The Sound Of Lutes. 

The caravan arrived, finally, into the poetic city of Herat, after traveling for more than a year, after losing the lives of nine people and the theft of three chosen amulets of XXXXXXXXXX, the magnificent. There were beautiful women waiting for them, dressed in exotic silvery netted silk; these houris of Herat led Mahad Joo to his chamber. ‘Bring to me the illimunationist that has decorated this chamber, I want to place a kiss on his hands’; said Mahad Joo at his first sight of the chamber, he stood astounded at the fineness of its artistic allure. The chamber was blossoming with white roses and red tulips on the bed; the fine soozani silk work on his quilts, the needle carved tree of life on the deodar wood of his bed. The curtains swayed like tresses of a young maiden, and one of the houris told him that it was the one eyed maestro of hook work who imitated the tresses and locks on the white pashm. The floor grooved with a exquisite Hamadan carpet, on the corner of which was a swan necked silver flask of red wine, sparkling like a blurred star on some cloudy night. Joo was tired and fatigued but restless with the haunting memories of Khu’s face, he was waddling, all he heard were echoes of the marching horse hooves and all he saw was the face of godly beautiful Khu. And in this world of his own, he missed the sweet seductive gossip of houris. Joo tasted a few grapes and resigned to sleep. His eyes longed to rest, but his heart fluttered with it the memories of Khu and threw him up from the sleep. He squirmed, most of the night, untill Hakim Yousuf the clergy, got up for  tahhajud, the night prayers. Mahad too rose up from his bed and dared to face the naked arrows of memory, he poured the wine for himself and decided to write to Khu, though, he knew Khu had left no way that he could reach her, send her a message, or a prayer or just a greeting. In the middle of a dark night, a witchy brew of madness and passion, the goblet skull of wine, Mahad addresses Khu, the slurred writing…

Dearest Khu,

Love has overwhelmed me, then and now. I pray to you; allow me to weave a eulogy in your praise, which I know, wefts with itself the pinnacle of my malady.

This moment the world has paused, the sun stands still and moon yearns to oscillate, the heart macadamized under sorrow crawls in loneliness, and soul cries it all up to rove free from the lofty fetters of your love. All that was buried under the soil of helplessness, by the trees of dried tears, in the coffin that never found its lid, is out to haunt me. Your furious powers of enchantment have played their spell skillfully. Now give me a chalice of poison, for this blood red wine of Shiraz doesn’t get me high enough to skip the torment of pain. Your heart ravishing beauty grips me to the deepest, as the roots of these maple trees. Through my veins into my flesh you wander and you spike.

Oceans apart, on the other part of world, tons of miles away from the land of your glorious fragrance, nah, your terrible reek, I wither, I languish, I squirm, I shrivel and I lose. I lose it all to the charm of your grace, the heaven that your piercing glances bind. You are as alive in me, as you were on the day my eyes met yours.  You walked in the court-way with the haunting long of your golden hair, as if the Sun God was on its acme shining wondrous glow on the frozen lakes. And your eyes Khu, life of mine, those brown diamonds glittering like fireflies in the murky thick mist of wilderness, bewitched me, for the rest of my life and lanced my afterlife, eternally. Your gentle jasmine scented voice still lingers in my ears, that voice spoke eloquence to the nightingale. The furrowed brow that you have cures scores of their pain and brings to life the corpses, the messiah that you are. Your coral lips, sprouting with the wine of love deludes a hundred believers. That cypress figure of your stature, tall like the Alif in Ko’ran with the swan necked glance of yours can wreck the mortal cages and knock out souls of anyone. Your heart purloining pearly teeth, tulip-petal tongue, and that sweet daisy’s smile sprinkles a miraculous sandal scent in the air. I shall not speak of that luminous silvery shank that glowed like the candle in crystalline lantern, or I may suddenly die.

O heart scorcher, the sun is but a flower in the garden of your beauty, a thought of you is so enlivening and verdure that I forget myself like an inebriate lover. The dust of your feet that zephyr winds bring is worthier to me than the treasure of gods. On nights when you close your eyes, I stand besides your bed and burn like a candle not to wax, but to cinders. I melt.

Its has been ages since you left me, but the wounds of separation are still  open wide, fresh as the dewed fragrant narcissus and brutal as rusted darts inside the walls of chest. I want to see the person who has said that time heals everything, and I want to thrash my cane inside his back, liar, deceiver, and a bitch of a writer.

I wail and I wait. You haunt me, my love.

Mahad did not sign the letter and as was the norm, dumped it in the copper case of snake venom that Marjaan had gifted him long back in the cave of Koh-e-XXXXX. It was a little before the break of dawn, the moizein was calling faithful to join the prayers, and Mahad caught some sleep. His first day in the city of poets and …

]]> http://thekashmirweave.wordpress.com/2010/03/31/into-the-heaven/feed/ 11 thekashmirweave Abunddance http://thekashmirweave.wordpress.com/2009/11/08/echoes-of-the-chalice/ http://thekashmirweave.wordpress.com/2009/11/08/echoes-of-the-chalice/#comments Sun, 08 Nov 2009 13:28:47 +0000 thekashmirweave http://thekashmirweave.wordpress.com/?p=63 ]]> At the moment of my death, in longing for you ,
I die In the hope of becoming dust of your path,
I shall part with my soul.

At the dawn of judgment day,
when I raise from my ashes,
I shall only rise to search for you ,
to speak of you !

-Shaikh Sa’di.

Beya Jana, Enayat Kun To Moulanaye Rumi Raaa.

Is it so easy to forget everything. Aren’t there any blades that cut down the flesh, before an attempt to forget, forget the closest to heaven, is made. Have the silent echoes lost their power to blow through the hearts. Is a fake smile enough to hide the pain of separation in every breath. I wanted to be a kilim for your feet, but  could’nt even be dust of your door.  I cannot live like this anymore. My figures have lost.  Where do I have to tear my body and let my soul free, flying, far away to the winds of eternity, the streams of unseen. In the search of love. A moth. A flame. And a death.

Helplessness, the best word that depicts life, at least, far better than the common misnomer of life, is the crux of world. Deserve it, have the power, have everything, but stand helpless and pass a sharp needle through the lips to stitch them down, for, saying may hurt the ego. And then call it world. There is nothing in here. At the best of vision, this castle has an inept human dummy in two forms, one styled with the power and pride- the master, other in the pains of being -a slave.  Slowly and slowly they set every nook of lovelorn slave ablaze.And the silent slave, desperate to drink away the sweet poison of beloved, willingly dies a thousand deaths, every movement, hold, all without a word of protest. The joyous pain of burns rendering him ecstatic to register his transcendence into ashes. No smoke, no flame, just the ferocious fire of beloved. Let me stop it here , I curse myself, for I always forget these voices echo just in me, That these blades just have to cross my chest. I am alone.  Bring me the chalice, intoxicate me, annihilate me.

Since, my ears have touched Thy fervent voice,

Thence I threw away Kalima and cherished Zonnar,

Broke away from Kabba here I lay in the Infidel temple,

Lo, Thou looted away me, my faith, and my religion

Sema ; was bound to overtake the senses as the verses of this unsung mystic, flowed down the zealous strings of Rabab, to strike at heart and repose the tired soul into a neverland .Thin air was squeezing through the minds and souls were getting cleansed from worldly filth ,for Zargar’s ethereal verses were flying around the mountains .The gurgling springs and rivulets seemed to sing in unison with the eternal songs and exhilarating santoor sounds. Zargar is a desperate and inseparable moth to the glowing flame of mysticism. He is a mendicant that lies down at the door of mysticism -fakiri - and screams for the attainment of Divine. And rooh comes out of worldly cage to frolic around in the garden of Zargar.

an unseen realm ensues at the island of beauty,

the rivers of beloved flow everywhere, within me,

I saw him caress my painful sick heart,

and now he appears with his scimitar on my neck

I saw the kingly stay inside Kabba

and now he appears an infidel of the idol temple

I saw him shoot arrows of death

Ahad Zargar, I saw, offers his body to dwell them.

Abdul Ahad Zargar, the writer of codes, a philosopher, and a rebel who penned down most venomous verses was born in one of the most celebrated, fable piece of earth, the mysteriously unique picturesque valley often equated to heaven- Kashmir- in the year 1882. His father was a weaver, weaver of sophisticated wool – Pashmins – for which the weavers of vale have always been praised, everywhere, from ordinary home to royal palaces. And so was Ahad, he would weave the beauty of his land, soil filled with the linage of mystics, into his eternal words. He was multilingual in his verses and multi genera in expression, but his pyramid always strived in search of divine, the ultimate. His epigrams, couplets and Sufi Ghazals commingle three most ancient languages, that also form the languages of vast religious literature Arabic Sanskrit and Persian with native Kashmiri .Folk has it that, he started intensely fervent Sufi poetry at the age of 20. His early renuncification of the world and aristocracy enthralled the think tanks of all times. There are numerous enchanting hear-say tales attributed to this great mystic. For Zargar fakirii is -Kabba- the house of God, it is the name of beloved, it appears without and within as a vast treasure of knowledge, it is the crown of those who seek. Zargar strongly discerns Fakiri to be the only spiritual guide to the realm of supreme love – Ishq, in the full lyric Fakir.

In Kashmir where the concept of beauty and art has always been equated to godhood, Zargar proved the supernatural quality of his soil for producing Reshis and Sufis, by his ethereal Gnostic vision, ornate expression, skillful eulogy of the Prophet Muhammad (Peace be Upon Him ) and  preaching of Love in the contemporary times. He was the shining stalwart to continue traditional Sufi poetry after centuries old mystics like Lalla Ded and Nund Reshi. The unique blend of romanticism, humanism enciphered for the attainment of divine with amazing rhetori makes Zargar a distinguished visionary and Philosopher.

Zargar always articulated and emphasized the need of peace and was an inciter of love and harmony even in the most turbulent time of Kashmir, the chaotic times when first mass uprising and freedom struggle against the Maharajas was on peak. He was a versified and gifted poet with a unique Sufi insight and would hardly come out of his Sufi realm. The Pursuit of knowledge and the quest for divine is all the book of Zargar. Zargar left this world and transcended to hereafter in 1973 leaving behind his rich poetic literature and Sufi concept. Each year Sufi festival called Sham-e-Zargar - is observed at his tomb, as a tribute to literary legend.

Here comes Zargar Ahah, wrapped in Toubah,

all embarrassed, takes the entry in divine court,

with the zealous request – Astagfirullah Al Azeem,

Accept my repentance, O’ the Nobel.

Back in the garden of Zargar, the Tasawuff filled verses made the numbed souls to experience exultation in the spiritual path, the path to inner self.

Tears were gushing forth, unabated, as his lyric of repentance -Astagfirullal Al Azeem- was tending to end the ecstatic rejuvenation of souls. His time passed but Zargar still stands out luminous in modern day Sufi poets for his contribution to Sufism, Kashmiri literature and Philosophy.

Fakiri

the Burning sun of me,

the house of God ,the only way

the supreme king who  appears now and then

the house of God, the only way

Fakiri

the exhilarating garden as it blossoms,

the colorful garments as they wrap around ,

the wine of truth for unity decanters,

the house of God, the only way

Fakiri

the heady fragrance for the panging flowers ,

the alluring ornaments for the ears in hay ,

the effulgent light for all the environ,

the house of God , the only way

Fakiri

the treasure of knowledge for learned ,

the crown for those who seek the truth,

the reward for those who are righteous ,

the house of God , the only way

Fakiri

the guide to the secret treasure,

the leader to the divine court of Love,

the king of the nib and slate ,

the house of God , the only way

Fakiri

the owner of secrets and the Pious,

the fearless vanquisher of materialism,

the ‘Kalima’ between two ‘Meem’s of Arabic,

the house of God , the only way

Fakiri

the “Hoo” I saw , that exhales,

the form of soul that enters my mortal cage ,

the ark of Prophet Noah,

the house of God the only way

Fakiri

has been and will endure till eternity,

intoxicates me and ‘saqi’, us both,

the name for master of every wine,

the house of God , the only Way

Fakiri

Ahad Zargar lays down at your door,

You appear gloriously within and without,

You dwell in every nook and cranny of me,

the house of God , the only way

Astagfirullah Al Azeem : I seek forgiveness from the Great Allah.

Sema: a Persian term that means listening^,it has been used since the 10th century to refer to a type of dhikr (remembrance of God), a spiritual concert, a musical ceremony used by various Sufi orders.

Rebab: a two-stringed fiddled musical instrument used in many Muslim countries.

Santoor: a Persian (Iranian) musical instrument.

Zonnar: were distinctive clothing that dhimmis — Christians and Jews — in the Levant under the Ottoman Empire were required to wear as part of Islamic law.

Dedicated to a wonderful flower, Daisy.

Copyrights reserved-2009 The Kashmir Shawl Inc.

Translations: EbnMushtaq Shah, Srinagar.

Sketch: Sarang Latif Qazi , Karachi .

Clairvoyance. Yes, I denounce this world full of ivy acid, thudding away my age old elating wine, out of Thou exhilarating decanter into a wandering darkness. Ashes down there and flying around are that of my stoic innerself, which just burnt, with that loud fire prowling to cage me in me .I want to dwell deep into seclusion, somewhere far away on non human earth .My head is swarmed with words and artistry and more artistry.

Listen to me closely, listen:  These are no laments, not at all. They all were this to me, my ethereal soul, the soul that frantically echoes to reach Thee. Each of them. Roaming down these eternal streets, they stop me to usher, they do, but throw me deep down into howling me. And me, howling and asking to uncurtain the drabber of my zealous nerves, those jaded but trying ones. Yes, all my nerves. They are all the same. One and the same thing, they just appear and render me more scuffle within, putting those nails deep into my flesh. They make more and more howling down my burnt soul. I squirm. I know it is hard to believe but believing is the only gate of this cage palace.

And you, my life, I live within your breathe. Its me the denizen of you, I have long since resigned feebly to haranguing braids of your spiritual hair, your being and you. I wonder how my recluse soul not only accepted but sold me away to you and made me you. I am nowhere, yet I am you.

Veering me out of this frantic realm, a fake realm of these despots is Thou. The Exalted and Eternal. I frolic around and around, we have Thou. I turn to Thou, I tenor to thou in ecstasy, for I am a mendicant of Thee. These words can’t become a form of Thy eulogy. Certainly Thou are “Lord of two easts and Lord of two wests.”

The Passion in my restless soul rejuvenates and I live. As if I live.

PS: The Secret Garden is not any article, however, an secret expression.