عجائب خانہ

[vc_row full_width=”” parallax=”” parallax_image=””][vc_column width=”1/1″][vc_column_text css_animation=””][/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row full_width=”” parallax=”” parallax_image=””][vc_column width=”1/1″ css=”.vc_custom_1474708755592{background-position: center !important;background-repeat: no-repeat !important;background-size: cover !important;}”][vc_column_text css_animation=””]Dr. Sarwat Zahra inspires me at several levels: she is a dedicated, committed and experienced Emergency  Room physician at a very busy hospital, and she stands between life and death trying to help very sick patients literally every day and night; she is a mother of two very beautiful and intelligent children who have great personalities to reflect Dr. Sarwat’ s availability and nurturing mothering; she is an accomplished poetess with two great poetry books to her credit, as she is equally known in India and Pakistan and abroad, not only in UAE but also in entire Middle East, Europe and now even in North America. I am totally puzzled to see how she balances all these three pillars of her life- work, home and literature.  In my opinion, she is an ultimate role model for a modern woman who is accomplished at so many different levels and still strives for the best. Her style of poetry impresses me the most as she does not compromise her thoughts or ideas in the conforms of styles and forms. I find her most true and honest at her writing table. She is willing to write the bitter truth about life no matter how hard it sounds to the society and how disturbing it is for the status quo. She challenges every injustice in our society and demands equal right for herself as a human being without any concession for her gender. Her poetry sounds like a resistance asking for a change and does not sound like a political slogan asking just for attention. I am convinced that her poetry should reach out to others who cannot read or write Urdu. India is a prime example of a multilingual world we live in. Once translated or trans-created into English we cross the language barrier not only in the East but also reach out to our fellow human beings in the West. Language should not be a reason to restrict any idea, it should just be a tool for us to communicate.

(I am a psychiatrist, living, teaching and practicing psychiatry in Virginia, USA, for the last 22 years. I enjoy Indian classical music and reading and writing poetry. Having book (Becoming a psychotherapist)   Recently, with friends, I have started a web-based group, called ‘Literary Forum of North America’ which has almost 280 members from nine different countries. The focus of the forum is to promote literature in Urdu as well as English, including translations

Dr Rizwan ali .Translator)[vc_row][vc_column width=”1/1″][vc_column_text][/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row full_width=”” parallax=”” parallax_image=””][vc_column width=”1/2″][vc_column_text css=”.vc_custom_1475947571619{background-color: #bcbcbc !important;}”]

Museum

Right before my eyes, my life

has become a museum.

Without my knowing,

my unconscious has amassed

secret treasures, antique blessings.

Here, on shelves,

mummified words and preserved moments,

stacked and lacquered, stand protected

even from the heat of my body!

My broken bangles

sound from cabinets

like musical instruments.

Look at this shelf—

see the broken body of my childhood doll, asleep.

Somewhere the mirror of my dressing table—

faded, cracked—still reflects hellish times.

Did I leave my eye in the kohl pot?

It still stares back!

My life, crushed

under rusted jewelry,

frightened by the clink of my anklets, wails.

A broken comb

holds tangled hairs

while off in a corner

a pitcher leaks

the scent of my thirst.

The stuck dial of a great clock

trembles on a painful moment;

from swamps of emotion

a stench wafts up.

Hoards of tourists arrive to ogle

my house of wonders.

One derides this gasping corpse,

turns away, indifferent,

while another, a scholar,

will research these things

but only to prove his genius.

None – alas! – discovers the thread

tangled in dust.

I stand aside and wonder,

waiting at the end of that thread

to be found.

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