Fragrance Of The Dawn

Time will pass , so shall we.
Oh B'eloved i will meet you near the banks of Jhelum.

Kuch Dil ki suno!

Yaar tu yaad bohat ata hai.

New Season, new stories

Naat

What the truth demands is not an answer to the complexity of what is being asked, not the beautification of what falls into the hands like water so as to slip through the fingers, not the assertion of what the words weave, not the gratification of opinions, mere agreements and disagreements, nor the celebration of all the rigid prejudices, judgements and conclusions, not the rivers of hopes, not the abyss of hopelessness, not the sweetness of accomplishments, nor the cries of despairs and disappointments, nor this unending thirst of reaching somewhere, of being someone. Would you look at the simplicity of what lies right in front of you, that looks you into the eyes. Would you listen to its freshness? Would you? But then what are you? Who are you? What are you other than all the recollections, other than the stacked up images, piles of stories and dramas, songs of unending disputes and confusions and desires, of happinesses and despairs, unending pursuits of pleasures, a deep rooted pain, silly comparisons nourished by the vast insecurities, some brief moments of joys. These accumulations that give you the sense of self, that you are so scared of losing. What are you other than an idea, a pile of projections of all the old memories that you have accumulated, an idea that has nothing to offer other than the avoidance of what awaits, a reality most real than anything whatsoever, that encompases each moment. Now again, is this death something that you shall meet somewhere in the mere future. Wouldn’t that be yet another idea. But would you see that every idea is you, even this idea of what you call death. Do you see actually! Why don’t you see it! Why don’t you see the simplicity of how life gives and how death steals each moment. Is there anything that you ever own? Why would you hold on to anything, to anyone? Now, how very easy is it to accept it, or to reject it, but would you actually see it? This unadorned reality, the truth that whatever is known to you has to end, every small detail, everything and everyone you have ever known, all that you seem to cling to is so ephemeral, is incapable of staying with you. Would you see that simple truth, would you hold on to it. Would you die before the death actually confronts you? Would you be nothing? Would you be no one? Would you? But then what could be said of this nothingness! Can anything be known of it? Is there any description to it? Is there anything that would manifest in there. All that one can witness is its absolute freedom. Freedom that is boundless, independent of all. Then, maybe a doorway to what they say of that horizon where a drop meets the ocean, where ephemeral meets the eternal, limited meets the unlimited, form meets the formless, named meets the nameless, maybe this is where the known actually encounters the unknown. But once again, these are just words, mere ideas, just another projection of the mind, easy to accept or to reject. Would you die to all ideas and wipe away the hopes and the expectations that sprout out of them, like a deep dive into the ocean that knows no bounds, a deep subtle whisper that shakes every fibre of one's being, like that old musical instrument producing unending melodies, such a musk whose fragrance would lead home even the blindest from the darkest pits. Who knows what more...

Look at yourself, look at the hollowness in the paths you so blindly traverse. Every mirage so alluring, vastly beautified, with an innate desire of enslavement. You seem to take refuge with those who are adehered, who beautify words and speak of righteousness. Don't you see everything you accumulated in your deep sleep is too thirsty for all the authority it seeks to impose over you. Every moment they arrive to you with a hundrerd new realms of meanings and conclusions. The traps of doubts and confusions are the ropes with which they bind you to the master of trickery, the world of fear and hopelessnesses. See! There are walls, so full of images and ideas and memories, gains and losses, expectations and attachments, and what more. How foolish that you have been seeking your shelter in them, the proof of your being through them. Don't you see it's they who seek their existence through you. Ah! There is no one to guide you, but yourself. A little they know of what they seem to live through, is the light within, the light that lights the worlds. The inner guide, give yourself to that knowing, that frees you of this unending desire of yearning to be someone, to be known, to be witnessed, and to be identified. Learn to be a pure witness to what arrives and passes away, for that what can be taken away within a blink of an eye was never meant to be relied upon. Let the silent lion of magnificence, the sharp inner discernment, the eyes that see, let it shine through, and let it outstrip naked all the falsehoods that keep you so lost within their illusions. Don't even memorize what is being said in this moment, for mere ideas are but the blockages to what lies beyond. Keep feeding that knowing and stay bewildered within it. Learn to keep this candle glowing and glowing, for there is darkness in every step you pursue.

This ghazal is about River Sindh and River Jehlum. Love and affection between them and how they try to express their feelings for each other in a very different way

The night has arrived, welcoming the princess of the night, the moon, out there shinning elegantly, full and bright, so shy all day she is, veiled up, now unveiling herself, letting the silent admirers witness her beauty. She illuminates the silence of the night with her luminescence, intoxicating all those present as they drink of her beauty. The silent lake reflects her effulgence as the peices of dimonds sparkling. The wisteria, the night jasmine, the evening primrose, all bloom up and take the shape of her beauty, attracting the morning comers, the early wakers with their fragrance. The night beetles, the moths, the fresh grass grasshopers come out clicking and crackling, singing and dancing to her elegance. The grass collects the dew drops in the earnst of the upcoming dawn. All this happens in the wait of that union in the early dawn, for all night the moon has been beautifying herself in wait of the moment as she hides and completely disolves herself within the magnificance of the rising sun.