NEW YEAR

The year will
die tonight
and a new one
will come and take its place
this has been
and this shall be
ever and ever
in to the eternity
and in to the time

but i shall not be
always there
to light candles
and break in to applause
on the stroke of midnight
no one shall be

we are allotted
only few midnights
and few candles
and few fireworks

we are strange
we know all
but we pretend
we know not
every minute
every day
we wither away
the decay is in
our genes
in the programme
and then a moment
we cease to be
going away
as if a whisper
between the leaves
as if
a bubble with the rain

let us party tonight
wear our caps
pointed up
in to the sky
let us pretend
we are immortal
never to die
never to decay
till the lights are on
till the stroke of midnight
let us dance
to the beat of time
to the wink of stars
and to the whiff of leaves

let us dance
to the rustle of dresses
to the paint on lips
to the scents in the
room
to the looks
of amorous night
to the sacredness of souls
let us drink
to the tears of
children
sweat of men and
the blood of women

let us sing
to the sprout of buds
to the golden wheat
to the luster of corn
to the milk
to the honey
and to the nectar

to the bees
and to the birds

till the midnight
the stroke of twelve.

NOSTRDAMUS

i wasn't awake
i wasn't asleep as well
my senses dull
but my mind ran
over the hills
galloping wild
in that meadow
over that ridge
within the valley
along the river

spring came
and went away
autumn came
and went away
and with snow
all around
the king arrived
and rode in his royal carriage
the streams rolled a silver carpet
the springs shot up fireworks
in to the sky


i saw the trees
being reborn from old wombs
in the earth
i saw the wind acting
a mid wife and the breeze kind nurse


i wasn't awake
i wasn't asleep either
through that night
when stars were born
and moons were lit

a sun was torn from a heap of suns
in the night of heaven
the day was placed
and i was given
the golden key
to open the gate
and let the angels out


in to the backyard
entered the leopards and took away
the little pups
and their mom
roamed around
seeking her kids

i was the Nostradamus of your age
i saw it happen
before my time
and so was blinded
by the sight
and put in to the well
for thieves to come
and rescue the boy

whose father had
blinded himself
and smelt his sweat
and heard his blood
on a worn out shroud

they did a mistake
they forgot about me
i wasn't awake
i wasn't asleep either

IT WAS HER

fragrances are always deceptive
traveling over spaces
and marching over time

i know she wasn't around
how could she in that din,
in that traffic,
soot and smoke,
dust and grime

how could she
ever be there
but ask my senses
it was her ,it was her

with a gush of wind
with a whiff of air
with a draught from the sea
her fragrance came
and entered my being

ON WAY TO MUMBAI

he seemed to me
a simple man
obedient to the will of God
with a long beard and
sporting a skull cap
at peace with the world

i saw him numbling
a string of beads
an offering to his God
i saw him kneel in prayer
five times a day

i talked to him of life
he talked to me of death
of all his acquaintances
whom he had met
at the hospital in Mumbai
five years ago and how
only his wife survived
the onslaught of cancer
and how all this was by
the grace of God that
fifth year in a row
her tests were good.

we said good bye
at Bandra terminus
be it then that sixth year
and seventh and on and on
his wife lives and his faith
outlives him and his God
and his mercy outlives all.

Masterpiece

today i must
write a masterpiece
an offering to
divine sarswati
who like a magical swan
swims on the sandy river
of muse and rhyme
but what should i write
and how should i write
for the former nothing is known
and for the later i have no pen

but a masterpiece i must write
even with no sense and
even with no pen
sense is the virtue of the fools
and pens are flaunted by the illiterate

Tonight

tonight i am my own friend
come to see me after a long time
together we shall sit on the terrace
in the moonlit night
drink to the stars up in the sky
recollect the old childhood friends
and re- say all those boyish jokes
and laugh our hearts out

tonight we shall hand in hand
descend the meadow
and ascend the hill
bask in the sun and
lazy around
on the turf of past
collect pebbles and toss them up
run after the rabbits in the woods
make a snare with
a strand of horse's hair
and lay a trap for little birds


tonight me and my bossom friend
shall see each other
in the mirror of time
leafing through the dusty books
reading aloud the poems
and singing the songs
that we never wrote.

River Bank Opera

it is good to
go and sit on the river bank
and throw pebbles in to the water
create a ripple for a fleeting second
and watch it dissolve with the tide

the early morning rays of sun
play a dance on the bank
and enact an opera
on the stage of sand
the trees dotting the edge
watch in silence
and record the moves
on their leaves for posterity

the divine play
plays itself out
every morning
on the river bank
but oblivious to this and all
the river flows
keeping its course
never knowing where to go


but i have a date with time
an engagement foretold
written in a huge book
the book of accounts
the book of actions
and i must go.

Selfish Birds

birds are selfish ,
they descend on to my lawn
when i offer them
crumbs of bread,
no sooner, they pick
the last speck,
they fly off
hovering above
lawns and homes
searching for crumbs.

men are fools
offering their palms
to the beaks of
hungry birds

the scratch on the soul,
the indelible mark,
the timeless burden,
the gnash in the heart

the empty lawn,
the green desert
and the sand of grass,
let them not descend
on to my lawn
i too have spent
the last of crumbs.

Random Thoughts

let us meet somewhere,
it has been ages ,since
we sat on the steps
of the ghat and watched boats,
ferry across loads of men,
women and children
all on their way to somewhere


if we make it today
to the same ghat
let us enquire from the waves
and ripples on the water
as to weather all those men,
women and children
who had crossed the span;
what happened then?
who met whom and who came home?


it has been ages,
generations have come
and generations have gone
a thousand suns have risen and sunk
in to the water in front of me.

a lonely, dull moon hangs there
outside my window,
the chill in the air cuts a sinew
i am frozen to the core,


my friend has sent me a note
on the facebook
in an alien tongue
which i cant read.

people are the same
making families
raising children
building homes
opening accounts in
the nearest banks

my papers lie on the table
the tax return, the unpaid bills
the medical insurance
and my will
yet unwritten .

FAREED PARBATI'S PEN

Fareed too has gone away ,
in search of what ?
he only knows
he didnt see me
before he left
i would ask him
of unknown destination
the journey at hand



he was a tall man
handsome, robust
full of energy
the energy he put
in to his prolific pen


and the pen
did he take it with
i need to know
for if his pen remains
on this side of the mirror
he will return,
with the coming spring

and unravel the mystery
mystery of the rubai,
Sarmad's rubai
and Khayyam's rubai
the fifth hemistich,
the un written muse,
the unthought thought ,
the un said word,
the un sung song

i shall wait for him to come
for he has left his pen behind.

FROM ECHO

میہ کیاہ کرِ یُن گژھن سونتک تہ ھردک
بھار آسن ھرد آءسن دپُس گژھ
چلس چھس بیوٹھمت پننس دلس منز
پنن آسن پرد آسن دپس گژھ
(میر غلام رسول نازکی)
spring or autumn ,day or night nothing matters
be it sun, be it snow send it away
i am at peace in the recesses of my soul
be it friend, be it foe send it away
(mir ghulam rasool nazki)
translation by a.r.n

ALL DAY LONG....My poems for Shahid Ali...contd..9

the spider built a lovely web,
from this wall to that wall and
from this corner to that edge
laying silken thread, then
crossing them with more threads,
until at last a fine masterpiece was woven.

then the master craftsman
took in the view and felt good
the time to relax
and sit back had finally come


so he slid himself between the threads
and drifted in to a deep slumber

wind is like death
it keeps no calendar;
a depression there in the far off lands
in some bay or over an ocean
brings a disturbance
and destroys homes

spiders have nothing to fear
they have no business with the ocean,
its rising tides or ebbing waves

but then spiders are funny creatures
building webs
and getting enmeshed between the lines

ALL DAY LONG....My poems for Shahid Ali...contd..8

come let us collect the pebbles
on the shore of this river
and build a mansion
with glass windows and latticed screens
hang all the trophies,
we won in the school
on the walls and
spread childhood dreams on the floors
and search for the 81 squares in the
suduko game


nine, all the nine on every side ,column and row
nine, and all the nine in every square up and down,
but then the ill clad sages in the ancient times
in deep woods and upon the hills
found the zero

what would we do without a zero?
our suduku will not do
for it has no place for a zero,
the multiplication tables
have to be memorized afresh

come let us count the pebbles
on the shore of this river
and make an inventory of our dreams.

ALL DAY LONG....My poems for Shahid Ali...contd..7

again it is a friday and the muezzin has called
the faithful to prayer,
i must hurry lest i miss the mercy of my lord,
up above the world so high,
like a diamond in the sky,
but no wait a bit
that would be blasphemous but,
the nursery rhymes are for kids
and kids have nothing to do with god,
only adults commit sins and need mercy
i am digressing yet again,
the prayer is at hand ,
all lined up sinful souls in bright clothes
straight up ,then they kneel'
then they bow then they ask
with chocked voices and misty eyes
oh!lord the merciful the beneficent
have pity on our soules and rest us in eternal peace

ALL DAY LONG....My poems for Shahid Ali...contd..6

little dew drop on the blade of grass
a little diamond on the file,
a ray from sun piercing through,
dancing colors,the rainbow of life


he was away all day,
his little girl all alone,
waited ,waited for him to return
but the shadows lengthened and the time shrank
like a new garment
in a washing machine
the speed control having gone bust

they fished out yet another body from the river
they buried yet another bundle of bones

stars are funny ,twinkle in the sky
winking at the mortals below

and the sun having retired for the night
conspiracies hatch in the dark
chicken have finally come to roost

the village has lost its count
of the sheep gone away
the wolf has befriended the shepherd
and the eagle is in love with the chick

last year's corn is still there
hands of harvest have been broken
the sickles have been taken away
the trial is about to begin afresh
all the accused have been killed
justice has always taken its course

nightingales and house sparrows and the doves
in droves landed on my lawn
where this year too narcissus is about to come
and await the bombur
black blackish blue
humming an amorous song

ALL DAY LONG....My poems for Shahid Ali...contd 5

in a jiffy i went across
all the heavens and the earth
beyond the void in to a void
there with golden bars built a cage
for my heavenly bird
but alas! unfasten the door
the bird flew off
and saw a huge fire upon the ground
a necklace of pearls
an iron cage and a clever crow
in search of life feigning death
saved himself
i was left stranded on the shore of
nothingness void deep and dense
in every sinew and around
the fire !the fire ! people shouted
but no one cared

ALL DAY LONG....My poems for Shahid Ali...contd..4

it wasnt easy in the begining,
but by and by and one by one
wounds healed and sores repaired
strange, today no one remembers
the lion who mauled the simple folk,
village was then as of now ,
close to the woods
and lions and bears ,foxes and jackals,
roamed around as human beings,
never touching any for prey

but then something happened
and a lion became the man eater
and wrought havoc on the village

but this is not in the novel ,
lord of the rings
or the rambo for that matter
alif laila the thousand nights
bakers shop and the workshop
the story tellers books
all were burnt in the oven
the flame from orchard wood
doesn't soot the face
and is mild on the eyes

i know you will come
and put the record straight
and write the linkings
in the tale but when?
no one in the village knows!
all young boys have been away,
while women collect the firewood and
little girls with ponytails play with daffodils
on the green,
little boys with rosy cheeks play in mud

king is here ,salute the king
present the thief and
tie him up, let us collect the wild strawberries
for fun

i know as the lines on my palm
that you are here in the hay stack
with the blue eyed and rosy cheek, little girl
but a needle i cant find.

ALL DAY LONG....My poems for Shahid Ali...contd

you are around
i do not know,
but for sure,
someone has been,
opening the window
and letting the sun in

the moss on the carpet
shrunk and shriveled ,
has dried up
a feather freshly shed,
by a pigeon lies here
for sure someone
has been in.

the autumn leaves
whisper again
but never take your name
the lazy brook passing by
looks like a serpent
awaiting his prey

yet i know you are around
but where ? i do not know

ALL DAY LONG....My poems for Shahid Ali...A tribute

this poem was written when he died on 8Dec 2001(published 16Dec 2001)
---------------------------------------------------------------
agha shahid ali
my bossom friend ,
i never saw
but often met,
as part of me,
for i too belong to
''the country without a post office''
and part of ''half inch himalayas''
is also mine.
agha shahid ali and me
were of same age
but he grew faster than me,
he knew all along
that when snow
on the lofty peaks melted
and apple blossom overtook the scene,
he had a rendezvous
with death and
agha shahid ali and
his illustrious ancestor,
rode a beutiful steed
and traversed the endless
meadows of time,
on the way to kashmir.

ALL DAY LONG....My poems for Shahid Ali

the murderer was sheathed
within the sword.
and he rode a purebred steed,
galloping in to the endless desert
of yesterday

pigeons had hardened their wings,
the long marathon flight
above the endless ocean
had at last commenced

and their through the latticed windows
of the dargah
hundred pairs of eyes watched
the congregation getting restive
but nothing happened
no one moved
not a word was ever said.

ALL DAY LONG

all day long i thought of you,
in the wilderness of my mind,
i created many an oases
and imagined trees, with branches of ivory
and in them, nests woven in golden thread
birds of silver rested there
laying eggs of emerald green

all day long i thought of you
in the vast desert of my soul
gushing springs roaming around
planting handfulls of life in to the sand

all day long i thought of you ,
on the lofty mountain of time,
step by step,rock by rock
ascending the heights
(ayaz rasool nazki)

Kashmir and Iran have a history to share: Academic

Srinagar, India, May 12, IRNA -- A Kashmir University Professor, who attended this year’s Nowroz festivities in Iran, said that President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was the embodiment of simplicity and that women were enjoying freedom and safety in Iran.
Prof Ayaz Rasool Nazki in his impressions which appeared in the Greater Kashmir newspaper wrote: “Some talk of Iranian women being confined to their homes or wrapped in a cloak is a big lie. While in a bookshop or in a bazaar, one can not but make a note of the fact that Iranian women, elegantly dressed, are seen everywhere. We saw young girls working wherever we went. We saw them in restaurants, hotels and shopping malls. We saw them in the public parks. We saw them moving on Tehran roads even during night hours. We saw Tehran as perhaps the only city safe for everyone without any visible security presence.”

Impressed by the simplicity of the Iranian head of the state, Prof Nazki wrote, “28th of March was designated as the day of cultural and academic exchange between the participating delegations. We arrived at the Roudaki foundation and took our seats in the auditorium. It was to be a routine affair and no VIPs were expected to grace the occasion. Sitting in the front row myself, Professor Aftab from Lahore, Professor Kuhnjali from Kerala and others waited for the programme to start. Looking towards my left I was perhaps the first to realize that the person coming towards us accompanied by only one person was President of Iran, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”

This is unlike anywhere in the world where the arrival of Presidents and Prime Ministers to public events precede lot of pomp and show, he said.

“We immediately sprang to our feet and introduced ourselves to him. He (President) shook hands, smiled and said ‘Shuma Dar Qalbe Ma Hastin’ (you are in our heart),” Kashmiri professor wrote.

“President Ahmadinejad is a fine orator and can speak for hours quoting verbatim passages from great masters of Persian poetry,” he went on adding that Iranians in general are extremely articulate and the language is so sweet that one wishes to continue listening and when the speaker is someone like Ahmadinejad, the show can go on and on, but the president was brief and to the point. He talked about Nowroz and the unity and solidarity of people of the world.”

President was like a poet statesman rising above politics and talking about human values and aesthetics.

“After the President, the next speaker began his speech but our attention was towards the person sitting among us. That was the President of Iran, simplicity personified. Wish there were many like him around us. It is very well known about the Iranian President that he leads a very simple life, does his own chores,” the professor wrote.

The programme went on till evening and there were mesmerizing performances. Music from the entire region soothed our ears. Listening to course after course, one could discern the underlying evolutionary thread. It was very easy to identify similarities between Tajik music and Kashmiri Chhakri, the nuances of Baande Jashn could be recognized in Mazandaran and so on and even beyond music, languages were similar and many of our academics from these countries were able to understand the themes being presented without the benefit of translations.

Lamenting the decline of Persian culture and language in Kashmir, Professor Nazki wrote, “In our case the picture was blurred because we have unfortunately divorced our relationship with Persia. What ties all these cultures across countries retain the Persian language which is widely understood.”

Writing about the life in Tehran, he wrote, “The cursory look on prices of essential commodities in Tehran convinced me that on an average the prices were lower by around 25 per cent – 30 per cent for most of the things as compared to prices in India. Tehran appeared to be an affluent city and lots of construction activities could be seen in and around the city.”

“We also took a round of a bazaar nearby Tehran University where we saw many book shops and thankfully many of those were open despite Nowruz holiday. It was a real treat. Iranians know how to print books beautifully.'

They do not compromise on the quality of printing, paper and production. As a result, every book on a book store shelf appears to be a collector’s item.

This was really something we are not used to seeing.

Aga Shahid Ali.......a decade of silence..

Agha Shahid Ali

---

THE WALLED CITY: 7 POEMS ON DELHI
AT JAMA MASJID, DELHI
QAWWALI AT NIZAMUDDIN AULIA’S DARGAH
THE JAMA MASJID BUTCHER
THE EDITOR REVISITED
KASHMIR WITHOUT A POST OFFICE

---

THE WALLED CITY: 7 POEMS ON DELHI

1
From tomb to tomb,
I chew the ash of prayers.
Won’t poetry happen to me?

Caught in the lanes of history,
don’t I qualify now?

I have even seen Allah in rags
extend the earth like a begging bowl.

2
The Two-Nation Theory is dead
But the old don’t forget.

In this city of refugees,
trains move like ghosts.
The old don’t forget.

My friend’s grandfather,
hoarder of regrets,
cautions: Those Muslim butchers:
Be careful, they stab you in the back.
I lost my beloved Lahore.

My friend and I are rather simple:
We never saw the continent divide.

3
The streets light up
with the smiles of beggars.
Words fail me,

for I need a harsh language.
But I’m comfortable
like an angry editor.

4
I carry the beggar-woman’s hunger
in my hand

as her eyes follow me to my poems,
follow me into the coffee house
where I’m biting into her,

eating morsels of her night.

5
The bootblack brushes my shoes:
Does my heart beat in my feet?

His knuckes carry the memory
of this city.
My shoes shine like death

as I wait at the bus stop
for Delhi’s dome of sweat
to break into a monsoon of steel
and rip my Achilles heel.

6
Believe me,
he sat here in this dirt corner
winter and summer, winter, summer.

This morning he wasn’t there
with his ancient beard
and his stretched-out hand.

The sweeper said he took him away
with the morning garbage.

7
A safe distance of smells.
The restaurant airconditioned,
I drink my beer.

Outside the beggars
laze in empty tins,
peeling the sun,
their used beer-can.

Waiter, get me another beer!

---

AT JAMA MASJID, DELHI

Imagine: Once there was nothing here.
Now look how minarets camouflage the sunset.
Do you hear the call to prayer?
It leaves me unwinding scrolls of legend
till I reach the first brick they brought here.
How the prayers rose, brick by brick?

Shahjahan knew the depth of stones,
how they turn smooth rubbed on a heart.
And then? Imprisoned
with no consoling ghosts,
bent with old age,
while his cirgin daughter Jahanara
dressed the cracked marble reign
his skin kept up for so long.

---

QAWWALI AT NIZAMUDDIN AULIA’S DARGAH<

1
Between two saints he shares the earth,
Mohammad Shah Rangeele
(evoked in monsoon khayals).
The beggar woman kisses the marble lattice,
sobs and sobs on Khusro’ pillars.
In a corner Jahanara, garbed in the fakir’s grass,
mumbles a Sufi quatrain.

We recline on the gravestone,
or on the saint’s poem, unaware
of the sorrow of the pulverized prayer.

Time has only its vagrant finger.
Knowing no equal, it pauses for massacres.

2
Suffering has its familiar patterns:

We buy flowers for Nizammudin’s feet,
dream in the corner to the qawwal’s beat.
The saint’s song chokes in his throat.

The poor tie prayers with threads,
accutomed to their ancient wish
for the milk and honey of Paradise.

3
I’ve learnt some lessons the easy way:
I’ve seen so many, even a child somewhere,
his infant bones hidden forever.

Stone, grass, children turned old:
The dead have no ghosts.

4
These are time’s relics, its suffered epitaphs:

I come here to sing Khusro’s songs.
I burn to the end of the lit essence
as kings and beggars arise in the smoke:

That drunk debauched colourful king
dances again with hoofs of sorrow

as Nadir skins the air with swords,
horses galloping
to the rhythm
of a dying
dynasty.

The muezzin interrupts the dawn, calls
the faithful to prayer with a monster-cry:

We walk through streets calligraphed with blood.

---

THE JAMA MASJID BUTCHER

Urdu, bloody at his lips
and fingertips, in this
soiled lane of Jama Masjid,

is still fine, polished
smooth by the generations.

He doesn’t smile but
accepts my money
with a rare delicacy

as he hacks the rib of History.
His courtesy grazes

my well-fed skin

(he hangs this warm January morning
on the iron hook of prayer).

We establish the bond of phrases,
dressed in the couplets of Ghalib.

His life is this moment,
a century’s careful image.

---

THE EDITOR REVISITED

You still haven’t called me a poet, Dear Sir,
and I’ve been at it,
this business of meanings, sometimes delayed,

selling words in bottles, at times in boxes.

I began with a laugh, stirred my tea with English,
drank India down with a faint British accent,
temples, beggars, and dust
spread like marmalade on my toast:

A bitter taste: On Parliament Street
a policeman beat a child on the head.
Hermaphrodites walked by in Saffron saris,

their drums eching a drought-rhythm.

The Marxists said,
In Delhi English sounds obscene.
Return to Hindi or Bengali, eachword will burn
like hunger.

A language must measure up to one’s native dust.

Divided between two cultures, I spoke a language foreign even to my ears;
I diluted it in a glass of Scotch.

A terrible trade, my lip service to Revolution
punctuated by a whisly-god.

Now collecting a degree in English,
will I embrace my hungry country
with an armful of soliloquies?

This trade in words continues however as
Shakespeare feeds my alienation.

Please note, Dear Sir, my terrible plight
as I collect rejection slips
from your esteemed journal.

---

KASHMIR WITHOUT A POST OFFICE

. . . letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.
- Gerard Manley Hopkins

1

Again I’ve returned to this country
where a minaret has been entombed.
Someone soaks the wicks of clay lamps
in mustard oil, each night climbs its steps
to read messages scratched on planets.
His fingerprints cancel blank stamps
in that archive for letters with doomed
addresses, each house buried or empty

Empty? Because so many fled, ran away,
and became refugees there, in the plains,
where they must now will a final dewfall
to turn the mountains to glass. They’ll see
us through them see us frantically bury
houses to save them from fire that, like a wall,
caves in. The soldiers light it, hone the flames,
burn our world to sudden papier-mâché

inlaid with gold, then ash. When the muezzin
died, the city was robbed of every Call.
The houses were swept about like leaves
for burning. Now every night we bury
our houses and theirs, the ones left empty.
We are faithful. On their doors we hang wreaths.
More faithful each night fire again is a wall
and we look for the dark as it caves in.

2

We’re inside the fire, looking for the dark,
one unsigned card, left on the street, says. I want
to be he who pours blood. To soak your hands.
Or I’ll leave mine in the cold till the rain
is ink, and my fingers, at the edge of pain,
are seals all night to cancel the stamps.
The mad guide! The lost speak like this. They haunt
a country when it is ash. Phantom heart,

pray he’s alive. I have returned in rain
to find him, to learn why he never wrote.
I’ve brought cash, a currency of paisleys
to buy the new stamps, rare already, blank,
to buy the new stamps, rare already, blank,
no nation named on them. Without a lamp
I look for him in houses buried, empty
He may be alive, opening doors of smoke,
breathing in the dark his ash-refrain:

Everything is finished, nothing remains.
I must force silence to be a mirror
to see his voice, ask it again for directions.
Fire runs in waves. Should I cross that river?
Each post office is boarded up. Who will deliver
parchment cut in paisleys, my news to prisons?
Only silence can now trace my letters
to him. Or in a dead office the dark panes.

---

Aga Shahid Ali.......a decade of silence

The country without a post office

-----------------------------------------

Again I've returned to this country

where a minaret has been entombed.

Someone soaks the wicks of clay lamps in mustard

oil,each night climbs its steps to read messages

scratched on planets.

His finger tips cancel blank stamps

in that archive for letters with doomed

addresses,each house buried or empty.

Empty ,Because so many fled,ran away,

and became refugees there ,in the plains,

Where they must now will a final dewfall

to turn the mountains to glass.They'll see

us through them-see us frantically bury

houses to save them from fire that,like a wall,

caves in.The soldiers light it,hone the flames,

burn our world to sudden papier-mach'e

inlaid with gold,then ash.When the muezzin

died,the city,the city was robbed of every call.

The houses were swept about like leaves

for burning.Now every night we bury

our houses -and theirs,the ones left empty.

We are faithful.On their doors we hang wreaths.

More faithful each night fire again is a wall

and we look for the dark as it caves in.

''We are inside the fire looking for the dark,''

one card lying on the street says.''I want

to be who pours blood.To soak your hands.

Or I''ll leave mine in the cold till the rain

is ink,and my fingers , at the edge of pain.''

The mad guide!The lost speak like this.They haunt

a country when it is ash.Phantom heart,

pray he's alive.I have returned in rain

to find him,to learn why he never wrote.

I've brought cash,a currency of paisleys

to buy the new stamps,rare already,blank,

no nation named on them.Without a lamp

I look for him in houses buried,empty-

He may be alive, opening doors to smoke,

breathing in the dark his ash-refrain:

''Everything is finished,nothing remains.''

I must force silence to be a mirror

to see his voice again for directions.

Fire runs in waves.Should I cross that river?

Each post office is boarded up.Who will deliver

parchment cut in paisleys,my news to prisons?

Only silence can now trace my letters

to him.Or in a dead office the dark panes.

KASHMIR BOOKS....Contd

My hunt for Books and other Documents on the Net continues.I am already in possession of scores of Books on the subject.I intend to share the information with all friends and also compile a bibliography of Kashmir Books.I would request all to share information so that a complete list is eventually drawn up for the benefit of all Kashmir lovers , scholars and researchers.

STEIN'S GRAVE

Rahimullah the keeper

The Grave after renovation

Stein's Grave

Aurel Stein's grave in the Gora Kabar (which literally means 'white graveyard') in Kabul has survived the recent fighting quite well. A group of Muhajedin removed the trees in the graveyard for firewood, but otherwise there has been little deliberate damage. When British troops arrived in January we discovered that the cross above the grave lost its top corner and the memorial stone was cracked, but this looked more like frost shattering than vandalism. This damage has now been repaired by a local stone mason and the grave polished. It is shown here following repair.The graveyard has been cared for by the same Chowkidar, Rahimullah, for a long time. He was unpaid for nearly twenty years during the various recent wars, and protected the graves during the worst excesses of the Taliban. Recompense has now been made by the Army and the British Embassy have salaried him again, in conjunction with other embassies in Kabul as people from many different countries are buried there.

The Gora Kabar lies at the northwestern corner of the Bimaru Heights in Kabul. It also contains 158 graves of British soldiers and their families dating back to the First and Second Afghan Wars, although many of their headstones have been lost. A severe frost in 1978 damaged the few remaining ones and those that could be rescued were placed in a line along the southern wall. We have renovated these and held a service of re-dedication in February. We have also dug a new well and put in an electric pump so that Rahimullah, who is now quite old, can restore the garden; built up the walls, to stop locals throwing rubbish over; diverted two domestic drains that seemed to empty on the southern side and had new gates made. With the Spring about to break, the graveyard looks as good as it has done for two decades1. A facsimile of the original 1903 edition of Stein's popular account of his first Central Asian expedition, Sand Buried Ruins of Khotan, has been published by Books for Travel in a limited edition of 500 copies, with photographs and maps and bound in the red cover of the original.

For details contact: http://www.booksfortravel.org.uk