POEMT: ...Worth Having

Love of Knowledge,
and Knowledge of Love:
those are the only two things
worth having.

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Ab thak chala hoon main / अब थक चला हूँ मैं

Ab thak chala hoon main
mere maalik
apni maangon se, aur
teri daya se.

Ab agar tujhe
kuch dena hai to bas…
ya de mujhe
apna pyaar
ya de
itna sabr
ki mujhe
koi chahat
hi na rahe.

- owais

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अब थक चला हूँ मैं
मेरे मालिक
अपनी माँगों से, और
तेरी दया से ।

अब अगर तुझे
कुछ देना है तो बस…
या दे मुझे
अपना प्यार
या दे
इतना सब्र
कि मुझे
कोई चाहत
ही न रहे ।


- उवैस

--

This is first being published on this page

POEM_: Doctrinaire Mindfulness?

Is it merely that
I am a little brat
inside this middle-aged exterior,
a little fool
who never grew up,
who will not accept
any authority?
Or is it that,
I am a mindful enough
human being
who rejects, being directed
by a doctrine,
no matter which?

Why do I reject
the demand of doctrinaire Islam,
which asks me to keep
a beard-length, of a fist and a half,
and condemn, some tasteless
cartoons, printed
half the world away?

Or of doctrinaire Nationalism,
that asks me to watch
a mindless game of cricket, and find it
more important
than the suffering
all around me?

And equally, the demand of doctrinaire
Mammonism, which asks me to
(shave every day, and)
find ways of exploiting
all
in order to gain more wealth,
the only acceptable end
for all,
Mammonites,
and otherwise?

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Just OK

One day,
I figured out
that I care about
other people
more than, they care about me.
I was heart-broken. And sad.

Then,
another day,
I figured out
that these ‘other’ people
also included those
that I considered
my immediate family.
I was heart-broken.

Yet another day,
today,
I find that
I care about other people
even more than they
care about themselves.

Evidently,
the problem,
is with me.
Not with the world
(as always).
And so,
now,
I am not heart-broken,
nor sad.

Just…
…OK.

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Aap hi badh ke karo / आप ही बढ़ के करो

Aap ke karo un ko naman ho ke na ho
Aap hi kijiyega un ko dafan ho ke na ho

Mujh se kya poochhte ho mere batan ki halat
Khar bahar bhi hain andar bhi chaman ho ke na ho

Jis ja baithoon main faqat tujh ko taka karta hoon
Tere jeevan se mera aaj gaman ho ke na ho

Tujh se milne ko chaloon saath mein kuch to rakh loon
Jaan bhi nikle to tere paas kafan ho ke na ho

- owais

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आप ही बढ़ के करो उन को नमन हो के न हो
आप ही कीजियेगा उन को दफ़न हो के न हो ।

मुझ से क्या पूछते हो मेरे बतन की हालत
ख़ार बाहर भी हैं अन्दर भी चमन हो के न हो ।

जिस जा बैठूं मैं फ़क़त तुझ को तका करता हूँ
तेरे जीवन से मेरा आज गमन हो के न हो ।

तुझ से मिलने को चलूँ साथ में कुछ तो रख लूँ
जाँ भी निकले तो तेरे पास कफ़न हो के न हो ।

- उवैस

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Kiska main? / किसका मैं?

Mera apna
hai kya? Tum they
ya shayad
nahin they mere…
…par ab to
yakinan nahin ho.

Aur jisko bhi
jab bhi
main ne kaha apna-
usne khud,
ya kisi aur ne
mujhe yaad dilaya
…ki na mera koi,
na kuchh hai…
na main kisi ka.

Jis se
cheezen bhi door bhagen
uska hai kya
usoolon ke siva?

To phir
tum hi kaho
main unhen bhi
kaise chhod doon?

- owais

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मेरा अपना
है क्या? तुम थे
या शायद
नहीं थे मेरे…
…पर अब तो
यकीनन नहीं हो।

और जिसको भी
जब भी
मैं ने कहा अपना-
उसने ख़ुद,
या किसी और ने
मुझे याद दिलाया
…कि न मेरा कोई,
न कुछ है…
न मैं किसी का.

जिस से
चीज़ें भी दूर भागें
उसका है क्या
उसूलों के सिवा?

तो फिर
तुम ही कहो
मैं उन्हें भी
कैसे छोड़ दूं?

- उवैस

--

This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: One Must…

…repair one’s own shoes,
not demand
that the planet be covered
with leather.

So said,
a Dalai Lama.
But, why is it,
that for me, my desires
are no less than
sacro-sanct?

Why is it
‘My Way,
Or No Way’?

Have I read
too much of Ayn Rand?
Or is it that
in this age of Mammon,
we are all brats,
never men?
Those, that have the courage
to fight their fiercest rival,
their own Self?

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: I and My Desire

I, and my desire
we often talk –
each claiming to be
greater than the other.

The never-ending debate,
always inconclusive,
makes us experiment –
with each-other...

Sometimes,
I give in, to ‘him’.
And he, the
ever-unappeasable brat
inflating his expectations,
always,
never even thanks me
for accommodating him;
he squeezes me,
till I give up, in exasperation.

At other times,
I dam him up –
“Control him!”, I command myself…
…with only one result:
each passing moment,
makes him stronger, and he,
one day, breaches the dam.

Always winning,
he has the classical
dilemma, of a virus:
Kill the host,
and you die with it.
Thus, my weakness
in turn, weakens him –
and I win.
For a while,
I can live a sane,
rational life.
But only, for a while…

So,
where does this leave us?
Does this stale-mate,
have a better ending?

Happily, probably, yes:
We now, have a pact –
We duel no more:
each will try, instead,
independently,
to rise, above
the other…

…

…thus, each of us
downgrades the other
from a foe, to a mere
rival. May the best
‘man’ win.

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: If I Had not Loved You So

If I had not loved you so,
your distance
when with you
would not pain me thus…

If I had not wanted
to spend every moment
of my life with you;
I would not, now,
see every moment
with you, a pain.

But if you were not meant
to test me, at my most intense,
why were you ever destined
to come into my life?
Like the zillion others,
why did you not flit in
and out, like a butter-fly:
Beautiful in,
forgotten out?

Were you here
to test the very peaks
of my passion,
the very depths
of my despair,
the very last
of my patience?

Or were you here
to bring me the knowledge
that life can best be lived
if only lived free…

…from the encumbrances
of desire…

…even,
from love?

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: An Inferno Named Desire

Put out
the flame of desire,
and I stop burning.
My suffering ends.
But,
what do I then live for?


Or else,
choose the other option:
I burn, and burn well,
like a forest fire
ravishing all that I find
in my way…?

But,
what do I then, leave in my wake?
Pain, lost life, ugliness?
And, I too
die in the end…
…with nothing left to burn.

With my temptations, my fuel gone,
the inferno of my desire,
then eats itself.
Eats me.


Which was a better life?
…and a worthier death?

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Of Success, And…

You ask me
of my biggest success
in life. It’s been you.
Of course.

From you,
I learnt love.
With you, I knew passion.
For you, I left the world; from you,
I came back to it.

I discovered, how much I could care,
what I was willing to give,
and what not,
in order to catch that mirage
called Love.

I created new limits,
I invented a new self.
I discovered a patience
within me, I never knew existed.
I waited for years
for one, just one
lover’s kiss from you.

You kept your distance.
You made love.
And yet,
it wasn’t love.
You never liked the touch of my body;
never got rid of the guilt
of having made love to me.

With you, for you, I have known
the greatest feelings
the greatest thoughts, ideas
a man is capable of. And for you
I have imagined pains,
I would not inflict on a foe.

You have given me
great pleasure, happiness, the feeling of
almost ecstasy.
And you have given me the pain, the agony
I would not have, otherwise, known.

You never said if
you loved me.
You had no plans for our future together.
You never touched my face.
With your fingers
you never combed my hair.

Yes, my dear,
you have been the biggest success of my life--
And the greatest failure.

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Induced Schizophrenia

I wish you, my love
a very happy birthday.
And, many happy birthdays
to come.

Do you know, that
it has been six months
since you saw me last –
and even today,
when no one bothers,
but I,
to remember your birthday; in your eyes,
I see no spark of love, for me;
no glimmer of hope, for me,
to still believe
that we have
a future, together.

I thought,
you were the love
of my life.

Perhaps,
it is so.
But am I,
the love of your life?
(Or even,
a love in your life?)

Evidently,
it is not so.

But who will convince
my stupid heart,
my ignoramus desire?
Evidence, it seems,
counts for nothing.

Am I destined
to forever
burn for you?

Or,
can I cut away
that large part
that humongous part of me,
which does nothing
but pine for you?

Can I
induce schizophrenia?

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: All Mine?

Rivals,
I have defeated all.

But that,
which I thought a diamond;
and spent a lifetime polishing-
turned out to be
a mere stone.

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: I Fear The Day

How I fear the day
when I may lose
even that part
of him, which is mine;
for his fierce pride
will never allow
what I want to do to him:
I wish to own him.
All of him.

Just as he owns
all of me.

- owais

--

This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Redundancy

While making me,
redundant,
in your life, I wish
you had made yourself,
redundant too.

In mine.

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: By The Lovers of The Lord

Like a virgin,
waiting for her lover,
to lovingly make her his own,
I waited.

I waited
for a belief,
to follow through its course.
I waited for my end.
For the end, of a centuries old
house of God.

I was attacked,
raped
and murdered.
By the lovers of the Lord.

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEMT: Faqirana II / फ़की़राना II

Main to faqir hoon, har dar pe sada deta hoon
Jise dena ho de, saath chalna ho chale

- owais

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मैं तो फ़की़र हूँ, हर दर पे सदा देता हूँ
जिसे देना हो दे, साथ चलना हो चले

- उवैस

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEMT: Faqirana I / फ़की़राना I

Ruka dar pe, phir badh chala
Faqir na chahe kuchh, na koi

- owais

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रुका दर पे, फिर बढ़ चला
फ़की़र न चाहे कुछ, न कोई

- उवैस

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: More

This, perhaps,
is an inherent pain
in the human situation.
That our imagination
goes farther than our power.
That our consciousness
allows us to feel more
of what we have not,
than what we do.

That our imagination has given us
much of what we have, is beyond doubt.
Though, what we have-
is that a blessing, or a curse: Who is to say?
The desire, not the greed,
for more--
not just,
more money, more power, more fame
but also,
more love, more knowledge, more happiness,
more life!
Does it, this need of
‘more’
ever leave the human breast?
Can it?

And is this
just an attribute
of being human,
or of Life itself?
Every Beta wants to be an Alpha,
every weed, the place held by the crop.

They all have the urge, but
do they also have the pain?

The pain, of not being
God?
- owais
--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Mine and Mine

I scream at you.
I scream at her.
But I can not bear
either of you even being
impolite to the other.

Perhaps, because
I love you and I love her.
But neither of you
have learnt to love the other.
Yet.

But, as you both must know,
lovers and mothers must.

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEMT: Rogi / रोगी

Rog koi ji ko laga hi deta
tum na hote, koi tum sa hota.

- owais

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रोग कोई जी को लगा ही देता
तुम न होते, कोई तुम सा होता।

- उवैस

This was first published in the book, 'Sham-e-raah'.

POEM_: Biradari Waale Kya Kahenge? / बिरादरी वाले क्या कहेंगे?

“Biradari waale kya kahenge?”
Itna keh kar usne
apni zindagi ki shahkaar
apni nazm, ‘Sajda Aur Khuda’
nazare aatish kar di.

Isi tarah
yahi keh kar
kitni vidhvaaen
hansi khushi sati ho gaeen
kitni seetaon ko
apne hi ghar se nikaal diya gaya.
Kitni zulekhaaen
apne yusuf ka daman takte takte
ghut ghut kar mar gaeen
kitne qais deevane hue
kitne sarmad
duniya se begaane hue
kitne armaanon ka gala ghonta gaya
kitni tamannaen khatm kar di gaeen
kitne dil jala diye gaye…
kisko maloom?

Kis ko maloom
ki kal shayad
yahi ghairatmand bhai
apni hi behen ke khoon se
apne haath rang le
yeh keh kar, ki
Biradari waale kya kahege?

- owais

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"बिरादरी वाले क्या कहेंगे?"
इतना कह कर उसने
अपनी ज़िंदगी की शाहकार
अपनी नज़्म, 'सजदा और खुदा'
नज़रे आतिश कर दी।

इसी तरह
यही कह कर
कितनी विधवाएं
हँसी खुशी सती हो गईं
कितनी सीताओं को
अपने ही घर से निकाल दिया गया।
कितनी ज़ुलेखा़एँ
अपने युसूफ का दामन तकते तकते
घुट घुट कर मर गईं
कितने क़ैस दीवाने हुए
कितने सरमद
दुनिया से बेगाने हुए
कितने अरमानों का गला घोंटा गया
कितनी तमन्नाएँ ख़त्म कर दी गयीं
कितने दिल जला दिए गए...
किसको मालूम?

किस को मालूम
कि कल शायद
यही गै़रत्मंद भाई
अपनी ही बहन के खू़न से
अपने हाथ रंग ले
यह कह कर, कि
बिरादरी वाले क्या कहेंगे?

- उवैस

--
This was first published in the book, 'Sham-e-raah'.

POEM_: Why?

Why do you fight with me?
Is it because
you lack the courage
to make love to me?

- owais

--
This was first published in the book, 'Love?'.

POEMT: Phir Saamne Raqeeb Ke / फिर सामने रकी़ब के

Phir saamne raqeeb ke aakar, palat gaye,
honthon pe lafze dard chhipa kar palat gaye.
Dekha to uske dil mein hamen, tum hi tum mile,
dekar duaaen, ashk baha kar palat gaye.


- owais

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फिर सामने रकी़ब के आकर, पलट गए,

होंठों पे लफ्ज़े दर्द छिपा कर पलट गए।

देखा तो उसके दिल में हमें, तुम ही तुम मिले,

देकर दुआएं, अश्क बहा कर पलट गए॥


- उवैस



--

This was first published in the book, 'Sham-e-raah'.

POEMT: Jo Na Hon Aap To / जो न हों आप तो

Darde dil sunaaen kisko, jo na hon aap to,
gham se mar hi na jaaen hum, jo na hon aap to.
Dil mein nafrat hi sahi, par yaad to kar lete hain,
varna kisko yaad aaen hum, jo na hon aap to.

- owais

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दर्दे दिल सुनाएँ किसको, जो न हों आप तो,
ग़म से मर ही न जाएँ हम, जो न हों आप तो।
दिल में नफ़रत ही सही, पर याद तो कर लेते हैं,
वरना किसको याद आएं हम, जो न हों आप तो॥

- उवैस

--
This was first published in the book, 'Sham-e-raah'.

POEMT: Jo Duur Ham Rahen / जो दूर हम रहें

Jo duur ham rahen, voh paas aate hain,
Gale milen to haath bhi na milate hain.
Ajab ravish hai ham insaanon ki jahan mein owais,
Jise na paa saken, us ko bhula naa paate hain.

- owais

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जो दूर हम रहें उनसे, वह पास आते हैं,
गले मिलें तो हाथ भी न मिलाते हैं।
अजब रविश है हम इंसानों की जहाँ में उवैस,
जिसे न पा सकें, उस को भुला न पाते हैं॥

- उवैस

--
This was first published in the book, 'Sham-e-raah'.

POEM_: Jahan Tum Ne Chhoda Hai / जहाँ तुमने छोड़ा है

Jaao,
dil pe bandish laga saka hai kaun?
Jaao, usi ki taraf jaao
Jis ke khwabon se aankhen makhmoor hain tumhari
Jaao usi ki taraf jaao.

Main to yaheen hoon
yaheen rahoonga, jahan tum ne chhoda hai.
Jab naye mehboob se thak jaao, chale aana
vaheen paaoge mujhe
jahan tum ne chhoda hai.

- owais

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जाओ,
दिल पे बंदिश लगा सका है कौन?
जाओ, उसी की तरफ़ जाओ
जिस के ख़्वाबों से आँखें मख़मूर हैं तुम्हारी
जाओ उसी की तरफ़ जाओ

मैं तो यहीं हूँ
यहीं रहूँगा, जहाँ तुम ने छोड़ा है।
जब नए महबूब से थक जाओ, चले आना
वहीं पाओगे मुझे
जहाँ तुमने छोड़ा है।


- उवैस

--
This was first published in the book, 'Sham-e-raah'.

POEM_: A One Night Stand

Do I celebrate?
Or do I sit and cry?
I’ve got what I asked for.
And yet,
I am upset.
I am upset at not getting
more of you.

More of you,
than I asked.
- owais
--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Sunshine Trilogy III

…And a Reply

He told me
all about himself.
What he perhaps thought,
warts, and all.
And asked me not
an iota in return.

And he watched my face
bit by bit revealing
his innermost,
perhaps, waiting,
for the first signs
of flinching in my face.

Little did he know
that in exchange of being his,
I could give up
all that is mine,
and all that,
could ever be mine.
Least of all,
ever think of insisting
that he fall in line
with the established mores of
the present day society.

Little did he know
that riddled with my numerous
insecurities and infirmities,
I could scarcely believe
that he had
actually brought with him, for me
his golden sunshine
flooding all the darkest
deepest corners of my being
with his undying rays of love.

My sunshine,
would you actually believe
that the most cherished
the most beloved
the most important moment,
in my entire life,
was when
in a reply to my most
convoluted question about us,
you had buried your face
in my naked shoulder, and
had said, simply,
“I want to
be yours”.

- owais

--
This was earlier published in Trikone Magazine / Bombay Dost and in the anthology, 'Yaraana'.

POEM_: Sunshine Trilogy II

A Poser…

I am not the wittiest
of queens you can find.
I do not have
the sexiest of bodies,
which keep flitting around you.
I certainly do not possess
the biggest of penile appendages
that you have experienced.
I am not even
passable as a pleasure provider.
I am so much older,
with so much excess fat,
with so little time
before I lose the last hair on my head.
I have the lousiest of tempers-
and the worst of possessive natures.

Given half a chance
my mom would exchange
me for an Idi Amin.

So why do I try wooing you,
my sunshine?
What could you possibly
find in me?

- owais

--
This was earlier published in Trikone Magazine / Bombay Dost and in the anthology, 'Yaraana'.

POEM_: Sunshine Trilogy I

Talking to the Sunshine
I get tired of journeys
I get tired of my job,
of driving
of being driven
crazy by my mother’s demands.
I get tired of seasons;
of summer, of winter
even, of monsoons.
I get tired
of conforming to the society’s diktats.
I get tired
of screaming queens
of scheming activists.
I get tired of my desire
for sexy boys with massive dicks.
I, often, even get tired
of myself.

What I never
seem to get tired of
is talking to you.
Any time, any place;
with you, without you;
I can talk, and talk forever
to you.
Sometimes,
I talk in prose
sometimes in third class
poetry like this.
Sometimes in the surreal
language of the dreams.
And sometimes without talking at all.

You are my life
my sunshine,
how could I get tired
of being with you…

- owais

--
This was earlier published in Trikone Magazine / Bombay Dost and in the anthology, 'Yaraana'.

POEM_: Being Gay in India III

Days pass
Weeks pass
Months pass
The summer time wind
the ‘Lu’, gives way to
the delightfully
the erratically Indian Monsoon.
But he and I
arranging meetings on the sly
say no word;
just look
just touch
and go away
For months
we look, we touch, we go away.

We wait.

…?


- owais

--
This was first published in Trikone Magazine.

POEM_: Being Gay in India II

They come
in drag, and dance
They come
with false eyelashes, and mascara
They sway their hips
and wink
in the most lecherous way they know
They catch hold
of me,
of my hands, my legs, my crotch;
of anyone, unwilling,
unready to stay uncaught.

They have fun
or pretend to do so.
They have with one
and go to the next
again to do so.

My heart
my Indian romantic heart
my prick, my gay but Indian prick,
We wait
We wait.

- owais

--
This was first published in Trikone Magazine.

POEM_: Being Gay in India I

Rustle of fallen leaves
The young, but almost dead
Neem, my guardian angel
and I
together, we look out the window
We wait
We wait
We wait.

- owais

--
This was first published in Trikone Magazine.

POEM_: Do I Have To See The News?

These fresh young faces; those, that I love
ugly with a loathing, for ‘them’!

I, the self-assumed rational being,
and I, the unabashed sentimentalist,
could either ‘I’, ever find any ends
sufficient to justify
this loss of compassion and caring,
this death of tenderness and love?

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Never!

Never close the door,
when I am outside.
I will not open it.
Or ask you to open it.
Or even complain about it.

I’ll just stand outside,
wither,
and die.

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Efficiency Personified

I know this is a five star hotel,
but, man--
goof up a little.
Drop something in my lap.
Smile at me
with a twinkle in your eye.
Or for never taking my eyes off of you,
at the very least,
get upset with me!
-owais
--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Digital Lives

Often I wonder, how they manage
to get married to women,
make kids, and then
drag it up at the queens’ banquet?

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: At My Funeral...

At my funeral,
my friends will come
with a handful of dust,
and pay me back
my love, for what
it was worth.

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: ...And I Walked Alone

He asked me
if he could join me.

I said nothing.

He should have joined.
Not asked.

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEMT: Who Minds…

…his own fart?

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: A Note

(Written during a party- Dec 5th, 1992)

Tomorrow,
the Nation may
erupt in flames;
and I am celebrating.
What?

My rape?

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Anything, but Love

Having fallen in love
with love itself;
can I do anything,
but love?

- owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Preference or Necessity?

I know that you like
to make love with me.

But what I want to know
is whether you do it
out of preference
or necessity?

- Owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Sometimes

Even while with you,
I miss you.

- Owais

--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: The Final Rainbow

If
I have to live on a rainbow,
why should it be
less than The Best?

I have had enough
of part-time lovers--
Now,
I want to make love to You,
God.

- Owais

--
This is first being publsihed on this page.

POEMT: I Love You

.

I love You,
but permit me to do that
through Your creatures.

- Owais

--

This is first being published on this page.

POEMT: Seeds

Desire is the seed of Misery,
Consumption, that of Poverty.

- owais

--

This has first been published on this page.

.

I regard this couplet as my life's work. The first line is dedicated to the mature reader, the second, to the maturing one.
.

.

ESSAY: Gender of Beloved in Mir’s Poetry

.
Mir Taqi Mir (1722-1810) is often remembered as the father of Urdu Ghazal. Ghazal is the most popular form of Urdu poetry. Such is the status of Mir that even Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib when speaking of Mir has this to say-

Rekhte ke tum hi ustad nahin ho Ghalib
Kehte hain, agle zamaane mein koi Mir bhi tha
(You are not the only master of Urdu, Ghalib
They say, there also was a man named Mir)

Mir’s, and for that matter even Ghalib’s own times were quite turbulent- what with Nadir Shah Durrani and Company Bahadur! A conservative society was forced to become even more conservative in order to safeguard what it considered its very existence. Women in purdah were pushed even further inside. The isolation between sexes was so complete that the only women a man could see and interact with, were either one’s own immediate family- or those on the bazaar.

The former were obviously a taboo, and in the latter’s case, demand far outstripped the supply. That left one area still open- one could well fall in love with a member of one’s own sex. But just like ancient Greece, manliness was by far the most highly prized commodity. This meant that no ‘man’ could afford to be seen as passive; no ‘man’ could allow himself to be loved. To be the active party carried no such stigma. To love, therefore, was indeed a necessity. The mantle of being beloved, again, just like in ancient Greece, fell on those who were no more children, and not yet ‘men’, i.e., boys just entering manhood.

Typically, the equation would also be the same: Erastes was the well-to-do adult from nobility, or from the miniscule middle class, almost always married; Eromenos was the beautiful adolescent with a moustache or beard just making an appearance. The Eromenos would generally not allow the Erastes too many liberties in the beginning. It is during this stage of courtship when the Eromenos is indifferent, or affecting indifference, that the Erastes finds his most anguished and audible voice. Ancient Greeks have left many such voices- in the literature, in mythology and philosophy, in art. Closer home, they have these only in the Ghazal.

One finds in Urdu Ghazal that the beloved is almost always referred to, in the male gender verb forms. The beloved is always aata, jaata, karta; very rarely, aati, jaati, karti. One could always ascribe this, in part, to the fact that the Ghazal had been brought up under the tutelage of Sufi saints. Since the Sufi’s real beloved is The Beloved- a Romantic, All-loving God- the Sufi’s address is always in the male gender form; male being the accepted gender of God. But that could not be the whole reason; because the pre-20th century ghazal is replete with references that could only be to a human male.

It is only with this background that we can approach Mir’s poetry. There are a few more things to remember about Mir. His imagery, symbols and vocabulary are pretty much the standard across the spectrum of 18th and 19th century Urdu poetry. Also, one must remember that he lived a long time, and was a very prolific poet. In his six Urdu diwans alone we find 13,590 couplets. Total extant couplets are more than 30,000. It would be well at this juncture to recall that all of Ghalib’s fame rests on a mere 1,802 couplets. Finally, we must also recognize that Mir is one of the boldest and clearest talking poets Urdu has ever known, when it comes to writing about love; specifically homosexual love.

Of the 13,590 couplets in his six Urdu diwans, a preliminary reading reveals that as was the norm, there is often no reference to the beloved’s gender. However, in several cases (262 couplets) one finds several key-words that establish the gender of the beloved. Of these, 225 clearly refer to a male beloved, remaining 37 refer to female beloved. This makes for 86% of couplets referring to a homosexual liaison, 14% to a heterosexual one.

It may be reiterated that other couplets, when on the subject of the beloved, use male gender verb forms; which since it was customary to use them, does not throw much light on the actual gender of the beloved. This factor has therefore been ignored in this study.

The 37 couplets presumed to be referring to a female beloved contain the following key-words:
Purda, Hijaab- Purdah. Used customarily by all ‘respectable’ women, irrespective of the religious community they belonged to.
Burqa- The black veil used by muslim women in the subcontinent to implement purdah when they are out of their homes.
Naqaab- That part of the burqa which covers / uncovers the face of the burqa-wearer without disturbing the rest of the burqa.
Since Purda, Hijaab, Burqa and Naqaab are customarily used only by females, one can conceivably conclude that the beloved is a female person.

The 225 couplets referring to a male beloved have been counted so on account of the following key-words:
Ladka, launda, tifl, naunihal, pisar- all used when referring to a male adolescent or a young man.
Dadhi, Khat– beard.
Mian- Sir, dear etc. (always for a male).
Sawar- Mount (as on a horse: Invariably male).
Talwar- Sword (invariably carried by a male).
Mugh, mughan, mugh-bachcha- Cup bearers (invariably male).
Mas, Masan- Beginnings of a moustache, Down leading to a moustache.
These again are exclusively male references, therefore one can certainly conclude that the beloved is a male person.




Some of the 225 couplets that refer to a male beloved are reproduced below. A trans-creation done by self is also presented along with the couplet in question:

1. Tera hi munh take hai, kya jaaniye ke naukhat
Kya baaghe sabz toone aaine ko dikhayaWhat divine mirage is
the mirror lost in?
Is it your young beard
that makes it look at none?

2. Shaadabi o latafat hargiz na hui usme
Teri mason pe garche sabze ne zehr khayaSpring poisoned herself, but
got not the freshness for her greenery;
It’s all in your rosy face
and the sprouting hint of your moustache!

3. Hai teera roz apna ladkon ki dosti se
Is din hi ko kahe tha aksar pidar hamara
Friendship of lads made
my days; my life dark
Is that what father said
‘My words you better mark!’

4. Ji liya bosa-e rukhsaar-e mukhattat de kar
Aaqebat un ne hamen zehr diya paan ke beech
I lost my heart to you
kissing your bearded cheek,
My life you took away
with poisoned betel leaf!

5. Woh jo alam uske oopar tha so khat ne kho diya
Mubtila hai is bala mein Mir ek alam hanoozWith the arrival of his beard
his beauty was lost, yet
a world of lovers of his,
have still to bow away

6. Vay nahin to unhon ka bhai aur
Ishq karne ki kya manai haiI want you, but if not you
just fine is your brother!
I need to love, who the
beloved is not the matter


7. Ladka attar ka hai kya ma’jun
Hum ko tarkeeb uski bhai haiWhat a dish, this boy
the doc’s apprentice is!
I love the formula, only one
to cure my heart’s disease!

8. Ladke birahmanon ke sandal bhari jabeenen
Hindostan mein dekhe so unse dil lagayeBrahmin boys of India
take away my heart
Beautiful foreheads, headier
with the fragrance of Sandal.

9. Jab kuch apne kane rakhte the tab bhi sirf tha ladkon ka
Ab jo faqir hue phirte hain Mir unhin ki daulat hai
When I was a wealthy man
all that was mine, was the boys’;
Now that I am a beggar
they are my only fortune.

10. Kya jano tum qadr hamari mehr-o-wafa ki ladke ho
Lohoo apna den hain tumhare girte dekh paseene koA mere boy you are, what you
will know the value of my love
Let a drop of your sweat fall on the ground
I shall complement it with my blood.

11. Woh baghbaan pisar kuch gul gulshagufta hai ab
Yeh aur gul khila hai ek phoolon ki dukaan par
The florist has found a new flower-
It is the gardener-boy, who has just flowered.

12. Kar rakha ta’aviz tifli mein jise / Ab so woh ladka sayana ho gaya
Is bala se aah main ghaafil raha / Yak-ba-yak dil ka lagana ho gaya
The kid I kept close to my breast always
suddenly has matured.
Strange are the ways of perception
I never saw until late!

13. Afsanakhwan ka ladka kya kahiye deedni hai
Qissa hamara uska yaaron shuneednin haiThe story-teller’s lad is
a sight beyond compare.
As is his and my story,
a story beyond compare.

14. Mir kya saade hain beemar hue jiske sabab
Usi attar ke ladke se dawaa lete hainSo innocent am I,
I ask for medicine from
the same physician’s boy
who’s the cause of my disease!

15. Jab na milta hai bazaaron mein Mir
Ek looti hai woh zaalim sarfaroshYou don’t find me in the bazaars
sodomite that I am, you know where to find.

16. Door kar khat ko kiya chehra kitaabi unnen saaf
Ab qayamat hai ke saare harf Qur’an se gaye
He chose to remove
the beard that he had.
Now I look at his face, and can’t
see the words of Qur’an.

17. Kiya us aatishbaaz ke launde ka itna shauq Mir
Beh chali hai dekh kar usko tumhari raal kuchThe young man at the fireworks shop
fired my heart so,
I can do nothing, but
sit and salivate!


Work on trans-creating the rest of the ‘homosexual’ couplets of Mir is underway. And at some point in time a more exhaustive document is planned. However, for now, we can conclude this study with a few more facts about Mir. It seems that Mir had got married twice, though he mentions nowhere about either of the marriages in his autobiography. He had at least two sons. As mentioned earlier, this was the norm in the society of that time- most people would get married, and would see no harm in a little bit of dalliance in the side with the boys.

What is required is a much more detailed study of other poets of the time. It will not be easy getting into the lives of people of that time through the history books, as they say nothing much about sexual practices of the time. Poetry, on the other hand, opens a gateway direct into the human heart of those times. Such a study is also planned, however, no time-lines have yet been drawn by me on that.



---

References:
1. Kulliyat-i-Mir, Vol I, © 1983, Taraqqi Urdu Bureau, West Block, R K Puram, New Delhi 110066.
2. Deewan-I-Ghalib, Kamil, © 1988, Kalidas Gupta Raza, Sakar Publishers Pvt. Ltd., Mumbai.

- Owais
--
This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Two Young men of Sodom

.

His pain will heal with time.
But today, he cries unconsolably.
This young man of modern Sodom,
an honourable citizen of the ancient city-state;
known today more for their loathed love than for their, other,
what may have been, more loathsome disqualities.
His pain is for his lost, lover of several years.
The only lover he has known, all his adult years.

The other young man has just tried
renouncing his citizenship of Sodom.
He has hidden behind the label that allows
men to swing both ways.
And has given in to his mammoth
extended family’s pressures, to get married.
To an unsuspecting young woman.

Poor fellow.
Can a peacock change his colors?
He can shed the rainbow plumage
for a while. But only, for a while.
He will be back, seeking love, the fear of which
is the last remaining acceptable prejudice
in this sensitive, civilized World.

But only, this time he will
seek love not in the arms of a durable beloved;
but in the slam-bam of fifty-nine second episodes
in the loos and deserted public gardens.
He will have a servile wife to go back to.
And possibly a child or two, which may or may not
be his own.

He will forever be scared
of young, or older men professing their love for him.
He will swear, that this is only fun.
He will insist that fighting for one’s right to love
is meaningless, the ultimate exercise in futility.
Even irreligious, blasphemous and corrupt.
Perhaps, immoral and cowardly too!

And the first young man, paining and pining today
will spend a year or two, or more,
getting over this colossal
betrayal, will find love again, and this time
for keeps.
He will be a success, and not just materially;
He will also conquer the World, in myriad new ways.

Young man, grieve, but despair not, for future,
as much as the present, belongs to those who can dream,
commit,
and deliver on those.

Among the two young men of Sodom,
there is a winner, and there is a loser.
And make no mistake: with your searing pain
you are the winning man.
Young man, grieve,
but keep playing, you will win.

Yes.
You will win.


- Owais
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This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Two Stains

.

Years ago,
I found
a beautiful little firefly
and imprisoned it, in a cloth cap.

Bewitched,
I watched it for hours.

Next morning,
eager to see it shimmering again,
I opened the gates of his prison--
And found an ugly bug inside.

My ayah said,
come the night
he’ll shine again.
Our bahishti, the water-man, said
free him now,
he has been yours for a night.

Betrayed and dispossessed,
unable to accept
a single night’s connection,
I threw it on the cemented floor.
And quashed it
until it was no more
than a stain.

- Owais

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This is first being published on this page.

POEMT: Read Me For…

There are so many,
who write so much better than I do.
For their beauty read them,
read me for my love.

- Owais

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This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Stopped Loving You

I look at your photograph
and remember the days
when I fought with you
when I hated you
when I thought I could never love you again.

I look at the photograph,
vision blurred with tears.
I realize
that I indeed could never love you again.

For I never stopped loving you.
I never can.

- Owais

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This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: The Night Is Half Gone

.

The night is half gone.
And the dawn is half as close.

And perhaps,
you are half-way mine.
Only,
I do not accept life
in half-measures.

I will not allow you to be half mine,
or claim half of me.

If you want me,
give yourself,
and take me
in full measure.


And then some.

- Owais

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This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Of Cats, Dogs and Lovers

.
Aloof, independent,
visiting a thousand other places,
they come when they want to, when they need to.
Whether they love, they only know.
Regal animals, cats are treated as such.

Expressing their love with all their being,
they lose their very identity in the beloved.
And they never wait to be stroked, yet
‘dog’ is an insult in every language I know!

You the cat, dear,
and I the dog,
can we ever be happy together?

- Owais

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This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Selfish Pig

I want you mine.
Only mine.
All mine.
And forever mine.

- Owais

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This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: One of THEM!

They asked me
whether I was a Christian
a Buddhist, a Hindu
or a Mussalman?
They asked me if I was an
Australian, an American
a Japanese or an Indian?
They asked me
what language I spoke:
Chinese, Spanish
Hindi, English or Russian?
They asked me if I was
a woman, a man or something in-between?
They asked my caste, my race
my colour, my sexual inclination.

To them all,
I just said-- A human.
A being.

They asked me what I desired
I said-- Love.
They asked me what I worshipped
I said-- Life.
They asked me what I wished to be
I said-- a pillar in the house of Liberty.


And then, they said,
You are one of THEM!

They stoned me, they burnt me,
They raped me, they hanged me till death.

- Owais

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This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Since I Met You

.

Nothing ever
mattered much to me.
But now,
I am jealous of the very earth
you walk on.
Jealous almost, of myself,
for having you.

Even,
of you, yourself.

After all,
even if you want to, you can never leave
yourself.

- Owais

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This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: The Long Wait

And long I told myself,
that those who mean to come back,
never go.
But I never quite believed it .
I always thought
that you loved me dear
and would be back
before I lost hope in you.
In Love. In Life. In God.

I waited a long time
till I forgot what I was waiting for.
And then I told myself,
that if you had really loved me,
you would have found me.
And that,
you perhaps do not remember me
and the deliciously long night, we had once shared.
I wanted to believe this,
but never could.

I still await you.

- Owais

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This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: You ARE Dangerous

.

From you,
all paths lead me to apathy.

For, if I were to win your love,
nothing worthwhile
remains to be striven for.

And if I do not,
nothing then matters anyway!

- Owais

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This is first being published on this page.

POEM_: Disaster

Travelling in this
super-fast, super-efficient
...(so un-Indian that!)
Shatabdi Express
from the city of Lutyens
to that of Dost Mohammed,
I read of
Tabish Khair’s ‘incident’.
And watch the dead mangled bodies
of the erstwhile train bogies
lying by the way-side.

I wonder how very close behind us
disaster is

and sometimes catches up.

---

- Owais

POEM_: From None, But You

Beloveds
I have a thousand.

Lover,
I can have but One.

Flesh and blood,
for all the temptation it carries
is always too weak
too mean to live up to the expectation it creates.

Love, I must
for that is my raison-de-etre;
but give me the power
O Ultimate Beloved,
to expect love from none,
but You.

- Owais

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This is first being published on this page.