How long does a corpse of a hero take to rot? 50 years or more? What about the corpses of martyrs? One week? 10 days? The 40-day mark to blow the candles of funeral fires?
‘You must bury / yourself / Every three days’ / She said, / ‘Corpses are of / No use
Some among us might have wondered what it feels like to hold a lit bomb between our palms. One that will go off inevitably yet its spark, heat, force, weight, and pulsating nature are so fascinating that we are unable to put it down or look away, all the while knowing at the end of the wick we too will be destroyed—a chosen death, a voluntary annihilation.
My father used to take me, and sometimes my younger brother, to a particular shop in the Baitul Mukarram Market. It was a gadget store.
In the Kingdom of Rain, in the land of breeze, life moved in the rhythm of liquid glass. There, the glass was always full, and the sky never fooled one about the forecast. The stability of such ways brought people no dismays.
It was an overcast late spring day and two mynas were sitting on a cashew tree not too far from the sea. The branches were swaying as the waves touched the shore and sent out a gentle hello to all who resided close by. The earth vibrated with the rhythm of the wind’s play of multiplying ripples.
Your hands, they are flawless, your fingertips holding imprints of the million profound words you have typed, the faces you have touched, the doors you have held, and the way you have kept them now kneeling, in service for your soul, to create something remarkable, like you.
Dhaka demands my attention. Not just with thoughts and opinions but even in an invisible ways. Dhaka rests in those tiny moist
