Continuity- by Aziz Qaisi

This is what happens
When you swim against the tide.
Soon I too shall drown,
Battling against the waves.
I see that one before me, too, has drowned

Back there!
Beyond my sinking sight,
Someone else appears to fight the tide.
My God! Its me.
Does that mean the drowning man Was also me?

Wordsmith's Son- by Danish Khan

At The Graveyard- by Danish Khan

1028..920..628..The graves are all numbered. Some are made of cement, some of marble, some are uncared for, some flattened, reminding us that some who walked this earth were insignificant or possibly penniless. The dusk imparts a softer hue to the shanties running along the graveyard. They looked harsh in the mid-day sun. The gravediggers are emaciated wearing threadbare clothes. Their children play unmindful of the graves, their women are hired to water the plants on the graves and to maintain them. The priest is accompanied by an obsequious assistant always ready to pick up his chappals and fold them under his armpits when he does not require them.
There are people walking among the graves stopping at this particular grave and that, to adorn them with flowers, to light a few agarbattis whose fragrance disperses in a moment. Some are moved; for some it is only a duty. Some graves are close to each other. Do the dead talk to each other? Do they compare the number of flowers put on their grave? Do they discuss the fragrance of the agarbattis? Are they seized by the jealousies that troubled them when they were alive? Do they smile at this strange behaviour of the living? Do they laugh at the living who are scared of death?
The place for the mourners is covered with the roof raised high, the floor cemented and shiny. The parapet about a foot above the ground has raised armrests. I slip in to one of these slots. There are people asleep on the floor; fat, indolent men, their faces shiny their bodies covered with sweat ridden vests and dirty trousers. They must be the keepers of the graveyard.
People enter the graveyard, carrying the deceased on their shoulders. The fat man raises himself on one of his hands, looks towrds them and goes back to sleep. The cemented slot feels uncomfortable. The deceased is to be buried between two graves. Right on the top of the dug up heap of earth are large bones which look suspiciously of human form. The deceased is lowered in to the grave with a lot of care. Everyone has an adequate amount of solemnity written on their faces.
Slowly and with equal care planks are fixed to the sides so that the grave does not cave in-or is it to make it more habitable? The mouth is closed with wooden planks and covered with earth. The priest is chanting mindlessly. He has a duty to perform. The grave is covered with sweet smelling flowers. The agarbattis are lighted and fixed in to the soft earth. Everyone prays for the deceased. The rituals completed, their duties fulfilled, they walk away towards their jealousies, their differences, their homes.
The graveyard looks forlorn. It is dark now. The lighted agarbattis seem to be twinkling. Only the flowers adorning the grave can be seen. The graves have been swallowed up by the darkness. I feel lonely. The fat man sits up. Shoos away the flies lazily, stretches out, yawns and looks at me sleepily.

Many Dimensions & More

My father Aziz Qaisi lived for his poetry. He was an Urdu poet, or is an Urdu poet because he still lives in his poetry. He was never a popular poet; he never wanted to be one. Though a few of his Nazms and Ghazals are sung by the singers and have become popular. He wrote from his heart. He believed that his poetry was an extension of his self, his being and his existence. There is no false note in his poems because he never wanted to please the singers or the readers or his comtemporaries.He had a very short life on this planet. He died in 1992 of lung cancer.A lot of people ask me why are you a 'Khan' when your father was a 'Qaisi'. Well, Qaisi was not his real name. It was his penname. His real name was Aziz Mohammed Khan. The word Qaisi is derived from Majnus' name 'Qais'. It is usual for parents to take their children out for picnics. My father never did that. I was taken to Mushairas (poetic soiree) instead when I was about 8-10 years old. I had the good fortune to meet and hear poets and writers like Ali Sardar Jaffri, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Firaq Gorakhpuri, Akhtar-ul-iman, Jan Nisar Akhtar, Kaifi Azmi, Sahir Ludhianvi, Majrooh Sultanpuri, Qateel Shifai, Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi, Rahi Masoom Raza,Rajinder Singh Bedi, Himayat Ali Shair, Shariar, Waheed Akhtar, Indeevar, Ahmed Faraz, Nida Fazli, Shaaz Tamkanat. My heroes have always been poets and writers. I believe it is the gentle heart of the poets and writers that is holding this world together-left to the wily politicians this world would have been rubble a long time ago.