The Exorcism

FeaturedThe Exorcism

to ZA

Horrendous compulsions, dreary as void, consummate.
Illuminating paths, all ignis fatuus, I mark and execrate.
Guilty pleasures, filthy measures, make me whole
(Conceal me not but stir and expose me bold)!
Journeyed forth to the Patience Stone and back,
And yet no delight did I find… Alack:
Found but this Alabaster, drenched black in sins.
Change me please, I plead; wanton demons challenge many a rinse.
But mute is this Rock; You are no miracle, I chant!
Empty of veneration, left I at my own command.

Howling darkness draws. Night ransacks and finds you –
O blessed Angels, you are no match for this ardor; adieu!
Submit I into vehemence – jumping off 
Ṭūr off lust.
Adrenaline fancies this ride – though my bones would crunch to dust.
Yet they stay (I want them this way); from eerie mornings till dusk…
Consequent the dire war… all Angels ground into the crust.
O Fidus Achates, you veto my petition once more!
I’d squander as a wanderer – You’d yourself behold.

Might revives (as senses deprived), yet this grave a state –
Look, oh look, the Mirror rebukes, my image to whom is stale –
Dodged for days I darkness though; that usual malady,
‘Tis only a timely halt, we know – return will tragedy.
Come will the din, once again, to the doors of decency…
Speak of the devil: chains just rattled; Set are the monsters free!
That Angels’ brawl, that dire war, witnessed yet again;
Relapsed into that old anguish, subsequent to devil’s revenge.
That dance of demons stirring within… Repent now, just repent!

This light in eyes, huh (ugly disguise)! Perpetually I display;
Leaping cougars, chasing floggers… Will this complete my stay?
Rummages do I for peace here (a luxury I hold not).
Thus haphazardly have I come, to this alchemist’s lot.
Wincing – tipsy – land there; beg I but for this:
Amulet for my vice or some elixir to enlighten my abyss?
Trapped am I, escape cannot, from this surreal den,
Whirl I, spin deranged, still, can wake not from this sweven.
Alas, His cauldron too blows off; my panacea has spurted!
Again the vines of vile take shot, entangle me up till ruptured.

Growling breaths, reeking wreaths, begild this stoic clay.
The cavalier devil is delirious – chortles He away.
Mephistophelean, all my acts; orchestrated by a wicked urge.
Amidst this relinquishment, frigid remains my Demiurge.
But like from an ember springs a flame, advances for the cold,
Hope revives, whence I find, that others too fight their faults.
I stand, recite, bend, prostrate and hurl meretricious cries;
Kneel before Him limpid, transform me to my state erstwhile!
Came then a poke, and found me Sin! instead of Epiphany,
Took an encore, fed on my core (for this was I really yearning).

Deceiving words, spreading lies, filing talks unheard.
Chilling squirms, rousing eyes and reading things absurd.
Mask of morality, retaliate! from slipping into dirt
(‘Tis Challenge of a metallic jument to hoof away unheard).
Am I despicable? I must be not! For don’t I struggle and fight?
Like how I surged away again, hurting the evil’s pride.
Head for the hills and vanish? No, walk towards the Light
Embrace those spells that weave our prayers, recite that Creed tonight.
And find it breathe into you, an elixir like none other,
Extirpating the root of sins all, and all the vulgar blunders.

Faltering recital: wiping detritus (this might facilitate!).
This Book’s entitled to cast off hexes; vileness might just eject.
What rhythmic prose, intonation divine; such sanctifying debate!
This charm too alas, lasts; abrades. Evil did only procrastinate…
Darkness’s patience now runs out; downs my remnant luck:
Forsaken by friends, away from trends; gift of a misery deluxe.
Whom do I bluff? For I’m to blame, ’twas my hand after all
That mocks me then, mocks me now, the reason for my fall.
Vaporizes whence the soul, despondence fully cloaks,
Faith (in life) diminishes when usurps such shadow.

Hungry wraiths, rowdy reps; adoption of blithe ignorance,
Tides, not turning; passions, still burning (Perdition I might face).
I scrape away my days like this: lost in an ardent craze,
Honorable Scribes shoulder arguments, amidst I suffocate,
As desires – they pry us, all day long – keep altering this maze.
Would Joseph avert, when disrobes Zuleika, in that room sultry –
With sparkling desire unleashed – lest God denies epiphany?
Sick protests; preacher, ring me the line – transmit this for the Deity:
Require some limit in this torture, for the sake of sodality;
After all, I am a sinner – this sentence stamps infidelity.

Lasciviously swerve, these voluptuous curves; seduction at its apex.
Abiding am I in belly-full times; deified for me is sex.
Persist these surging spells – snare I lewdly these houris,
Ravenous urge, I’m playing absurd; my touch, Like Midas’s…
Next came a tryst with – among houris, find when I – a Nephilim
(Beneath, an anguished case, desolate fate; Above, graceful, sanguine).
But like the serpent am that I, threw at her a javelin
(When knew not of her frntic side and her Assassin).
Her chastity turned the tides; removed with ease the javelin;
Handed it back to me then, smiling: “Why not try again?”
Speared not I blows, rather spared, for rose in me a question:
Pierced I through you such weapon, you still ask for repetition?
Soured my mouth, averted my gaze; her reply aroused a cringe:
“Placed ‘side by sufferings, bore that I, your spear was nothing.”

A grand upset, plus deep regret. I wonder ’bout this Nephilim:
What misery hides behind the smile? Why can’t I spot the stain?
Such fairy stance exquisite, haloes rays as if of Eden,
Vapid turns my venom, while, fail queries profane.

What are you, and why for me, you feign plethora of sermons?
I did erect Five Pillars, which fell; I’m prerogative of perversion.
Am chained in dark, with demonic sentinel; I shun imbalance,
Or else these ravens with malign molds will coil around like serpents.

“I need not whole of you, my friend, who dreads mere crucifixion,
Nor – yet – the part that conceives: your savior is Religion.
Just your ears mere, just the might of your eyes,
Have you only that, it would suffice.”

[Comes then her narration… through which she turned around my life…]

Her narration:
I hear – but she gripped my arm and took me there…
There – A chamber so dark, a box which bears…
Bear – Boasts just its playthings, need not be scared
Scare – I wish toys were only things at which she glared…
Glare – Room fills with that Assassin; ask what he dared…
Dare – I merely hear, She’s over there; bare…
Bare – A rip here, a tear there, a scar there, EVERYWHERE
Tear – Even Incubus would an open war declare…
Declare – Against that Assassin, for empty went prayers…
Prayer – Yet she offers; her hope for repair…
Repair – Nights still bring her wretched nightmare…
Nightmare – Screams blare, life all bare. God, why unfair?

To think, I believed nothing could make me cry –
Now bleeding tears everywhere, relieved are my eyes.
Thus drained all my Demons, and scattered those Kobolds,
Some beautiful pain was this Exorcism – if truth be told.

Continue reading “The Exorcism”

،شب و روز بدلتے ہیں پیر و مرشد تیرے
اچھا نہ ہوا خدا نے تجھے جو ولی نہ کیا؟

،قبلہ جو اب ہے درست، یہ سمبھالے رکھ فہد
ولایت سے تو گیا، اب کیا منافقت سے بھی جاۓ گا؟


Shab-o-roz badalte hain peer-o-murshid tere,
Acha na hua Khuda ne tujhe jo wali na kiya?

Qibla jo ab hai durust, yeh sambhale rakh, Fahad,
Wilayat se tou gaya, ab kia munafiqat se bhi jayega?


Wings Where They Belong

Wings Where They Belong


It is easy to find seagulls living in isolation from the company of crows.
Who finds seagulls befriend a crow, frantic at the charity they finally get,
where ultimately the latter flies ways.

The sea is too much a splendor,
broken rooftops reveal greater treasures
save for one who has eyes but no sight.

Paths where clasped hands walk,
from there shoo robins.
One hand with grains pulls a dozen sparrows.

Why cuckoos conceal themselves and sing on branches, I finally know.
It fears not the hawk,
the hawk is much too merciful on the tune.

Why rant of flying when you fly not, you flee?
Jibrael shakes his head at the words you speak.
In reality, these are wings where they belong.

Turn to the pigeons now, revolving round the Ka’aba,
ecstatic like the planets.
Dying echoes of Bilali azaan in their heads.

Painted walls bring a headache, their stench.
It is humbler to perch upon raw brick’s wall.
Or better yet, no walls.


To Imam Hussain,

If you have not known up to this point in your life, that Allah Almighty has gifted your father with an eccentrically ethereal token of imagination, then now you are about to, son.

Your father, as it so happens – and it so happens rather blissfully – has been an author of a handful of letters and write-ups which he has written for some ‘pearls’ that have clammed upon the transient waves along his ocean of a life. Cruel if you may want to call your father you may, as these very write-ups have made these very ‘pearls’ shed a tear or few upon reading what your father had written (words pierce, son, you see… you will see) – and it was somewhere along the lines of what you are about to read.  In no particular order, these were written for Zeenat, who was a beloved friend that upturned your father’s life completely; a letter was written for Faryal, who has been a sentinel, a protector, a guarding beacon house, a close friend; another letter was written for dear Miss Fareeha, who has been one of the loveliest teacher your father has ever had (he is smiling even now as he recalls all this); plenty was written for Farayha, some Dumbo. You must have – given how deeply observant and an engrossed reader you are (like your father) – possibly found two patterns: one revealing that your father is far from a misogynist, son, but don’t consider him a pervert in any case for dedicating all wordy declarations for solely ladies in his life; secondly, you find that most of these pearls’ names follow with an ‘F-A-R’ at their start. It is a rather unusual pattern your father has spent living with, but it is what it is, son. And as it so happens, my current employer and teacher too follows the latter pattern – his name is Farooq -, and he has grown upon me too. Consider it a possibility that a letter will be written for him too whence we part ways (though, it is possible that your father might not be able to move him to tears because, you know, men are not as touchy-feely). The point of this narration is that, within your resilient father has been sizzling and broiling a pulsating desire to compose a letter for you too, Imam Hussain. Yes, yes, it is already realized that your father’s letter to you will disrupt his ‘dedication pattern’ inside out, but your father is a whimsical man. Trust this, and also that your father is one weird a man too. Very.

Maybe somewhere along the shifting saccades you might have taken note that your father sounds like an ancient man. Haha, it is not so, believe this – he is merely a quarter of a century old as of now -. He is quarter child, quarter mythical, quarter ordinary, and only quarter ancient. A 20 year old universe, who has, at this age, when you are far from existence my child, fantasized about you with you and you in his reveries, poking and probing constantly to the point that your father sometimes transits between the undulations of thrill and sentimentality. This is ecstasy son, and admittedly rather befuddling too, that you have become your father’s prayer. How glorious you are, how chivalrous, how ethereal, like a sudden epiphany, Imam Hussain.

Enough about him now, though. Your father heartily apologises for being soporific, son. Let’s start about you; your name. Is your name not sheer beauty? heavenly? You have been named Imam Hussain, as it must have been regularly discussed with your father, after Imam Hussain (RA) bin Ali (RA) ibn Abu Talib (RA), mother Fatima (RA) bint e Muhammad (SAW). One of the two glorious grandsons of Allah’s beloved, Our Holy Prophet Muhammad (SAW) – who is the reason of this universe’s existence. Imam Hussain (RA) lives inside the hearts of every true believer, son. Millenias away from where my words will end, reverent praises will begin for these Men of Allah. So expect not this from your father that he has ever done an atom’s worth of justice whenever he recalled for you, the might of Allah’s men. Just because your father’s heart pumped, and still pumps, with the love for the sacrifices laid down at Karbala that one eternal prostration before Allah, that resilience towards honour, and that honour in standing rock-footed before fleets upon fleets of bloodhounds… for righteousness – by the family of our beloved Prophet SAW – whose earned thirst never has been curbed with more gratification compared to any other, for the goblet of Kausar was offered by Allah’s Beloved SAW to his grandson Imam Hussain (AS) and the family of Hussain (AS) in Paradise (what a sight, by Allah, would that have been) – thereby your father named you Imam Hussain. Imam Hussain, your parents take an oath that they will do their best in nurturing you in the best of light (this is both a foresight for now and a promise). And you promise that whenever you see your name, read your name, write your name, listen to your name – or do anything decent with your name given the advanced technology/ies there are available at your age and generation – you will be reminded of Imam Hussain (RA). You will be the symbol of courage, of truth, of honour, of resilience for what you rightfully stand for; of piety, of grace, or reverence. That is your father’s plan to see you as. You will be a dream come true, Imam Hussain.

No no, this is already established that there are no restricted pathways predestined for you by any mortal. This, you know, and you always should. You will not be beaten if you do not pray all five prayers, fast all 30 days; or, you know, ogle at pretty girls every once in a while. There is no indexed timeline of your life, because you will try music, you will love it; you will read all sorts of literature (even the genres which you shouldn’t), you will come to be infatuated with a lady, interpreting or misinterpreting that as love; you will tease your siblings, given that you have some (Inshallah 😉 ), you will have rowdy friends, and late night parties, and arguments with your parents; you will undergo bouts of lost temper, taste the bitterness of failure/s, have vulgar outbursts of laughter at inappropriate moments, spend lonely nights depressed under a wet blanket, heartily desire, pray, and wish that your grandmother or some of your aunt, or some other relative stops being clingy and riddling you with questions of sorts all; you will have girl friends and might have girlfriends, you will have crazy and unforeseen moments and you will end up finding yourself where you never would have imagined you will find yourself, you will obscenely scream, shrill and hoot when your favorite sports team wins or scores (a goal, a six, a basket, anything), you will cuss out loudly with friends, you will prank your teachers, you will shrug off beggars, you might catch up vices which your parents would have prayed that you must have never caught. You will be flawed, Imam Hussain, but there will be a limit to your flaws. You will gulp mistakes and lessons will stick between the walls of your throat which you will have to eject out. You will travel at the speed of life and you will observe what it is like to be a human being. You will be bad, son, but this faith is somehow engrossed within your father’s heart that your goodness will always overshadow your flaws. You will be in love with the world and then the world will break you, quite wonderfully, and you will be a singing, shining mosaic, glued together with love, that would have just become as deep a part of you as your bones and flesh. Because your father has undergone the wild side of this life too, therefore all of the above wilderness he sees you doing too some day; he promotes for you the same rowdy pattern in your life. You may go through the similar patterns in your life from Eminem, to Khaled Hosseini to Game of Thrones to Facebook/Twitter/Whatsapp, to whatever is popular in your era, it is absolutely fine. It will be amazing, trust this. But, you will never undermine or taint or let anyone else taint what is at the core of you, and that is Islam: Allah, Rasool-Allah SAW, The Holy Quran, Anbia-e-Karam AS, Sahaba of the Prophet (RA), Ahl-al-bayt, and all the followers of Haqq and of righteousness and of divinity, and love/respect for the mankind – and that includes all people, son, good and bad. This will be at the core of you, Imam Hussain, like a source code is of any computer program. You will be your parents’ Sadqa-e-Jariah.

All things said, there is no compromise on one part, son. Listen carefully here, no compromise on one part, Imam Hussain… That you will be a lion. That you will have to be a lion when it comes to you standing beside or before injustice or cruelty or falsehood. You will do what the best of the Men did. You will cut yourself off from your neighbour if they are the one standing before you in your way, with your best friend if he does so, your sibling, even your father if he goes rabid (God forbid), but you will do so. You will face them then if it comes to that, you will fight them then if they lead you to that. You will be a lion son, you will then have to recall Ibn-e-Haider then son. You will. You will recall or look up what Rasool-Allah SAW would have done, what Siddique-e-Akbar (RA) would have done, what Farooq-e-Azam (RA) would have done, what Usman-e-Ghani (RA) would have done, what Abu Turab, Asadullah (RA) himself would have done. These are the Mightiest of the mightiest, Truest of the truest, most Faithful of the most faithful, most Chivalrous of the most chivalrous, most Generous of the most generous of men, Imam Hussain. Are you listening closely, son? You must, for your supports in this life will tumble soon. Your life itself will wrap upon itself soon enough, son. Even your father right now is imagining that he merely used to be 4 a week ago, that only yesterday, he used to be among friends that he could call friends which no longer remain in his life. The point is that your options will run out, my dear mansion of stars. At that point then, you will refer to the best of men to guide you through, and you will ask of the best of and the only Lord of all kingdoms and dominions that there are; Allah. The only one who Ever was, Always will be. I know that I have inculcated this within you again and again; it is this constant reinforcement that we live upon, do we not?

Alright now, let’s lighten the mood up slightly. WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT YOUR UNCLES AND AUNTS? Isn’t uncle Emad the most hilarious person that ever lived? (meh, hyperbole) and isn’t he also the single-most lamest person you have ever encountered? My God, that man is your father’s love, Imam Hussain. If your father could say that he has a soulmate, it is he, Emad. You should see him, uh, of course you have, Inshallah, but you should see him now, he is … beyond words. Your father rarely goes at a loss for words, son, trust this, but when it comes to Emad, and basically to your father’s family and faith, his prejudices run deep. That is just how your father is, weirdo-type. An absolutely bizarre-weirdo. Though, a unique one – a rare one -; a one of a kind.

With Love,


Withering Agent

Withering Agent

Let the dust and smoke of this world collapse into your lungs.

Do not from it repulse. They are not enough of withering agents.


The real one is the barren desert, still and empty,

that dwells inside one – a possible breeding ground.


It is not the barrenness of that place that makes it barren.

Only the perception of that barrenness as barren.