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Author - Unknown
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'You have deserted my world, but one day you'll return to these deserts - numb, and cold'.

From the turn I took at National Highway - 1

I was drenched in sweat – walking through a street that I took after I realized that I was only a piece of meat for the lorries that took the National Highway – 1 towards Delhi with their stomachs packed with apples and walnuts. I was repeating the same track over and over again, listening to the outcries of Eminem as if it was an expression of my frustration – my earlobes gaining temperature by the high volume. I came escaping my loneliness at home to make peace with – with what!

The parasite of over-thinking was emptying my veins. I was disgusted, no I wasn’t! I was tired, of walking! Yes. And I was tired, of this life! Yes, I was. I was tired of trying every optimum technique to make my living – or, give myself some mental space and relaxation.

Every time I tried something, I had to try something else.

I was dragging my skeleton, I was fuelling my soul – ‘financial, social, psychological, emotional’, I was re-reading some mental notes as if they’re written on the darkness that blanketed the millions of herbs that made its living on the open barren land that lay un-walled from a distance of two arms towards my left, ‘love, State, politics, occupation, status. A man takes so much to live. Or survive.’

The certain street lamps, the certain darkness it engulfed, and the long shadows of my body suddenly caught my senses and made me realize my existence. I unplugged the earphones.

And now, there was this certain phenomenon that influenced my mind whenever there was this sudden silence.

‘Food, shelter, clothing’, I kept contemplating over the concept of making life possible. Life wasn’t easy. Man takes so much to survive.

I saw him the first time on a staircase, a mad man, when I was too tired to take a step forward or backward. My feet were aching in the dusty boots that now felt like a piece of leather gummed to my skin. It was midnight and not so safe to sit on the front stair of the case that was occupied by someone else on the top - particularly, when the person was drunk or blabbering.

I didn’t trespass on his abode. I never liked meeting new people at my own home, and thought nobody else does too. I took a shop-front that had a lamp hanging from the ceiling like an ember. I didn’t want to think about anything anymore. ‘Society’ I thought.

He was drunk, maybe not in his senses – he was blabbering, but maybe he could have been speaking something logical, he looked filthy but maybe someone could have just beaten him in the dust, his clothes were torn but maybe someone just tore them today, maybe he was drinking because he was sad – maybe because he couldn’t meet his social needs, or financial demands, or maybe he is abused and misappropriated by his family. ‘Family’ I thought.

‘Man takes so much to live’, I said to myself and frowned at my shadow.

I was repeatedly chewing my lips, looking towards everywhere as if I were Osama caught in the States, speaking to my inner thoughts like I had a crowd in myself, and just so visibly frustrated.

‘Are you mad!’ someone mocked, when I pulled the fourth Four Square out of the box – in a tune of mediocrity, insensitivity, and sarcasm!

I didn’t respond until his laughter was too loud, for the street and the cold. ‘He is a mad man. No one tore his clothes today. Nobody beat him in the dust. He is not sad, and he is not drinking for the fucking sake of his sadness or anything. He is a mad douchebag!’ I screamed in the castle of my mind that was so solitary that every word that I spoke resonated for longer than minutes and hours.

I was about to leave as it was getting colder and difficult to find any peace with this mad man around when he said, ‘only three type of people roam such alleys at night – drunk, mad, and thieves. Since you didn’t look like an asshole who would steal cereals and pulses, and you’re not even drunk – you must be mad.’

He was blabbering, yet making some sense. He was reasoning. And I liked that. ‘I could have well-reasoned. He wasn’t just blabbering. Everybody in this world talks sense. Even if he is a drunk mice in a street, at the midnight! And even if he is a frustrated kid, who thinks life is all about love and politics’ I thought.

I was, stupidly, interested in him. Because, yes – maybe because I had no one to talk to, since last 3 days. ‘I am voluntarily lonely’ I told myself as I saw some guys racing the machines on the highway and screaming as their adrenaline bladder could no more satisfy their psychological demands – of feeling alive.

‘And you look like a mad, and you’re drunk – you must be a thief as well, because, perhaps, you are actually describing your own purpose of being here at this godforsaken place and hour of night.’ I was giving him bitter responses, reasoning in my mind, since he looked like a bitter man who would prefer Urushi over curd.

‘No. I am actually a criminal. I just murdered my brother since he looked like a potential threat to the security of my wife’s gold. And my wife, since she looked like a potential threat to the security of my wife’s gold.’ he was frightening the soul out off my body. I felt like a hard strike on a Pepsi bottle – about to explode.

‘And what did you get!’ I exclaimed, trying to not look nervous, shocked or afraid. Since, he could have killed me for being a potential threat to his wife’s gold.

‘My wife’s gold’ he said, expressing an alien emotion that could have been a different form of sadistic pleasure, or wicked materialistic pleasure that stretched the wrinkles on his forehead.

I was stoned. I knew that man needs so much to survive. ‘He’d have become a goblin to fulfill his financial demands, and of his family. But now he had no family. And now he might be drinking to fulfill his psychological need. He could have been lamenting over the loss. He could have been sad, and lonely; and without a family’.  

‘But that was twenty-five years ago’, his voice soured.

If he was to believe, there was a man in front of me who has murdered his brother and wife for some gold twenty-five years ago and is drinking his ass out in some congested alley of my city without a bee’s sting on his butt.

‘So you’re a sinister soul vacuumed by greed, drinking to find some comfort in this flesh’, I ridiculed as I began to see a cynical greedy animal lying on the stairs, at a distance of thirty feet - across the street.  

‘No I was that twenty-five years ago’ he said, dismounting the staircase and coming towards me. ‘I was a criminal, a murderer. When I looked in the mirror I saw some blood stains. I kept washing my face again and again. But whenever I looked in the mirror I saw some blood stains. I remembered how I cut my brother’s throat – blood sprouting out, as I sliced his neck and broke the bone like he was only flesh and bones under my feet until I was in a pond of blood with a corpse that I had to chop. All the blood that sprinkled over my face stayed there – forever. I couldn’t wash it. I remembered how I chopped my wife after. I didn’t disfigure her face. I loved her, but not more than her gold.’ He spoke without a pause; the drink was now taking his senses, as a criminal was confessing his crime. I was scared and wanted to leave the place as soon as I could have made the escape without him noticing. But now he was standing at a distance of some ten-twelve feet from my shiverin’ feet - speaking like a lunatic who didn't want to stop.

*to be continued.

- Syed Rehan

A pack of wolves.

A pack of wolves relies upon my heart,
as much as you and I do, my love!
Tired of loneliness and hunger,
thrusting their heads against the soil,
a pack of wolves are still being fed
by the flames of agony and vengeance
A pack of wolves relies upon love,
as much as you and I do, my love!
Tired of hatred, contempt and fear,
as much as you and I are, my love!
A pack of wolves in my loneliness,
refuses all food that is offered,
and eats only what it hunts,
as in love - you and I do, my love!

- Syed Rehan

I climbed.

I climbed walls,
A wall was left to climb,
when I climbed the first,
they said only a wall is left to climb,
when I climbed the second,
they said only a wall is left to climb,
when I climbed the first,
I said that no wall is left to climb.

I was climbing walls,
bricks were left to climb,
I climbed
doors were left to climb,
I climbed the mountains,
hills were left to climb,
I climbed minds,
hearts were left to climb,
I climbed sorrows,
happiness was yet to be climbed.

I climbed everything,
only myself
was left to climb.

Today or tomorrow.

Today or tomorrow,
we will learn to live by this sorrow,
and make peace with what we have,
forgetting that inside we are hollow,
walking these roads,
turn by turn -
we learn that these paths,
were never meant to follow,
but we'll make peace with what we have,
and never remember this sorrow,
because all those nights
we were taught by the silence
that tears were not the only thing
we had always wanted to borrow.
Today or tomorrow -
we will learn to live by this sorrow.

- Syed Rehan

My heart.

Who says my heart liquidises too early,
in the bed when I close my eyes,
all I feel is a stone planted in my chest
that doesn't speak a word of love.
Like cemented is my life,
in the cell of my heart,
ageing in desperation
speaking not a word of pain.
But then somewhere I am free,
where I don't possess a thing,
where no one else belongs,
and nothing is related to me,
there I smile,
not a thing to hide,
not a memory to call,
where roads are wide,
not a friend to find,
where the heart is blind.
In that city of seclusion,
I will find my bride.

- Syed Rehan

In nights when I roam

In nights when I roam
chasing my shadow under the streetlight,
talking to the palms of my hands,
speaking by the agony in my eyes,
every verse that I quote
speaks about an ongoing struggle;
the weaker edge breaks -
frightening my life out,
'Impossible was made',
the goosebumps shreik out,
after a terrible period of tear shed,
I suddenly freak out,
and then the ghosts in my face
slowly freeze down;
the stronger edge gathers strength -
breezing its strength out,
and then I am a painter
of the portrait of my soul,
and then I am a consoler
trying to gather pieces of my world,
and then I am a stranger
watching fireworks of my world...

Basics that they taught

Basics that they taught -
that life is a struggle
and we all come to make
this world a better place.
Did they teach us this for themselves?
For, we forgot
that life is all about living,
and not wars and power;
that life is all about giving,
and not capitalising and money.

But lost that we are
in this web of world -
a world that we didn't want to create,
but its creation we never debate,
a world where earning
makes you forget the joys of living,
and less we are giving,
more drinks brewing,
and lost we are about
things that come and go;
unaware of the patches
that need some sewing.

- Syed Rehan

We wander alone.

We wander alone;
far from the caravans
of trust and hope,
far from places,
and people,
and stories,
and their sequels,
far from all the responsibilities
of love and world,
and sorrows and troubles,
and words that were never told.
We wander alone.

- Syed Rehan

I will remember.

The sunny mornings of my town;
I will remember,
The rainy evenings on my balcony,
I will remember,
The shade of her brows on my eyes
I will remember,
Her narration of our story
I will remember,
I will remember all this but
I wonder - whether,
my return to your doorstep,
you'll, forever, remember.

- Syed Rehan

In the early days of love

Silent is the world.

Silent is the world about
the injustice of time, when
they speak loud about
injustice of history.
Silent is every tongue
on the plight of slaves,
when masters dig deep
into the skins of their
profit-making machines.
Silent is everyone
or do they hold things to say,
silent is every culture
or why would they have waited
till today.

- Syed Rehan

The world behind closed lids.

The world behind closed lids;
sight that penetrates deep into our soul,
a world unknown to us,
a person living deep within;
yet a stranger to us,
Darkness that reveals
and light that conceals,
customs of heart we're unaware of.
There's a world deep within;
a world that makes this world possible;
by making us what we are, or
impossible;
by making us what we are.

- Syed Rehan

His and her eyes.

His and her eyes,
and there are lots of wars inbetween,
fought only through eyes,
and lots of stories inbetween.
It's about him and his,
and about her and hers,
and there's a lot of explanation inbetween,
explained only through eyes.

His and her eyes,
and there are lots of promises inbetween,
kept by the look in eyes,
and the forces of love inbetween.
His and her life,
and there are lots of coincidences inbetween,
and probability, and fate;
that covered the distances inbetween.

- Syed Rehan

Freeverse-I

My eyes are burning,
fire talks to my soul
I am emptied of myself
there's no control.

I am cruel to myself,
you won't remember my words
until they become a story
and the legends are told.

I harbour a demon in me,
trying to make it a saint but
whenever we confront each other
there's no difference between a demon and a saint.

I will come singing, in tears,
would you not hear me wail!
I will come with my gory face,
see, before it turns pale.

There's fire in my eyes,
a fire that fuels the holocaust in me,
troubled I am, my creator;
uttering words that don't match,
filling the holes in my soul,
shedding tears I cannot control.

- Syed Rehan

The Black Cat.

Some myths and legends of childhood, emerging from lips like considerations for sleep and food to the thought, play with the thought process of our adulthood and spiritual part of our life.
They said when the dice rolls, the probability of it falling on the side I want it to is one out of six.
I need to distrust my misfortune five times to have faith in my fortune.
It wasn't a myth though, not a legend as well. It was probability.
The legends were of that boy whose fortune failed the probability. One who would roll the dice six times and always get the favourable side.
Such were the myths and legends that reached me. About fortune and misfortune, forests and its guards, bloodthirsty creatures, witches and wizards. And about darkness and its penetration in the soul.
They told me that a Black Cat comes to you when you are alone at night. A Black Cat comes to bad children. Children who don't obey, and don't eat their food.
I was afraid of the Black Cat. I was afraid of being a bad child; of not finishing the food that was served to me, of disobeying the foolish rules they set for children.
But the fear of Black Cat couldn't eradicate the bad in me. My fear was of being a bad child, though I was one. I feared coming of the Black Cat. I always kept myself at a safe distance from it.
A safe distance from darkness, and loneliness, and nights' freedom.
But the distance couldn't be kept for long.
My old diaries tell me that I am in love with the loneliness and freedom of night.
But how could a bad child be free at night, wander in loneliness; and not fear the Black Cat.
This was happening when I was 11. A bad child keeping the lamps of his room ignited, fearing darkness; and the Black Cat. I kept my eyes open until I was too sleepy to resist longer. Then I would sleep with some verses, that my mother had made me to memorise from The Quran, on my lips.
Fear makes you obedient to the laws of nature and religion.
The Black Cat never came. Even after I learned to extinguish the lamps and sleep in darkness. The fear of it ceased to pick up my heart beats.
The Black Cat never came. That was what I believed. Always telling myself that it never came. Though, it could have.
And it might have. In some hours of some nights.
And it might still come. To bad children. In loneliness. And night's freedom.
A Black Cat that comes to remind about the bad child that we have become. And haunt our soul for the bad things we do.
And that Black Cat might be monstrous. A demon. Or incarnation of some black wizard.
But some myths believe that the Black Cat is an angel. That comes to bad children only to make them good. And haunts our soul to remind it of the bad.
We cannot hide from our deeds.
The Black Cat comes to those who regret their deeds. None can escape its lessons. None can escape the counting of his sins.
It comes to frighten the regret. Take away the evils of selfish sinning from heart. It fights you such that it empowers you.
The Black Cat returns when the time comes.

- Syed Rehan

A child I knew

A child I knew
fond of possessing things
holding them under his pillow at night,
and carrying them all in pockets in the morning.
Waiting for the right road
to embark his toy car
that will take him to a new city
and his little german cannons
that will fight him all his wars.

One day the child breaks
one of his cannons, and
the red toy-car.
Forgetting that new city
and all his wars.
He tells men - going to that city,
riding alike toy-cars,
that he is now a settler,
and prefers peace over war.

- Syed Rehan

Where do I find you?

Searching you in my diaries
and tiny chits in my cupboard,
a message that could remind me
that my life isn't absurd,
turning you into insanity,
framing you in my frustration;
do I find you somewhere else
except in the dungeons of my mental palace;
writing me letters,
that reach the letterbox of my heart,
as I loose my way in the caves,
whose walls echo my calling,
and scream when I scream.
The distances are covering,
when I scream louder,
your images are clear
behind the walls of time
as I look for you, far
in the night sky;
part of a galaxy
of love, and devotion.
and call you from my window,
a phenomenon;
that brings dreams to my sleep,
or a phenomenon;
that takes away my sleep.

Where do I find you?
I have searched you in my diaries.

- Syed Rehan

Absence!

In the gatherings of righteous;
men who are dedicated to perfom their duties
and get their rights,
absent is the kind heart
and the eye of love.

In the streets of my town,
souls that communicate
by the means of contempt,
and the sadistic eyes that
keep me watching;
absent is the passion of love,
and the glory of living.

In the gatherings of reverence,
where clothes decorate your body,
and power covers your sins, and
money empowers your weakness;
forgotten is the fashion of soul,
and absent is the power of faith.

In some nights
when street lamps light,
I often contemplate on the reason,
that make us deaf to this lie;
closer we reach to our graves -
higher and higher we fly.

- Syed Rehan

Beggar.

A sleep-depriven beggar
hungry and untidy, when asked
me for a penny; did I have to give.
But deep in my pockets -
someone holds my conscience;
wrapped in currency, corrupted
by greed that we call comfort.

Worthless is kindness
for people who confuse it with love,
worthless is their smiling
who confuse everything with love;
yet know not in its roots
what is love.

I gave him a penny
saving one for myself too,
so that when he begs again for his stomach,
he knows that the giver is a beggar too.

- Syed Rehan

In this world.

Because in this world, my friend,
they believe in everything that
they don't understand. And
break everything that has a crack.
And believe their unfaithfulness
is not unfaithfulness at all, but
a matter of understanding a few things,
and not understanding a few.
In this world, my friend,
they'll only want you as a balm
on their wounds, and
call it love when they want.
Because in this world, my friend,
sentences make more sense than sacrifices,
and telling them that you love them,
makes more, than actually loving them at all.
As a matter of fact, my friend,
this world is only going to be yours,
when you understand that
faithfulness is only a disorder
and love is only a state of mind.

- Syed Rehan

Fearing that you might come.

It's midnight and I'm all alone,
sunken in the ocean of thoughts;
fearing that you might come,
and fearing that you might not.
As I take steps in darkness,
I am occupied by thoughts of your return;
fearing that you might come,
and fearing that you might not.

It's midnight - I haven't slept,
thinking possibilities of your return,
fearing that you might come,
fearing that you might not.
As I turn the pages of my diary,
I await writing the last few lines;
fearing that you might come,
and fearing that you might not.

- Syed Rehan

Forms.

Which door did we not knock,
which pain did we not bear,
for, you came in forms we didn't understand,
when we were in a form that you didn't understand.

My unrequited love.

My love, my unrequited love
I will write to you a letter
and write it with blood.
Do you understand!
I have become a postman of my heart,
Only I fail to deliver the letter.
Do you really understand!
I have renounced the world,
only I fail to renounce your love.
My unrequited love,
will you ever understand!

- Syed Rehan

The girl in his dreams was real,
the sleep in his eyes might not be.

She, who wandered through the ruins of my heart...

She, who wandered through the ruins of my heart,
has finally made my ruins her part.
She, who once said that my heart is her heart,
has finally made the wish to depart.
She, who kept looking at me from everywhere,
has made my memories her part.
She, who had come to never return,
never returned from the depths of my heart,
She, who wondered about the state of my mind,
has become a state of my heart.

She, whose patience became my worship, made me ascetic by heart,
She, who made promises with eyes,
Has finally made the promise to depart,
She, who once gave life to my dreams,
has finally stolen sleep from my eyes.
She, in whose forgetting; I forgot -
that letters written to me were all from heart.

She, who wondered
through the ruins of my heart,
has finally made
my ruins - her part.

- Syed Rehan

Out of the doors of my home.

I remember when I was a little kid, not so little; when I was 13 - a very ordinary boy of a small town; aspiring to come out of the doors of his home. I'd see my friends going out - out of the doors of their homes, to play cricket or roam the streets together. I didn't. I couldn't. I wasn't allowed to go out of the doors of my home like many of my friends. I grieved it. And every other day I tried to break the chains.

I remember Zafar*, one of the only friends I had that time, say to me that he is tired of everything. I sympathised. Though I didn't actually understand 'tired of everything'.

And I didn't mean to even give it a mere thought. I had so many other things to do; play trumps and card games, keep breaking, repairing, and again breaking my personal computer - personal after my sister was admitted in a residential school to pursue her higher secondary education.

What bothered me was the mere thought of going out of those doors and walk out in freedom, and wander. Life was ahead. Some courage, some steps, and some permissions ahead.

At some point in life, that I cannot clearly recall, I moved out of those doors; I wandered. I remember wandering didn't turn out to be what I had thought of its being as a child. I had many thoughts, thoughts of death being the end that has to come, but seldom would I have ever thought of life and its course. Its course.

Wandering and freedom.

Today, I have been wandering and free for the 7th year. In a strange city, for some strange reasons and like a stranger.
I remember what Zafar used to say. I can now understand what Zafar was tired of and why Zafar was 'tired of everything'.
It took some time to understand. And it took some time to get tired.

And it took some time to reach back, this time wanting to self-lock myself, and stay inside the doors of my home. There's freedom of which I am a slave. There's wandering - I dont understand.

You understand. There's a night so dark. I believe there'll be a day so bright. That this spring is the first and the last that would ever have to accompany hankering and paining.

But there's this freedom of which I am a slave. That's hoping to be free again. In its own way. A day when I will wake up in the morning and be so energetic and fresh that I can again pull the strings of heart.

And this silence that haunts me. And this hollowness in the center of my chest - that keeps expanding and vaccuming me of everything.

Where do I go? There where the sun rises.

- Syed Rehan

*Name changed.

Preyed upon.

I reckon that something preys my heart,
as I feel a little more heartless everyday,
my arcane quietude, sometimes;
suddenly breaks into soliloquy, and
then I am - to myself, a familiar stranger,
a little more heartless, since
preyed upon.

But that is not my fault;
not of my stars or the lessening of my heart,
For, it has been preyed by a beast
that sought its love in its depths,
though it may never find the love,
it might be the tastiest in its feast.

- Syed Rehan

Sometimes sad; that I silently waited.

Sometimes sad; that I silently waited
for Him to come down and
replace hardwork with miracles.
Now I am wide-awake,
that now I can wait
a little longer than before,
a little patient than usual.
The wait is, it will always be,
but, now that I have opened my eyes,
I am meant to see.
For, blind are the eyes,
that don't watch 'em lies;
lies I told everyone,
before I knew I was lying.
For some bad times,
there is an agony in these lines, and
for some good ones,
there is a worshipping in signs.
And I, suddenly tonight,
began talking to myself,
And I wonder if I am intoxicated;
only by the colours of these wines.

- Syed Rehan

When they come.

When they come to read our poems;
tell them what has made us a poet,
when they come to listen our songs,
tell them they'll never forget its lines.
We've become, more or less, a slave;
tell them their memories are alive,
And more or less, that we need to say;
ask them to reach our grave someday,
when they come to find their answers,
tell them what has made us this way,
but when they come, whenever it be,
hold them near and let them stay.

We are afraid of separation;
come what may,
but when they come, ask them why -
did we have to feel like a stranger today,
this is life, tell them this,
that we have come into your heart,
only to ask what can take us away -
far into the lands that we may never again
have to burst into tears by what you say.
So, when they come, ask them what -
took them away; so far today.

- Syed Rehan

The madding silence of my room.

In seclusion and the madding silence of my room,
I care too little about things I couldn't do,
Though the regrets seem ever-following my path,
I care too little about things I shouldn't have done,
There's a room in the house of life,
Where only silence wants to enter,
There's this old diary whose pages
Self narrate their verses to my heart.
And I, like a stranger in my life, wonder
Which page do I want to re-open;
And write a few lines, or rewrite some;
Though I can never erase the line
That tells me how far I have come.
As much as I remember;
When I was a child -
All I wanted was someone
Next to my cold wet pillow at night.

- Syed Rehan