Is tishnagi ka haal kya kahiye, mere humdum;
Me hi dariya hu, fir bhi me hi sehera hu…
Translation:
What’s to be said
of my unquenchable thirst,
my Love;
For I am the river,
Yet I am my own desert.
Author’s note: Tishnagi stands for intense thirst, often extending to emotional or spiritual yearning.
Author’s note: This is the third and final instalment of my latest short-story.
A higher wave pushes us and we hold on to each other for dear life, hoping our combined weight will stop us being pushed into the rising sea. The rock is submerging too fast.
“Do you want to do a Titanic for the selfie you are sending him?” I ask. “It will be completely dark in a couple of minutes.” I don’t say we will drown in sometime. I want to hang on to hope.
The sudden smile on her face makes my heart squeeze, like I am alive again.
She quickly poses against the Sun with me behind her, one hand spread out in a flying pose with both of mine and clicks a picture with the other hand. She quickly sends it before she loses her nerve. She is giggling like a school girl, “I know it is not a making-out picture but I’m happy we sent it. Let that photo burn his retinas.”
“Okay, what else do you want to send him? I’m game.” I join in enthusiastically.
A sly smile spreads across her face for a second. I can see she is considering a really obscene photo. Since we are dying in a few minutes, I don’t mind. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind it even if we were going to stay alive. There is something about this person, which makes me feel like I would be upto anything she suggests. Like an old school-time best friend.
But then she stops, shaking her head. “No, I can’t subject him to that… or you. I’m not that person.”
I shake my head, realising I believe her words. I am not that person too. I try to change the topic, “So, is it true? Did you really hire a guy for…?”
“I tried to get one. But I lost my nerve before I could speak to him,” she admits sheepishly.
“Why did you try for one though?”
“I wanted to move on…” The pain on her face sears my heart.
A large wave pushes at us, and I hold her to my chest, lest the water might topple her into the sea before it is time. I keep hugging her after the wave is gone. With my wounds still raw, her pain is mine.
“You don’t hire men to move on, you know. You look for one who might really mean something to you and take it from there.”
“Does your advice apply to men too?” She gestures at my henna-tattooed palms for impact.
“I don’t know. It has only been three days since she eloped the night before our marriage,” I speak in a defeated tone.
It is completely dark around us, and I feel her nod against my chest, “I guess you will find out in a few years.”
Does she really believe I have a few years ahead of me? The darkness compounded by waves occasionally pushing at our knees makes me feel not so hopeful. I wonder if there are sharks around. Nerves are rattling around my insides, and I am shaking from more than just cold. We are still not inside water but we are close.
I feel her fumbling with her hands and hold her tightly afraid she is going off-balance, trying to be the anchor, at least until the sea is high enough to swallow us.
She switches on her phone torch and waves behind me, signalling. I dare not move, afraid of losing balance, but I hear voices at a distance.
The rescue team has arrived.
*****
Since the boat can’t come too close to the rock, the team passes rubber tubes to us and makes us jump in the ocean before someone pulls us on the boat. And, then to my utter mortification, I retch on the side of the boat while my fellow survivor holds me, so I wouldn’t fall off in the ocean again.
Way to make a first impression!
Once we are back on the dry land and the rescue team members are sure we are going to be okay, they drop us where we can find a ride to our respective hotels. Trying to redeem some of my lost dignity, I am the first to speak, “Now that we are still alive, where do you want to go?”
She smiles understanding my intention, “My flight for Switzerland is delayed for some years. Sigh! I’ll go to my hotel room instead. Do you have any cash for a taxi? Because my purse with my cash, card and hotel keys was washed off at the rock before I woke up. And Paytm needs a working phone. Mine is dead from all the water.”
“Mine is dead too but I do have some cash. Don’t you want to eat something first though? I’m famished.” Suddenly, after three days of being continuously queasy at the thought of food, I am ravenous. Extended periods of near-death experience and utter mortification, compounded with absolute relief, can do that to a person.
“It depends. Can I send him a picture?” She asks, unsure now that we are both on dry land, alive and free.
“I’d love one, but our phones drowned. They are dead, at least until someone looks at them.”
“Well, I see a mobile shop over there. And a restaurant. Let’s eat something and then get our phones fixed. Then, we can get an icecream photo.”
“Only if you make a kissy face!” I can feel a smile creeping in.
“Let’s both make kissy faces—you can send a copy to your fiancée too.” We both giggle at the thought.
“Let’s both pick some nice locations for full effect!”
She is full swing now, “I’ve heard this place has some pretty waterfalls. Want to go there tomorrow? And… I didn’t get your name?”
“That’s a really lame pick-up line, especially considering it’s coming from a girl.”
She swats my shoulder, and I make a face, like I was six again, sending her into a fit of giggles again. We are fellow-survivors, alive in the moment.
The rest of life can wait.
END
Photo by Kush Dwivedi on Unsplash
Author’s note: This is the second instalment of my latest short-story.
It is difficult to believe such a simple traditional-looking girl like her could kill anyone. But what do I know? My own traditional-looking fiancée ran away with another guy, shredding my heart into pieces, not even bothering to throw it in a landfill.
I choose to be quiet.
“Not so keen on hanging around me for eternity anymore, huh?” She looks smug.
“Let’s just say I don’t like the idea of following you to hell. I don’t even love you to risk that for you.”
I think I would have risked that for my wife–well, ex-fiancée…if not out of love, then out of sense of duty. But she chose to bestow that honour on someone else. If only she had said something during our numerous romantic phone calls after our marriage was arranged. She made me believe she wanted me as much as I wanted her and then eloped with her lover while her family was visiting mine for the Tilak ceremony.
The only reason I travelled here today was to run away from pitying eyes. They would probably think I committed suicide.
The thought of dying is looking closer to reality now since higher waves are wetting our ankles frequently and the spray of water is constantly keeping us wet. I have waited all my life working hard, believing that once I am better situated in work, I would get my chance at love.
Now, here I am at sea, dying, right after I am dumped by the woman I finally set my hopes on.
The Sun is dipping on the horizon much like our lives. The thought of never finding love hurts much more than the rejection itself. I don’t want to die but, more than that, I don’t want to give her the satisfaction that she affected me strongly enough to drive me to suicide. She chose to dump me. She doesn’t deserve the credit for my death.
The stranger on my side stands quietly and lets me have my ‘moment’. She seems to sense there is more to my story but doesn’t have the heart to tease it out of me anymore.
A phone call pierces the space around us. Her phone screen blinks.
“You get phone reception here?”
“My phone does, it seems. How else do you think I made that phone call for help?”
“Oh yes. I think you should answer the call. Your husband from the landfill might not like being ignored.” I point at her phone, smiling—”Hubby” is calling.
She huffs and accepts the phone call. I can’t help being curious enough to listen in. We are huddling too close in the center of the peak of the rock now to avoid overhearing anyway.
“What do want?”
Pause
“Why do you care where I am?”
Pause
“In middle of the sea. Probably drowning in the next few minutes.”
Pause
“Huh, you wish. I am not coming back to haunt you! Four years were more than enough. I am not wasting another minute on you. Now hang up. You are ruining my first post-divorce vacation. I don’t want to drown thinking of you.”
Pause
“Yes, she told you the truth. Yesterday, I went to a striptease bar, drank half-a-bottle of wine and hired a man to spend the night with.”
Pause
“Stop laughing. I am telling the truth!”
Pause
“Fine, I did try though. I can cheat, just like you cheated on me for so many years.”
Pause
“Okay, it’s not cheating anymore that we are not married but the thought counts. I just need a little more practice. I am alone with a man right now.”
She looks at me guiltily as I raise my eyebrow. Would I help someone take revenge for being cheated on? The fellowship rises its head within my chest, and I smile back encouragingly.
Pause
Her voice is softer this time, “No, I can’t return. I can’t forget it. I might have if I hadn’t caught you in the act; say, if someone else had told me. But I saw you both, and I keep thinking about it. Even after an year, it is all I see whenever I close my eyes. Please stop calling me and move on. Let me move on…”
Her begging tone cuts through my core–“Even after an year…“
I had been there only three days and I feel half-dead. Is there no hope?
Pause
“No, I am done with repeating myself. I am moving on.” She looks back at me in apologising manner, “I am going to make out with this guy here. And I will send you a photo as proof. May be then you will stop calling me.”
With those words, she hangs up. I can feel my eyebrows reach my hairline. She just shrugs, “It felt good to say it out loud and hear him squirm one last time before I die.”
To be continued
Photo by Kush Dwivedi on Unsplash
Author’s note: This is the first instalments of my latest short-story.
She is shivering violently and blabbering, “I am flying to Switzerland tonight.”
“You mean if we are rescued?” I try a gentle tone. I am scared stiff too, so I can understand her denial.
She manages a smile, though the strain of the effort is clearly visible on her face. “No. If they rescue me, I have a crap job to go back to in three days and a mean manager to hate. But if they don’t find us in time, well, I am no mermaid. It is all well to see one sunset at the sea. An eternity of sunset view is too much! If I die, I am going to travel—there are so many places I want to see—”
If she is trying to make light of our impending demise to avoid a meltdown, two could play at this game. “Aren’t ghosts supposed to stay and haunt a single place?” I shiver at my own ill-timed joke. If only I could turn back time a couple of hours.
*****
It was a bad idea to seek out a stranded place on the shore to sleep in when I had never been to the sea before. All I wanted was a couple of hours of peace from the continuous phone calls—people offering sympathies or advice to move on. I didn’t want to switch-off my phone. It felt wrong to turn my back on my well-wishers. Going out of network coverage area for a bit had seemed like a good excuse at that time. So, I had walked until the network bars had stopped showing.
Then I saw a road sign of what seemed like sun setting in the sea and found this large rock rising gradually from the sand. The highest point was nearly two-metres high providing an amazing view of the sea ahead. It seemed like an ideal spot to sit down and settle my thoughts. There was enough room for me and one other person here on the other side of the rock, sleeping in the sun. I had walked up on the slowly rising rock to this highest point. Then, exhausted after three sleepless nights, I had closed my eyes to rest them for a few moments…
An urgent voice woke me up, “Hey, do you know how to swim?”
My eyes wanted to stay glued together but the fear in the voice made me sit up, “Why? What happened?”
The stranger’s face looked scared, “If you can swim, I think you should leave now. My travel agent told me this rock gets submerged during high tide.”
The high tide was in. The rock that had been so far away from the sea earlier during the day was now almost-submerged. The lower part from where I had walked up here were now under at least five feet of water. Waves were rolling in and there was half a mile of sea in the direction I had come from.
There was no way we could walk back.
“I don’t know how to swim. Do you?”
“No.” She sighed, “I have called my travel agent. He said he will contact the local rescue team. Let’s hope they find us real soon. He said locals usually avoid this rock since the area is lower than others. He said there is a danger sign on the main road, but tourists seem to be ignoring it.”
“Danger sign? So that sign showed the rock getting submerged?”
“You saw the sign too? It looks so much like the sun setting in the sea.” She shook her head in a mocking way, but her voice was shaky.
I sent a quick prayer to the skies. Yes, I was heart-broken, but I wasn’t ready to die yet.
*****
Returning to this moment, I can see she is considering how to answer my ‘haunting the place’ question without having a meltdown, “I think it depends on personal preferences, whether a ghost wants to stay put or drift. I want to travel. What about you? Are you planning to haunt this rock?”
“Well, I haven’t decided yet. Do you want company on your journey to Switzerland?” I smile, joining in this crazy one-on-one. I am tired of fuming for the past three days.
I want to cry but I was raised being told that guys don’t. My eyes are hurting from the effort of keeping tears at bay and I don’t remember the last time I ate. I think it was three days back during my Tilak ceremony. The thought of the happiness of that moment makes my eyes tear up.
I look away at the rising water around us.
She seems to have sensed my mood, “Naah, I’m good. I don’t want to give my shoulder to a drunk guy to cry on.”
The salt spray from a high wave hits me on the face and I stagger, “Seriously? I don’t think ghosts can drink. Moreover, you don’t even know if I do drink at all! You only met me five minutes ago.”
“Well, you are a man, and men take to drinking when they need to tell their wives on their honeymoon that they are into men? How else would they gather enough courage?”
“Into men? Who said that?”
“Really? What are you doing alone, sleeping on random rocks, in the country’s most hyped honeymoon spot while on honeymoon (gesturing at the mehendi tattoos on my palm)? Why did you agree to go to Switzerland with me? Why aren’t you calling your wife to tell her you are dying and that you love her?”
“May be because I don’t have a wife to call? May be because I never got around to getting married!” Some of the higher waves have started to push at our ankles. My nerves are getting at me and I am cranky.
“So, is it because you’re gay?”
“No. Why would you presume so?” She is getting on my nerves worse than the waves.
“If I had presumed, I wouldn’t have asked!” She is smiling. Now, I can see she is trying to make light of my non-existent marriage as well as our impending demise, while trying not to freak out by the water being so close.
I challenge her back, “Well, what if I am. Do you have a problem with me?”
“No. I will still not be the shoulder you cry on, and I will still not carry you when you are drunk.”
“Fine. I promise not to cry or drink once I am dead. By the way, why aren’t you calling your husband to tell him you are into girls, huh? From what I remember, you are also alone in the country’s most hyped honeymoon spot and sleeping on the same random rock as I.”
“I am not parading around with mehendi tattoos on my palms, am I? And may be, I am not calling him because I killed him, cut him into pieces and threw them in a landfill? May be, I came here to hide from the Police?”
The reply makes me do a once over.
Is she telling the truth? Or is she trying to scare me so I wouldn’t try anything funny while we are alone?
To be continued
Photo by Kush Dwivedi on Unsplash
Love of a father is special.
…
It doesn’t come naturally
from bringing a life into this world
from one’s own body.
…
It comes from the realisation
that this smelly little critter is
his to protect and nurture;
his to discipline;
his to work hard and earn for;
his to offer piggyback rides on muddy days;
his to carry on shoulders during parades and carnivals;
his to tickle for rewarding giggles…
…
Father’s love is a testimony of
human capacity to feel…
and love…
without reason.
Author’s note: Dedicated to Papa, Wasil and Bhaiya
Father’s love is usually quiet. He is just not raised to say it out loud. As a proof, watch this scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory where Willy Wonka meets his dentist father after many years of leaving house as a child: Video Link
I knew she was a predator the moment I saw her.
How I could tell, I can’t explain—it was just the way her whole being swayed in the wind, leaving behind the alluring fragrance that had me following her every move with my eyes. Her smooth skin glistened in the rain, calling to my mesmerized brain as I moved closer to touch her. Her full lips—red and enticing—were clamped shut and stretched into a wide, inviting smile as I reached forward to hold her face in my extended palm.
She let me get close…close enough to not allow any space to back off…
Her fingers entwined around my torso slowly, but I couldn’t find it in me to break off the tightening grip. She looked at me straight in the eyes and opened her mouth—I half-expected it to be full of incisors.
She kissed me senseless instead, as always. And then she went for the kill, “The chapel is available this Sunday. You will be able to arrange everything else by then, right?”
Of course, she knew I would nod dazedly. She was a practiced hunter—I was her prey.
Author’s note: This is a 5-minute word-prompt story. I started with “Carnivorous plant: Venus flytrap” and ended up into a “bride”. Who could have thought there was so much in common?
Thanks to Jessie McCall for the awesome photo (via Unsplash).
Author’s note: This is the third and final installment of a Twisted Fairytale from my fifth short-story compilation, Ugly: Twisted fairytales. It is a spinoff of the old Grimm’s tale, The Sleeping Beauty.
It is almost dawn when we finally find the princess in an antechamber. The room is immaculate, clearly magical.
The princess is breathtaking. She sleeps with both her hands on her heart and a peaceful smile on her face, oblivious of the century she has left behind. Her face is alight with the glow of the dawn, her long golden hair braided with fresh flowers, looking as if she has been frozen in time since the day she turned sixteen.
All that is left to be done is to kiss her. I feel blood leave my face as I consider what I am supposed to do.
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Reese is concerned but his heart is drumming louder than mine, and I hear a hint of jealousy again. Does he want to kiss her? Should I let him?
The thought pushes a dagger through my heart. I straighten my back and walk up to the sleeping princess and kiss her, first tentatively, then anxiously, over and over again. I shake her, desperate for her to wake up. But nothing happens! The princess stays fast asleep blissfully unaware of my existence.
Reese lets out a breath of relief and says meaningfully, “She needs true love’s kiss!”
It’s no use pretending anymore. I slump down on the floor next to the bed in defeat, “I just needed to try. If the world’s most beautiful woman can’t make me fall in love with her…”
“It’s alright!” Hesitating, he adds, “We can report back to the king that the princess is already dead. Nobody would know.”
“I would know,” I wish the ground would swallow me!
Reese looks concerned as he offers me his hand, “Come, we must get out before the dragon comes looking for breakfast.”
“And go back where? To my parents who sent me on the quest to become dragon fodder? They know I can never marry her.”
Twenty‑eight years of walls I had built carefully around me are crumbling. I hate myself for not being strong enough. Once I return, the world would know for sure. The whispers would become louder and clearer, shaming my parents even further. “They’ll never love me. I have failed them yet again by failing to die.”
Reese’s face is a mask of pain mirroring mine, as if someone has stabbed him in the heart. He is opening and closing his fists like he wants to punch a wall or kill someone. But when he finally looks at me, his eyes are not angry—they hold strength. He offers hesitatingly, “If you don’t want to go back, nobody needs to know we survived the quest. The soldiers have their orders to leave for home if we don’t return in three days.”
He sits down next to me and holds my hand tenderly, erasing the past eleven years in one touch, “We can go away together; sell the armour to buy a farm; run it together like my parents did. It will be a difficult life though—one with a lot of hard work and sparce meals.”
As I look at our joined hands, I can finally breathe again, “I don’t care about luxury. I will have you.”
END
Author’s note: If you would rather read it all together in the book, Ugly: Twisted Fairytales is available for free download here: Link
Photo by Sean Thomas on Unsplash
Author’s note: This is a Twisted Fairytale from my fifth short story compilation, Ugly: Twisted Fairytales.
I stand staring at the bull’s head that guards the door for almost a minute before it acknowledges me, “You are not welcome here. You do not buy drinks or food. You do not pay. You just occupy a table to stare at the barmaid. So, I’ve been instructed to keep you out.” With those words, it goes silent and begins chewing the non‑existent cud—an old habit that is hard to die even after being mounted on a wall for centuries.
I’m rather crushed. I’ve been a regular for almost 56 years, and nobody has ever said a thing. It is the biggest bar on this side of the world. There are more tables than I can count. It’s not like my occupying a table would hurt their business…
I love the place.
It’s ancient in the literal sense of the word. It was probably built before the first human (What’s‑his‑name again?) was born. Anyone who ever sat with the owner for two minutes would know that his great‑great‑great‑grandfather had paid Irish pixies in emeralds for the intricate woodwork cabinets that hold hundreds of crystal bottles of finest witch‑brewed potions from around the underworld. The rustic urn sitting quietly on the side holds never‑ending fires from the depth of Tartarus as a payment by an escaping titan. The chiller next to the sea‑side window contains glacier ice from the Arctic Sea—investment by a mermaid who holds ten percent interest in the establishment. The colourful murals across the walls speak of the beauty across realms. Portraits of banshees, goblins, dwarves, ogres, trolls, will‑o’‑wisps and fairies adorn the bar walls. And the bewitched guardian bull’s head was a gift from my forefathers for harbouring and feeding numerous wizarding families like mine during witch trials.
*****
But that is not why I love this place so much that I have visited it every evening of my life, except the last month.
I look longingly through the window at the barmaid—my Luni, as I like to call her in my mind. I’m careful not call her that in the face though; she’s not the lovey‑dovey kind. It’s her first day at work after a month’s leave. How I miss her…
I sigh. She’s the prettiest ogress ever; and she looks even prettier when she mixes potions—her luscious grey lips pinched together tight in extreme concentration as she focuses on the exact quantities of the ingredients. Even one extra pinch of the volcanic ash can burn down the ancient wooden bar table; a drop of elixir less and the drink would become poison. She walks a tight rope all day, I’d say, but she never complains.
Hades! How I miss being inside the bar. I look at the guardian bull’s head again as he continues to ignore me. I know it is pointless to force my way in. Nobody can cross the threshold without its permission. My ancestors ensured that. Of course, I can watch her through the window from here too. But she is even prettier up close. Her skin is the colour of fresh cut grass; a sweet little pug nose is set between large onyx eyes that pull me in.
I love her!
Of course, my mother doesn’t approve. According to her, “What you need is a witch who can set her own cauldron and brew her own love potion; not someone who mixes readymade potions from the market. And she should be light enough to ride the broom with grace and not weigh it down!”
As if my Luni is heavy! In fact, she’s not as tall or curvy as other ogresses. Her petite frame barely reaches 8 feet and she’s well below the normal 500+ pounds. And she’s not a hare‑brained husband‑hunter. She always held her own without a man in her life.
*****
She looks up at the window, sees me and looks away smiling her secret smile. Suddenly, the truth dawns upon me—she’s the one who forbade me from entering. Now, I wasn’t taking any of that. So, I look back at the bull’s head. “I think, there’s a slight misunderstanding. The owner never had any problems with me before. Why would he forbid my entrance now?”
“He didn’t. The barmaid did.”
Ah, so I’m right. “Would you please ask her exactly why she forbade me from entering the bar?”
The bull’s head disappears from the mount behind him. I know from 56 years of experience that he has reappeared on the empty mount inside the bar directly behind this wall. He will announce the question. Once he has the answer, he’ll reappear outside. So, I wait patiently.
Soon, my patience is rewarded with an answer, “She said that you distract her. So, you are bad for business.”
“And how exactly do I distract her? I barely speak at the bar.”
The bull’s head rolls its eyes and disappears again. As he announces the question, I can see the customers stirring, looking at me through the windows, trying to understand the cause of the confusion. The cyclops winks at me—
Or maybe, she was just blinking. With only one eye on her head, I can’t be sure, of course. The server elf gives me a meaningful smile and continues serving her table. The owner, a troll twice my size, gives me a thumbs‑up and goes back to his ledger.
The bull’s head reappears after some seconds. “You ogle at her from the table. It makes her itchy.”
“And how is that bad for business?”
The head gives a look of exasperation. It disappears with a dramatic sigh and reappears after some seconds with the reply.
“If she’s itchy, she gets distracted. What if she mixed the wrong potions? It would burn down the bar. She said that the bar table has enough scorch marks as a proof.”
“Well, I have been ogling at her for 56 years now. Could you please ask her what changed all of a sudden? Did she meet someone special during her month-long leave?”
The bull’s head is now close to tears, as expected. It disappears with exaggerated slowness and returns with a reply almost unwillingly. It probably knows that this one wouldn’t be the last, “She says, you know already.”
Of course, I do. She spent the leave with me. That’s why I miss her so fiercely. “Please ask her what she does not like—the ogling from the table or the ogling from the table? I mean, even if I stay out, I can ogle at her from the window too. Is it okay if I ogle at her from this distance?”
The dwarf on table 45 is now laughing so hard that he is in the danger of spilling his tarantula juice all over himself and his oracle date has napkins ready for the impending future.
If it wasn’t mounted, the bull would have gored me with its horns. Nose flaring with frustration, it snarled, “Look! I think, you two have mistaken me for a postal pigeon. I’m pretty tired with all this hanging around and I’m too old to be stuck between a newly married couple returning from honeymoon. Why don’t you sort this out with your wife directly?”
As expected, with those words, the door unlatches itself and hangs open so that I can enter. The pretty barmaid gives me her naughtiest smile as I take a table close to the bar a little later than usual and go back to gazing at my Luni.
END
Author’s note: If you would rather read it all together in the book, Ugly: Twisted fairytales is available for free download here: Link
Photo by Kathya Meza on Unsplash
Andhero me doobi thi jinki shaame,
Surkh seher ka intezar karte hain;
Samandar ne pyasa chhoda jin maikash ko,
Teri ek nazar ka intezar karte hain.
.
Saaki koste h husn wale ko,
Baadakash ishare pe jaam chhodte hain,
Dilbar, khol de ye darwaze,
Teri dahleez pe sare aam dum todte hain.
.
Teri inayat deewane par ho jaye;
Ek pal deedar mayassar ho jaye;
Mar k hi uthega gar ye naqab,
Hum kehte h muqarrar ho jaye.
Translation
Those who lived in the darkest night
Await dawn’s first light,
Thirst that a sea could not drown
Awaits your eyes to alight.
.
Cup bearers hate your lure;
On your cue, the drunk left his cup behind,
Love, open your door;
Dying at your doorway for the world to deride.
.
A favour he begs, besotted as is he,
To see you just a moment for;
If only death can take off your veil;
Ready to die forever more.
Context:
Hidden behind veil, muslim women have long inspired Urdu Poetry–lover’s first sight being worth more than one’s life.
Overtly, Urdu poets consider Allah as the most beautiful love, hidden behind the veil that will be lifted only after death, making death not an ending but a beginning of forever instead.
Parda hilne ki aahat se jhoomte hain,
Uske wujood se behtar koi nasha nahi.
Translation:
Drunk at the sound of curtains stirring,
No wine tastes better than the hope you exist.
Context: Urdu poetry stems from a culture where shyness is the greatest virtue of a woman. Here stirring curtains stand for a shy beloved hiding just out of sight.
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