SNPTH: Imran, Twit

SNPTH:  Imran, Twit

#Imran, dekho #Pakistan, mat samjho khud to mahaan #Khushdil kahe, khush hain #Bharat mein #Musalmaan

- 

Wrote for tweeting on 27th Dec 2018, upon reading of Imran Khan's tweet about Muslims in India.

POEMH: Ghazal - Mubarak / Nahin Hai

Ghazal - Mubarak / Nahin Hai

Mubarak mere yaar tujhko ameeri, mujhe teri koi zaroorat nahin hai

Bohot sang mere hai jachti gharibi, mujhe teri koi zaroorat nahin hai

Milkar rahenge to apne rahenge, nahin mil sake to bhi jeete rahenge
Pyaara nahin tera main bhi hoon koi, mujhe teri koi zaroorat nahin hai

Dikhti teri chahaten hain hazaron, pa tere siwa koi meri nahin hai

Tujhe mujhse hajat jo hogi so hogi, mujhe teri koi zaroorat nahin hai

Main aashiq hoon aur ishq hai kaam mera, tu hi ho ke aur maashooq koi 

Mujhe chahiye bas faqat hai aseeri, mujhe teri koi zaroorat nahin hai

Aata hai pa aata nahin, milta hai pa milta nahin, karta hai pa karta nahin 

Mili tujhse mujhko kahan koi sairi, mujhe teri koi zaroorat nahin hai

Khushdil to hoon, pa dil mein tu bhi nahin hai,  khushi bhi nahin hai, 

Zinda to hoon, pa sunle meri zindagi, mujhe teri koi zaroorat nahin hai

POEME: Over to You

Over to You

You, forever, fight me.
And obviously, I forever, fight you.
Newton's third law ensures
that the second statement above
come as a natural consequence of the first.
Either, both the opening statements
are true.  Or both are false.

Assuming that both are true,
why is it that we
have different takes on every fact.
Is it because, you are so much younger than me?
Or, said differently,
you have so much lesser experience than me?

Or is it,
that our fundamentals differ?

If the former,
it is likely
that we will get more in sync,
with time.  And perhaps, there will come a day,
when we will not fight,
nor even agree to disagree,
but actually agree.
Life may go differently
from that point on, for both of us.

However, for now,
there is no 'us'.
There is only you.
And there is only me.

If, on the other hand,
it is the latter,
then why do our fundamentals differ?
Obviously,
because our pasts differ.
Or is it because our futures differ?

In any case,
if our fundamentals,
our basics,
our axioms,
our grounds differ,
how exactly so?

You are more given to your Subjective Reality
than I am, to mine.
Or at any rate, I happen to think so.
And this is my poem, not yours.  So, what I say goes.

But seriously,
do I not take the trouble
to get to the Objective Reality of everything?
Even of comfortable (to me)
lies,
like my belief that you are made for me?
I may still function as if you are,
but I do know,
searingly painfully,
that I do not much exist for you; forget about
you pegging your own existence to mine.
And therefore,
I do not much expect from you,
except periodically, lesser or larger
loads of shit.

You, on the other hand are,
more or less,
completely given to your Subjective Reality.
Which is why, eventually,
you get to hate everyone.
And everyone, you.
Except me.  At least, thus far.

So, standing on those grounds,
form seems to be of the greatest importance to you.
And to me, it has always been the function
that was more important,
even when form did have some importance to me.

So, you are driven by the form.
And I, by the function.
For most part, at least.
Or so, I like to believe.

Clearly, therefore,
you like different things;
and like differently.
So, unless we can see beyond form and function,
things of utmost importance to us,
we will always fight.
Both the opening statements shall remain true.

And when we will see beyond
our own individual likes and dislikes,
both the opening statements shall become false.

And when will that be?
When we value each-other
more than we value our own
independent likes and dislikes.
When will that day come?

At my end, let me try to begin today.

From now on,
when we are together,
I shall endeavour
to make my likes and dislikes
subservient to your opinion.
What you say will be right.
No matter what.  Now,

Over to you.

-

(c) owais Creative Commons Attribution license

POEME: Religions and Ideologies

Religions and Ideologies

We are seeing
the rise of another conqueror,
another robber baron.

And this can be said truthfully,
at many points in place and time.
Not just now,
not just here,
not just what I suffer now and here,
from the hands of mine and the other.

We are seeing the rise of another conqueror,
another robber baron.
We can be sure that soon
it will be a religion of the devout,
a cherished ideology of many,
today and centuries from now.

Today and centuries from now, children will be bullied
to follow this asshole's hollow diktats,
taking away their innocence
and turning them into monsters who will,
in turn kill others,
directly and indirectly,
men and animals,
beings and habitats,
and rape their own women and bully their own children
in the name of their holy religion
or holy ideology
or holy asshole.

Even their children
who will profess their hate for
and disbelief in that religion
will harass those that love them,
by throwing the corrosive dregs of that holy way,
for they will know no other way,
and in their hubris, not look for one.

No one will bother
to ever practice
real love and compassion and truth.
Or take the trouble to get to the real reality.
Until comprehensively burnt
by the monsters' minstrels.

We are seeing the rise of another conqueror, another robber baron.

-

(c) owais Creative Commons Attribution license

POEME: Dialogues with Mother: XII

Dialogues with Mother: XII

It has been long
since I spoke to you, Mother.

You are no more.

An atheist,
I cannot give myself comfort
in the delusion that you are happy
in some distant heaven somewhere.

You left this world
more than six years back.
But, for me
you still exist.
You are still there.

Of course, I had made my peace
with you
long before you stopped existing.
For I knew
that you will one day onward
not be there, and I will still be there.
For a while.
I knew I would miss you.
I knew I would want you again
close to me, so that I could
sit by you, resting my back,
or my head on you.

I knew I would miss all the pains
that we gave each-other.
I knew that if I did not make up to you,
I would regret not being able to do that
later.  So, I did that.
I made up to you.
I was by your side all the time
in your last years.  I did not allow
any regrets to linger.
And I forgave you.

I think you forgave me too.
For all the real and imagined pains that I gave you.
I know it, since you gave me all the letters
that you had written to others
condemning me.  I know it,
since you even gave me that Will and Testament
cancelled
in which you had disowned me.
I know it, since you truly smiled,
during those days, years.
Perhaps, for the first time in my life,
I saw you smile days on end.
I like to think that it was because
of all the love that I shared with you.
And because,
there was no one else
that you interacted with, then.
So, I am perhaps
not too far off the mark.

But, Mother,
those years and that happiness
was not quite enough.  Not for me.
Yours, you knew.
And never shared.
But so many years after your death,
I still have an empty space in my heart.
A humongous empty space.
Nothing fills it.
No one fills it.
Nothing and no one can.
Ever.
For no one will ever
be so completely dependent on me, so thoroughly limited
in their connection with the world, as you were.
Your only connection
to the world was your son.
Your only son.
Your only child.

For all the pains that you gave me,
for all the limitations that you placed on me,
for all the negations that you heaped on me,
for not letting me be me,
and for all the success you had in breaking all my bonds
with everyone other than you,
I am not upset with you.

I knew long long ago,
that I would never be able to connect
with the world without you.
For you had forged me so.
And I am in no position
to reforge myself.  And honestly,
I do not even want to do it:
I am the only real heritage
that I have of yours.
I would not want to lose that too.

Mother, you were a flawed being.
But then who is not?
You had your pains and your struggles and your scars.
If I had to go through all that,
I would have been a much worse person
than the worst person I know.
You still managed to be a great mother.
Not a perfect one,
but great anyway.
I still remember all the pains
that you gave me.
But, who cares, Mother,
those made me tough.

You are laughing, Mother?
Yes, let me also laugh with you.

-

But after, the laughter, now,
let me assure you, Mother,
that hard-bodied, loud macho men are not tough men.
They are brittle.
They break easy.
My toughness is of the variety that you may not recognize:
I take all the shit the world,
indeed, all that my own beloveds give me
and I still love them all.
I still love the world.
I still love humen.
This is my variety of toughness, Mother:
I remain what I am,
no matter what.
Strength of any material, including human,
is defined as its ability
to withstand an applied load, or stress
without failure, or deformation.
That is a strength few men ever gain.  I did.
And I have you to thank for it.

Mother, thanks.
Thanks for making me.
Thanks for fighting me.
Thanks for being difficult.
Thanks for making me, inside,
the strongest man I know.

-

I did not speak to anyone,
in my poetry,
for a long while after you died.
I just did not want to.

I did not love myself
for a long while after you died.
I just did not want to.

I did not see myself
as useful for a long while after you died.
I just did not want to.

Perhaps,
the time has come to change all that.
I will still have the humongous hole in my heart.
But that need not stop me from again becoming
'useful'.

-

(c) owais Creative Commons Attribution license

POEME: Bhāvābhāvagitam - Song of the Feeling of Want

Bhāvābhāvagitam - Song of the Feeling of Want

What do I want?

This is a big question,
for it decides what I do.
And thus, the path I take.
Eventually, this very question decides, for me,
who I am.

My needs, however,
and their fulfillment,
or otherwise,
merely decides how long I will continue pursuing
the path of being myself.

So, once again,
let us see if we can separate
my 'needs' and my 'wants'.

Defining a 'need' is simple: that which is necessary for me to live.

Defining a 'want' is more problematic,
perhaps: that which I love, or desire.
Or, perhaps: that without which I would not consider life a necessity.
Or, perhaps: a lack or deficiency of something.

Looking at these differently:
a Need is an Objective Reality.
Being Objective Reality, my needs are often similar
to the needs of others like me.  I need food.
Another person, say, my infant nephew, will also need food,
since he is a human like me.  But,
weighing a tenth of what I weigh, despite growing,
he will perhaps need no more than a fifth of the food that I need.
The amount differs,
but our needs are similar.
He does not need no food.
Also, he does not need to eat a million times as much as me.
Further, he does not need enriched Uranium for food.
He, too,
needs the same carbs and proteins and fats and vitamins that I do.
Thus our need is the same,
with a minor variation in the amount,
not in the kind, nor in the reason each needs it for.
We both will die if our need for food is not fulfilled.
Similarly, air, water, sleep, excretion, shelter, homeostasis and so forth.

Needs are thus necessarily undeniable, similar, predictable and mostly, fulfillable.

On the other hand,
a Want is a Subjective Reality,
often created through an interaction with an Intersubjective Reality.
Being a Subjective Reality, one of my wants may be similar
or vastly different from those of others like me -
in quantum, class, kind, reason, or even the very existence.
Thus, even though I and my nephew may both
(or may not)
want to suck on a breast at this time,
his and my reasons are entirely different.
For both, wanting or not wanting it.
Similarly, even when he is all grown up,
one of us may insist on partaking orifices,
and the other, mouthpieces.  And even if we both
find ourselves looking for the same kind of an opening,
we are likely to differ vastly in the want
of the human appendage to that, say, the mouthpiece.
Assuming that we, for a moment
remove the need-part of this want here,
there is comparatively little
     that is Objective in this or any other want.
I have found
that I want many things differently,
not just from other fellow humans,
but from my own past too.  But,...

...want, I do.
Though, no particular want is necessarily undeniable, similar, predictable and always fulfillable.

...want, I do.
And, for some of those wants, I would, if convenient, choose to not live,
     than live without their fulfillment.

...want, I do.
And, these very wants, fulfilled or unfulfilled, make me the person that I am,
     and am becoming.

Thus emerges the greatest
and the toughest question
that any human has ever faced:
what do I do?

This question,
and its variegated variants
are all so important
because answering in one way
results in me (and the world)
turning out very differently in future,
than when answering it another way.

And tough,
because we have absolutely no clue
about the ground that it has to stand on,
before it is answered.  Newton said it
most eloquently,
     "if I have seen further it is by standing on ye sholders of Giants."
The ground
that this question stands on,
can well be that of any of the realities:
Subjective, Intersubjective, Objective, Absolute.

If I choose the ground to be
my Subjective Reality, then I shall only follow
the commands of Hedone,
to an early grave.  Others may turn out to be ripper jacks, or perhaps teresas.
Or most likely, an average frustrated joe.
The  problem, thus,
in using this ground is that my Subjective Reality
is true only for me,
and thus not a reality at all,
on which one can base one's interactions
with anyone, and expect success.

Intersubjective Reality as the ground
can make me a hitler, a pope or a president.  Or,
most likely, a mere foot-soldier
to one of the myriad social systems that I exist in.
So, this reality, while it can help with people
that constitute the group
from which I obtain my Intersubjective Reality,
it is perfectly useless
in predicting how other groups will respond.

It is, of course,
not possible for me, or any of us,
to ground this question in Absolute Reality,
for that is the 'Real' Reality -
the un-mind-mediated reality,
to which none of us have any access.

This leaves me
only one reality to ground my question in:
Objective Reality -
the reality that is true for all beings known to us,
including those, that we understand not as beings, but as phenomena.
However,
we do not know it well enough.
It is always a work in progress.

The point at which we have reached so far,
leads me to two possible,
unsynonymous answers: progress and happiness.

I may want to progress,
to achieve goals:
career, corporate, financial, economic, political, national, social,
intellectual, creative, family, biological, fitness, sexual, emotional,
HDI, environmental, consumption, sporting, competitive,
reproductive, religious, fraternal, spiritual,
educational, beauty, romantic and any other goals
that I may find worthy of the tag 'Progress'.

There is a problem here, however.
If I must achieve high goals,
I have to set up higher expectations from myself.
Unless I aim for the moon,
I cannot get the lamppost.
But, if I do that,
I am always wanting; I am always inadequate,
my expectations are always belied,
I am always unhappy.

If I set my goals at achievable levels, and achieve them,
I may feel happy at my mediocre performance.
But I will never amount to much,
by way of achievements relative to my peers.
And even by my own internal measure.

Thus I can Progress.   Or I can be Happy.

Men have almost always chosen Progress.
Except for exceptional individuals like the Buddha,
Jesus, Mahavira, Laozi and such.  And each attained nirvana.
Which is freedom from misery,
even when they got their fair or unfair share of pain.

What do I want?
Progress?  Which can never end, and can never fulfill my ever-growing want.
Or, Happiness?  Which requires me to first lack nothing;
     and thus extinguish my want at all levels: from its root.
And with it, all my feelings.  Which, hitherto
were perhaps, the best possible proof of my actually existing.


What do I do?
What can I actually do?
Which must I gun for?
Which must I want?
Progress or Happiness?

The former, Progress, is logically
and evidentially unachievable.
Excepts for minor wayside halts,
which make us happy for ever so brief moments only.
And destroys far too much on the way.
Of us.
Of our fellow travellers.
Of the way.
But, what if,
we actually can define our Progress
in an area that gives us happiness.
A more lasting happiness
     than a mere hormone-driven set-pointed variety?
Something that gives us
a meaningful purpose.  Which, often will only be
another delusion, like living for
'godswork', 'myfamily', 'thehavenots',
and so forth?

Or,
the latter, Happiness,
which is impossible.
     Or, is it?
Can it not be expected,
that like in all human endeavours of progress,
in the arena of Happiness,
we will keep pushing the frontiers
of our knowledge and execution
incrementally, getting ever closer to it,
even if never actually reaching?
Would,
Can,
Should it
not be nearly enough,
for a mere lucky ape like me?

And in that dilemma,
hangs another piece of Objective Reality.
It is sufficiently clear,
that there exists no free will,
that our system, mind or whatever else,
has already made our decisions,
before we become aware of them,
and grandly, if somewhat pettily,
declare that we have decided.
Thus my decision is already made,
for every future twist and turn in my life,
whether I will choose Progress, or Happiness.
Only the awareness remains to be had.
Or at least
that is what all our biological and neurological knowledge
available to me,
tells me.

Or, is it,
rather like Schrodinger's cat,
simultaneously, both Progress and Happiness?
And it becomes one of them
when I get to that point and find out?

Either way,
there seems to be no conscious control
     that I have on this choice:
it is either one determined,
or either one by chance!

Is it all merely a game, as suspected,
of the hormones,
Serotonin and Oxytocin and Dopamine and others
that play in the grounds that I call my brain,
leading my mind to one or the other,
Progress or Happiness?

How far do we go in each?

Is the level of Progress that we can get to,
hard-wired into us,
or can it be impacted by us,
especially when there is no free will?

Are we nothing but the playthings
of those known,
unknown or unknowable agencies
that really are the ones making the play?
Perhaps the genes?
Perhaps the memes?
Perhaps the tissues?
Perhaps the cells?
Perhaps the collective of cells?
Perhaps the social organism, the collective of any species?
Perhaps the simulator whose simulation we are, or his simulator?
Perhaps, one of the concepts we have rejected?
Perhaps, one of the concepts we have not arrived at yet?
Perhaps, one of the concepts we do not have the wherewithal to arrive at?
Perhaps the non-conceptual entities
     or non-entities
     that we have no ability to ever understand?

But closer home:
is it really that my Happiness has a set point
and not much progress can be made in moving that point
into happier climes, or can I do something
to make myself happier?
But is that also not preprogrammed?

Is there anything that I do know?
That I can know?
Or is it that I exist, merely
to want,
and to blindly pursue those wants?

And even when I do that,
why do I have mutually exclusive wants?
When I get Progress, I do not get Happiness?
     And vice-versa?
Do we thus come to another one
of my Heisenberg points and poems!

Or perhaps,
this seems so because
I live not in a reality,
but in a shadow of the same.
The reality is never in my grasp,
since all that I see around me,
including myself,
are mere conscious shadows of what really is.
I do not make proper sense of it
because, just like our two-dimensional shadows
(who may well be conscious - in another way)
combine and separate
and create ever new, unreal patterns all the time,
which exist,
and look somewhat and uncannily sensible,
because the 3D relatively-real entities
     behave relatively logically and evidentially.
The 3D shadows too, similarly, merge and emerge,
increasing and decreasing the information of the real,
in my shadow world,
confounding me no end.

Whatever the real real is,
whatever it can be,
leaving aside all intellectual contortions,
I must address my raw biological wants
the primary of which is the one
that I seem to never get rid of:
the love that I want from The One.
But why is it that I always want His love to be mine alone,
     and yet myself want the love of another in another moment?
Why is it that I do not have the same want
in all moments of my life?
Why is it that I always want Him
and yet want something, someone else, soon enough?
Why do I not know what I really want?
Or, can I really want anything?

What do I want?

-

Annexure:

And,
in case,
you are wondering why I insist
on writing such long philosophical rants
in poetry and not in prose, it is perhaps,
my laziness, and 'disintegrity',
so that I can get away
with doing a partial job of explaining myself,
expressing myself in a jumble of prose and poetry, philosophy and love,
thoughts and feelings, intellectual and emotional, clear and creative,
rather than stick to one, the former, or the latter
and prove that I am either a bad philosopher,
or a bad poet.

Or, perhaps,
this is my unique process of making love to you,
by impregnating your mind with a million ideas,
or more precisely
sending your way
a million 'thoughtsperms',
of which a few might find a warm,
nurturing egg in your mind,
become yours
and produce a fully formed beauty
     that you can justifiably be proud of.
And if you will allow me,
I shall also be a minor, proud parent of the same.
So long as he is anchored in love.

To me, it 'feels' like the latter.
For I am,
in physical person,
committed to making love
without increasing the human load on my ecosystem.
Thus, I could only spawn
     thoughts and feelings.
And no vehicle does a better job of expressing my
'thoughtfeelings'
or 'feltthoughts',
which is what all my poetry is about.

So, please allow me that,
if not 'fatherishhood'.

--

(c) owais Creative Commons Attribution license

POEME: I, Me, My Phone

I, Me, My Phone

They come home.
But they don't come home.

They see you.
But they don't see you.

They smile at you.
But they don't smile at you.

They are on their devices.
They are on your devices.
They are with people they do not know,
do not want to know.
But they do not want to be
with people they know,
who anyway, they do not really know
nor really want to know.
They are busy with things
they think matter.
But they ignore things
that do matter.

They are your sons and daughters.
Nephews and nieces, siblings and cousins, friends and colleagues.
Husbands and wives.
They are your co-travellers in life;
on short and long haul journeys.

Soon they will be your parents.

They ignore you.
They ignore the real world around them.
They ignore themselves.

You do the same.

They, you, I.
We have all, always lived in a reality
which we were never really sure
was real.  But now, we live in one
that we know for sure is not real.
The unreality,
or is it, the disreality
of Internet and e-mails,
social media and online games,
movies and serials.

Our loves
are now on-hand electronically,
but distant physically and emotionally.
Soon we will be making love,
not to real people, but to these
disreal toys, manufactured comforts and artificial intelligences.

The orchestra of the Homo sapiens
has reached its crescendo.
The power of the homo
has far outstripped his much vaunted wisdom.
This ape's masterful control of the world outside
is matched only by its utter ignorance
of what lies inside itself.

Our inability to know the Absolute Reality
has always pushed us into rejecting
the Objective Reality
and embracing the Subjective
and Intersubjective Realities.
We are now into new
Subjective and Intersubjective realities:
those owned and managed by corporations.
Empires, religions and social institutions
are losing hold.  Or rather,
newer paradigms of empires, religions and institutions
are taking hold: physical coercion,
guilt and shame
are giving way to canny subterfuge,
psychological manipulation
and unscrupulous marketing.

We are entering a brave new world.
Brave?  More like dastardly.

We fool.
We are fooled.
We are fooled by ourselves.

Nothing new about that, anyway.  We have always done that.

All species fool others
in some or the other way - other species,
as well as other individuals of their own species.
Not just humans do it.
Not just animals do it.
Not just insects do it.
Even plants fool others - and not just sundews and flytraps and pitcher plants.
Even the lovely orchids do it!

But we are unique.
I am unique.
I fool not just other species, or other men,
but myself too.
I live on all kinds of fanciful stories.
And all these devices allow me
to make ever greater, ever more fanciful
stories about myself.
I pretend to other men, known and unknown.
I pretend to the world.
I pretend to myself.

Every Gangu Teli today is Raja Bhoj.*
Every gadhayya today is Rani Kamlapati.**

Technology
and AI
are already making most humans irrelevant.
With a vast majority of upcoming adults
actively working towards making themselves irrelevant,
where will the world end up?
A dystopian nightmare
of some almighty corporation deciding that the world,
or rather its balance-sheet,
is better off with half the low-paying game-playing humans
killing themselves?

-

* An old saying of Bhopal - 'Kahan Raja Bhoj, kahan Gangu Teli' - highlighting the fact that the alpha in any society is always singular, and one does a disservice to oneself if he fancies himself to be the alpha when he is not.  He should rather get on with what he really is, and really can do; not get all fanciful and lose even that which he does have.

** An old saying of Bhopal - 'Taalon mein Bhopal Taal, Baqi sab talayyan; Rani to Kamlapati, baqi sab gadhayyan' - highlighting the same message above, with female protagonists in place of male ones, above.

--

(c) owais Creative Commons Attribution license

POEMH: Ghazal - Zaalim / Aaye

Ghazal - Zaalim / Aaye

Zaalim jinhe zulmaton mein chhod aaye
Unhi se zindagi mein ujaale daud aaye

Kehte hain ke aashiqon ka khuda tu hai
Tere dar pe hum bhi apna sar phod aaye

Kitab usne likkhi thi apne ishq ki, Bin kahe
Us mein hum bhi kuch lafz apne jod aaye

Seedhi to kab hoti hai kiske ishq ki raah
Chale hain to mudenge, jo bhi mod aaye

Khushdil ka dil hai, phir jud jaaega kal tak
Jiska bhi dil kare jaakar usko aaj tod aaye

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POEMH: Ghazal - Mat Aaya Kar / Tu Bhi Ziddi Main Bhi Ziddi

Ghazal - Mat Aaya Kar / Tu Bhi Ziddi Main Bhi Ziddi

Mat aaya kar, tu khwabon mein mere paas, tu bhi ziddi, main bhi ziddi
Badh jaati hai, tujhe dekh kar meri pyaas, tu bhi ziddi, main bhi ziddi

Phir aaya tu, phir muskuraya tu, phir aankhen chamkeen, phir ummeed jaagi
Kyun dilaata hai tu phir aaj, mujhe bemani aas, tu bhi ziddi, main bhi ziddi

Har kaam karta hoon tere liye, jita hoon tere liye, mar jaaunga tere liye
Ghulam hoon tera, sada rahunga tera das, tu bhi ziddi, main bhi ziddi

Pyaar karta hai, nahin bhi, paas aata hai, nahin bhi, mujhe chahta hai, nahin bhi
Nahin aata yun, hona bhi na hona bhi, mujhe raas, tu bhi ziddi, main bhi ziddi

Kaisi zindagi di tune, ke hai zindagi bhi maut bhi, na jita hoon, na marta hoon
Had hai, botal dikha kar tune, toda mera gilaas, tu bhi ziddi, main bhi ziddi

Mar jaaunga ek din khamoshi se, teri raah dekhte dekhte, tujhe dekhte dekhte
Main tujh sa to nahin, ke nikalun apni bhadas, tu bhi ziddi, main bhi ziddi

Neend aati nahin, raat jaati nahin, tu aata nahin, aakar bhi mujh mein samata nahin
Joojhte rehte hain har raat baham, ummeed-o-yaas, tu bhi ziddi, main bhi ziddi

Roz soot katta hoon, roz kapda bunta hoon, roz kurta seekar roz taar taar karta hoon
Aaj phir tu aa gaya, phir rula gaya, phir bana kurta kapaas, tu bhi ziddi, main bhi ziddi

Kab tak ummeed rakhoon, kyun rakhoon, intezaar se thak, muntazir hi qabr mein ja baithha
Ab khatm karun, tune hi nahin, maine bhi kiya hai apna naas, tu bhi ziddi, main bhi ziddi

Tu kehta hai ke pyaar karta nahin, kar sakta nahin mujhse, par rehta hai sada mere paas
Khushdil to hoon main lekin, khaata nahin main ghaans, tu bhi ziddi, main bhi ziddi

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(c) owais Creative Commons Attribution license