Some more stories?

Mary Mary, quite contrary : My grandmother would light up a Bidi ( Indian version of cigarette albeit cheaper) like any badass would do in a Western. She could give cowboys, bandits, soldiers, anyone who smoked badass-ly, a run for their money. My grandparents on both sides smoked but my parents don't and that is a testimony to my parents' sanity and insanity of my grandparents. But among all of them , I found my Naani (maternal grandmother) the most fascinating whenever she smoked. May be because she was the most carefree of all. Women in villages are banned from doing almost anything that men do. Except my naani who broke every rule in the village. Well most of them. She cursed, she never cooked, she covered her face only up to her forehead, walked around the village fearlessly and smoked with abandon. Let this not paint a picture of a masculine women, please no. She was as feminine as feminines come. She would paint her nails bright red and apply kohl in her eyes and say all 'matter-of-factly'  that eyes should never be naked. Sassy I tell you. But she smoked dexterously. I could never ask her if smoking is injurious to health because I was too busy observing the flick of the matchstick on the matchbox, the bidi hanging loose between her lips and then the bidi being lit. It never took her two matchsticks. One was enough. Simultaneously, she would be preparing a Paan (a betel leaf preparation which is mildly stimulating and colors your tongue, look it up) and handing it out to her audience. She had great many stories and anecdotes to share and people would assemble around her to hear them and enjoy some paan. Even though kids should not partake in 'paan chewing' activity she would still ask me if I wanted one. And I would say 'give me a small one but dont tell mom/dad'. Her smoking habit never influenced me in anyway to smoke but it did subconsciously make me look up to women who did not care for the archaic, ridiculous rules and did as they pleased. The free spirits.

Rain, rain go away: The first time I became aware of class system or of the divide between the haves and the haves not was in 4th grade. It was pouring hard that day and the last bell rang which signified the school being done for the day. All of us kids were waiting for our parents to take us home. Well I was waiting for my father to pick me up on that day only because I was told by the teacher to wait. Otherwise I usually walked home on my own ever since I was in upper kg. My parents never thought of sexual predators lurking in the bushes as any danger to their little daughter. So I waited. And then I noticed a few cars coming and picking up kids one by one. My dad did not own a car at that time or any fuel driven vehicle. He owned a cycle which is you know mechanical in nature. And then I realized that even if my dad did come, I would get wet on a cycle. I saw all my friends being whisked away in cars that were nice and dry and so I told my teacher that I can walk, my house is not that far. Now I own an Accord at 25 and every time I drive it , I look back at my 8 year old self and wink at her. Owning a car is a symbol of independence and that is how I have always looked at it. Never a status symbol or a symbol of luxury or other myriad things that advertisements tell you. Its a 'thing' that keeps an 8 year old dry. Similarly, I never owned many toys. Either my parents did not have enough money to buy toys or they considered toys frivolous and I suspect both. I had one random doll that sometimes became a barbie in my stories told to others or became ten barbies in other stories. That doll inspired me to learn how to draw, with a pen, all over her face. I repented and recognized my mistake the very next second when I could not erase the make believe 'earrings' and 'nose-ring' and 'necklace', I drew on her ! With a pen! The doll was subsequently subjected to more such tortures like baths which ruined its hair, or twisting of legs and arms to see how far they can be twisted. Whenever I saw a beautiful collection of barbie dolls owned by any friend, I would pledge to buy a set for myself as soon as I 'grew up'. I have grown up now and fortunately do not feel the desire to own barbies anymore.

Smells like teenspirit:
Naani also 'taught' me about 'being self aware'. Now this conversation happened in my native dialect so I can only translate it so much. Please note how my naani spoke to me like I am an adult when I was ten. I have always found it respectful when elders speak to kids like adults as opposed to speaking to them like they are underdeveloped little dumb people.

Naani: Have you seen Soni, she has grown up.

Me: Oh is she 11?

Naani: No she is ten just like you. She is very 'self aware'.

Me: Ahaan?

Naani: When she walks, she looks down at herself and smiles.

Me: Do we all have to walk and smile at ourselves?

Naani: She has breasts so she does that.

Me: What is breasts?

Naani: It is something that we all have and need.

Me: Do my parents have?

Naani: One of them does.

Girls and boys from 6th to 12th grade were taken to a social science exhibition in an another city when I was in 6th grade. Our teachers herded the girls together and strictly told that girls from 9th to 12th grade would not take younger girls with them if and when they tried to sneak out and speak to the boys from other schools. Other such instructions given to us were:

Older girls have to wear bras at all times.

Shower everyday even if there is no water

Bring pads for something called a 'period'

Not to jump and dance and sing

Bring food to the teachers if there are any buffets

Report if any girl is found missing, dead or seen with guys.

Johny Johny yes papa: Sometimes I have found myself oddly lying or being stingy when there is no need for it. 

I have more than once said the milk is okay when the milk has gone bad.

I try to use only one kitchen tissue to wipe a surface clean when more than 5 are required just to challenge myself. The only thing I like to conserve is paper towels/tissues may be because they come from trees and I like to save trees. I do my own bit for the environment. 

This is not new. In 1st grade, I told my teacher that my father is very poor and I would like to hence use only 1 notebook for all the courses.

My fair lady: My mother is strong like crazy strong. She is not scared of darkness, ghosts, spiders, frogs, scorpions. I wish I had inherited this quality instead of her height from her. She also used to goof around a lot when we were younger which kinda gives me my silliness. She would hug us (brother and I)  until we could not breathe anymore. Or wake us up at 6am saying it is 8am for school that started at 8 am. She would tickle us when we would be very seriously trying to study. She would play April fool pranks on us. She is scared of snakes. 

I make lists: I make lists, a lot of lists. My lists act as my Pensieve (for all the HP fans in the house, give it up for the HP reference!)  I think a lot, over and over about the same thing so when it becomes unbearable to do it anymore, I barf everything up in the form of lists. The latest list:

Things to keep in my big bag

Things to keep in my small bag

Things to keep in my hand bag

Things to keep in the pockets of all the bags

I once made a list of 'things to pack' and one of the subgroups was 'things to do' which contained an item 'should pack'.

Of shoes and ships

“Is it really possible to tell someone else what one feels?” 

                                                                         Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

I always wondered about being able to articulate feelings to others and sought an answer to whether we could or we could not until I found this by Leo Tolstoy. He did not answer my question but expressed it perfectly, that it is now satisfying, in a satisfying way.

We often try to put our feelings forth in the best possible manner but they never come out quite the way we wanted, we felt. What ends up in the air is the diluted, garbled version of the intended content. 

I saw this movie 'One Day' and to be frank it bored me to death until I reached the end. The reason why I continued on was Anne Hathaway's beauty and the reason I was distracted were her poor acting skills. But the end so unexpected, so jolting that I reeled over and wept. I hated for having seen this movie which made me inexorably bored and yet made me feel such intense emotions. I hated how the actors spoiled a good script and I loved how they illuminated the screen. Contradictory. Confusing. 

And now I am watching this movie Liberal Arts which is holding my attention in parts. This one part has lead me to breakaway from it and write this. Not like I knew what I wanted to write about but the movie provoked a reaction . This movie is all about a college life that I wanted but did not quite get. My college put thousands of restrictions on my gender and then some more. Restrictions were not necessarily the problem but the reasons behind them were unsettling. That is why I find my growth into a fully functional vocal adult to be a bit stunted. When you chain the freedom the interaction, then seldom does creativity take birth. 

Ok I just took a break from writing this so I don't feel like what I was feeling when I started this. Total disconnect. My landlord came over and started talking about the Vietnam war and why America participated in it. He has some pretty different ideas about why the world is the way the world is. He says more people die by smoking cigarettes so why  there is so much hue and cry over a few people getting beheaded. He has a perspective that I understand thanks to liberalism in which I am brought up , but I  dont subscribe to his view point entirely. He does make a point though, doesn't he? Would we be lesser humans if we did not cry over every beheading or people dying because of wars and murders and rapes? Shouldn't we also cry over people dying by lung cancer and flu every day? Well he is a lively man in his 60s and I love having him over. No matter what his beliefs, the wealth of knowledge of the past he holds is enigmatic. I use the word enigmatic because he has lived through the second world war and the Korean war and the Vietnam war. I have not. History has its charm but not in the classrooms.

Wary that I would be trite and uninteresting, I started writing less and less. I am not sure if what I write is interesting  but I sure as hell get a lot of pleasure writing it. And hey, I realized how diverse my music taste has become. Am I developing taste or am I learning to eat everything on my plate? Remember when we were kids and we hated some bitter tasting vegetables and now we find those palatable. Likewise the taste in music has evolved. I can listen to things ranging from Opera to Kanye West. From beautiful symphonies to Bieberesque tunes. Who knows what is going on with my ears. All I know is I find everything nice and nothing nice.

To end this inconsequential lament, here is a quote from my favorite book - Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll,

“I'm afraid I can't explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see?” 

Fireflies

Fingers, rough ridden with ridges
From mending the broken ones
The hollows of your eyes grow bigger
Fending off the gruff world

But first let your fingers be soothed
Mend your own pieces
Smooth out the ravines in the corners of those eyes
Etched by the ceaseless tears

Awake, until the dawn break
Rest that back a moment
Broken spine and broken vigor
Sewn poorly and poorly kept

You have to save the damaged again
All night while the oils burn bright
Take them to the light
Follow the fireflies

Bad Word

This is going to be so serious, you may wanna wear your serious denims for this post. Or not. I had been ruminating on a thought that is close to my heart and that I strongly believe in, which is feminism. I have often been called one and sometimes spat on with this word. Feminism is a dirty word. It is , it is it is IT IS.

Anecdotal evidence: Recently I was in a women's network meet up where we were asked to raise our feminine hands if we identified ourselves as feminists. And my small hairy hand proudly shot up. My brain and heart were racing with adrenalin-induced pride, making my inner thoughts scream out loud, " YES I am with my people, this is where I hang, these are going to be my best friends (salivating)".
But to my surprise, nay horror, I was one of the 4 females who had raised our hands and the other 3 were the very reluctant ones. A dark shadow of fear fell over my face. Like the very next moment I would say good bye to mother earth and take my rightful place in hell. A slight tremor of doubt followed by a slightly bigger tremor of self doubt, raced across my brain. I wondered if my ears had not received the meaning of the question uttered in an Irish accent (have I become that American?!) or does feminism have a different meaning in the Oxford dictionary! Have I been looking up words in Urban dictionary all along!!? These moments of self doubt are harder to conquer than mt. Everest in my opinion but then again I am no Edmund Hillary. He must have had no self doubt hence he made the conquest and also because he is a man who did not need to look feminism up in his days, I assume. There were 30 women in the meet up FYI.

The shame that women feel when they have to stand up for another is not only incredible but makes me extremely uncomfortable. I have started following the path of no-judgement but such situations bring out the crazy in me. I refuse to understand the lack of empathy for a fellow woman in distress. I understand that a Utopian world would have HE for SHE and SHE for HE kind of balance but until then my dear ladies London bridge IS falling down, on our heads , everyday, in a big pile!

Feminism according to me is supporting, nurturing, standing up for women and believing in the existence of female human species. That they exist and that they should exist and have equal rights and be allowed to think for themselves. This is what I realized and understood growing up. When the hell did your definition get screwed up? Which route did you end up taking , when we all had decided to set out for equalville?? Why are you calling feminism as being man hating, talkative, bossy and a bitch?!

And if you call another feminist a hoarse hag or a bitch I am gonna slap you with the following transcript of my comedy idol Tina Fey. She did this bit with another great, Amy Poehler on SNL. Read and enjoy and learn something, anything! Note: this was in context to Hillary Clinton's candidacy for the president's post in 2008 and how some people did not like her because she was a "cut throat bitch".

Tina Fey:Then, there is the scrutiny of her physical appearance. Rush Limbaugh, the Jeff Conaway of right wing radio, said that he doesn't think America is ready to watch their president "turn into an old lady in front of them." Really? They didn't seem to mind when Ronald Reagan did that. 

I think what bothers me the most is when people say that Hillary is a bitch. And, let me say something about that: Yeah, she is! And so am I! And so is this one! [ she points to Amy Poehler ]

Amy Poehler: Yeah, deal with it!

Tina Fey: You know what? Bitches get stuff done. That's why Catholic schools use nuns as teachers and not priests! Those nuns are mean old clams, and they sleep on cots and they're allowed to hit you! And, at the end of the school year, you hated those bitches, but you knew the capital of Vermont! So, I'm saying it's not too late, Get on board! Bitch is the new black! 

Watch it if you like: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qHnL8mUbopw

Anyway,

I can understand the decision to not voice out any opinion on anything but to selectively only be ashamed of being called a feminist or being scared to take any decision that might label you as one, is befuddling. I silently judge those. All of them.

So let us try to deconstruct why it is such a taboo to be identified as a feminist. Its almost akin to being a witch. If witches were hunted and killed in the past, the feminists are thrown dirty looks like they are going to enter your house and eat the portion of your chubby kid's food. No we are not! We have food too! We have chubby kids too. May be you think feminists would take away men's rights or they wont make docile wives or they will refuse to reproduce or worse they will stop applying make up and be ugly! I understand and sympathize with these concerns but really all this wonderful word and its definition entails is :
that we solemnly, politely and non intrusively fight for equal rights like right to education, right to vote, right to marry, right to financial independence, right to inheritance and right to breathe.

If you see a sister in trouble, you be a good woman and rush to her for help. Don't you turn your beautiful face away! And if a reporter comes , make sure you say I am a damn proud feminist. No seriously say it like you mean it!

Future: Being an optimist I feel the world is not too far away where everyone is equal. The words like feminism would become obsolete and archaic as they wont hold any meaning. And then perhaps and only then will I accept that Feminism is a bad forgotten word.

Khayal

                                                       
Aaye der se who toh kya hai

Aaye toh sahi                                                                        

Zindagi bhar na aaye toh kya hai                                         

Meri mazaar pe hi sahi                                                          

Rukh-e-gulzar pe noor aaya hai                                           

Muddaton baad sahi                                                             

Khursheed sa roshan na ho to kya hai                                

Raat ka aaftab sahi                                                               

Aashiq giraftaar hua hai                                                      

Kisi qaid me na sahi                                                        

Paak mohabbat ki hai lekin                                              

Hai toh mulzim hi sahi                                                        

Chand lamhon ka bhi karte hain farishtey hisab                                                               

Toh huzoor hisab sahi                                                           

Ta-umr hum unme guzaar lenge                                      

Thode khushnuma thode kharaab sahi                               

Rooh  nahi jism me toh kya                                             

Rooh-e-aks hi sahi                                                             

Sukoon mayassar kar aaye hum                                         

Mile na mile jahaan sahi                                                    

Translation:

Thoughts

They came late so what is there                                                                       

they at least came

they did not come during my lifetime

it matters not that it was at my grave

Beautiful face of theirs has lit up

after eons yes, but that is alright

it may not be as bright as the sun 

it is still like the moon of the night

The admirer has been imprisoned

but not in a prison

he has pure love in his heart but  

a culprit, he still is

The angels cruelly count the moments and give them to me, which are already too few

So let them do the math

I can live my whole life in those few

Some happy and some unpleasant

The body is without a soul so what is there

A mere sign of a soul is enough  

I have achieved my peace of mind

So what if I did not conquer the world

(mazaar=grave)

(rukh-e-gulzar is actually the ‘garden of their face’, but literal translation is not always pleasant J)

(muddaton=long time)

(khursheed=Sun)

(aaftab=moon)

(paak mohabbat = pure love)

Farishtey=angels of death/angels; chand= few)

 (hisab=math/balance)

(rooh-e-aks= soul's shadow/sign)

(sukoon=piece of mind, mayassar= to make available, to achieve)

tête-à-tête

A sense of familiarity makes me happy but at times makes me nauseous. Yes nauseous. I feel like I just want to run away into the unknown whenever that happens. Freud would diagnose it as one of the myriad disorders that he made up to sell himself as a serious thinking person but I feel this one's mine. My own unique symptom and my own unique disorder. I have diagnosed it so it belongs to me. I wanna be attached to it selfishly. Sometimes I want others to tell me that they feel that way too, but not really. Times when suddenly everything makes sense like your knowledge is fathomless and the next second you are at a loss of any basic understanding? This also happens.

I wish I had time to coin words for these feelings. Actually I don't, on a second thought.I am pretty sure some stupid page that comes up with words for obscure feelings will definitely come up with it and trademark it like a bitch. Schadenfreude is what I would feel when somebody sues those idiots for taking away the sense of vagueness from people's minds! They wanna name everything so that nothing remains hazy. Why does everything have to have a definition or a name or an identity! It does not, in my opinion.

Anyway, even as I pen these absolutely futile and dimensionless thoughts onto this white virtual paper, I feel like somebody is inking my own brain with something quite abstract, nebulous. I probably am appearing high right now but I am not. I am making perfect sense to myself, may be not to you guys who are skimming through this because you have something else to click urgently on the world wide wild wild web.

Going back to running away from the familiar, I wonder if it has to do with the upbringing. I have barely ever been present at a place for not more than a few years and part of those years have always been utilized to erase the previous place and the ties to it. Sort of like a fancy blackboard which is white where you write with a fancy fluid marker and use a fancy eraser to wipe it off. Erasing always fascinated me more than writing on those white boards. It probably comes from enjoying cleaning things. Life is not as easy to clean up as that fancy black-white-board, is it? Or it is. I am sounding like Schrodinger's cat who is and is not :)

Sometimes..

 I realized a while ago (I mean A WHILE ago) that no one really reads my blog so I don’t need to give a fuck about that I write and whether it is presentable or not, literarily or otherwise.

So I just moved to this 200 year old house which used to be a carriage house for horses in the 19^th century! Its old and charming and I hope the horses had fun. It has these tall ceilings and an old world charm that reminds me of my grandparents although they weren’t that old. Yup they are no more. They passed away in 2011 taking a piece of me with them. A huge piece. Back to the house, which is my home now. I set it up and felt good about it. I oddly take pleasure out of mundane things like that. My kitchen, my bathroom, my vacant living room and my sparsely decorated 2 bedrooms look perfect…to me. I feel like now I could invite all the people in the world and make them sit on the floor since I have no couches or chairs and serve them my specialty aka Indian tea. They would like it but not their hurting butts so much, I guess.

Traveling, shifting, moving has been a way of life but each time it fills my stomach up with horrible nervous knots. I feel the inertia holding me back, not allowing me to take that final step where I would say good bye to all the memories made in that place and start pretending to be excited about a new life altogether. I have lost count of how many houses I have lived in or moved out from. It’s nomadic but strangely familiar. This routine has become a house for me. Ok wait that requires explaining. Basically in certain movies, sometimes an inanimate object or a place becomes another character; in the same manner my nomadic life has become a place to live at, for me. Well I don’t think I explained that very well but since no one is reading and giving a fuck, it’s alright.

I wanted to write something yesterday and thought will write it, the first thing I get up in the morning but now I can’t recall what it was about. By the way I am typing away furiously in Word than on Blogspot because guess what the new house has its internet all screwed up which resulted in having time to jot down my abstract thoughts. I even found time to read books. Yes, it’s amazing to have no internet but really..actually not. I wanna see my worldcup matches and other crap on the laptop that I devote my precious time to.

I wanted to talk about the brevity of life a little bit. Yes it is going to go into the existentially fraught thoughts. So embrace yourself. If anyone is reading this and has reached this point, please read the next sentence. Leave a comment asshole, so that I know you just didn’t electronically stalk me while conveniently taking a glimpse into my soul without my knowledge! Its creepy as hell!!

Where was I? You know what, let’s not talk about existentialism right now. It’s depressing as shit. But you know the other thing I realized? That blogging is so underrated. I mean you have this amazing piece of tool (the word tool makes me giggle! ) that helps you regurgitate your puke all over the world like you just don’t care. Its liberating as fuck, isn’t it?! Almost like taking a dip in a secluded lake when no one is looking, no one can ogle, no one can small talk with you and it’s the lake and you. I love finding simple small pleasures like that. Blogging needs to be a character of its own in a movie where blogging can think out loud and tell the blogger       “ seriously hun, you want me to showcase this piece of crap to the world? Mm hmmm”.  I think I just made blogging a sassy African-American old lady!

 I have been blogging for over 5 years now and it’s been wonderful. I am so grateful to whoever introduced me to it. My short term memory loss doesn’t allow me the privilege of remembering situations, dates, faces, names and other such memory trivia. None the less, I am grateful to you my friend.

This house inspired me to write. I can’t stop thinking about that specific old world where there was no electricity and there were horse driven carriages. I mean the Victorian era. There is an old mansion nearby, to which my place acted as an ancillary horse carriage place. I wonder who lived there. I wonder about the problems of all those people who passed away worrying about building a mansion and a house for horses. Did they worry about food, healthcare, water, utilities, education, partner in life, entertainment etc? Did they know they would, one day, not exist and all this hard work would be passed on to a babbling renter like me? Think not.

Ok lost my train of thought.

Poison Ivy

Last summer
I often saw you near the pier
prickling my skin
like poison ivy

Shooting memories into my veins
where have I seen you before?
may be some other life
a different time

Intangible as a shadow
you appear dark inside
or do you shade me?
Wish I knew

The more I seek
the more you slip away
you try to forget me
as I forgot you

Sublimely
you evaporate, but
take it along with you
the poison ivy.

Can I get my melancholy suit dry-cleaned, please?

"Tere ishq mein tanhaiyan, humne bahut bahlaiyan".
This simple line means:- there are different kinds of loneliness in your love that I have humored innumerable times.

Simple but a world of philosophies packed into it. Simple and heavy. Brevity with depth. It can apply to a lover humoring and nursing his heart break or a connoisseur of life entertaining the ups and downs of it. I leave the interpretation to the reader. The mind often wanders and clings on to the memories that have made you weep, sad or just made you think. Don't you just hate when things make you think? A dear dear friend of mine says he has a feelings-switch which he switches off, on command and switches it on if need be. That's a super power that we lesser mortals cant afford. Why does melancholy feel more welcomed at times than the world of happiness surrounding us? Birds to watch, Skies to look at, rivers to touch and flowers to behold, yet the pangs in your heart cling on to you like a spider on a cobweb in a dilapidated forgotten building.

So should we stop feeling melancholy, stop acknowledging it and try to unwelcome it as soon as it knocks on the door?

We often look for meaning, patterns, purpose to life. And the revelations, results sometimes make the already difficult existence even bleaker. But should we just sit and let life pass us by because of that? I don't think so. So here is what I have realized, if something moves you, then you move! As plain and simple minded that sounds, it kinda makes sense. Do something if it moves you! Anything, even if it is talking about it or writing it down in your journal. Life would be a little less mechanical, trust me. Cynicism and pragmatism and hundred other 'isms' would tell you that nothing can be done, nothing can change but don't give up just yet :):)Hang in a little longer. Just a tad.

Perspective can be ruthless and a downer but we need it in life. Through perspective we can try nurturing empathy, at the least, if not an out and out helpful nature. It is better than apathy right? What's a man who cant shed a tear externally or inside for the ones suffering. Suffer a little with them. Just a little bit. It would bring melancholy faster to your heart than light but we can turn it on its head and make it purposeful as never done before. If melancholy helps you get up and go through the motions, for just one more darn day in order to be of use and alleviate the pain of someone else, then its a feeling worth keeping inside you. Don't you think so?

So next time when you look for solutions of how to always be happy, in a self help book, wait and think. Give it a fleeting, cursory thought that what if it is fine to leave the wretched melancholy in your heart, searing. What if it can make you more empathetic and relate more to the 'Les Misérables' and their miseries. After all, you are also looking for every one to understand you better, aren't you? A tad, I bet.

This is the only solution that I can think of which could turn melancholy into some kind of a catalyst to attain a semblance of happiness which is often misunderstood with success. Music, books, movies, food, healthy body, fame, travel, money, partner, kids can add so much to one's life, but if even in the company of these blessings the pangs attack, do not panic. Let melancholy, sorrow, sadness be another facet to your being. Don't send them for dry-cleaning as soon as you feel the pangs and the twinges and the stabs. Humor them a little. Let them co-exist along with the happiness, brightness, mirth and the light that dwells inside you. Let them do their work and move you. A tad.

Let me know if it works?

haya

haya na aayi unhe jab khilkhilaake hasi woh
wafa mujhe zaroor ho gayi
jafa-e-ishq unka aisa,
nigahein utha ke bhi na ek bar dekha
mehar phir bhi us khuda ki ho gayi

Rukh par unke lagaye taktaki
shab se nisha ho gayi
saans rok kar palkon ke uthne ka,
jhukne ka, karte gaye intezaar
befazool aisi meri aadton ki inteha ho gayi

Hamari maujoodagi me woh parda karein to karein
Zulfien unki bandishein todkar befikri ho gayi
fana jo na hue hum un beparwah
behichak behaya adaaon pe toh
had haamari kafiri ki ho gayi

Sehra-e-tanhai dil me mere
mulzim tasveer unki  ho gayi
aashiqon ko ruswa kare woh amooman
ajnabi bane rehne ki unki raza me
ek poori ghazal ho gayi

English translation:

she felt no shyness when she laughed merrily
but I definitely fell in love
her love is a disloyal love
not once she looked at me through her eye lashes
but I still felt the blessings of almighty

Looking endlessly at her face
day turned into night
having held my breath I have waited
for her eyes to look up and look down
this inconsequential habit of mine does not ever cease

Let her hide her face in my presence if she wants to
but her hair strands have broken shackles and they wave around carelessly
if I dont give up myself in her love, when she is her careless, carefree, unbridled self
I would end up an atheist who does not believe even in love

there is a desert of loneliness in my heart
her image has to be blamed for it (for she never comes,I just have the image)
she does not care for her admirers usually
she wants us to remain strangers, and in the acceptance of her conditions
I penned a complete song.