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Madness & Sanity
In the following essay, i will examine the terms madness and sanity, their evolutionary backgrounds, whether a harmonious equilibrium between the two is achievable, and the role played by each in our survival as a species. Sanity, in colloquial sense of the word, means to be in your right mind, conforming to the standards, being a part of the mob and
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Mysticism and Contemporary Mainstream Islam
One of the prominent teachings of Islamic mysticism is that everyone is entitled to their own personal quest for God. An enticing implication of this idea is that one has infinite freedom in making choice of The Path, and nonconformity is not just welcome but highly looked upon, which perhaps is why Islamic mysticism caught
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نمک آلود
ماضي کے نيم وا دريچوں سے رِستي ياديں کھڑکي پہ رينگتے بارش کے قطرے کسي آنکھ سے بہتے آنسو سب کتنے مماثل ہيں سب نمک آلود ہيں۔
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آسيب
‘چيختی ہوآئيں ‘دھڑدھڑآتے دروبام کڑکتي بجلياں –اور اُن ميں اُبھرتے مٹتے کچھ دھندلے نقوش !سنو دل کے کھنڈر ميں يادوں کے مدفن ميں آج آسيب ہوا ہےـ ‘پھر محفل سجے’ رونق لگے وحشت سے ديواريں تھرّا جائيں کچھ صدائيں’ کچھ سسکياں اِن قہقہوں کے جھرمٹ ميں کہيں دم توڑ جائيں۔ دُور’ بہت دُور کوئئ ہنس
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Symphony
There is a fable that once upon a time, right after the town-clock struck midnight, the gangsters gathered in the town-hall and fired pistols at moon. The suburban sky lit up, the stars faded in the brilliant firework and a sweet smell of sulfur filled the damp night air. The moon bled silver that night. The gunshots rhymed. The bats fluttered back and
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Tempest
You, a raging storm, in ocean deep. I, a fisherman, far from the shore.
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Remem-Trance
3 am: Like an uproar of stray dogs in the quiet, shady downtown; irrational, wild, intense. Your remembrance.
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Backstreet
Treading the backstreets, On the hopscotch-chalked sidewalks, And in the strings of strange Trennbare verbs Of a stranger language, I have often secretly tried To trace your immaculate form, Connecting the invisible dots That lay all around, Scattered, Like silver mercury on earth.
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A Canvassed Dusk
“Do you see the red line floating across the golden ball of sun? This thin streak that splits it into perfect halves like a neatly cut melon?” He fell silent contemplating the moment, the texture, the rich acrylics. “Can you imagine what was it that she thought, that her brush dipped in red ripped through
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Ticking clock…full stop
Now that you’ve hurled the stone, you turn on your heel and walk away. Somewhere far down, there’s a splash. Under the orb of night, little silvery beads of water try defying gravity, creating ripples, gyrating spirals in spirals. The murky waters quiver; your stone fades somewhere in the dense amalgam of dirt-brown and gloom. An endless
Eastern Vagabond
Essays on travel, cities, memory, and the unnoticed textures of the world.