Sareer-e-Khaama (The sound of my pen)

To be honest, that’s it. I give up. There have been days when I did not have a single second of leisure, and there have been days when I’ve been seated all day on a chair with Microsoft Word open on the laptop kept on the table in front of me while I just sat. I used to keep on thinking, on and on for hours, write something, think of how plausible it actually is, think of what shall follow, think of how it shall all shape up when its complete; but frankly, it never reached an end. Writing, deleting, writing again, deleting some portion and repeating all this is what I have been doing all these days. Trying to create a masterpiece, trying and failing – every time! All this hiatus of mine, posting nothing in this space has been a result of scarcity of time as well as this utterly ambitious endeavor of mine. I do realize that masterpieces are not created when you want them to. If you write with the predefined goal of creating a masterpiece, you’re just never going to get even close to it – a recollection of the time when I was actually and consistently writing, and this hiatus has at least taught me this. Masterpieces are created when least expected and least intended.

So, I decided that today I am going to post about this and all else that I want or need or feel…

You know, I sometimes stand on this balcony of my room and look at all the humdrum down there – something that makes me realize of all the numerous goings-on of what they call ‘life’. Progress, success, failures, depressions, intrigues, jealousy, suppression, helplessness, treachery, expectations, put-downs, perfections, imperfections, superiority, sub-ordinations, priorities, silent sobs, loyalty, infidelities, surprises, astonishment, happiness, melancholy, optimism, pessimism, hope, beginnings, ends, births, deaths, and it all… This comprehension triggers just one thing – a vision. Whether my eyes are closed or open, there is just one vision. A vision in which slowly and steadily a fog begins to clear, and it begins to get nearer, a Mango tree – somewhat bent to its left side, not exactly in the peak time of its life, but still bearing fruit; small, green, proud little Mangoes, ‘Ambiya’ or ‘Kairi’ as they call it in Hindi. And beneath this tree can be seen a hazy figure on a charpoy. The haze has now cleared. That figure is me.

I have often dreamt about and have had visions of that place, and honestly, I have lived in that place in my childhood. I still remember that royal posture of mine on that charpoy, sitting as though I was the king of the world without even an iota of knowledge of what it takes to be king. I still remember those stories of my grandfather (may God bless him with good health and healthy mirth) wherein he, in his maybe-inherent carefree attitude, narrated us all his adventures of youth and all the circumstances into which this attitude of his led him. I still remember one saying of his which somehow got etched onto the walls of my heart

Rehne ko ghar nahin, Saara jahaan hamaara hai.”  ‘No home to live, the world is mine.’

Frankly, I miss that fire and my obstinate glare into the shimmer of it. It used to bring tears to my eyes, I miss those tears…

This is perhaps my point of saturation – saturation from stagnation. I now think of an escapade, of running away to that place in my dreams, of running away and never returning. I close my eyes and I see myself back in that royal posture, looking far into the fields – some of which have been cultivated while the others lie bare – in a steady, obstinate and dense stare. I look intensely, my sight deep, as if concentrating to penetrate that little line of ten or twelve dense and full grown thick-trunked trees which standing close to each other apparently form a continuous shade on the ground while the Sun tortures the rest of it all. But am I really doing something? I might be concentrating on something – something that I am writing about. But still, I’ll be writing. No noises from the television in the other room intercepting me and the flow of my thoughts as well as my pen on my Diary. I’d be free from all intrigues, all jealousy, all expectations, all put-downs, all comparisons, and all such manners that bind man to do this and that so that relations may remain cordial. No more will I have to take sides, no more will I have to see someone silently sobbing and someone quietly lying recalling the treachery, no more will I have to unwillingly compete in races, no more will I have to flinch before going in front of someone because I broke the expectation he had from me, no more will there be complains and excuses, mistakes and apologies, love and infidelities, hopes and disasters. Perhaps the attainment of this vision will be an end to all these and other such distractions which have held my pen and paper apart.

So let me free, free from all these obligations and let me make love with my passion. Let me be able to freely assert as Ghalib once did through this couplet of his-

‘Aate hain ghaib se ye mazameen khayaal mein

Ghalib, sareer-e-khaama nawa-e-sarosh hai.’


‘These topics come to the mind out of nowhere

Ghalib, the noise of a pen’s scratching on paper is the same as an angel’s sound.’


One thought on “Sareer-e-Khaama (The sound of my pen)

Add yours

  1. As usual awesome….. azfar plz enjoy ur lyf nd hardly care Abt those wen u know u r completely right…..

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