Whispers with God

Whispers from a Deserted Station and a Busy Tea Stall

This is Mianwali station a picnic spot for the gone,

as if the passengers are past days

and the trains are days to come.

In the middle, a hand-pump with a wheel

rules its little circle

like an ostrich peering sharply all around.

Beneath a long shed, a very old bookstall

a turtle’s body trying to be an elephant.

The tea canteen the curves of an old madam.

A camouflaged railway policeman, and me…

This is the first whisper I remember.

---

Whispers from Spokes and Silk Ribbons of a Bicycle

The bicycle moves with the speed of a Concorde.

My hands on the handle, like the reins

of the horse of this age.

The pedals as if two spinning wheels of both worlds

turn under my feet.

The bell rings: a sudden xylophone waking in sleep.

The chain turns like the first potter’s wheel,

and the brakes are someone pulling hard

on the reins of the sun.

The soft saddle is like the heavenly steed’s seat,

and the wheels, spinning, seem to circle the sky.

Who has tied these golden ribbons of starlight

around the spokes?

---

Whispers from the Potter’s Wheel of Beauty

In Shahr Watta Khel, the kiln and wheel are alive.

By its turning, the clay takes on its form.

I went down that lane to buy a butter churn.

I can still feel the whiteness, the softness of the butter.

The taste of buttermilk from that clay pot

has never left my dreams.

On the wheel lay a mound of kneaded clay,

slowly turning into the body of a slender pitcher.

The old potter’s face is still fixed in my mind.

I keep wondering

was his name “Hassan” for some secret reason?

---

Whispers from Schoolbags and a Deck of Cards

Pencils like little aircraft drawing flight-paths,

an eraser that believed it could erase

anything ever written.

An inkwell as dark as a hoarded night,

a bamboo pen, very old, never given its due.

Two books that held, it seemed,

the knowledge of all the worlds.

A slate on which every word

was just a repeated word,

a tablet of fate lying in my schoolbag.

And yet, instead of class, I sat outside the gate

with the boys,

playing cards beneath a berry tree

heavy with fruit.

---

Whispers from Dancing Theatres and Astonished Circuses

A fair enclosed by a long, high wall,

as if emptiness itself feared a crowd.

Twenty lancers, jockeys on their horses,

ready to storm the school at Shahdara

like angry Jats.

Bali Jatti, hair flying, in the theatre’s centre,

the curve of her dance drawing drunk eyes in arcs.

In Laki Circus a man trained lions,

half saint, half monk, half miracle-worker.

Why is the noise of that day

still stuck inside my mind?

---

Whispers from the Corpse of a Ruined Enchantress

It was the sorrow of the tenth of Muharram

in golden winter light.

I was alone in the drawing room

when a gypsy woman came begging.

I began to study this broken woman.

Her hair was full of dust,

her features ordinary,

her skin dusk-brown like a deep evening.

But in her blue eyes there lived

an unbearable spell.

When I came back to myself,

I was standing near her hut.

On the third day the cruel ones

shot her dead.

---

Whispers from Broken Chairs and Deserted Tables

Spoons like long necks after hanging,

forks like spear-tips with three small snakes.

The yokes of slaves lifted now,

like plates stacked aside.

Serving bowls mass graves

filled with nameless bodies.

Each grain of rice

a little organic nerve.

Chairs like ancient bones

of a tired civilisation.

Termites have eaten

whole seasons from the tablecloth.

The layer of dust is like damp clay

hiding its own clay toys.

Who knows which age this story belongs to,

and where?

---

Whispers from Dancing Lights and Whirling Fans

Bulb holders crowds of rays

trapped in the fist of night.

Switches a secret vein

in a virgin arm.

Bulbs upside-down glass pitchers of wine

glowing on the ceiling.

Lines of light across the room

rainbows fallen indoors.

Wires nerves spread in leaves.

The ceiling fan the slow procession

of both worlds in rotation.

Its three blades soft circles of air.

Fast electricity someone’s fingers

touching me for the first time.

What characters are these

in the story of my room?

---

Whispers from Streets on Fire and Afternoons Full of Fear

Tired of my usual noon-day naps,

I slipped away from home into the city.

July wandered with me

a drifter burned by its own sun.

My friends and I roamed

far from walls and doorways.

We stopped a while

under a tall shisham tree,

but the haunted sound of anklets,

shrill and fast,

dragged me to the hard threshold of fear.

No friend ever saw the creature

whose feet once carried

that imprisoned music.

---

Whispers from Love That Overflows Patience

Separation the body’s

arch of burning stretching wide.

Memory bullets eagerly piercing the chest.

Dreams as if I’ve burned in hell

for a thousand years.

The soul falling suddenly

into God’s cool palm.

The mind mad drums beating in a tent,

echo after echo.

Tears drops in which

entire oceans rage.

Pain a single scream

shared by all humankind.

My sad youth the grief

of both worlds at once.

And yet that love

I had locked away in a drawer.

---

Whispers from Wounded Sorrows and Echoing Songs

A winter night,

and a fireplace.

Time itself was dancing

to someone’s sorrow-filled voice.

A lonely cassette turned

in the tape player.

My gaze stayed fixed

on the glass window.

Full-moon light lay poured

across the floor.

In the lawn,

December’s silent tree of sleep.

In her broken nest, a dove in exile

wondered in pain

how the singer came to know

about my wounds.

---

Whispers from Thirsty Desert and the River of the Soul

Leaving a room of freezing ice,

I stepped into the burning past

of June.

In a single moment

a whole old universe returned.

The sun became my only shade,

the sand a personal hell.

The camel’s footprints

vanished with its steps.

On the mesquite trees

hung balls of fire,

and I

a traveller of Karbala,

a mirage beside the river.

Like Safa and Marwa,

like the endless search for water,

the deserts of thirst

echoed inside my voice.

---

Whispers from Madar Plants and Burning Sands

No tears were left

in the hems of the clouds.

The heartbeats of the sand grains

were dying of thirst.

On the lips of the Thal

only the sense of being alive remained.

With fire in my hands

I looked into the heart of the desert,

thinking:

How will the pod of the madar plant burst?

The veins in its leaves

are full of milk’s desire.

How will life awaken

inside a single thorny bush?

When will the seeds loosen

their silky threads to the wind?

And when will the sky

pour down a Milky Way of tears?

---

Whispers from Warm Passions in Cold Weather

January ’88, a world of snow.

Thamri’s body wrapped

in raw white cloth.

Beside her, a young man walking

with a she-Alsatian,

and holding the leash

of a high-bred dog

a girl walked along

the Mall’s pavement.

Suddenly both leashes slipped loose.

The dogs lost themselves

in the pleasure of union.

Why did the wall of manners

stare so hard at that scene

the lush, shameless girl

and the burning boy?

---

Whispers from the First Sensual Video

A stretch runs through every vein,

a promise of heat.

Fingers slide through hair

and fire runs down to the feet.

Buttons at the neck open

like a new dawn.

On the floor, clothes lie

like useless old skins.

On the mattress,

a tightening grip of hands.

From every limb,

soft intoxicated sighs.

A long, unbroken trance of delight

in the body.

The postures of union

like small volcanoes of touch.

What alley is this film from?

Who are these people?

---

Whispers from Tear-Soaked Pillows and Frozen Quilts

One pillow that has held

years of midnight tears.

One cold quilt,

like the chilly air of Bhurban.

One sheet a single crumpled crease

of separation.

The mattress

soft like ice-water under cloth.

A bed that has never

truly moved.

The floor is cold,

a skin denied of touch.

The walls are bricks of ice

mortared together.

The roof

a sky dropping nothing but chill.

How long has this frost

been living inside me?

---

Whispers from Empty Roads and Deserted Footpaths

The road a bright line of night

drawn across the dark.

Footpaths on both sides

two banks of a narrow canal.

The streetlights

gods hanging from the poles.

Emptiness stretches out,

the only companion.

Cars beat drums

in the crowd of silence.

A familiar footfall

rises from the footpath

feet of loneliness,

steps of fear.

An old tree,

from the first garden of time.

How did I end up here,

walking in my sleep?

---

Whispers from Living Prayers and Merciful Gazes

This is the heart-winning shrine

of my saint, Sultan Zakri,

an unearthly light

shining on Mianwali.

In its shade,

my loved ones rest

my mother, my father,

my elder brother.

These three, bodies of reward,

filled with my prayers,

are my only

intercessors in the Holy Court.

Through them alone

I recognise my Lord,

and through them I first met

that exalted One

who once returned

from the heavens.

---

Whispers from Unknown Directions and Lost Embers

Beside the railway crossing,

under a black keekar tree,

there stood a hut of paper,

home to a mad dervish.

I often paused

to look at him.

With a few leaves

he covered his nakedness.

Rain evaporated

straight out of his skin.

In place of eyes,

two red coals burned.

One day I offered him a cigarette.

He took two drags,

looked up and said,

“Go. I have granted you

the blessing of a direction unknown.”

---

Whispers from Moving Seconds and Passing Years

Under thick green shisham trees

at noon,

soft wind walked

with an easy grace.

Beside the stream

ran a narrow track,

and I, on my motorcycle,

sped along it

an angry red bullet

from a rifle.

I thought I had outrun time itself.

But the silver Rado watch

strapped to my wrist

kept gently moving its hands,

soft, precise

and it locked me again

inside the chain of moments.

---

Whispers from Smouldering Solitude and Restless Beauty

A half-lit lane,

the last breaths of night.

My footsteps cast

long shadows behind me.

From one door

a thin line of light flowed out,

bending and stretching

to catch my wandering eyes.

It kept changing its shape

to match my height.

But I was lost

in my own inner desert,

a breath in the air

turning into nothing.

How could I know

that shining line meant

a burning longing

waiting just inside?

---

Whispers from Ghosts of Dreams and Shapes of Thought

My dream

a revolution like Russia’s.

Teachings of Lenin

a band of light.

Tolstoy walking with me

across the sky.

In Ward No. 12

I spoke with Chekhov.

I spoke a little with Sartre too,

but I did speak.

Sahir’s poems

slipped whole into my memory.

A bond with Iqbal

grew of its own accord.

Love came hand in hand

with poetry.

Who moved the stone

from the cave of my little school?

---

Whispers from Empty Roads and Ink-Black Nights

The town’s only night-open hotel,

and four or five of us friends.

We kept drinking

the warm tea of moonlight.

We argued enough,

sang our songs,

and tired at last

of the chairs’ embrace.

Outside, on the lonely road,

a few wakeful cars,

and city dogs barking

from far away.

We were like holy fools of the night,

beggar-saints of darkness,

like jackals at midnight

sniffing at old wounds.

From where, I wonder,

came that sudden wish for dawn?

---

Whispers from Strange Knowledge and Restless Minds

Philosophy

as if the world’s secrets

had opened themselves to me.

Poetry

as if God Himself

had started to speak with me.

Knowing “Be!”

almost showed its true meaning.

Letters measured

the distances of all geography.

Someone piled all mathematics

upon my desk.

Translations between tongues

began to happen on their own.

My feet reached the moon,

my mind touched the stars.

I had gone out

to look for Someone in the skies,

but someone placed in my hands

a sharp sword of doubt.

---

Whispers Between God’s Being and Not Being

My teacher,

the noble Syed Nasir,

taught the lesson

of God’s being and not being.

One day I said to him

in deep confusion:

“When I think without God,

whom should I thank?

Whatever I wish for,

in whatever way,

happens at once.”

His silence

stabbed me for days.

Then my mother’s

midnight prayers came to help.

Suddenly I met

Hazrat Mazhar Qayyum.

And my eyes

saw the Face of God.

---

Whispers inside the Circles of Clergy

Mosques

crowds in a ruined town,

busy all day buying

plots in heaven.

Madrasas

like vultures reading grammar,

hoping only for the carcasses

of charity.

Verses, written in pretty calligraphy

for all to see,

and in the back rooms

things darker than we dare name.

Maulvis

like Kashmiri parrots in the yard,

repeating words

without tasting their meaning.

Even this understanding,

Mazhhar Qayyum

left as a gift.

---

Whispers Before the First Meeting in a Restaurant in Huddersfield

A young woman came to my table

and said,

“My parents named me Narendra Kaur.

I’m a student of social work.

Is it true that you are still

untouched by union?”

Wiping sweat from my forehead,

I glared at her.

She smiled,

“In the meeting they told us:

a twenty-eight-year-old man of honour,

my guest tonight,

has never tasted

the wine of passionate love.

If that is true,

my body is at your service, sir.”

---

Whispers between Shamed Nights and Reward-Filled Mornings

Morning

the opening of blessed hours.

Night

when thickened sins

start to freeze.

The sun

a saving account of goodness

for Judgment Day.

The moon

a broken bow of spring

hooked on a branch.

Noon puzzled,

“Why did you leave me?”

The stars

drops scattered

on a woollen shawl.

Evening

an altar soaked in blood.

And twilight

a soldier’s uniform

lost in his own blood.

How did this miracle

of day and night

ever come to be?

---

Whispers from Worshipping Flowers and Love-Heavy Trees

Flowers

a full commentary

on your wedding dress.

Buds

news of a bond

spreading quietly.

Trees

high shelters

built of good deeds.

Trunks

someone’s trust

that will not die.

Branches

stretching like a soft stretch

in a waiting body.

Thorns

long nights of longing

on a lonely bed.

A tender leaf

the soft lobe

of your ear.

Fruit the bitter-sweet

taste of your lips.

Who undraped these goddesses

of tree and bloom

before my eyes?

---

Whispers from Oppressed Earth and Pitiless Sky

The sky

the limit of the vastness

inside me.

The earth

a mother’s holy tenderness.

When a rainbow

entered the drawing room,

the hot desert became

the endless pain of waiting.

The arc of colours

mirrored the curve

of your body.

Cold water

like your soft, sweet voice.

The mountains

height of my stubborn thoughts.

Black clouds

the dark evenings of hurt

in the wilderness of my soul.

The wind

the fine ups and downs

of your breath.

How did this spell begin

between earth and sky?

---

Whispers between Questions and Astonished Answers

In the valley of mind and vision

rose such tangled questions,

their restless chain

never seemed to break:

Why is there a link

between man and this outer world?

What is it?

How is it?

For whom, and for what?

Perhaps my understanding

is not what matters.

Maybe no one

has ever truly known.