Stories about poem

He was one-and-twenty, but his circumstances failed him

It was a big day for Murad. He was finally going to sit in the classrooms meant for students doing Masters at the English Language and Literature Department of Forman Christian College, Lahore. This was something he had been looking forward to for the last four years. He had, in fact, not applied anywhere else and the admission committee was keen to know why. “This is my home. I topped university examination from this college. Besides everything else, I have an inexpressible emotional bonding with this department, for the mentors who groomed me, the friends I have spent four years with, and ...

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Meeting Dr Wahidur Rahman, again

When I touch my heart, It starts to bleed, Like the hit of a dart. I miss Sir Wahid.   He showed me patience, He offered helpful advice, He created memories for me, On truth and beauty suffice.   As bright as the sun, How gentle he seemed, In my mind right now, He floats like a dream.   He trained us for the world ahead, He instilled us with hope. “Don’t lose sight,” he told us, “You won’t be able to cope”.   When the dark day came, With its mournful deed, Hundreds of shoulders volunteered, To carry and bury Wahid.   He was taken away, Bid adieu for the very last time. He was escorted to his destination, In the hollow, the timeless, the sublime.   He left ...

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Another untold story

I walk down the road, Alone in the dark, Hiding my past, Hiding my face, Hiding what has left a mark.   Pointing fingers, Hurting words and each curse. All faith dies, Strength drown, And hopes disperse.   A blot has nested, A taint that is so weak yet so strong, I knock doors, Search whither I link, To whom I belong?   They left me forgotten, Forsaken in the crowd, To die with charge, To bury my voice under the shroud.   To conceal all secrets, To tuck away each word, To masquerade the truth, To let the story stay blurred.   My arms were locked and I tried to get lose, Holding on to my popping hopes, Burning with ...

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Not her fault

I saw her eyes as she begged, I said forgive me and she left, I wondered what her life was like, Why she begged, where she slept at night. Because her feet were bare, Her clothes were torn, But was it her fault that she was born? In a family that can’t give her, All the things a child may want? *** Five-years-old when they came, Broke her innocence, broke her to shame, But why should she feel this way? Was the pain not enough, and now the shredded name? She was found somewhere in a ditch alone, Her clothes were torn, Her smile was gone. But was it her fault that she was born? In a world that gives men, All ...

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Come, see…

Out beyond the realms of these unseen waves, There was a world, a world of existence, a world, which consciously breathed. Warm moist air, was actually felt against, an acne ridden cheek. A world where unclipped, the nails grew, and unchecked, the hair greyed. A world, where emotions were all over the place; Where corneas glistened, lips curled and the starched skin wasn’t taut, with toxins Blunt affect was seen as a disease, people passed a smile, not typed a smiley Flat faces, behind flat screens, the world of today, ruins within sutured seams. But that darned tea stain, does it still not evoke a certain familiarity? Protagonists were ...

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Accuse and abuse

Expect, An elaborate depiction, Of maternal incest, For a giddy evening, Should not be blandly left. Paint the picture, And then, pervert it well. Really, what good is an abuse If not aimed below her belt? Accept, The just Jirga has finally said, For an honour to be reclaimed, Residential access of it, Must be gained. Hold her down, as you spread her around, Snatch it from, where it used to belong. Really, what good is an accusation, Without some perks, Deflowering virgins, For the privileged ones? The post first ...

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Whitewashing

Our names will never roll around their tongues, With the delicacy and finesse, Of the mothers who named us. After 14 hours of birth, Sweaty, sticky, spicy, sweet, tangy names with stories and secrets. Our names in foreign mouths Are like spices with unexpected Sharp thorny flavours, Spat out in discomfort, Pronounced with pain, And anglicised quickly like a cool drink of water.   So that Dureshawar becomes Rey, And my own name In my mouth Feels like a dry, flavourless biscuit. And they laugh when I can’t recognise Myself being announced at banquets. When I cannot recognise my placard On the table; When they demand I leave by the backdoor. It is always by my father’s name.   Our names will ...

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If I had my life to live all over again…

If I had my life to live over again, I’d simply be me. I’d live with fewer inhibitions, I’d care less about what people think of me and look at myself through my own mirror. I’d walk barefoot on the cool wet grass more often, I’d watch more sunsets, I’d listen to the music of my heart and live by it, I’d walk with my head high and smile, even if mounds of worry overwhelm me. I’d spend more time with myself, just myself. I’d dare to make more mistakes. I’d say ‘no’ more often. I’d appreciate others more, I’d try giving more and not worry about ingratitude, I’d live with lesser insecurities, I’d express my happiness ...

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Aao bacho sair karain tumko Pakistan ki: Not an ordinary nursery rhyme…

There is a very famous poem, by a very famous poet, written in a more hopeful and exuberant time. It has been set to wonderful, cheerful music and is taught to children everywhere. And in the video below, a child sings something that sounds very much like it. But listen carefully. The music has the same happy lilt, but the words are horribly different. So different, in fact, that a few people I showed this video to were seriously offended at what they consider to be a serious perversion of a great piece of art. The original poem and its English translation ...

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The war within and the war outside

It is early morning, The sky is still dark outside, The house is silent. I take my cup of tea And turn on the computer, Scanning different news sites, From around the world. My eyes run over the headlines, In that hope of finding, Some evidence of humanity, Somewhere.   But there is none.   The advanced technology, That brings the world to my fingertips, By encasing it on the keyboard, Has yet to find solutions, Or resolutions, For the dreary, never-ending disputes, Between nations and its people.   The weary world continues to be at war.   I turn off the computer, And walk to the television, Hope a little sparked, That it might bring me, Better news, From some corner of the world. A sliver, a hint of harmony, amity, ...

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