaps the most rewarding experience laid in the fact that I wasn't around myself all the time. It was as if I was living someone else's life. I wasn't doing any of those things that I do everyday- what we call as mundanity of life: Wake up, take shower, have breakfast, drive to office and come back in the evening. Day in and out. And yet, in one moment of solitude when I looked out through the window of the train, it must have been somewhere between Izmir and Konya, with wandering eyes settled over a vast expanse, where tiny little Hamlets- of maroon tiled rooftops, farmers tilling the earth, families stood nestled in a small backyard, I missed the concern in my mothers voice. It is perhaps in such moments when you realize your wealth. The Irish novelist George Moore couldn't have possibly said it better: A man travels the world in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.  

Turkey Part II: Izmir and Esphesus

Izmir and Ephesus:

Like most lone wanderers I drifted along the road from Istanbul and found myself absorbed in deep torpor after checking in, late that evening, only to wake up in morning to brute abruptness of a street which looked forlorn few hours back. I was in Izmir- Turkey's second largest city and first party stop. 

There is a miraculous romance attached to curiosity and unseen adventure. I took out my traveling Bible, Lonely Planet's tour guide- a guide book started by two Beatniks in 1972. The accuracy of this guide book is startling, so you can basically trust it to the hilt. Rounding up myself around Konak Meydani- a late Ottoman clock built in 1901, from where I took a ferry to the heart of Izmir: Alsancak.  It is difficult to imagine life in Izmir without its iconic boulevard: Kordon and inland the Alsancak district. However, it was still morning, and I'd a long day ahead. Muzzling with many ideas and derivations, I decided to take a trip to Ephesus- which earlier in the privacy of my Hotel, I had thought I would do the next day. The roads tend to do this to me. Inviting its nomad. And yes, the beauty of unplanned travel lies in such moments: spontaneity.

I took a shared cab to Selcuk- a small like-able town decked up on beautiful Aegean coast. Ephesus is further 4 kilometers away, wedged in between 2 mountain ridges. At the end of the road a white whiskered man in a checkered beret and faded black suit hailed us- the visitors who were on the entrance of the Ephesus collecting their passes: 'Tour of Ephesus! Informative guide to the ruins.' A few yards beyond him a young boy ran up to us, in hard breaths,  'I give you better tour. Cheaper too.'

At first glance Ephesus seemed the quintessential ruin: broken bits of statues, stubby pillars, cracking archways and isolated walls. Nothing moved but the sunlight, glinting off the ancient fragments. Perhaps more than anywhere in world, the Greco-Roman world comes alive at Ephesus. More than 150 years of excavation, have made Ephesus the most complete classical metropolis in Europe- and that's with 82% of the city still to be unearthed. 

The city has interesting history. According to a legend, in 10th century BC an forced incursion led Androcolus, the prince of Athens to seek safer refuge. After consulting his Delphic God, and crossing the Aegean, Androculus rested on the Anatolian shore and cooked  a freshly caught fish. The fish was so fresh that it jumped off the pan and the toppled coals set off nearby forest ablaze, smoking out a wild boar that the prince killed; on that very spot he resolved to build Ephesus. The prophecy of his Delphic God came true. In following centuries Ephesus accumulated wealth from maritime trade and pilgrims to the Temple of Artemis- whose ruins can be seen in Selcuk town. 

After protracted negotiations, I hired a guide. As I walked into the ruins, following the wide central avenue, which housed Varius Baths- as in other ancient cities situated in the main entrance so that visitors could wash before entering. Further on, two of Doric columns mark the entrance to the ruined town hall and city treasury. A side street called as Sacred Street led to the Ephesus hospital, where a snake symbol etched into the stone meant the healing powers in the venom of  a snake- a belief held by Greeks and Romans. Perhaps, one of those few things that these two empires of different epoch shared. The spiral symbol to this day is used in medicine.

As I passed columns carved with line after line of intricate symbols, of cisterns for storing water, I explored the Terraced Houses- which give a clear indication as to what everyday life would have been like in this great city. While I kept walking, glorious Ephesus sun brimming from blue skies casted the halls and pavements of marketplaces, ruins of leftover shops- where splendid ornaments of gold and silver were sold to the pretty Greek and Roman women. The stony walkway echoed of drum beats and temple bells. The ruins seemed to take on a strange life of their own. I walked up to the Great Theater of Ephesus, which in its prom had the capacity of 25,000 seats. Here the gladiator games and theater plays were held with grandeur and swank. Courtesans enthralled the emperors, the commoners applauded in awe. 

The whole experience of walking down this city was very overwhelming. I whisked off my guide and sat on a stone palate, in eerie silence. Sun was still shining bright, the Anatolian skies were emerald blue, not a speck of cloud hovered. A mild south westerly wind passed, leading to cracking noise of the Juniper trees, the rustling leaves and lean Poplars. I breathed its air, conscious of the air that was going in my lungs. This wasn't one of those thankless respiratory actions- there seemed to be a purpose behind all this. Everything remarkably looked as part of some timelessness, a sense of communion with other people of other eras. My feet crossed stones that other sandals had crossed, my hands touched columns that were touched by other hands. The toga wearing men, with one bare shoulder seemed to be talking in everyday conversation: of harvest, of Troy and the impeding conquer by Alexander The Great. 

It was afternoon by the time my cabbie dropped me back at Selcuk, where, after visiting the Artemis temple, I treated myself to coffee in one of Selcuk's many pretty open cafes. The large Maple trees embellish Selcuk's main street. The setting was pleasant and peaceful- leaning into the afternoons as Pablo Neruda calls them. Do not look for me- I closed my eyes. 

Back In Izmir, the ritzy and arty crowd was starting to fill Alsancak's alleys, on which sun had already set. In these alleys dwell some of the most amazing cafes and bars: Dark gothic walls, scabrous furniture, and guitar strums. From one corner Bob Marley's large poster clangs, while a very young Jim Morrison in black and white, shows a finger to Seattle police. There is Tolstoy's  Anna Karenina being discussed at one table, amidst scattered cigarette butts and Efes bottles- young literature students I could guess, with large wavy hair, ear-rings; some sported thick beard, a large goatee and a tight pony tail. You could easily mix up them with some hard metal band- ride the lightening, from whom the bell tolls, some say they talk through the satan. There was an Ozzy Ossbourne like song writer, scribbling something. I went up to him. He spoke in broken English. Large green eyes, his legs slender, brown, shinned under bermuda shorts, his white converse shoes looked very big. His name was Guven- half Kurd, half German. We opened up rather fast, perhaps it was the ambience. Guven was fighting a struggle with in. The Kurds are an unaccepted lot and it nearly sparked a civil war in early 90s. The situation has simmered down now he told me, but a forever struggle for identity lays loose in this tribe, sadly. He told me he writes for a local journal- does odd jobs at times to keep the cash coming, and fosters a hope for independent Kurdistan. 

Back in my hotel, the hum of air-conditoners masked the street noises. I'm not sure if I understood Guven's struggle, I'm not sure if I understand my own struggle: when night approaches through the heights, the hermit poet looks through the window- there is an uncertainty in the skies too.

Turkey Part I: Istanbul

 Istanbul:

Last summer I read Orhan Pamuk's memoir in prose- Istanbul. I can't quite exactly recall what stirred me- his memoir is an eco-rich conditioner- but, it must have been the chapters on Bosphorous that took me to Istanbul months later. Bosphorous is our Jehlum: ancient, sad and a whirlpool of activities on its banks. If you take a ferry across Bosphorous, you will see a milieu of the city- rooftops, even trees, woollen capped mid-aged Turks sipping Cay, women drying clothes on small portico's that seem to be hanging from outer walls- house after house. A hawker sells chestnuts on his pushcart, children ram into a rust replete leftover hatch- a makeshift goal post. The urge was to walk on its banks, to seep into its air- to give an ear to stories Bosphorous holds in its bosom- of conquests, murders, history and deceit- like Jhelum does- quietly, gracefully carving its way out of the city. 

Though being an ancient city, Istanbul is much more than just the sum of its monuments. If Byzantine churches and Ottomon mosques have your fill, then Beyogla's nightclubs and chic boutiques will leave you in a drool. If prayer calls from many of its tapering minarets bear reminiscence of age-old faith, then the scenes on streets of Takism square- of couples joined together, walking under a umbrella- hit you with a dart of romance. To put in short, Istanbul is a seductive metropolis. 

The city was cold, grey and veiled under the sauntering breath of winter when I reached. I'd my booking in a hotel near Sultanehmet. Browsing through few travel blogs was helpful. I was at the right place. The window of my room opened to Bosphorous- where seagulls leaped. The iconic Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia  and Topkapi palace were at a walking distance. I went around Sultanehmet, walking in short strides. It was winter, but there was a buzz in its streets. A tram passes through- passengers in long coats and high boots take their places at stations. There is a hairless old man reading Hurriyet- Turkeys leading newspaper, some young girls flip through novels- the ones you usually pick for a train or bus journey- easy reads; short stories perhaps. A young man in a swanky leather jacket carries a bouquet- Valentine's day it was. The effulgence in his stride said he was going to propose to someone. It was the climate of gold, his infinite eyes carried her. When the tram stopped, with a bell toll, she stepped out. My eyes were fixed on them. He spoke in an invisible springtime, she left the winter forlorn. They hugged and carried on walking along the long street- scaling skins, throbbing hearts. The Istanbul street lights deafening the darkness.

Next morning was spent on exploring Hagia Sophia. Built in 5th century A.D, consecrated as a church in 537, converted into a mosque by Mehmet the Conqueror in 1453 and declared a  museum by Attaturk in 1935- the archaic structure surpasses others in grandeur, architectural form, religious importance and extraordinary beauty. As you enter the main building and look up- a brilliant 9th century mosaic of Virgin Mary and Christ child immediately leave you under a spell. As you look sideways, over to the left, the apse depicts the archangels Gabriel and Michael; today only fragments remain. Upstair galleries are accessed through a stone ramp. A green marble marks the spot where the empress once stood. The marble door towards right, separated the private chambers of emperors and meeting place for Church members. As I left through the Bronze gate dating from 2nd century B.C, the 10th century mosaic of Constantine the Great almost took my breath. Through centuries the emperor watches its visitors- some in veneration, some stupefied. His gaze follows them right till the bronze door.  

Topkapi Palace- with its sprawling gardens and opulent pavilions, built by Sultan Mehmet in 1453 shortly after con-questing the then Constantipole, doesn't fare badly either. Here the prodigal sultans, the beautiful courtiers and overjoyed eunuchs lived together in mirth from 14th till 19th century. The sprawling Harem inside the palace, gives a fascinating glimpse into those times. 

Istanbul's colorful and chaotic Grand Bazaar is certainly one place you don't want to miss. Weathering the test of times, in this age of mega malls, the labyrinthine form of the market leaves one in a turn. For me the reasons were understandable, when I peeped through a doorway to discover a hidden han- a narrow lane way landed me up in Kitaplar- a book haven. Here I picked up the first publication (1957) copy of Boris Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago. I've the newer version, the vintage collection, but the yellow'y frail pages- smelling peculiarly copy made my day. In fact the entire trip. Somethings even master card cannot buy.

It is advisable to travel in Istanbul by a Tram or metro. For two reasons; one, the cities traffic is unforgiving and two its taxi drivers can con you easily. I took a Tram to the other side of Bosphorous- to Taksim square.  By now it was afternoon. But still cold and murky. I took a walk from Beyoglu street to Taksim square, in between stopping over for a cup of strong Turkish coffee in a Bistro owned by a film buff. The walls carried posters of movies from Henry Fonda to Kevin Costner. Nejat as he told me his name later, was a construction engineer, who left his profession and pursued this love of treating his guests to Turkish coffee and interesting anecdotes. 

There must be very few places in world as rich in food as Turkey. Many Istanbul restaurants serve scrumptious, savory kebabs that leave a lasting taste. I found Firin Kebabs- made of tender mutton especially delectable. 

Later that evening, back in my hotel, which over looked the cobblestone pathways of Sultanehmet, dimly lit by the flickering street lights under a cold evening breeze, with an over turned Oscar Wilde poetry book, Jazz- who worked in the Hotel I stayed, strummed guitar. An aspiring lead singer, Jazz sang some country songs. John Denver. While his friend Ika from Georgia played few folk songs. I treated the party with my dose of Ghalib. A cultural mix  reverberated till late night in this quiet street. The symphony must be like the world. It must embrace everything. 

Kralyaar.

Rainawari Chowk always seemed a little queer to me. Being part of the old city downtown, where more or less the narrow alleys can confuse one- such is the similarity, Rainawari stands out. May be it has to do with the large ancient Mulberry tree that so distinctly sets it apart or may be its the Hospital, which used to be colored in red in old times; times from which I carry its memories.  

 

I parked my car near the Hospital- for want of space partly, and partly because I wanted to take a walk through the whole area: cross paths along those metallic roads, that may have been macadamized in many layers, since those early summer mornings, when my friend must have ran to catch the school bus; school bag jostling left and right. I had the address - Kralyaar, Dr. Kachru. I looked around and chose to ask an elderly person. He must have been in his early 70s, carrying an aluminum jar, a very downtown thing, filled with yoghurt from the local 'Goor' -- its thick white cream shining under the sun. This gentleman very politely directed me towards Kralyaar. ' Take first left, walk all the way down, in the corner alley the Kachru's lived. Thinking loud while walking, I was aware many things must have changed since my friend lived here.

 

The old man was right, the corner alley was there. But how was I to find the house? At around 11 in the morning not many people venture outside. The summer sun was unrelentingly beating down. It was hot by Kashmiri standards. I kept looking through the houses, trying to guess which one is it. A white Koshur skull cap wearing man with thick mustaches came out from one of the houses. 'That one belongs to Dr. Mantoo' , pointing with his finger, the thumb carrying the bead thread.

 

A shimmering marble plate near the main Iron gate, freshly painted in rust red, read 'Mir House': the current owners. I reluctantly pushed the gate. The activity inside the compound was hurried and brisk. Open empty boxes, visibly meant to carry fruit, had filled the small garden facing the Kachru house. Is this a fruit traders house now, I wondered! Manzoor -- the owner of the house firmly shook my hand. What can I do for you? I explained. He asked few questions again, well meaning questions. Perhaps he was taken aback by what I told him. I was a friend of Dr Kachru's family who has come to take pictures of Kralyaar and their house.

Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart, Murakami writes in Kafka on the Shore. Still taking pictures, Manzoor explained to me that the two houses in ruins still belong to Kachru's. 'They have not sold them yet. Their ancestors lived in them’. Built in slender Maharaji bricks with intricate wood work on window panes, the structures  looked in wretched state. Years of dust had piled on them, perhaps, muzzling the many echoes from far off years. Time didn't stand still here. It had taken its toll. "It may cause the family more anguish looking at the state of the house." Little bemused, I asked Manzoor what makes him think so?

"See their's was an educated family. Well read. We are merchants who deal with dry fruits. The state of the house gives you a good indication." Manzoor spoke with utmost earnest.  In this land of Sufis and Reshis everything may not be transparent, but there is no place to hide a dark heart. On a balmy June day, it felt good to be in this compound. 

 

Manzoor was kind enough to escort me till the main road. Largely overwhelmed, he confessed though he wasn’t very educated yet appreciated the effort I was taking. We again warmly shook hands and bid good-byes. 

 

My tryst with Kralyaar wasn’t over yet. The air may have been humid, the streets largely forlorn, but persisting thoughts of my friend and his family gave color to everything around. 

The roads were hard, wind came at my back. We think we have a memory, but in truth, it has us.

 

One of the many well known and frequently spoken structures in the old city is the Vishwa Bharti school. A visit to Rainawari was incomplete without it. Clicking pictures all around the locality, a bakers shop caught my lens. It was placed in an narrow alley with smoke emanating out through the chimney at top. It had a very nostalgic feel to it. A mad-man passed along, incessantly talking to himself- pointing to the sky, where few crows had gathered, breaking the mid day lull. 

 

While standing at the entrance of Kralyaar, walking back to my car, many thoughts pulled me in different directions.

I write these words now, many lands distant from the spot at which, those hearts that throbbed so gaily then, must have ceased to beat; in many occasions in a land unknown to them;

many of the eyes that shone so brightly then, must have ceased to glow;

the hands grown cold; the eyes old, must have hid

their remnants in the grave; and yet the old house, the room, the merry

voices and smiling faces, the jest, trivial

circumstances connected with those happy meetings, crowding upon my mind.

 

Some sights caught through the corner of one's eye can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can transfer a over worked adult to his paper boats in rains; that can transport the sailor and the traveler, thousands of miles away, back to his own firepot and his quiet home!”

Everybody needs his memories. They keep the wolf of insignificance from the door.

Heart flames.

There are a million tears in my heart. Waiting....

Its been a year
since you spoke those three words,
first time to my heart
from yours..

Tears of joy had dashed down my face, that night.
O night! what it was! They will know never.
They who tell us whom to love, whom to shut our hearts from.
Will they ever know, heart plays its own melody. Oblivious of the edicts
scribbled into us: ten commandments and a many million morals.

A fairy tale it seemed then
a torment in my heart now
If you could look into my eyes
the tears that rolled that night
still behold you in their tiny
transparent visage.And they will always.
Tears have a way. Their own way. Like hearts.



I don't mind if the entire world turns away its face from me. Forever.
But not you, Lara. Why did you turn away from me- leaving me in despair, in longness for you, searching in the pitch darkness of my heart, a smile of yours. Like a weathered flower, I'm broken into million rustles, crushed every day by the weight of its own burden. I wish, I could tell you, how lonely I am. How cold and harsh it is without you.

No flower blooms without you, no wind carries an incense without you,  the mulberry are forlorn in my garden, I'm in the winter of my heart, and it's white, it's snow-white.

The wounds that never heal can only be mourned alone.

While driving back this evening.

You're driving back home from the gym; tired and sweating. The petrol meter is on its last slab. The drudgery of the day and an over-enthused trainer who pushed you, had drawn every ounce of your energy. You want to be home. Waiting to stretch your legs wide in the comfort. But here, there is a request for a song on FM. Some pestiferous bloke confabulating recklessly, perhaps over-awed by the supersensuous voice of the RJ. A sultry voice has no kin-ship to a pretty face. Don't let the voice fool you folks.

Anyway, the high on excitement guy requests for a song from movie Rockstar. Any song from it he adds. And you immediately wish for your song. Yes, your song [Here]. A song that plays an opera in your heart. Of memories and pangs. Of nights and days you lived and died one winter, till that summer came and you lied on a bed with a tear drop and desolate kisses.

Happiness lies in such moments. Strange are its ways and stranger its forms.

Magnolia of hearts

Magnolia sprigs in Pahalgam Kashmir.

If you should ask me where I've been

on all those days and nights when you missed me.

When you would cuddle under a blanket, on a lonely wet wintry night 

I was in its warmth..hugging you

When you lied on a porch facing your garden, 

on a mild summer evening

you were drowned in pain and sombre

the pangs ran deep and sorrow

I was listening to your heart...

When you walked a step and held back

looking for me in your drowsy eyes

In the late afternoon air that was  hot and sticky 

I held your hand and we walked a mile..

When people joyous in mirth laughed and sang

I played in the doleful of your quietness

Of your absence and my presence

I was your melancholy

I am your gloom.

When rain quenched the thirst of a withered earth

and the window of your room flanked in gusts of wind

I settled in your hand in a droplet of rain

just when you tried grasping some

I am your drought

I am your storm.

When you dressed up primp in the polka dot dress 

embellished and dandy

you smelled nice and stood firm

I was your mirror that you looked straight into

You are gorgeous- I told you so.

Sahir Ludhianvi- Main Pal Do Pal Ka Shayir Hon

Na main tumse koyee umeed rakhoon dil nawazee ki

Na tum meri taraf dekho galat-andaz nazron mein

Na zahir ho tumharei kashmkash ka raaz nazron se

Na mere dil ki dhadkan ladkhadaye meri baatoon mein

Tarruf rog ho jaye toh usko bhulna behtar

Talluk bojh ban jaye toh usko todna achchha

Woh afsana jise anjam tak lana naa ho mumkin

Usey ek khubsurat mod dekar chhodna achchha

Chalo ik bar phir se ajnabi ban jaye hum do

-------------------------

Tum Mujhe Bhool Bhi Jaao To Yeh Haq Hai Tumko

Meri Baat Aur Hai Maine To Mohabbat Ki Hai

Mere Dil Ki Mere Jazbaat Ki Keemat Kya Hai?

Uljhe Uljhe Se Khayalaat Ki Keemat Kya Hai?

Maine Kyon Pyar Kiya, tumne na Kyon Pyaar Kiya?

In Pareshan Savalat Ki Keemat Kya Hai?

Tum Jo Yeh Bhi Na Bataao To Yeh Haq Hai Tumko

Meri Baat Aur Hain, Maine Toh Mohabbat Ki Hai.

-------------------------

Hoo bahoo kheinchega lekin, ishq ki tasveer kaun?

Uth gaya nawak fagan, marega dil par teer kaun?

--------------------------

Umr ka rishta jodney wale

Apni nazar mein deewane hain

----------------------------

Aurat ne janam diya mardon ko, mardon ne use baazaar diya

Jab ji chaahaa kuchalaa masalaa, jab ji chaahaa dutkaar diya

Tulati hai kahin dinaaron mein, bikati hai kahin baazaaron mein

Nangi nachavaai jaati hai, ayyaashon ke darabaaron mein

          Ye woh beizzat chiz hai jo, bant jaati hai izzatadaaron mein.......

Jin hothon ne inko pyaar kiyaa, un hothon kaa vyaapaar kiya

Jis kokh mein inakaa jism dhalaa, us kokh kaa kaarobaar kiya

Jis tan se uggey kopal ban kar, us tann ko zalil-o-khwaar kiya..

Sansaar ki har ek besharmi, gurbat ki god mein palati hai

Chakalon mein hi aa ke rukati hai, faakon mein jo raah nikalati hai

Mardon ki havas hai jo aksar, aurat ke paap mein dhalati hai

--------------------------

Suna Hai Har Javaan Patthar Ke Dil Mein Aag Hoti Hai 

Magar Jab Tak Na Chhedo, Sharm Ke Parde Mein Soti Hai 

Ye Socha Hai Ki Dil Ki Baat Usske Roobaroo Keh De 

Nateeja Kuch Bhi Nikale Aaj Apni Aarazu Keh De 

Har Ek Bejaan Taqalluf Se Bagaavat Ka Iraada Hai 

Kisi Patthar Ki Muurat Se Mohabbat Ka Irada Hai

Parashtish Ki Tamana Hain, Ibaadat Ka Iraada Hai.

-----------------------------

Main Pal Do Pal Ka Shaayar Hon, Pal Do Pal Meri Kahaani Hai

 Pal Do Pal Meri Hasti Hai, Pal Do Pal Meri Jawaani Hai.

-----------------------------

Kisliye jite hain hum, kis ke liye jeete hain?

Baarha aise sawaalat pe rona aaya 

Kaun rota hai kisi aur ki khaatir aye dost?

Sabko apni hi kissi baat pe rona aaya

Kabhi khud pe kabhi halat pe rona aaya 

baat nikli toh har ek baat pe rona aaya