Ubaidullah Pandit (عبيدالله پنڈت)

The drum is beaten outside. I can hear it as clear as a bell. Even as the Khan beats it To the pitch as high as he can, I conceive verses for you who Sit on the cold sill, gazing out of the window and Looking at the stars above and far to the horizon, Where the dark sky studded with twinkling buttons  Appear to meet the ridges of gods-dwelt Himalayas. My lady, I love you even far and beyond. My Sehri’s arrival is due. So is our Union. Sleep barely comes this night or any night. I keep flipping the pages of Homer Only to bide my night time. Otherwise my Helen is you.

Oft they say, Tell us more of her. Again do I narrate the stories bristled with miracles. How faith healers seek her to be healed. How autumn searches for her the whole year To be bidden come with autumnal beauty. How the glimpse of her countenance Humiliates the hubris of the Sun. How the Earth is blessed as she treads over. (23-May-2016)

If God be absent, wouldn’t you be the originator? If world be an illusion, wouldn’t your womb be only home? O mater, forgive us all, wouldn’t just a day be a sin? Where ain’t you? Extolled in the tales of yore, In the divine scriptures, in the words of the prophets, In the muses of mystics, ever a God’s blessing. Like in Praise of God, words may not suffice here either; All trees may not be pens, all oceans be too scarce an ink, Tell us only where to start; to end, we know, is a grave sin. You give life in all ways, when you part or when you keep, Who could bear what you do? Who could make gods sleep? From labour pains to lullabies, you're what words can’t say.