Gul

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There is a poem in my head which refuses to come out. I sit on an old dusty chair facing the tall trees that have grown densely like a forest behind my home and try to confine my thoughts on paper.
I play a few old ghazals to clear my thoughts but realise that they become more muddled.
Qafas udaas he yaaro saba se kuch to kaho

Mehdi Hassan's voice runs softly on the radio, lamenting that the sad heart needs to hear of the beloved to find happiness.
Ghazals have a way of pricking you. The radio keeps playing unmoved by the words, but the heart cannot. I stare into the trees to concentrate and let the poem out.
Chale bhi aao ki gulshan ka kaarobaar chale

Come, so that the garden may bloom again!

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