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Wednesday, September 16, 2015

A Misty Song for You


Iris of photons
Gets entangled,
With gossamer penumbra…
Between interplay of sunshine and shadows
Are born you and I...

Frozen peach trees
are misty roads to Pari Mahal
Curving their way to alphabet of Time
Couplets of Faiz and Mir sink
In the summer of my skin
Liquid roots give birth to our sun filled shadows

Lighthouses wake up
Murmuring shipwrecks…
And ancient cities exhale
Songs of saffron fields.

Dissolve in my blood
Night, Sleep, Death, and the stars…

Champak odours
Is what inky skies will be written with
I shed eons from the caves of my eyes
Muddle of stars
Draws maps of Macedonian secrets on your chest…

Lotuses of Light crumble
My soul withdraws its anchors
Piercing in me the Ruby Dagger
An angel of Silence wept
On necklace of Queen Bilqees

Kingdom of Darkness
Is where you locked yourself

On its rusting gates
You will find nothing but an atom of me…
While Providence flounders madly
In a jungle of bluebells

I was the fresh rain
That sipped the arid deserts inside you…

...my absence shall forever be a harvest
Of sweet lavender scent
On your pillow…

END (Published by Nivasini Publishers for its anthology ‘Celebrating India :Love without Borders’). The anthology also features works by celebrated poet Gulzar.

Sin of Semantics




Inherited by a sentence
What is it that weeps
Inside the frontier
Between
the rivers and mirrors?

Darkness s  p l   i  n  t  e  r  s  as my sun

And I   —   f   a  l  l
into a
place
That stems from you

Wounds bloom like morning prayers
Flush of glass-doors
Brush
The paisleys
of my shawl —
Broken stars are
plucked wicks
On the roof of eye..

Light pregnant with Silence
was coppice
              of dotted lines

Oil-lamps glimmer
On birth of wet letters
Cold, dark
Planets
Floating on killed papyrus
Noah’s Ark
Ferried the corpses:
Chopped words don’t always
Die in a gutter

…the gray patch is curled within
Deep wine voice
Moony blossoms
Announce the mist of past:
Archangel of waiting lines.

Thoughts-winds-feathers
Blow
As unripe harvest of commas
Cascading on
Rain curtains
That in your world
Never found a name

Between a blue and a red
Night bled

Gilgamesh
Will wake up
the next autumn
In the leaves that flew in periods…

Mahmoud Darwish
Waited too long
For Frisky Air
To build its nest
On his palms

Olive years burn
With what
Saba Arwah s…p…u…n
Questions
          loop, lament, and laugh
          inside
the white night
dying
for a black moon.

Labyrinths always have
doors in c—o—r—n—e—r—s
of lapis-lazuli.

Or perhaps visions will still
be stuck
in blue flood
seeping from footnotes!!!


END (Won First Prize in a contest of  Wordweavers – an online journal)


For a Child of Kashmir




Child,
Look
A little paper-boat sways
On violet waters
Of butchered lullabies
On which your mother once put
A tiny tear of your dreams
And a firefly from her face.

Bullets
pierce
mouth of the molten moon
Your small universe
Weeps in your tiny palms
Stained with white blood.

Child,
Do not long for the moon.
Tonight
It will be cremated
By wolves in khaki:
Guards of ‘Peace’!

The thud
Of their boots
Trample upon the wails
Reverberating from the red carpet
Of fresh blood
On streets.

The night preening
Its blue plumes
Drips as broken sounds
From the rows of poplars –
Silent spectres
Of Doom…

Child,
Do not cry.
Your beheaded doll
Will find a grave
Amid dark pits
Of deadly shrieks
Left unburied.

Child,
Hold
Tightly the velvety wings
Of a crushed butterfly
Even if you see
Blades
Of green grass growing
Out of smashed skulls!

Hear,
The ghosts
Of smoke
Have just sung songs
Of Spring
Blooming
As bleeding hearts
From burnt roses of Nishat Bagh.

Child,
You will not get
A bouquet
 Of colours.
In this land anymore,
Not even in the fractured fingers
Of your crayons.

Behold
Child,
Grey. Black. Red
Are the only colours left in Kashmir.
Forget the orange colour
Of your candy.

The brutal blue night
Will soon remove all hues
Except RED.

The Devil in the chopper
Tries to erase
Verses written
On the white wings of the wind
With his fingers
Smeared with ashes of charred bodies
That burnt upon charcoal
Of myriads of mornings.


Fire.
The serpentine tongue
Swallows
Glittering pictures
Of fairies and dwarfs
In your story books.
Tiny sparks hiss
On needles of rain.

Child,
Go
Inferno
Engulfs
The morning star
That trembles
On the liquid glass
Of your iris.

Cover your pink ears.
Fables. Rhymes. Claps
Are drops of molten lead.
Stories of blood and gore
Flutter as bats
Licking the flowers
On the wallpaper
Of your skin.

Strange hands
Throw the wounded scarlet sun
In the black lake
Where Laughter was slaughtered.
Even,
The dead eye of prophecy is lost
In distorted maps.

See,
Child,
Forest scents
Try to mend the shawl of the torn sky
That your mother covered herself with.
Dirty scraps of blue cloth
Fall on catacombs
Beneath chinar trees.

Child,
Tell me,
Will the world ever come to know
What it means
To breathe
Inside a dead womb?



END (Won First Prize in a National Contest of Museindia – an online journal)

The Cold Lamps




Chop a watermelon
crescents of moon will
float to The Forbidden City

pack twitters in bon-bon wrappers
it will bring an army of ants
their blood thick ink

little boats ferry a memory                become a seahorse
the Red Sea is a post office                of dead letters
the battle goes on... paper knives... stamps... Mont Blanc pens... martyrs
in Nobel museum

a water-train puffs towards a peony poem
bury it with honours
or at least seven salutes!

...years of literary leukaemia
Drips
On sparrows. Roses. Noses.
Churches. Birches. porches

Rip Atlas. The sky will flow in frontiers
There will not be any Earth...


END (Published in an issue of online journal Coldnoon Travel Poetics)

After the Inkpot Shattered



Night ogling at corrections, the tinkle of AC blades, clitter clatter of keyboard – Clapton’s broken w-or-d-s, sewerage pipes flushed with tin breaths, wreaths on cold statues, loudspeakers shut in terse words, flags that divide frontiers, assembly speeches growing as weeds near forlorn rose bushes, the stars trying to find Vinent Van Gogh on chilled window panes, street lights extending their fingers to scribble something on the outer walls, flush of their orange glow drained in dragonfly sorbet...! The cold black letters wet with print ink soak fumes of news. Poetry b…l…e…e…d…s between the gutter separating hundred columns on the chest of a dripping masthead. The dim morning lights see ghosts rising from the cheeks of broadsheets...!

                                                              
                                                                               - For Mohammad Zahid



END (Published in an issue of online journal Open Road Review)



Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Baqarkhani, Only a Sweet Memory Now




Bakarkhani. The very name is enough to send old Hyderabadis into a nostalgic mood. A luxuriously rich 14-layered bread garnished with slivers of nuts and a sprinkling of sesame seeds, the bakarkhani was once the star attraction of the table at feasts in Hyderabadi families. But today, only its memory remains, says Nawab Shah Alam Khan, whose family's mehman-nawazi and their heritage recipes are legendary. 

"I ate bakarkhani when I was a school boy. This Mughali bread travelled all the way from the North during the time of the Mughals and came to Hyderabad. It was a delicacy of the royalty — its time-consuming preparation is testimony to that fact. It used to be a bread rich in taste and texture," Shah Alam reminisces, adding, "Today, there are hardly any chefs left who know how to prepare it."

The secret to a perfect bakarkhani lay in the way it was baked, according to Sadaf Yasin, a Hyderabadi foodie, for whom the bakarkhani is the stuff of childhood . "Since it wasn't a native food, not many people were trained to make it. And whenever it was prepared for special occasions, we used to eat it with much delight," says Yasin, who recalls the laborious process that went into preparing this flavourful bread in the spacious kitchen garden of her ancestral home. "the bawarchi would begin his preparations early in the morning. He would dig the soil, and prepare the earthen tandoor from scratch. Meanwhile, a dough would be made of maida mixed with ghee, sugar, cardamom powder, nuts and khuskhus, and set aside for a couple of hours. This dough would then be rolled out into round discs, and put in the clay tandoor. The freshly-baked bakarkhanis would then be dipped in pots of pure ghee. The aroma and taste still lingers in my mouth," says Yasin.

Flaky on the inside, with a soft crust outside, the bakarkhani was served in quarters with accompaniments like qorma or kaliya. This usually made the first course of any lavish spread at weddings or other feasts.

Sadly, it's rare to find the authentic bakarkhani in Hyderabad anymore, even though it's still available in parts of Lucknow, old Delhi, Patna and Gaya. There are a few new variants of the bakarkhani though, that trace their origin to Bangladesh and Kashmir. But Nawab Alam Khan considers these "merely distant cousins" of the real bakarkhani. "They can be called bakarkhani naan or bakarkhani pastry, at the most," he says.

A recipe of modern version of bakarkhani naan

Ingredients: 
- 4 cups maida
- ½ tsp salt
- 2 tsp sugar
- 1 ½ tsp yeast
- ½ tsp powdered green cardamom
- 1 egg
-¼ cup ghee
- Milk to knead the dough
- Poppy seeds, a handful

Method: Sieve flour in a bowl. Add salt, sugar, yeast, powdered green cardamom, ghee, egg and mix well. Now, add milk and knead to a soft dough. Cover it for two hours and let it rise. Then, divide the dough into eight balls. Flatten on a pastry board and apply some ghee. Fold in half. Apply some more ghee on it and fold lengthwise. Fold again in circular way to make a ball. Press very lightly with your palms to flatten it. Sprinkle poppy seeds on it and bake it in an oven at 200°C for 10 minutes. Take out from the oven and lightly brush with ghee. Bakarkhani naan is ready. Serve with qorma or kaliya.

Recipe courtesy: Shah Alam Khan

URL:

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/life-style/food/food-reviews/Bakarkhani-only-a-sweet-memory-now/articleshow/45159577.cms?

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Broken Green

We die every moment with its sliver and then are born again the next moment. What dies inside us is born again. Maybe what died was a lily and next moment it blooms as a weed so green that the eyes hurt. A green of a broken soda bottle half buried in a forsaken backyard. But the glass blooms in a moment that is forever. That bloom moment that gave it its green. And then the atoms close their eyes hearing themselves being crunched under a tank, a brick or a red stiletto. The merry crunch is born. Crunch of a wound, of detachment of impermanence that is the only constant.