“A gypsy searching for a forsaken tribe, a vagabond cursed to wander—this is the cry of everyone who’s ever felt they don’t belong.” A haunting, repetitive verse exploring the deep human need for belonging through the metaphor of homelessness—both physical and spiritual. The poem’s refrain “Where is my home and where I am going to sleep?” echoes through various landscapes—deserts, wastelands, bustling towns, and silent valleys—as the narrator confronts regret, shame, desire, guilt, and lost faith.
‘Past was a dream, future is a fantasy, and present is all that ever matters.’
A lyrical philosophical tale spanning ancient Damascus to the desert mountains of Balkh, exploring humanity’s relationship with time through the teachings of a defrocked priest and the mystical wisdom of Maga, an enigmatic desert woman. The story weaves together the concept of the “sacred triangle” - where survival, love, and desire intersect within the singular reality of the present moment.
‘Jawdat, please listen to me, son.’ My old father requested me, while we sat on the dunes, watching the long worms of caravans, leaving and entering Damascus.
‘Jawdat, my darling son, everything in this universe speaks. The mountains, the deserts, the oceans, and the clouds - they all speak. But to understand them, you have to first learn their sacred language.’ My father said in his usual poetic manner.
He was a strange man - my father. He was a priest once, but not anymore. Once he started questioning the power of the gods, he was soon ousted from the ranks of the holy. The other priests thought him mad, and I shared their opinion. But strangely, his unceremonious ousting from the temple did bring us two closer. We started sitting together and eating together, and took long walks in the golden deserts surrounding the ancient city of Damascus.
It was only when I started listening to him with attention that I realized something. He was not mad. Instead, he was blessed with a miraculous ability to see the invisible and look past the obvious. He had seen the true light, and his wise words vibrated with the rationale of his beliefs.
‘What about the light father?’ I asked him.
‘What about it?’ He looked at me with confusion.
‘Does the light speak too?’ I asked thoughtfully.
‘Yes, it does, and so does the darkness.’ He nodded his head, and his eyes reflected the expanse of the clear blue sky.
‘The darkness?’ I was confused. ‘Darkness is nothing. Even pure darkness is the absolute absence of light.’
‘Not at all, Jawdat.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘Where light is all energy, darkness carries neither matter nor energy. But still it exists. And its independence from energy ensures that darkness travels through time without any transformation. This intactness of darkness makes it wiser than the light.’
‘But what do they say? What do they tell us - the light and the darkness?’ I asked without completely understanding his line of reasoning.
‘The light tells us that life is a sacred triangle.’ He bent down and drew a triangle in the sand with his brass-tipped staff. ‘The first corner of this triangle is survival, the second corner is love, and the third corner is desire.’ He drew the ancient symbols for each of these elements - a smaller baseless triangle within a circle for survival, a crowned heart for love, and a snake for desire.
‘And where does this triangle reside? Does it remain suspended within the confines of the soul?’ I asked him as to me, the soul encompassed all.
‘No, my son!’ My father said, drawing a circle enclosing the sacred triangle and the three symbols within. ‘The scared triangle with all its three elements, exists within a real moment of time.’
‘All moments of time are real, Father.’ I laughed.
‘No, Jawdat!’ he looked at me sternly. ‘The past is obscured in the dust of time, and the future is just a vague possibility. Only the present is real. So it is in the present that the sacred triangle hangs and resides. And that is something that the darkness tells us.’
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I scooped up some sand in my palm and looked at it closely. The grains were all together, yet separate and individual. Some shone with a sparkling brilliance, while others were just grey and black speckles. I clenched my fist, and the sand slipped out. I tried to hold it in, but it all drained out.
I looked up and found the old woman watching me intently.
‘Tell me, O’ Maga, the wise one!’ I asked her, watching her silver hair blowing with the night wind.
‘What is the most significant of the past, the present, and the future?’
‘Hmm!’ She raised both her hands and tied her hair in a loose bun with her ringed fingers. The reds and greens of the rubies and emeralds flashed from within the silver threads. ‘What do you think, child? What do you believe is the most significant of these three?’
I looked up at her. She was silent, but there was a subtle smile dancing at the corners of her mouth.
The old woman was strange. Maga - that’s what she told me her name was. And I was beginning to believe that Maga was the embodiment of the sacred triangle for me.
I found her in the desert. Rather, it was she who found me. My caravan was attacked by the robbers two nights out of Balkh. I was deeply wounded and was left for dead by the other survivors. How many days and nights I spent in the cold mountains, I do not know. Each sunrise brought along a new intensity of misery and thirst, while each night burnt me with her cold, freezing fingers.
Then one evening, something cold and wet was pressed against my blackened and dry lips. Slowly, a few drops of water trickled onto my thorny tongue and down my parched throat. I slowly opened my eyes. My head was resting on her folded thigh, and her kind face was smiling down at me. She had drenched her black scarf in water and was moistening my lips.
Gradually, I came back to life. She had snatched me away from the clutches of death. At first, I thought she was just a vision - an illusion and product of my deranged mind. But the revival of my strength assured me of the reality of her existence.
We were inseparable thereafter, though Maga did not need my company at all. She was old but still wild enough to carry a curved dagger, hidden within the folds of her black robe. She apparently needed neither food nor water. I had never seen her eating anything except that sometimes she chewed on some dried roots and mushrooms.
Maga was my scared triangle - in that there was no doubt. She was my survival when I needed to cling to life. She was my warmth when I was tortured by my loneliness. And one night she became my desire, when my senses were heavy with lust and my body was craving human touch. I expected myself to be disgusted in the morning. But when the sun rose, I found my heart filled with only love for her. So yes, she had become my sacred triangle.
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‘So what do you think, child? Maga asked, breaking my reverie.
‘Huh?’ I looked at her questioningly.
‘What is the most significant of these three, the past, the present, or the future?’
I thought hard before presenting an answer. ‘My past has made me what I am, and my future is pulling me into itself. But I am breathing in the present. So perhaps, the present is the most significant of all.’ I brushed off the dust on my hands and looked up at her.
‘Yes!’ She smiled with her kohl-lined eyes. I peered back into them, and the reflection of the bright moon peered back at me. ‘Past is only a dream and the future is a fantasy. Only the present is real - as real as it can be.’
‘But what if the present is also a dream?’ I asked.
‘That is possible too, of course.’ She smiled at me. ‘But you are living this dream…aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’ I confessed.
‘Past is important because it started with your birth, and the future is important because it will end with your death.’ She spread her hands, and the night wind blew her long robe in a trail of grey shadows. ‘But what is enclosed in between these two absolute realities is a series of moments. Each of these moments becomes the future, the present, and then the past, in turn. But it is only when the moment exists in the present that it matters the most. Because it encompasses the entirety of your existence.’ She finished her brief lecture and smiled at me.
‘Maga?’ I asked her, ‘Do the dead regret not living in the moment?’
‘That is something only the dead can tell you, child.’
I sat down on the cold sand, and she rested her head on my shoulder. I smelt the sandalwood smell of her silver hair and closed my eyes peacefully. The night was melting fast around us, and the moon was diving below the horizon. Soon, it became just a yellow shadow in the West.
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‘Jawdat!’ Maga whispered in my ear, and I opened my eyes.
The night had enveloped us completely, and the desert was all silent. The wind had died down, and the lonely stars were sparkling silently - witnessing our present.
I looked at her, and she directed my gaze towards a few stars lining the horizon. Some of them gradually detached from the others and slowly crept nearer until they became a short trail of moving lanterns. The dead night air sighed again and brought the murmuring of the wavering wails to our ears.
Shadows were hiding behind the lanterns. Slowly, the shadows started assuming human forms. It looked like a funeral procession, creeping along the soft sand with deliberate steps. By then, the wail had become a rich mixture of grief and tears, the heralds of some unspoken tragedy.
I saw the wooden box, solemn in its quiet grace, riding the shoulders of wailing mourners. Though it jerked and rolled with each step, its occupant was very much dead and lifeless.
‘Jawdat!’ Maga again whispered my name and then muttered some words under her breath.
I felt my body dissolving into the darkness. I became the night wind and caressed the wet cheeks of the tired mourners. I tasted the bitterness of tragedy and then stole into the dark coffin. I became the darkness itself and crawled underneath the dead eyelids. And the dead spoke to me:
‘Touch my lips, which have kissed a hundred beauties,
caress my eyes, that have dreamt a million dreams
Feel my heart, that preferred passion over duties,
and run in my veins, that once pulsated with extremes
But no more, my friend, no more, no more,
I breathe no more, I am dead for sure
I am a lonesome traveller, walking a dark path,
my fate is unsure, my end is all vague
There is no light in my eyes, neither joy nor wrath,
my heart silently suffers - loneliness is the deadliest plague
I was a man once, but now I am just a bundle of flesh,
the flesh that is beginning to rot and stink
I wish I could start my whole life afresh,
I wish I had more time to ponder and to think
Look at my wife, beating her chest in grief,
but her tears are drying up really very fast
Tomorrow she will live again, for this tragedy was brief,
I was her joy in the present, but now I am her past
Listen to the shuffling steps that belong to my weary sons,
they are burdened with sorrow, but their hearts are filled with hope
Tomorrow they will rise again, for death only stuns,
for their future is bright, as they will slowly climb the rope
Listen, my friend, and listen carefully,
my time has come, and yours will come soon
Listen, my friend, and listen attentively,
I am now dead, and you too will die soon
Life is a dew drop, vanishing once kissed by the sun,
dust on a moth’s wings, only ash once kissed by a flame
So live your life, live it to the full; have all the joy, have all the fun,
for in the end, there’ll be nothing left but regrets and shame’
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‘Did you hear the dead man’s words?’ Maga asked me.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And what have you understood?’ ‘That past was a dream, future is a fantasy, and present is all that ever matters.’
“They called them messiahs of the broken birds—healers who could mend any wounded soul except their own.” A deeply touching poem about the unsung heroes who dedicate their lives to healing others—the counselors, caregivers, and compassionate souls who mend broken spirits only to face the inevitable loneliness when those they’ve helped move on.
A lyrical tale of unexpected reunion set against the atmospheric backdrop of Vienna’s cobblestone streets and the flowing Danube River. This contemplative love story explores the complex emotions between two former lovers who meet again after years apart, weaving together themes of desire, patience, and the transformative power of time. Through poetic prose and philosophical reflections shared with a mystical banyan tree, the narrative delves into the difference between fleeting desire and enduring love. The story captures the Portuguese concept of “saudade” – that bittersweet longing for what was lost – as the protagonists navigate their shared past and uncertain future amid Vienna’s old-world charm and melancholic street music.
‘Tell me why you are here?’ I asked, while softly caressing her delicate ivory palm, ‘Tell me why you are here with me, in this very moment?’
Her palm was soft and cold, but with a subtle warmth pulsating just beneath the fragile skin.
‘That’s a strange question, and I really do not have any answer.’ A tiny smile danced around the corners of her lips. She peered back into my eyes, looking for an answer or perhaps solace. Then she suddenly looked away and the magic was broken.
Vienna was the usual evening chaos. Desires were pursuing desires in an endless cycle. The lights of some old Gothic palace reflected in and danced along the soft waves of the Danube. The river was a cauldron of silence, and the moist evening breeze stirred both its calm surface and also our senses.
Across a cobbled yard stood a couple of street musicians. A tall graceful woman was playing a sad symphony on her old violin; while her companion, an old man, was plucking bits of joy from the keys of his weather-beaten accordion. I listened to their music closely and recognized loss and love, singing their eternal duet.
‘Why don’t you tell me why you are here?’ A challenge flashed briefly in her smiling eyes, ‘Why are you here in Vienna?’
For a single brief moment, she became what she was a half-decade ago – a beautiful golden dragon that breathed fire of unspoken desires. An unpredictable dragon and an independent dragon – free to roam the wide blue skies.
‘Why am I here?’ I asked myself looking down at the lines mapping the palms of my hands. Then I raised my head and looked back at her with an answering smile, ‘Perhaps I am lost or perhaps I am here for the love that remains.’
When I first met her, I was not as young as I once used to be, but I was as restless as the branches of a tall pine tree. She was strong wind, blowing through my branches after a very long time. Slim and charming with soft brown hair, which cascaded boldly around her lovely face, and a taut, sensuous body. Her strange and unnamable seduction, weaved its magic wand and I fell under her spell.
I remembered looking at her for the first time. She reminded me of the dark mysterious forests, smelling heavily of tropical rains. She reminded me of the moist green moss, climbing up and curving along the tree trunks. And she reminded me of the rain-drenched soil, emitting wisps of a fragrant mist. Whenever I try to remember what all I felt on first seeing her, there is a small whisper in my ears – desire.
Though all desires are sensuous, this one spoke more of unconditional love.
She always looked like a goddess and a bright light of brilliance peeked from behind her dark unsmiling eyes. Sometimes, under my worshipping gaze, her chiseled features melted into a soft and malleable kindness. But mostly, she remained a marble statue. She was a goddess who demanded to be loved while hiding behind tradition and humility. I was a humble priest who fell in love with her because the possibility of losing her in the whirling sands of time frightened me.
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‘I think I am in love.’ I excitedly spilled out my secret to the old banyan tree. We were the only two souls in the courtyard of the Tomb of the Lonely Saint. The saint was long dead, but his spirit, as I felt, resided within the tree.
‘And when did you realize this?’ The tree asked in its deep, old, and rusty voice – its texture as rough as his bark.
‘The realization came slowly, almost like the hesitant monsoon rain. But now that it is here, I feel as if struck by a thunderbolt.’ I said, while sitting down with my back to the trunk, ‘I can feel the lightening tingling along my spine and nerves.’
‘Beware, son!’ The old tree whispered back, ‘Love is a banshee disguised as a butterfly. She may be kind to the fools. But to those who recognize and understand her and submit to her power willingly, she is always cruel beyond words.’
‘She is not a banshee.’ I protested. ‘She is a butterfly and her wings reflect all the colours of this world.’
The tree felt silent and thought for a moment.
‘Perhaps it is yet not love. Perhaps it is desire – a desire that does not dissolve with the waning moon. But a desire that is capable of evolving into love one day.’
‘What if it always remains a desire?’ My heart trembled with the fear of possible loss.
‘Hmm…!’ The tree rustled its many branches, and legions of tired pigeons flew out, scared of the sudden movement. ‘Remember, son! Desire is one of the most powerful of all forces of nature. It is the force that makes the world go around in circles. Desire takes birth, deep within the warm recesses of our ever-hungry hearts. It climbs our souls like a vine climbs up a tree, entrapping and teasing the branches. It starts with an almost erotic touch and then embeds its tentacles deep within our lonely hearts. And then it starts sucking. It hungrily sucks in our soul and our ego and our character and our self-control, and it leaves us empty and dry.’
The tree said it all deliberately and in his usual sing song style. His wisdom was like an old wine – each sip to be savoured and treasured.
‘How do I ensure that this doesn’t just remain a desire?’ My fear was growing stronger.
‘Whenever two souls come across each other, floating along the river of time, it is always for a higher purpose. And that purpose is always love.’ The tree said.
‘Don’t worry, son!’ A few dry leaves floated down and caressed my shoulders kindly. ‘If it is meant to be, it will be.’
‘You have always had the habit of talking in riddles.’ She took a sip and her soft eyelids covered her dark beautiful eyes for a moment.
‘Well that is just me.’ I smiled at her, ‘Anyway, why are you here in Vienna?’
‘New York troubles my soul sometimes.’ She said while searching my eyes, ‘The chaos disturbs my quest for inner peace. And Vienna always attracts me with its old architecture and good music.’
We grew quiet for a moment. The musicians had stopped but the notes of their strange sad-happy symphony, were still echoing beyond the edge of silence.
I looked at her face. I was wrong. She did not look as young as I had initially thought. There were lines on her face – very fine lines. I peered at them closely. Under my careful gaze, each line became a crack and the crack widened into a gorge and within that gorge, there flowed the river of time.
‘Why are you here?’ She suddenly broke the fragile silence hovering around and between us.
‘I curate a small museum of antiquities along the Bräunerstraße. And in the evening I come here. I listen to the music and I write.’
‘Do you find it strange?’ She hesitated – her delicate mouth quivering like a bow stretched in full. ‘Do you find it strange – us meeting here in Vienna?’
‘I haven’t been able to understand something.’ I tried to change the subject.
‘And what is that, my son?’ The Banyan tree asked kindly.
‘Why doesn’t she ever smile?’ I asked.
‘And why do you want her to smile?’ He chucked softly.
‘I want to see her face breaking into a smile, and I want to see the light of happiness shining through. I want to see the smiling lines appear around the corners of her mouth and eyes; and I want those lines to become an intricate treasure map. And then I want to trace those lines with my lips and find the treasure.’
‘It is definitely desire.’ The tree chuckled, ‘But don’t worry, she will smile one day.’
‘And when will that be?’ I was growing sceptical.
‘Remember, son!’ The Banyan tree answered, ‘An oyster lies deep within the ocean and awaits the arrival of a single grain of sand. Once that grain enters the oyster, it takes years and years to coat that grain with nacre. With patience and with time, that grain of sand becomes a lustrous pearl. The oyster remains patient. It keeps that pearl secure within its shell – hiding it from greedy eyes. But one day, when and if a true seeker of the pearl arrives, the oyster willingly opens up and offers the pearl.’
‘So she is the oyster, and one day she may offer love with a smile if I remain patient.’ I had understood what the tree wanted to tell me.
‘I would like an answer to my question.’ Her voice broke my reverie.
‘Huh! What question is that?’ I looked at her while still thinking fondly of my old friend – the old Banyan tree.
‘I asked you if you find it strange – us meeting here in Vienna out of the blue?’ She reposed her question, deliberately.
‘Nothing is ever out of the blue.’ I smiled at her, ‘Whenever two souls come across each other, floating along the river of time, it is always for a higher purpose.’
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We didn’t speak any more words. We just sat there beside the Danube – two silent shadows lost in their own thoughts. Then her hand moved and covered mine. It was warm and soft. I looked up into her eyes and witnessed a slow and subtle transformation. Her eyes crinkled a little, and the lines around the corners of her lips, formed a smile. It was the loveliest of all the smiles in the whole world. We slowly reached across the table for each other, and my lips found hers. I traced the lines around her mouth delicately and carefully, and finally found my treasure.
A profound allegorical poem exploring the transformative power of patience through the metaphor of a mystical, unreachable door adorned with precious gems and ancient symbols. This inspirational verse contrasts the failures of those who approach life’s greatest challenges with force, courage, or status against the quiet triumph of one who possesses patience as their only weapon.
There once was a door, beautiful and old,
of mahogany, silver, glittering gems, and gold
Out of reach forever, for both,
the most courageous and the very bold
Carved delicately, with all the symbols so mystic,
spinning and telling tales, both lively and tragic
Within that door, throbbed a warm heart,
but cold to touch, it was just magic
So many approached this formidable door,
the king and the beggar, the priest and the whore
So many returned from the cruel threshold,
walking on trembling feet, crawling on the floor
They came back with heavy hearts and sad eyes,
broken egos, burdened souls, and anguished cries
Lost forever within their dark regret,
they came back without gains, without a prize
Then came the one, a true soul and heart,
he was no warrior, patience, his only art
He was the one who dared to knock,
the door finally opened, not fully but in part
For finding the door, he feels so proud,
and knocking on it, he smiled and bowed
So lucky that the door chose to open,
but the quest remains, he secretly avowed
He may be called in or he may be told to wait,
either way for him, it would be great
He has the requisite patience; he has what it takes,
Shehryar khawar 