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It's sad that the post-modern literary paradigm generally eschews religious texts. Quran is specially regarded as the archetypal dogma and thus uncompatible with modernity. In my recent study, I have found it relevant to both the current times and my personal life. Partly poetic, it carries profoundly symbolic meanings - much beyond the simplistic classroom teachings and anachronistic medieval MiddleEastern exegesis.

It's surprising that post-modern Liberal thought eschews reading religious books, particularly the Quran. It is regarded as the epitome of Conservative Dogma and hence incompatible with modernity . On an indepth perusal, I found many verses relevant to my personal life . It is partly great poetry and thus carryies multiple meanings - beyond the superficial taught at high school Islamiat (religious studies) classes

A modern novel on how the arrival of the white man in Africa inexorably turned the traditional African society upside down. The protagonist, once a strong tribal head, watches helplessly as the primitive ways are chipped away by the missionary zeal and the modern medicine of the Europeans. It lags a little after a great start, only to close explosively. Post-modern readers would find this a classic on colonialism.

Maulana rues surrendering Congress presidency in 1946 to Nehru, who vetoed the Cabinet Mission plan. It is well known that Congress communalists like Patel were rooting for Pakistan/unitary "Hindu"stan. Nehru, who knew he was going to be prime minister, didn't want a loose federation. Consequently, Nehruvian liberalism became the gentle face of India while Patel/Modism persisted to rear its head in outbreaks.

The tragedy of democracy is that it is an ephemeral ideal. In real life, the most famous of Democrats ( and there wouldn't be more of a man of the people in Pakistan than Bhutto) is essentially an autocrat inside. His Sindhi landlord upbringing, his tutelage under Mirza and Ayub, his treatment of his J Rahim, his promotion of sycophants like Zia meant that his tragic end was essentially due to his bloated ego.

"Now is the winter of our discontent. " ..... I have often found myself reciting this classic opening dialogue when I am down. Shakespeare's way with words is unmatched in the English language. In fact, if I may he so bold to say that English is, in fact, the Bard's language and all the rest is,in fact, an addendum. Strangely enough, Ghalib has a similar position in Urdu, finding "drama" with letters.

The Diwan consists mostly of Ghazals written in traditional manner. Even though Hasrat Mohani was a revolutionary, the initial ghazals seem to be following the romantic pattern

This is a quaint little nostalgic book about the author's recollection of Old Delhi's famous figures in the half century before partition. Not really for the mainstream public but interested me since I have read a similar book by Ashraf Subohi and the famous novel "Kayi Chaand Thai Sar I Aasman" (although the last is set slightly earlier). Just read about Muharram celebration with Sunnis/Hindus bringing out tazias.

Actually bought this novel because of the Pakistani setting. And till now I am not disappointed. It reads veritably as a history of Karachi especially the old areas, seen through the eyes of the protagonist family, the Roheewala's. Skimmed through the middle to find a very interesting scene of an elite party where some non- resident Pakistani's arguing playing the blame game for the disaster of a state we are in.

....so Are you grateful ..... Surah Al Anbiya Verse 80
Inallaha ma is sabireen

....so Are you grateful ..... Surah Al Anbiya Verse 80

Romeo "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the sun."

But listen, I am warning you
I'm living for the very last time.
Not as a swallow, nor a maple,
Not as a reed, nor as a star,
Not as spring water,
Nor as the toll of bells…
Will I return to trouble men
Nor will I vex their dreams again
With my insatiable moans.
Anna Akhmatova

"I am fortune's fools"

Crystal

not on my lips look for your mouth,
not in front of the gate for the stranger,
not in the eye for the tear.
seven nights higher red makes for red,
seven hearts deeper the hand knocks on the gate,
seven roses later plashes the fountain.
Paul Celan

"a rose by any other name would smell as sweet"
"i swear by thy gracious self which is the god of my idolatry"

"if love be rough with you, be rough with love"

’Tis the way
To call hers, exquisite, in question more.
These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows,
Being black, puts us in mind they hide the fair.
He that is strucken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost.
Show me a mistress that is passing fair;
What doth her beauty serve but as a note

This Evening Also

more fully,
since snow fell even on this
sun-drifted, sun-drenched sea,
blossoms the ice in those baskets
you carry into town.
sand
you demand in return,
for the last
rose back at home
this evening also wants to be fed
out of the trickling hour.
Paul Celan

On My Right

On my Right – who? The Death-Woman.
And you, on my Left, you?
The Wandering-Sickles in extraheavenly Place
mime themselves grey-white
Moon-Swallows, together,
Star-Swifts,
I plunge there
and pour an Urnful
down onto you,
in you.
Paul Celan

Corona
Autunm eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends.
From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk:
then time returns to the shell.
In the mirror it's Sunday,
in dream there is room for sleeping,
our mouths speak the truth.

I Can Still See You

I can still see you: an Echo,
to be touched with FeelerWords, on the PartingRidge.
Your face softly shies away,
when all at once there is
lamp-like brightness
in me, at the Point,
where most painfully one says Never.
Paul Celan

Flower

The stone.
The stone in the air, which I followed.
Your eye, as blind as the stone.
We were
hands,
we baled the darkness empty, we found
the word that ascended summer:
flower.
Flower - a blind man's word.
Your eye and mine:
they see
to water.
Growth.
Heart wall upon heart wall
adds petals to it.
One more word like this word, and the hammers
will swing over open ground.
Paul Celan

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."
"Thee of thy son, Alonso, they have bereft; and do pronounce, by me lingering perdition, -worse than death can be at once, -shall step by step attend you and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from- which here is in this most desolate isle, else falls upon your heads,-is nothing but heart-sorrow and a clear life ensuing."
"He that dies pays all debts"

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."
"Thee of thy son, Alonso, they have bereft; and do pronounce, by me lingering perdition, -worse than death can be at once, -shall step by step attend you and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from- which here is in this most desolate isle, else falls upon your heads,-is nothing but heart-sorrow and a clear life ensuing."

Another jewel
"I Hear

I hear, the Axe has flowered,
I hear, the Place is un-nameable,
I hear, the Bread, that looks on him,
heals the Hanged-Man,
the Bread, his Wife baked for him,
I hear, they name Life
our sole Refuge."
Paul Celan

A gem.
Crystal
not on my lips look for your mouth,
not in front of the gate for the stranger,
not in the eye for the tear.
seven nights higher red makes for red,
seven hearts deeper the hand knocks on the gate,
seven roses later plashes the fountain.

"He that dies pays all debts"