You live somewhere on my bookshelf, on the second row. You live some where in my laptop, far from the nude girls. You hum in my cassette player, almost always. You looked nice in 1951. you have been always young on my CD shelf. You are alive in my room. Not a mere silouette, but a rebel... in flesh and soul.
You taught me the sensiblities of life, the madness of love, the rush of blood when the soldier rests his gun against the wrinkled neck of Ishtiyaq's grandmother, when the butt of the gun comes down on the soft knuckles of Saleem,who came out of the womb just few years ago.
No body reads your poetry here except my friends and me... of course. I love you. We are both fucked up, u know- u and me. You fought for this Pakistan, didnt you. Then why do you hide in my room. Go and see what has become of the pure land.
52 dead just now- 2 bomb blasts. It is red with blood...ur pakistan.
So is my Kashmir, fucked up. You know, i saw intestines, red with blood, hanging of this boy's belly. His mouth was open. He was gasping, taking in as much breath as he could to stay alive... but he died. Are intestines so important? How come you never wrote about them? I bet, u never saw intestines in your life. Wish you had seen the boy, at least, you would have written a poem on intestines. The intestines would have lived for ever, a nice tribute to the boy who died there and then. It would have been in the book, right next to dogs.
what could i write. 2 dead, seven injured. Fuck.
You were right always- i rememember subh e azadi... how could you understand things so early. No, u took along time as well. you got your self in jail. didnt you?
you should have written on the last page of your book.
zaahir- only read me, dont believe me...