Ubaidullah Pandit (عبيدالله پنڈت)

Fateh Kadal, the third bridge and my birthplace, Is now plied more by wheels than feet, Having turned from wood-bridge to footbridge t o tracks set in stone. But when I stand near the guard rail, I go into raptures Seeing how the balmy sun still brightens the heights. A few oars away spans Zaina Kadal, The fourth bridge and Yamin’s birthplace; His angling memories still float around, Cherishing his life’s first love caught Long ago perhaps in the waters between. Amira Kadal, the first bridge and Tanzeel’s birthplace, Arches over some strokes away from the two. When asked about his first love found Between the third and the fourth, he says, It’s all water under the bridges.  

My love is interdisciplinary. She seems to rise like the Sun from the east, And likewise set in the west, Only to bring in physics refuting Both the setting and the rising. In bed when we debate Procreation and recreation, She brings in sciences of life to strike A balance between pain and pleasure. Maps, political and physical, get to her, Love is beyond boundaries, says she; In every clime it’s ever warm, Even high up the snowy mountains.

Green couldn’t have turned more crimson On the day when petals became April showers. Vaisakhi’s moon brought forth a year new, A spring harvest of doom and gloom. This garden is holier to me Than God’s thousand  Gethsemanes. It has borne witness to the agony Beside which blood on thousand crosses pales. The Indo must never turn the Anglo Here in my vale full of beans. Would that on this day of the morrow The doves rose from the fallen petals. 

Flip through the blood-soaked pages of history, Vanity and lust, for power and blood, Foolishness at the dizzy heights Clash the bells for Casus Belli. Smell each ink-smeared line from Margin to margin, top to bottom, right to left, Who among us humans wants to fight and See his shoulders burdened with coffins? So let the quill of humanity flow free On dove- pages of the book of love, Carrying on its wings the strings of peace, Flying across borders of every kind. (27-Feb-2019)

I have a particular liking for remembering dates. Not just any date, but those that witness something happy or tragic happening to me or others or the world at large. Along with noting them down, I make a point of remembering certain days of the year. This fourth day of February is also important. Before we see how, I’d recall two days of the Mays of 2017 and 2018. On both these days which were separated by a year the weather was pleasant. Perhaps that was the only pleasant thing. I’d just woken up when my cousin called me and said, ‘Wala SKIMS tamath, Beti Uncles gasov khabri’. It was the May of 2017. When we reached the premises of the hospital, we were denied entry because of some rule that disallowed too many frequent visits before noon. However, we didn’t go back. We managed to sneak our way through power rooms and well into the ward. There he was, sharing the room with five other patients as far as I can remember. I sat beside him. He seemed very well then, giving the impressio...

Every so often when someone asks, What’s your father in your life? I tell them his role has been seminal. Laughing and giggling, they say I’m witty. Mewling, crawling, standing and falling, His fingers have been my first crutches. My filial cry would be barely heard before He raised me high to the tones of joy. Will a poem or elegant prose do For a man who taught me to speak? Or should I write hymns day in, day out In the letters he sewed in me by his blood?