Whispering Loud!

                 The pitter-patter of rain will not lull a Kashmiri to sleep for a long time. For the last two decades we have been touched by almost every shade of tragedy but, not even in our barren dreams did we contemplate that the paisley patterned life-line, roiling itself through every part of the valley, would turn lethal in such a manner. We never saw the scalpel; we never thought it would dagger our hearts . With a new chapter in The Book of Betrayals and river Jhelum as a new conspirator, Kashmir, yet again stands cursed! Believe it or not, we have factually seen it all; the worst of the worse and our quintessential resilience has prepared us as a populace, which has learnt to carry on with life rather exuberantly. Many say our cheerfulness is contagious. May be it is. Our grief, however, always has been our own. Non-contagious. Private. Oblivious of the despair that awaited us all, we embraced September with ope...

I nurture the nestlings and I caress the wings; I fashion the flights and I shapen the lives. Many a thoughts I romance, for I design the dreams; Many a skills I poetise, and thus the dark gleams! I embrace the frail and I unfetter the brave; I polish the rough and I neaten the naïve. Many a boats I anchor, for I brave the storm; Many a blades I steer, and thus shelter the lorn! I capture the dawn and I conquer the twilight; I unravel the mysteries and I enlighten the night. Many a cries I hear, for I bosom the maladies; Many a lines I smoothen, and thus scatter the smiles! I foster the frightened and I frame the fearless; I raise the leaders and I build the Nations. Many a roles I play, for I teach ; Many a souls I touch, and thus I breathe!

Every morning I wake up with my hair ruffled and I set it straight to look prim at work. At times I fall and after every fall I manage to rise. I dance in the rain and I let the rays of the sun seep into my skin. I have had dreams of the seventh heaven and I have slept for nightmares too. The maddening revelations of every passing day surprise me but I value each moment of my existence. After shedding a teardrop, I laugh and I laugh richly. This is how I live; this is how we all live. This is how we learn the lessons of life; this is how we come to terms with the routine. Like any other ordinary human being I too am habitual of this incredible assortment of ups and downs called life and I am at peace with its various moods. I am a Kashmiri. I have seen blood on my streets and have yet touched the tulips of all sizes and all shades. I have cried at the martyrs’ graveyard and have also lied down on the lush green meadows of my valley. I have learnt the secret of coexistence o...

Once upon a time a powerful wizard lived in the perimeter of a prosperous empire. He was intellectually crisp and his magical spells were as captivating as the eyes of an enchantress. A few months ago, the wizard had lost the love of his life to a merciless command of this ethically unblemished empire and in despair he vowed to take revenge. His resentment was so strong that he hated every living soul of the kingdom and in order to put his aching heart to rest he placed a magic potion in the well of the region from which all the residents drank. The effect of the potion was believed to be thrilling and whosoever drank from the well would lose his mind. A bruised lover can be a sadist of an unbelievable level! Anyway, the poisoned well was the communal well and the only source of water for the masses and the next morning the entire population drank from it. As expected the first toss down was enough and every face transformed into a canvas of i...

To Murtaza Bhutto’s Fatushki, Quoting Khushwant Singh, SONGS OF BLOOD AND SWORD is “Written in impeccably beautiful prose...gutsy”. It is! And you, Fatima Bhutto, are a colossal writer. Of course, you don’t need a word for that from someone as ordinary as I am but your Papa, I am sure, would have been extremely proud of your work. You are prolific and that is no surprise. After all, genes are to be inherited!   I think someday we will have a legend of how a wicked master of black magic cursed the Bhuttos of Larkana under an evil spell. Pray! Why would one of the best political dynasties’ of the world be doomed! Acumen, one is in awe of; destiny, one dismays. Written in plain English (one hardly needs a dictionary) SONGS OF BLOOD AND SWORD grasps a reader’s mind and soul and it is difficult to take a break. Just so you know, I kept reading while eating ;-). As a novelist you unquestionably know how to ‘touch a heart and hold it too.’ Thank you for publicizing the letters ...

Yet again, the world dances to the glory of her tulips masking the blush of her face with soiled hands, she mourns. Vivid and vivacious, her crimsons wake up to vernal spring, In solitude, she wails for the buds that ne’er bloomed. Unfolding her laden arms, she embraces April showers her heart pounds as doves glide and nest on her meadows. Pretty as a picture, a seventh heaven to one and all, she calls for the last May flora, that smelt no summer. Her lakes hold the Sun and cascades tease her curves A gentle caress rouses a bruise and in abyss she falls. 'What're the untold tales, my wounded Paradise?' Ah!    The voiceless whispers of the besmirched belles. The changing colours change her emergence; the season of heart changes no more, with a disguise of delight, she nurtures the desire of timeless peace.Or is it just lore!