Muslim Saleem in the eyes of Rashid Khaleel

Muslim Saleem – ham asr shairi ka naqeeb Article by Rashid Khaleel published in Daily Insaf, Lahore Dated April 27, 2011

Atif Javed Atif - Ghazal "Ai musawwir" October 6, 2011

GHAZAL (ATIF JAVED ATIF)

tujh say ger ban sakay bana ker la !!

Ai mussawwir bana !! bana ker la ..

Habs ko phailta dikha dil mein ...

phir ussay ja'baja bana ker la ...

Dard kuch la-dawa sa lagnay day ..

zakhm ko na'rasa bana ker la ..

jiss jaga per diya bana hai daikh ..

ab yahan per hawa bana ker la ..

chait ka chaand , chodhvii'n ki raat !!

jheel ka aaina bana ker laa ..

aankh mein rung bhar annabi sa..

phir ussi ko khafa bana ker la ...

ik musaafir thaka hua sa orr...

dur tak raasta bana ker la...

door tak ghoorti hui ankhein ..

aasma'n mein khala bana ker laa..

jiss jaga per tmaam ho rsta...

buss wahin haadisa bana ker laa

Noorul Hasnain on Muslim Saleem's poetry

Syed Noorul Hasnain is an established litterateur and critic of Urdu literature. He has deep insight into poetry as well. Here is an article written by him focusing on some brighter aspects and dimensions of Muslim Saleem's poetry.

Topical Poem on father’s Day یومِ پدر: ایک موضوعاتی نظم

AHMAD ALI BARQI AZMI

AAJ HAI YAUM E PEDAR JIS KO MANATE HAIN PESAR

HAIN NAII QADRON KE AB AASAAR HAR SOO JALWA GAR

HAIN HAMESHA WAJEBUL TAZEEM MADAR AUR PEDAR

FARZ HAI HUM PAR KAREIN TAZEEM UN KI UMR BHAR

LOG IN MEIN DEKHTE HAIN APNI MALI MANFE'AT

KAR O BAAR E ZINDAGI HAI YAUM E MADAR AUR PEDAR

YAAD RAHTE HAIN UNHEIN YEH AALAMI MAKHSOOS DIN

ZINDAGI BHAR JO NAHIN RAKHTE KABHI UN KI KHABAR

JAARI O SAARI RAHE GA YEH MAKAFAAT E AMAL

YAAD RAKHEIn YEH PESAR HONGE KABHI WOH BHI PEDAR

KARTE HAIN AULAD KI KHOON E JIGAR SE PARWARISH

KYON NAHIN RAKHTI HAI YEH AULAD PHIR UN KI KHABAR

HAZRAT E YAAQOOB NE KHO DI THI APNI ROSHNI

IS SE YEH SABIT HUA AULAD HAI NOOR E NAZR

MAAN LEIN AHMAD ALI BARQI KA HAI YEH MASHWARA

JAISA JO BOTA HAI MILMARTA HAI USE WAISA SA

DAUGHTERS OF CHINA By Dr. Saleem Wahid Saleem: Translation by Dr Shahzad Rizvi

DAUGHTERS OF CHINA
By Dr. Saleem Wahid Saleem

English translation by Dr. Shahzad Rizvi

Daughters of China
Their beauty like the first ray of dawn
Their faces symbols of valour and brilliance
Their shapely bodies slung with rifles
Whether it be the parade ground or the battlefield
They are single-minded about their objective
Beauty of tresses or slim waist has no meaning for them
They have no use for silk or finery
They honour mountains and deserts by treading on them
They are symbols of perfection and souls of action
Their love is duty and they are fond of their uniforms
Though believed to be members of the "delicate gender"
They conduct themselves like the bravest of men

//Note: Some liberties have been taken to make sense in English//

The Battle of Life – a poem by Dr. Shahzad Rizvi

I was hung over this morning
From life’s assault.
I could hardly move an emotion, a thought.
Lovers, beasts, spouses came and tried
To rid me of this affliction
But nothing helped.
Like a stifled desire
I lay there motionless
While the world criss-crossed me,
Sneering, jeering,
Branding me misguided, misanthrope, misfit.
Invective missiles flew around me
My shameless body repelled most of them
But one managed to puncture my fragile skin
My heart splattered all over the universe
Creating Rorschach blots of pain and frustration.
I had thought my reason for being was my own happiness,
My life was a gift to me from Nature,
I could do whatever I wished with this precious possession.
But that is not what the self-appointed life-planners believed.
They went to work, and when they were done,
Nothing but a speck of dust was left.

(Posted on June 5, 2011 by muslim saleem)

Raheemuddin, my friend; writes Muslim Saleem

Holland se aaya mera dost, bloggers salaam karo

Bhopal: June 3, 2011

Asma Farooq, Rebecca, Raheemuddin and Muslim Saleem at Bhopal Railway station on June 3, 2011

Muslim Saleem and Raheemuddin at Bhopal Railway station on June 3, 2011

It was a historic and emotional reunion between old time pals Raheemuddin and Muslim Saleem at Bhopal railway station from 10.05 to 10.15 pm on Friday, June 3, 2011. Raheemuddin and Muslim Saleem were very fast friend during their schooldays at AMU City School and then Aligarh Muslim University Aligarh. They were together in the school till 1970. After joining the university, Raheemuddin branched out to commerce while Muslim Saleem went to the Art Faculty and therefore, the frequency of meetings dwindled, but not the brotherly affection. In 1974, Muslim Saleem moved to Allahabad and then Bhopal in 1979 and settled there. In the meantime, Raheemuddin settled in Holland. Since 1974, there has been no correspondence between the two. About seven months ago, Muslim Saleem received a call from Holland. The caller was none other than the old pal Raheemuddin. It was after almost 36 years that the two friends talked to each other on mobile phone. It was almost a miracle. Raheemuddin had asked every common acquaintance about Muslim Saleem’s whereabouts but to no avail. However, Raheemuddin, a very determined person, did not lose hope and started searching Muslim Saleem in google. About 40 years ago, Raheemuddin had recognised the literary and poetic potential of Muslim Saleem, though it was in its nascent state. He had firm belief that Muslim Saleem will scale great height and some day his entry will be made in some website or blog. He kept surfing Muslim Saleem’s name until he found some entries on the websites wikimapia.org and Muslim Saleem’s own websites www.khojkhabarnews.com, www.muslimsaleem.wordpress.com, www.muslimsaleem.blogspot.com and www.poetswritersofurdu.blogspot.com. From one of these websites Raheemuddin obtained Muslim Saleem’s mobile number and gave him a big surprise by dialling him from Holland.

About four days ago, Raheemuddin rang up and told Muslim Saleem that he will pass through Bhopal by AP Express from Nagpur on way to Aligarh and asked for a meeting at the railway station. The historic occasion came at 10.05 pm at Bhopal railway station when the two fast friends were reunited. Raheemuddin, his daughter Rebecca and a relative were given a warm welcome by Muslim Saleem, his wife Asma Farooq and elder son Ataullah Faizan by garlanding them. The train left at 10.15, leaving a long trail of old memories.

Muslim Saleem and Raheemuddin came together when they joined class VI of AMU City School, Aligarh. Raheemuddin’s well-to-do family lived at Dubey ki Padao. They had a shop on the roadside while their four-storey house was somewhat deep in the alley. Muslim Saleem lived in Qazi Para. He was undergoing financial as well emotional strains. At that time, Raheemuddin gave moral support to Muslim Saleem. Whatever poetry Muslim Saleem wrote, Raheemuddin memorised it and scribbled some of them on pieces of paper. His appreciation was a great boost to Muslim Saleem’s literary quests. Muslim Saleem used to frequent Raheemuddin’s house and they share most of their off-school time. Raheemuddin also visited Muslim Saleem’s dilapidated house and was doted by his mother Mrs Umme Habiba Begum like her own son.

I am writing these lines only 30 minutes after Raheemuddin’s train left Bhopal railway station. The emotions expressed between these lines have come right from the heart and that is why one will find a great flow in these words. It is hoped that process of out meetings, correspondence and phone calls will never cease now. (Muslim Saleem: June 3, 2011)

Little Bird - a poem by Dr. Syeda Suhela Nashtar Khairabadi

Little Bird

Dr. Syeda Suhela Nashtar Khairabadi

I am a little bird

I sing lovely songs

I wake up early

I go to sleep early

I am a little bird

My melodies wake up the world

And fill the hearts with joy

I have discovered the secreat of life

" Be happy and keep others happy

And fill the world with your melodies"

This is my message to the world.

Dr. Saleem Wahid Saleem- a glimpse By Dr. Shahzad Rizvi

Dr. Saleem Wahid Saleem- a glimpse

By Dr. Shahzad Rizvi

It is high time that the poetry of Dr. Saleem Wahid Saleem get its due. It is now well-known that Dr. Saleem Wahid Saleem (distinguished father of Mr. Muslim Saleem, a prominent journalist and litterateur) worked in obscurity and isolation in Pakistan toward the end of his life. His democratic and liberal views came head to head with dictatorial regimes and extremist tendencies.

His ideal was that the peoples of the world belonging to various religions and ethnic groups pursue their faith according to the dictates of their conscience and live in harmony with one other.

On a personal and micro level, he valued human values more than worldly grandeur. Dr. Saleem has expressed in his Urdu ghazal, "DASTE TALAB NA KAR DARAAZ JAAHO HASHAM NA KAR QUBOOL," what a person should strive for in life. It is a universal truth that poetry in one language does not lend itself well to translation into another language; something unique to its linguistic and poetic tradition is always lost in the transformation. However, I have made an effort at its translation as follows:

Neither ask for, nor accept, the vainglory of this world

Refuse to stoop to begging for coins

Know that your dignity should not be debased

Do not accept the comforts of life for which you must degrade yourself

If you have no gold, silver, pearls or diamonds to give away

Then it is shameful to accept them

Do not complain endlessly of tyranny

Nor shake your fist at Heaven, nor accept an agony of pain

Life is short; hence do not suffer during the lovely Spring

Enjoy the pleasure of the morn and do not accept the sadness of the night

Better to sacrifice the grandeur of a king for dignified poverty,

Choose the simplicity of Arabia and reject the pomp of Persia

O Saleem, bring into your heart a mother's love, not your own ego,

As you love God, refrain from wasting yourself on earthly desires.

Ghazal with takrar-e-lafzi by Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi

Here is a ghazal by Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi, in which he has used takrar-e-lafzi (repetition of words) because of which the beauty of ghazal has enhanced (Posted by Muslim Saleem on May 27, 2011).

Majrooh Sultanpuri death anniversary May 24 - tribute in poem by Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi

Majrooh Sultanpuri had died on May 24. Here is a poetic tribute by Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi. (See Majrooh Sultanpuri's profile and pictures with Muslim Saleem in "urdu poets and writers of india" on khojkhabarnews.com "Indian poets and writers" on muslimsaleem.wordpress.com) (Posted by Muslim Saleem on May 24, 2011)

Ghazal "Guzar Gaya' by Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi

(Posted by Muslim Saleem - May 22, 2011

Nashtar Khairabadi – ghazal ‘nigah=e=kafirana’

غزل

نشتر خیرابادی

اُف تیری نِگاہِ کا فِرانہ

ایمان سے پھِر گیا زمانہ

ہَے ہَے وہ خرامِ والہانہ

ہر گام پہ اِک شراب خانہ

اِک سجدہ کعبہ ساز نشتر

لو آ گیا اُن کا آستا نہ

Dr. Syeda Imrana Nashtar pays tribute to late brother in Urdu & English poems

Late Syed Irshad Ahmad Rizvi

نظم

دَرد کا رِشتہ

)اپنے مرحوم بھائ سیّد اِرشاد احمد رضوی

کے سوگ میں سو گوار بہن(

ڈاکٹر سیّدہ عمِرانہ نشتر خیرابادی

رات ہے میرے غم کی پر چھایئں

دِن دِل کے زخموں کا اُ جالاہے

پھِر بھی میں نہیں ہوں تنہا

کا یئنات کی ہر شے مِرے ساتھ سو گوار ہے

شریِک غم ہے یہ اُداس اُداس چاند

سِتاروں کی رنگت بھی زرد ہو گئ ہے

بادلوں کا دِل بھرا بھرا ہے

زمیں کی آنکھ میں بھی نمی ہے

پہاڑوں کے چہرے سانولا گئے ہیں

آبشارں کی چال میں بے کلی ہے

بِجلیوں کے سینے میں تڑپ بھر گئ ہے

ہوا کی سانس میں وحشت بج رہی ہے

قلبِ سمندر میں ہے شور بپا

مو جیں سر پٹکتی ہوئ بے حال ہو گیئں ہیں

شجر سر گو شیاں کر رہے ہیں

’’ یہی شخص کیوں نِگاہ میں آیا؟

اِسے ہی فلک نے کیوں نِشانہ بنایا؟

یہ عشق و محبّت کی باتیں ہیں

ہم کو تُم کو معلوم نہیں

رب جِس کو زیادہ چاہتا ہے

درد اُسی کو دیتا ہےــــ”

-0-

TRUE EMPATHY

(Dadicated to my dear brother late Syed Irshad Ahmad Rizvi)

Dr. Syeda Imrana Nashtar Khairabadi

The night is the shadow of my sorrow

The day is the light of my burning wounds

Even then I am not lonely

The whole universe is sharing in my grief

The moon is sad

The stars have turned pale with agony

The eyes of the earth filled with tears

The face of mountain is darken with grief

The waterfalls are restless

There is pain and pang in the lightening

There is shuddering in the breath of wind

And turbulence in the bosom of ocean

The waves thrashing frenzy become distraught

The trees are whispering

“Why did this JOB came into sight?

Why this is made target by the cruel destiny?

This is a matter of higher and super love

What do we mortals know of this?

Whom He loveth best, gives the suffering most

Hasrat Mohani - Poetic tribute on death anniv by Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi

Hasrat Mohani needs no introduction. The great freedom fighter and poet had died on May 13, 1951. Here is a poetic tribute on his death anniv by noted poet Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi. (Muslim Saleem - May 13, 2011). The poem can be seen on all the websites and blogs of Muslim Saleem that include www.khojkhabarnews.com, www.muslimsaleem.wordpress.com, www.urdunewsblog.wordpress.com, www.urdupoetswriters.blogspot.com, www.muslimsaleem.blogspot.com www.poetswritersofurdu.blogspot.com, www.cimirror.blogspot.com, www.muslimspoetry.blogspot.com, www.ataullahfaizan.blogspot.com and www.abdulahadfarhan.blogspot.com

THE MISSING CHILD – short story by Dr. Shahzad Rizvi

Dr Shahzad Rizvi.

They were expecting their first child, so Bob and Bobbie decided to move out of the basement efficiency they were renting and find a place with a little more room, where they could create a nursery. They agreed that it would have to be something inexpensive. She was a cashier in a drugstore and he did the accounts for a small business. On a spreadsheet, Bob had calculated—almost down to the dollar—how much it would cost them to live after the baby arrived. He believed that they could do it on one salary, if the new rented place fit their budget. Every weekend, they looked in the papers, but couldn’t find what they were looking for. In the meantime, Bobbie was showing more and more.

Bobbie’s pregnancy generated interest among the female customers, especially the one who came to the store every week to get medicines for her ongoing illnesses. Bobbie went out of her way to be helpful to her. The two women often chatted. On Christmas Eve, Bobbie was working. When the woman came in, there happened to be no customers. Right away, Bobbie noticed that the woman was in bad shape. Without saying hello or anything, she began, “I get so depressed during the holidays. It was during this time that my sweetheart was killed in Vietnam. We were to get married when he came back. He did come back, but in a body bag. I feel so happy for you, with a touch of envy of course, that you have a husband and are expecting a child.”

Bobbie comforted her and in the conversation that followed, she told the woman about their problem of not finding a bigger place that they could afford. They didn’t know what they would do when the baby came.

“Why don’t you come and live with me? I can easily spare three, or even four rooms,” said the woman.

“But…but…the rent,” Bobbie managed to get out, as the baby inside her was kicking hard.

“Don’t worry about it,” said the woman, when they were interrupted by a customer.

That night, when they were together, Bobbie talked to Bob about their good fortune. “Don’t be stupid, Bobbie! People don’t go around offering three or four rooms to strangers to live in their house,” Bob blurted out.

Bobbie burst into tears and would not be consoled. “In all the years we’ve known each other, you’ve never talked to me like that,” she said through her wailing. It was true that their harmony had been legendary among their relatives and friends. They finished each other’s sentences and one always knew what the other was thinking. They were elementary school sweethearts and graduated from the same high school. People always mentioned them in tandem—B&B. Neither was ambitious and they both wanted the same thing from life: to make an honest living and raise a good family. Bob regretted his thoughtless comment, but then he was not expecting such a strong reaction, either. He attributed their heightened emotions to the pregnancy for which neither had been prepared.

“Honey, shall we go and look at the house this weekend?” he asked.

Bobbie wiped her tears and said, “Sure, dear.”

“Do you know where this woman lives?”

“Not exactly, but I have her phone number. I can call her tomorrow and find out.”

“What’s her name, anyway?”

“Sarah…Sarah Brown.”

“I’m sorry I talked to you that way.”

“Don’t worry about it.” They cuddled as best as they could under the circumstances before drifting off to sleep.

It was a Sunday when they finally found the house after making a wrong turn and getting lost. Adjacent to a federal park and surrounded by plenty of land, the house looked like a little mansion. Sarah was waiting for them on the porch and greeted them by saying, “You two look like twins: same blond hair, same blue eyes, same Nordic features and same height.”

“That’s what everybody says,” responded Bob, and shook Sarah’s hand warmly.

“I don’t believe any introductions are in order because Bobbie has talked so much about you that I feel like I know you well,” said Sarah.

“I feel the same way about you, Sarah,” responded Bob.

Seeing them look around the house, Sarah said, “This house was built by my grandfather who was a wealthy builder. He left it to my father who was his only child. My father left it to me. He also left a trust to pay the property tax and my support.”

“How many rooms do you have?” Bob asked.

“Ten, but I only use five. The rest of the rooms remain closed. You’re welcome to use the rest.”

“I don’t think we can afford this fancy house,” Bob said.

“Look, I’m not doing this for money. I don’t have to. I’m doing it for your company. I feel so lonely out here. I want to be done with mourning the death of my sweetheart and my parents, and living the life of a recluse.”

Bob and Bobbie followed Sarah to see the rooms. Every one of them had antique furniture and memorabilia of past lives. Their size, high ceilings and opulence were overpowering. It would be quite a switch from basement living in an efficiency, but they figured they could get used to it quickly. They looked at each other and expressed joy at this windfall.

“I’m embarrassed to ask, but could we pay you what we are paying for the efficiency?” Bob asked.

“If you want. I’m treating this as if my sister who is expecting a baby were moving in with me. This will give me a chance to talk to someone all day long and play auntie.”

“We can’t argue with that. But what are those openings in the corners of every room?” Bobbie asked.

“Those are the passages for the dogs and cats to run around all over the house. We had many of them at one time until I found out I was allergic to them. I can’t have birds, either. I’m allergic to their feathers. They make me sneeze like crazy. It’s a shame because I like animals and I particularly love exotic animals. I do very well with them, but they frighten people. So, if I ever have them, I don’t let people see them.”

Both Bob and Bobbie wondered what animals she was talking about and whether or not she had any concealed. They pictured elephants, giraffes, lions, hippos and kangaroos—animals that could frighten people—but of course that was silly. Neither pressed the issue. They left, thanking Sarah over and over again for her generosity. Throughout it all, she kept protesting that she was doing it for herself.

****

When Bobbie’s water broke and her labor contractions were three minutes apart, Bob was in the air thousands of feet above the ground, somewhere over Kansas. He was returning from a business trip in California. Apparently, the baby had decided to arrive early, throwing off their careful calculations. Bob and Bobbie had attended Lamaze classes together, and Bob had every intention of being present in the delivery room. But now, as things stood, the matter was literally up in the air. Sarah offered to drive Bobbie to the hospital, and be with her in the delivery room. When the baby was born, it was a boy. Bob and Bobbie had opted out of prenatal testing, so the baby’s gender was a pleasant surprise. Sarah was one of the first to see and hold the baby. Bob finally arrived, regretting having missed the experience of his son’s birth. He vowed that he would never be late for his son’s birthdays. They named their son Robert and, rather than calling him Bob, decided to call him Junior.

Bobbie quit work to stay home with the baby. After Bob left for work, which was usually early since he had a long commute, Sarah, Bobbie and Junior would spend the day together. Sarah became so fond of Junior and fussed over him so much that people took her to be his grandmother. It was amazing how skillfully she handled him, considering that she had never had a child of her own.

One day, Sarah announced that she would be going away for a yoga retreat. It would just be overnight. “I don’t like to be gone for a long time,” she said. “And you don’t need to bother about my part of the house. I’ll just lock it.” Although Bobbie spent almost every day with Sarah, she had never seen her side of the house—except for one room. Of course, Bobbie was curious, as was Bob, but neither was in a hurry. They knew that someday they would have a chance to see it. Bobbie was in the bathroom with cramps and an upset stomach when she heard Sarah’s voice saying, “Good-bye,” followed by the car driving away.

When Bobbie came out of the bathroom, she heard thunder and it started to pour. As the weatherman had predicted, the tentacles of a hurricane were obviously reaching this far North. She was surprised that the baby was sleeping through all that noise. Realizing that she was alone in such a big house with the baby, a chill ran down her spine.

She needed to do laundry. She was completely out of clean clothes. It would be a shame to disturb the baby, she thought, to take him down to the basement where the washer and dryer were. She never had a problem of that kind when Sarah was around. She took care of the baby so well. Why did she have to go away…especially in this weather? Maybe I can leave the baby undisturbed for just a few minutes, she thought. She decided to lock the nursery where he was sleeping, just to be on the safe side.

As she descended the stairs with the laundry basket, she saw that rainwater had begun flooding the basement. She had no idea what she was supposed to do in a situation like this. There were some expensive antiques stored there. They’ll be all ruined, she feared. She picked up a bucket and began to scoop the water, but then realized that she had no idea where she could dispose of it. The best thing would be to put the precious items out of harm’s way, she thought and began to pile them on top of each other.

Through all this running around, her cramps came back and she had to run to the bathroom. Fortunately, there was a bathroom in the basement. She was in the middle of dumping her clothes in the washing machine when she heard a loud clap of thunder. It heightened her concern for her baby and she hurried upstairs. At the door, she realized that she had left the key in the basement. She ran back downstairs and found the water steadily rising. But where did I put the key? It was nowhere to be found. She ran back upstairs and kicked at the door as hard as she could. The door flung open, but the crib was empty. The baby was gone. She let out the loudest scream, while cold terror gripped her. First, she looked for him all around the nursery, then ran from room to room looking for him. Her screams were muffled by the noise of thunder and heavy rain.

With shaking hands, she picked up the phone and punched the numbers to call her husband. She dialed the wrong number. When she tried again, she got his voice-mail. She was sure that he was on his way home; but she couldn’t reach him. In a hurry this morning, he had left his cell phone. She decided to dial 911. When a woman’s voice came on the line, she blurted out, “My child has been kidnapped!” Within minutes, the police were on the scene.

When Bobbie told them that she had locked the room before going down to the basement to do her laundry, the police officer began to concentrate on Sarah. It had to be someone who knew that the baby was there; someone who had the key to get in. “But Sarah left earlier for her retreat,” she told the officer. The policewoman wanted to pursue the matter, anyway. She questioned, “How did you find this place? How long have you lived here? What is Sarah like?” The officer went to her cruiser and checked the crime database. Sarah’s name popped up. She had taken someone’s child home and had taken a long time to call the police. She had later explained to the police that the child she’d found wandering in the adjoining Federal Preserve was hungry and drenched from heavy rain. She had thought that she would dry him and feed him first before calling the police. In the meantime, his parents were frantic, while the police were searching for the child everywhere. The charges against her were dropped at the parents’ insistence.

The police put out an All Points Bulletin for Sarah. When Bob finally arrived home after having been slowed down by traffic congestion caused by the recent storm, his theory was that Sarah had returned home to get something she’d forgotten when Bobbie was struggling with her upset stomach in the bowels of this huge mansion and, on finding the baby unattended, took the baby with her to keep him “safe.” It would be a very strange thing to do, but it was a possibility in view of her having done something like this before. “There’s no reason to panic and expect the worst,” he told Bobbie, who was weeping and shaking uncontrollably.

The next day, the baby’s disappearance was front-page news in the Capital Post. The rookie reporter, in his freshman journalistic enthusiasm, mentioned the mysterious disappearance of the Lindbergh baby in the story. Lindbergh was a celebrity at the time, which of course Bob the accountant was not, so how the two stories were parallel was anybody’s guess. There was no sign of Sarah, whose return was expected. The FBI got involved and Special Agent Donovan was assigned to the case. Donovan arrived at the scene and—on finding the broken lock of the door from where the baby had been “kidnapped”—was told that Bobbie herself had broken the lock to reach the baby. He wanted to interview the neighbors, but there were no neighbors except for the Park Rangers in the adjoining federal land. They seemed to be familiar with the case of the lost child in the park, as well as the recent disappearance of the baby—both instances in which Sarah’s name was mentioned. Beyond that, they didn’t know anything about her, though they could hardly miss her big beautiful mansion that stared at them every day, as they went about their business.

On the third day, when the rain let up and the sun came out, a state trooper spotted Sarah speeding, arrested her and handed her over to the FBI. During intensive interrogations, she not only repeatedly expressed ignorance about the whereabouts of the baby since she’d left home for the retreat, she broke down and expressed her grief over his disappearance. She had really come to love him very much, she told Donovan. In regard to her unaccounted time, she said that she was the last one to leave the cabin in the remote wilderness where they’d held the yoga retreat, and was trapped on the little dirt road which was flooded and blocked by fallen trees. There was nobody there to help her, so she’d slept in her car and lived on chips and crackers that she kept in her car for emergencies. It was a plausible story, but there was no one to confirm her alibi. The circumstantial evidence was enough to keep her under lock and key.

Special Agent Donovan was sitting in his office in the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building, looking through the window at the Capitol’s shining dome and feeling helpless about the case of the kidnapped baby. The media had given it so much hype and it had become such a high profile case, that not solving it would be tantamount to professional suicide. He could see himself being hauled before a Congressional Committee to testify and being harangued by congressmen or senators for having failed. He was startled from his unpleasant reverie by the loud ring of his telephone. He immediately picked up the receiver and shouted into it, “Hello…Donovan.”

A park ranger was on the other end of the line, asking him to come immediately.

When he arrived on the scene, there were many people gathered around a table in the ranger’s office. On the table, to his great surprise and confusion, was a python.

“Did you pull me out of my office to see this snake?” he asked, as the round of introductions began. The ranger told Donovan that he’d found this python during his rounds, which surprised him very much because there were no pythons native to the park. “Snakes, yes, but no pythons,” he said. So, he called the reptile expert of the National Zoo who identified it as an East Asian Python. “It had to be someone’s pet and somehow it got out of the home where it was kept. There are no private homes around here, except that mansion. There’s a bulge in the middle of the python’s body. It has swallowed some creature and by feeling it, I cannot identify any of the usual animals that would be fed to it. I’m sorry to say that it could very well be a human baby,” said the reptile expert.

“Oh my God!” Donovan gasped. He called the prison, identified himself and asked to speak to Sarah.

They all remained frozen in their places, as Donovan waited. It took Sarah a long time to get to the phone. Finally, he heard an almost inaudible woman’s voice: “Hello, this is Sarah.”

He barked into the little phone, “This is Special Agent Donovan. Sarah, do you have a python for a pet?”

There was a long silence, and then he heard a feeble, “Yes.”

He shouted, “Where do you keep it?”

After a long pause, through her sobs, he heard what he thought was, “In a cage.”

Donovan terminated the call and pocketed the phone. “Excuse me, you all. Please keep an eye on the python and don’t let it slither away. I’m going to that house to get to the bottom of this matter.”

When Donovan arrived at the mansion, he did find the cage in which Sarah kept the python. It was open. But how in the world could the snake go through so many rooms and end up in the nursery? That room, as Bobbie had told him, was locked. A python needs more than a crack in the door to enter. It was baffling. As he stood in the middle of the room, examining every part of it, he spotted the passage in the corner. “That’s the answer,” he shouted and ran from room to room, finding passages in every one of them. Of course, they’d been created for dogs or cats. Nobody foresaw that a hungry python would get out of its cage, slither from room to room in search of food, arrive in a baby’s nursery, swallow the baby, and then escape the house to end up in the adjoining forest. In her hurry, Sarah had failed to secure the latch of the cage.

****

Bob and Bobbie lived in a nice apartment now. Bob had been promoted and they could easily afford it. Bobbie was pregnant again and thoughts of the new baby’s arrival were helping to soften her grief over the loss of Junior. The pregnancy was going well. This time, they decided to do prenatal testing. They were both very excited at the prospect of having a little girl. Bob was thinking of all the ways that he was going to spoil her.

Sarah had sold the mansion to a developer, who had torn it down and replaced it with a high rise. She was truly sorry for what had happened. She was in therapy. Charges against her had been dropped, and Bob and Bobbie had found it in their hearts to forgive her. They were friends again. She had set up a trust for the baby from the money that she had received by selling the mansion. She had been out with Donovan, who’d been promoted. They were talking of getting married. “But no exotic animals,” he told her firmly. It was like preaching to the choir. She’d been forever cured of her love for exotic animals.

One Saturday night, savoring their current blissful existence, Bob and Bobbie were lying in bed. “Honey?” he began.

“Yes, dear?”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“I know…but what do you mean?”

“Junior had Krabbe disease.”

“What’s Krabbe disease?”

“It’s an enzyme deficiency. Babies with Krabbe disease usually die a slow and painful death before they’re two.” Bobbie became very still and didn’t speak for a while. Bob turned toward her and put his arm around her. Tears welled up and ran down her face. She was staring off into space. Her voice barely audible, she said, “How long have you known, and how come you never told me before?”

“Oh, honey. Maybe I was wrong, but I wanted to protect you. When we did the genetic testing for the new baby last month, the pediatrician told me that we parents carry a genetic risk for Krabbe’s. Our daughter’s doesn’t have it. The tests clarified something for the doctor, though. He had begun to suspect Krabbe’s in Junior, and was planning to discuss it with us at our next visit, but then…you know what happened. There wouldn’t have been anything he or we could do, anyway. The doctor told me that the only hope for Krabbe may someday lie in stem cell research, but that’s still a long way down the road and it would have come too late for Junior.” Bob choked with emotion.

Bobbie turned toward him and put her arms around him. “So you’re saying that God took the baby back which was not made right and sent a healthy one in its place?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. And who are we to question the ways of God?”

Ghazal by Rahmat Ilahi Barq Azmi marhoom

Here is a Ghazal by Rahmat Ali Barq Azmi marhoom, who was father of Dr. Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi. Hope the browsers will enjoy the ghazal, written in the style of Nooh Narvi, who was Barq’s Ustad in poetry (Muslim Saleem. May 10, 2011).

Tribute to Kaifi Azmi on death anniversary - May 10

Noted poets Ahmad Ali Barqi has written the following poetic tribute to Kaifi Azmi on his death annniversary - May 10, which is being presented here (Muslim Saleem).

Dr Saleem Wahid Saleem - poetic tribute by Dr. Shahzad Rizvi

Memories of the Dr Saleem Wahid Saleem

His thought and art convey

Saleem Wahid's elegant taste

The voice of his conscience

is the treasure of his life

The depth of feelings in his poems

provides succor for the heart

The flights of his imagination nourish the spirit

His thought and perspective are the soul of the era

The style of his prose and verse

reveals the uniqueness of his thought, the pride of his art

He is distinguished among the scholars

Not only in Urdu, but in Persian as well

I am grateful to Muslim Saleem

His son, the source of his pride

He is gathering these days

the wonder of his father's creations

O Barqi, every word from the poet's pen

Enchants and nourishes the heart

(Note: I have tried to translate Dr. Barqi's poem with some changes according to the English tradition. When you translate from one language into another, it is always a challenge. Poetry carries the heritage of that language and culture which cannot easily be transformed, and hence something is always lost. Dr. Barqi has written a remarkable poem in Urdu and it conveys his feelings well about your esteemed father and a great poet and person. Dr Shahzad Rizvi)

Translation of Dr. Ahmad Ali Barqi's poem by:Dr. Shahzad Rizvi

Poetic tribute by Muslim Saleem to Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi

Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi – ek khiraj-aqeedat

By Muslim Saleem

Asha’ar mein ye sur’at-e-guftar to dekho

Bijli si chamak jaaye hai, raftar to dekho

Barqi hai bajaa Amhad-e-mukhlis ka takhallus

Mauzooni-e-alfaz ki chamkar to dekho

Dr. Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi has the uncanny skill of penning poetry very quickly, but maintaining high quality. His ability so much impressed me that I spontaneously wrote the above qat'a in his praise in the noon of Sunday, May 8, 2011.(Muslim Saleem)

YAUM-E-MADAR (MOTHERS DAY) BY AHMAD ALI BARQI AZMI

YAUM-E-MADAR SABHI MANATE HAIN

MAAN KI AZMAT KE GEET GATE HAIN

MAAN HAI JIN KE WAJOOD KI ZAAMIN

MAAN KO AKSAR WHO BHOOL JATE HAIN

MAAN KI MAMTA JAHAAN MEIN HAI ANMOL

MUFT MEIN JIS KO SAB GANWAATE HAIN

MAAN NE KI JIN KI NAAZ BARDARI

NAAZ BIWI KE WHO UTHATE HAIN

GHAR KI SHEERAZA BANDI MAAN SE HAI

MAAN NA HO TO YEH TOOT JAATE HAIN

UN KO MALOOM HAI KI MAAN KYA HAI

MAAN SE JO LOG CHHOOT JAATE HAIN

MAAN KA JAB BHI KHAYAAL AATA HAI

SOTE-SOTE WHO JAAG JAATE HAIN

YEH KHAYAALAAT HAIN BAHUT DIL SOZ

NEEND RAATON KI JO UDATE HAIN

MAAN KA WHO QAUL YAAD HAI MUJH KO

WADA KARTE HAIN JO NIBHATE HAIN

MAAN THI JAB TAK MUJHE KHAYAL NA THA

AB MUJHE DIN WHO YAAD AATE HAIN

MAAN KA NE’AMAL BADAL NAHIN KOII

IS LIYE JASHN YEH MANATE HAIN

YAUM-E-MADAR (MOTHERS DAY) BY AHMAD ALI BARQI AZMI

YAUM-E-MADAR SABHI MANATE HAIN

MAAN KI AZMAT KE GEET GATE HAIN

MAAN HAI JIN KE WAJOOD KI ZAAMIN

MAAN KO AKSAR WHO BHOOL JATE HAIN

MAAN KI MAMTA JAHAAN MEIN HAI ANMOL

MUFT MEIN JIS KO SAB GANWAATE HAIN

MAAN NE KI JIN KI NAAZ BARDARI

NAAZ BIWI KE WHO UTHATE HAIN

GHAR KI SHEERAZA BANDI MAAN SE HAI

MAAN NA HO TO YEH TOOT JAATE HAIN

UN KO MALOOM HAI KI MAAN KYA HAI

MAAN SE JO LOG CHHOOT JAATE HAIN

MAAN KA JAB BHI KHAYAAL AATA HAI

SOTE-SOTE WHO JAAG JAATE HAIN

YEH KHAYAALAAT HAIN BAHUT DIL SOZ

NEEND RAATON KI JO UDATE HAIN

MAAN KA WHO QAUL YAAD HAI MUJH KO

WADA KARTE HAIN JO NIBHATE HAIN

MAAN THI JAB TAK MUJHE KHAYAL NA THA

AB MUJHE DIN WHO YAAD AATE HAIN

MAAN KA NE’AMAL BADAL NAHIN KOII

IS LIYE JASHN YEH MANATE HAIN

Muslim Saleem - poetic tribute by Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi - on Amad Amad

Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi is a translator-cum-announcer with the Persian services of All India Radio. He has never met Muslim Saleem. But through the blogs and websites launched by Muslim Saleem, Barqi came to know about him and his works. Barqi has mastery over Urdu language and poetry. Here is a poem written by Barqi in praise of Muslim Saleem as a man, a poet and creator or Urdu web directories. which is being published for the benefit of readers. (The websites mentioned in this poetic tribute are 1. www.khojkhabarnews.com, 2. www.muslimsaleem.wordpress.com 3. www.poetswritersofurdu.blogspot.com 4. www.urdupoetswriters.blogspot.com 5. muslimsaleem.blogspot.com 6. muslimspoetry.blogspot.com 7. urdunewsblog.wordpress.com). He had written another anthology earlier. This one is in the light of Muslim Saleem's collection of poetry "Amad Amad".

Dr Saleem Wahid Saleem - a poetic tribute by Dr. Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi

Poetic tribute to Dr Saleem Wahid Saleem

By Dr. Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi

(Dr Barqi is a renowned and established poet, who is at present posted as translator-cum-announcer with All-India Radio's Persian service at New Delhi. He saw Dr. Saleem Wahid Saleem's works on www.saleemwahid.blogspot.com and spontaneously wrote these verses in his praise, which are being published here for the perusal of enlightened readers)

FIKR-O-FUN HAI SALEEM WAHID KA

UN KE ZAUQ-E-SALEEM KA GHAMMAZ

UN KA SARMAYA-E-HAYAT HAI JO

HAI WOH UN KE ZAMEER KI AAWAAZ

AHL-E-DIL KE LIYE HAI WAJH-E-SUKOON

UN KI GHAZLON MEIN HAI JO SOZ-O-GUDAAZ

UN KI FIKR-O-NAZAR HAI ROOH-E-ASR

ROOH PARWR THI ZEHN KI PARWAAZ

UN KE USLOOB-E-NAZM-O-NASR MEIN HAI

NUDRAT-E-FIKR-O-FUN KA NAAZ-O-NIYAAZ

SAATH URDU KE FARSI MEIN BHI

THE WOH ARBAAB-E-ILM MEIN MUMTAAZ

MAIN HOOM MUSLIM SALEEM KA MAMNOON

UN KE FARZAND HAIN JO MAYA-E-NAAZ

DE RAHE HAIN WOH AAJ KAL TARTEEB

UN KE AFKAR KE HAIN JO AIJAAZ

DILKASH-O-DILNAWAAZ HAI BARQI

UN KE ''TAAR-E-NAFAS'' KI HAR AAWAAZ

(Note: Tar-e-Nafas is the title of a poem by Dr. Saleem Wahid Saleem)

Ghazal “Idhar bhi hai, Udhar bhi” by Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi

Ahmad Ali Barqi Azmi needs no introduction. Here is a masterpiece Ghazal “Idhar bhi hai, Udhar bhi”released by him. (Muslim Saleem)

Poem "Mother" by Dr Syed Imrana Nashtar Khairabadi

MOTHER

(Dedicated to my mother Syeda Sarfaraz Fatima Nashtar Khairabadi )

Dr.Syeda Imrana Nashtar Khairabadi

Atlanta Georgia USA

My mother

She is an aroma

That permeates all my senses

She is a vision

That assumes all shapes

She is a melody

That soothes me forever

She is a spring

That flows eternally

I fondly remember her melodies

And many acts of kindness

Through health and sickness

She was there

Through joy and sorrow

She was there

Many a time she mended my broken heart

Many a time she corrected my flawed thoghts

Many a time she pulled me from the abyss of life

And encouraged me to scale the heights

As a baby I found refuge in her lap

As a toddler I walked with her finger

As a young woman I found the compass of life from her

In the twilight of her life

Fuelled by fond memories

I served her

And in that service found joy

That surpassed any Paradise

Oh mother! that golden days are gone

You are no more with us

Your memories make us sad

Your sweet smile,your loving guide

Always give us strength

Brighten our days

Lighten our ways

You are always in our prayers.

Nazm " Bomb Dhamaka" by Syed Zia Khairabadi Atlanta Georgia USA

بم دھماکہ

) اُن مظلوم اور معصو م جانوں کے نام جو اِن دھماکوں کی نظر ہو گئے اور اپنے پیچھے نہ جانے کِتنے لوگوں کو روتا اور سِسکتا ہوا چھوڑ گئے (

سیّد ضیاء خیرا بادی

اٹلانٹا )جار جیا (

نظم

میری جو پڑی اخبار پر نظر

اُسکی سُر خیوں میں لِکھا ہوا تھا یہ

’’ بم دھماکے میں مر گئے سیکڑوں لوگ ‘‘

کِتنا جاں سوز سا نحہ تھا یہ

واقع کی جُستجو میں میں پہنچا وہ مقام

وہ شام بڑی اُداس تھی غمگین تھی وہ شام

لاشوں کے ڈھیر تھے جہاں تک نظر گئ

غم کی ایک تیغ مرے دِل میں اُتر گئ

ملبے کے ڈھیر میں تھیں لا شیں پھنسی ہویئں

تھیں بو ڑھی عورتوں کی آنکھیں دھنسی ہویئں

ماں باپ کی لاشوں پر بچّوں کی سِسکیاں

مُمکِن نہیں ہے الفاظ میں اِس ذِکر کا بیاں

تارے جو زمین کے تھے چکنا چور ہوگئے

ماں باپ اپنے بچّوں سے بہت دور ہو گئے

ایک ننھی بچّی لِپٹی ہوئ تھی باپ کی لاش سے

اَ بّا ا َبّا چِلّا رہی تھی دلِ پاش پاش سے

اِس حادثے میں کِتنے گھروں کے سہارے چلے گئے

اِس حادثے میں کِتنی ماؤں کے پیارے چلے گئے

کُچھ بوڑھی آنکھوں کے بُجھ گئے تھے چراغ

دِل میں جل اُٹھے تھے اُن کے سیکڑوں داغ

کچھ نیئ دُلہنوں کے لُٹ گئے تھے سُہاگ

اُن کے ارمانوں کو ڈس گئے تھے کالے ناگ

قیمہ ہوگئے تھے جِسم اُٹھائے نہ جا سکے

دفنانے سے پہلے نہلائے نہ جاسکے

بے غُسل و کفن اِنسانی لاشوں کی گٹھر یاں

اُٹھا کر لے جا رہیں تھیں سرکاری گاڑیاں

ہر طرف آہ و بکا تھی چیخ و پُکار تھی

گھر گھر سے آرہی یہ صدا بار بار تھی

ہر جا پڑی تھیں لاشیں اور بہہ رہا تھا خون

ظالِم کے ظُلم کی داستاں کہہ رہا تھا خون

میرا وجود لرز گیا اس منظر کو دیکھ کر

اِنسانی خون کے بہتے سمندر کو دیکھ کر

آسماں رو رہا تھا زمیں رو رہی تھی

آنکھیں رو رہیں تھیں جبیں رو رہی تھی

جو مر گئے تھے اُن کی غمی رو رہی تھی

جو زندہ تھے اُن پر زندگی رو ر ہی تھی

میں لوٹ کر وہاں سے اپنے گھر آگیا

آنکھوں میں میرے وہ منظر سما گیا

دیکھوں جِدھر بھی میں وہ منظر نظر میں ہے

خونِ اِنساں کا وہ سمندر نظر میں ہے

اِنسان کا اب اِنسان سے کوئ رِشتہ نہیں رہا

محبّت اور خلوص اِس دور میں باقی نہیں رہا

ہر جا ایک بھیڑ ہے ایک اِنتشار ہے

اخباروں میں ایسی خبروں کا ایک انبار ہے

یہ خوبصورت چمن جِس کا دُنیا نام ہے

جہنم بنا رکھا ہےکیا یہ اِنساں کا کام ہے؟