musaafir-e dasht

Following is excerpted from an sms that I wrote to a friend: "...A man loses himself when he loses his centre of existence. It is only then that Life does not remain worth living anymore. The worth of our purpose determines the worth of our Life."

Winters are the most wonderful part of the year. Why. That I do not know; they simply are. For me Winter symbolises 'Life'. A queer relation, I know. But I cannot help seeing the world all gray and cold. Listen to the 'song of the reed' (Yes, I am referring to Rumi) and you will hear how melancholic Life's song is! Yet, there's a strain of joy that keep the notes brimming with life. All may be gray and cold, but it is still bound to end... ...T.S. Eliot once wrote, "In my beginning is my end." I don't know why I feel that it's the other way round... Following is one of my personal favourites on Winter... How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December's bareness every where! And yet this time removed was summer's time, The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widow'd wombs after thei...

... a struggle to delve deep into my 'self'. An uphill task indeed!

Here is a work of art - N.M. Rashid's Hasan Koozagar - which I would like to describe as 'strange'. Just like 'Wuthering Heights' - although there is no apparent similarity of any sort - , this poem has something in it which can only be felt ... and not described! Translation by Frances Pritchett [http://aligarians.com/2006/04/hasan-kuuzagar/] Jahanzad, down in the street before your door Here I am, burnt-out Hasan the Potter This morning in the bazaar when I saw you At old Yusuf the perfumer’s shop In your glance was that brilliance I’ve longed for, wandering nine years in madness During that time I never looked back At my ailing pots - Pots formed by my deft hands, Lifeless creatures of clay, color, oil glaze They whispered: “Where is Hasan the Potter now? He left us, his own creations He created us, then turned away like the gods!” Jahanzad, nine years passed for me As time would pass in a buried city; Clay in the clay-vats With its fragrance that used to ravish ...

Of Poets and Sufis - Some Observations. I have slightly changed the title of this column. Instead of using the word 'mystics' I have chosen to use the word 'sufis'. All the contributors who wrote for this column made me realize that these two words need to be distinguished from each other. The concept of Mysticism exists in many religions of the world. The term 'sufi', however, is exclusively related to the Islamic concept of tassawwuf [which can also not be equated with the Western (read: prevalent) notion of 'Sufism'!]. The question to which some of you quite intelligently and profoundly responded was about poets turning into 'sufis'. And when I mention this term, I am alluding to the age-old tradition of tassawwuf - the tradition in which we find great names like Rumi and Bulleh Shah. Poetry is a result of the creative energy that a poet is endowed with. Poetry, I believe, does not lack reason at all. A poet can and mostly does use reason and ...

LADY UTTERWORD . What an extraordinary way to behave! What is the matter with the man? ELLIE . [ in a strangely calm voice, staring into an imaginary distance ] His heart is breaking: that is all. [ The Captain appears at the pantry door, listening ]. It is a curious sensation: the sort of pain that goes mercifully beyond our powers of feeling. When your heart is broken, your boats are burned: nothing matters any more. It is the end of happiness and the beginning of peace. -George Bernard Shaw, Heartbreak House .

"The purpose of my life is to live a life of purpose!"