In her name, most beautiful, most elegant.
A drop of dew on the slender leaf,
A tear drop on the face of time,
I observe her, the sun reveres her.
Light flowing through her clefts,
Between those lines on her forehead,
Are the epitaphs of éclat.
A strand of hair meandering across her face,
While her eyes locked in dream,
I see her.
Hindustan. A land of pepper love. I was one of the thousands picked up from the banks of Zaravshan in Samarkand. With trembling hands, unsullied minds we were summoned by the great Persian Abd-ul-Haq to being the insignificant ones to deliver the divine revelation to the world. For me calligraphy was the conduit revealing the holy word of God itself. Scraping, incising and scratching at those Makrana marbles, I remember her.
Her face half covered with Do-Shalla,
Through those silver and gold woven threads,
A gaze of enchantment, a pull so intoxicating.
A cast was woven around us,
Since her eyes met mine.
Her beauty is an alluring song,
A nightingale set free.
At the time the sun reached its zenith, we all used to sit around banks of Yamuna. Throwing small pieces of marble into the river, I used to weigh down the water with my memories. These were the moments of emancipation in the trap of time. I could see some of the workers exhibiting their contraband of lapis lazuli, onyx and topaz to others. All I could pilfer were the tears of Ammi and the sand of my Samar. Picking up my tools, returning to the matrix of creation, I continued on the Parchin Kari.
A man was nothing for a long time,
An imbecile sperm, a self without alms,
Try him with sight, hearing and insight,
Show him a way, feed the orphan and indigent.
Inscribe him with righteousness, uproot the evil,
And he will find Salsabeel, scattered pearls of opulence.
As the sun set on Yamuna, we gathered ourselves to thank Him for this life of contentment. The shades of twilight had started to obscure us quickly. Walking at a brisk pace, I made my way to cottage. I could see smoke coming out from the nafidha. As soon as I opened the door, all I could see was smoke. Abstruse and hazy. Then I saw her.
Out of a magical tale, she came,
Out of supposition and uncertainty,
A beauty as captivating as afeem.
Hues of twilight draping her tresses,
A guise intricately hewn,
A semblance filled with sensuality,
A sheer poetry, a canvas for an artist,
Radiating, splendidly luminous,
She was the Hasht-Bihisht.
Sitting with her on the ground, she made me try her delicacies, especially the Fesenjoon. I watched her as the evening light descended upon her. She was the heavenly ether and she was the hushed grass. She was the carafe to all my flaws. During the building of the mausoleum, she was Yamuna, she was the pen to my artistry on the Darwaza-e-rauza and she was the infinity in this finite pattern of time and womb of covenants.
After the dinner, we sat outside having long meaningful discourses. Hindustan, a plinth of exuberance and humility. We were the savages suckling at the breasts of a nation which would always adopt us. We left our old mortal selves full of envy and mischief, seeking refuge in the Dawn of life. She had accepted us and dissolved every boundary of religion and dogmas.
Counting stars with her,
Beautiful motifs she could conjure up in the sky,
Is her face the moon itself?
Her voice is the scented moonlight,
Her fingers are the long minarets,
Where the muezzin calls prayers.
Her navel the Charbagh,
Intersection of the four rivers,
Wine, milk, honey, water and
Love, passion, generosity, life.
Her skin soft as sandalwood,
Soaking sun from the cusps of shrouds,
Melting the ice of ignorance,
She sings, she dances, and she swings,
While her lips articulate.
For every Taj, there’s a Mumtaz and for every time there’s a love. Every winter has a pashmina and every summer has a breeze. I found her in a place called Hindustan. Years from now on, when we are carried away by the autumn, she will be there on the marble walls, on the minarets, on the entrances and in the sarcophagus. Touch her. Remember her. Worship her.
To man, the most simple and capricious,
Full of self-esteem, full of complexities,
There will be difficulties,
Verily with every obstacle, there will be relief.
Remember your loved one, work hard,
And then you will find place in Shalimar.
karanvankani 