Poetry is the last stage,
of contentment or despair,
contemplation or repentance,
or simply of brilliance sheer.

Tis a culmination of passion,
that spills on to paper,
soul searching transcendence,
amidst crisp and raw emotion.

Oh wayfarer dear,
be not quick a judge,
of the poetic soul and its lamentations,
for seldom a word of poetry escapes those lips,
except that it’s ripped the heart clear,
and laid it out bare.


I am not Rootless


A student of science in body,
I know in my heart that science,
is but just a part of the answer,
in search of the meaning of life,
and my identity.

A Muslim Bangladeshi by birth,
Bengali by mother tongue,
Middle Eastern in upbringing,
Ottoman Arab in musical tastes,
Nothing specific in cuisine and culture.

An Indian throughout education,
a Muslim of the subcontinent in historical orientation,
Ummahtic in weltanschauung,
And yes overwhelmingly English,
in arts and literary expression.

Warped up in identity you might say,
but no I don’t care;
for it is not me who is rootless,
but the notion of modern secular nation state,
and I am but a Muslim in modernity.

In nostalgia, 1947 I seek

*This poem is dedicated to the memory of the sad moments of Muslim mind of once East Pakistan in the Indian subcontinent, a mind which is imprisoned today in a secular monstrosity called Bangladesh, through liberation in 1947 to downfall in 1971.


In arrogance they never speak,
of a memory they say is so weak,
that history may never seek,
of the revival in popular memory,
of the legacy of the Spring of 1947.

In its place they eulogize,
the fallout of 1971,
a civil war amongst once brothers,
where sworn enemies turned friends,
and brothers in faith killed each other;
portraying it triumph of the secular,
and defeat of the communal,
in a concept highly peculiar,
attuned to serve interests,
of foe turned friend vague ‘Other’,
the seeming innocuous wolf,
in deceptive sheep’s clothing.

The Muslim mind in Bengal,
who had once given his all,
in 1947 had heeded the call,
for a homeland for all Muslims,
was now meant to fall,
and rise anew;
Rootlessly Secular,
An Imagined identity,
based on the fantasy,
of the myth called 1971.

Despite the passage of decades,

to the chetona of 1971,
the consciousness of 1947,
is a weltershaung to be feared,
a memory to repressed,
a book to be erased,
And its pages rewritten.

Hardly can it be denied,

that the very mention of revival,
of the spirit of the Spring of 1947,
is not just an act of political will;
It is another step in realisation,
of a spectre of a Pandora’s Box,
portending nightmares untold,
of the annhilation of the secular.

Lamentations etched in Memoriam

*A poem I wrote as I was sitting beside the hospital bed of my father, who had been diagnosed with stage 5 Chronic Kidney Disease- both his kidneys have been damaged permanently beyond repair. It was his first night in hospital after diagnosis and a highly painful procedure of dialysis.


Utterly hopeless and desolate I felt,
on that first night of dialysis;
Couldn’t sleep a wink,
as I saw my father sink,
groan and toss and turn,
In the throes,
of raw festering convulsing pain.

Abbu I do not know,
what will I do,
where will I head,
whom will I trust,
without you by my side;
to guide me and show to me,
Allah and His Prophet’s,
Siraatul Mustaquim.

I am not ready,
to take the boulder of the duniya,
its chains and temporal joys,
its perks and pains,
onto my shoulder.

I am not ready,
to take responsibility,
of a girl,
of a family,
of big expectations,
dreams and desires,
of a big challenging world,
with its heroes and villains,
intense friendship and bitter rivalry;
Of uncertainty.
I am just not ready.

As I see you today,
in the operation theater;
and on the bed,
frail and gray haired,
sad and defeated,
I feel that,
Maybe I never will…. 😦

Ya Allah,
in these trying times,
in the face of a future,
bleak, dark and desolate;
I seek refuge in you,
And you Alone.

“Verily, with hardship comes ease”

Is it humility I seek?


I speak of attaining humility,
and closeness to Allah.
Yet I cannot say for sure,
that I have a heart pure,
untainted of greed,
free from envy,
empty of bigotry,
or indeed pride,
of real or imaginary,
knowledge and social status.

Will I not try to better myself;
should I not seek;
humility in comprehension,
iron out the double standards,
eliminate complacency,
root out the hypocrisy,
and strive to align,
in action and speech?

Truth is,
I know that I am lost,
without Allah my Anchor,
His Prophet my Guide,
His infinite mercy,
My only Hope.

Men are but men

I looked at the man,
standing on the floor beneath,
scholarly and wizened,
white the tinge of his beard.

Fondly I raised my arms,
and waved with a smile.

Of response there was none,
as he looked on with melancholy,
staring right beneath me,
making me realize my folly.

Unseeing in his gaze,
neither expressionless,
nor uncouth,
or so I thought,
till the cacophony of womenfolk high,
made me realize with a sigh,
that men were but men.

As I read Mearsheimer and Walt,

As I read Mearsheimer and Walt,
of an Israeli lobby that has remained,
unrepentantly monstrous in its approach,
of keeping a Washington servile and gutless,
in character absolutely Zionist beyond reproach,
I despair not.
I see the resilient faces of Palestinian students,
Cool and calm and devoid of emotion,
far away from their land and their nation,
each bearing tonnes in weight,
of grief and absence of elation,
but I despair not.
For as long as there remains,
dreams and aspirations,
of enshrining a legacy of generations,
of a brotherhood ancient and deep,
transcending class, color and creed;
For those hearts singing tarana-e-milli,
there is Hope.