Annie Zaidi's Blog, page 2

Ye khyaal e diwana aaj phir kahaan guzra (nazm by Ali Jawad Zaidi

Ye khyaal e diwana aaj phir kahaan guzraIk-ik lamhe par hashr ka gumaan guzraNok e khaar par chalna humin ko tha maloomAaj khaarzaaron se poora kaarwaan guzraZikr doston ka tha doston ki mehfil thiDushmanon ko kya kahiye dost ko garaan guzraJab firaq aa pahuncha bhoolne ki manzil takQafila ummeedon ka dil mein nagahaan guzraTohfa e judaai tha ashk e surmaye e aaloodaMain jo ro pada aakhir mujhko

Some more reviews of Prelude to a Riot

Was very pleasantly surprised to find some new(er?) reviews of my novel Prelude to a Riot. One in Countercurrents says: 'Zaidi’s withholding of subterranean dark forces which “it” can unleash with lightning speed and unassailable strength is a narrative masterstroke.'Link to review: https://countercurrents.org/2021/07/p... in Writersmelon: https://

Two 4-line poems by Ali Jawad Zaidi

Dil oob gaya khamosh rahte rahteDum ghutne laga ranj sahte sahteIk jaam idhar, haath badha kar saaqiAghyaar se koi baat kahte kahte - Ali Jawad Zaidi page 30 (Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)*Chaak e sar damaan e khiza milta haiMausam naye mausam se gale milta haiAur aisi fizayein, hai ye aalam apnaIk chot si lagti hai jo gul khilta hai.- Ali Jawad Zaidi page 45 (Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)

Kedarnath Singh's 'Mukti'

Making an attempt to translate one of my favourite Hindi poets, Kedarnath Singh's 'Mukti'.When I found no other path to liberationI have sat down to writeI want to write 'tree'Although I know that to write is to become treeI want to write 'water''Man' 'Man' - I want to writeA child's handA woman's faceWith all my strength I want to hurl words at manAlthough I know nothing will become of

MA as fantasy

Julia Kristeva has written of consecrated motherhood as a fantasy of lost territory that is nurtured by all adults. In the religious sphere, we see it in the form of a Mother Goddess or as Mother Mary, while in culture, we see it as the ordinary-seeming Ma who holds her son’s heart in her fist. In politics too, it emerges as the motherland, although politicians also tap into the power of

Of love as fodder for fiction and a self-concious formal experiment

Is a novel a beautiful thing? What of a novel that is presented as an “outline” for the first draft of a novel that the narrator intends to write? Should the reader approach it as a finished aesthetic product or should it be taken for what it claims to be: a loose skein of ideas and character notes? Rahman Abbas’ On the Other Side is a tricky novel to read partly because it poses these questions

Ye na samjho matwalo

One of Ali Jawad Zaidi's Urdu ghazals, likely written soon after India won independence: Ye na samjho matwalo! Kaun ab sataayega?Haar maan li dukh ne, sukh to aazmaayegaBekasi ke mele mein jo bhi gaahak aayegaJholoyaa.n to bhar lega, khud bhi lut ke jayegaDhoop mein naha legi jab asaadh ki dhartiZarre-zarre mein saawan phir se kunmunaayegaHar guzarte lamhe par muhar lag chuki lekinLaakh

طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیض مل گئے۔

I've tried my hand at translating a poem from English into Urdu. The poem is 'I find Faiz Blowing on his Saucer of Tea' by Imtiaz Dharkar. You'll find the same text in Nagri letters and Naskh. طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیض مل گئے۔ طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیض مل گئے پڑوس کی دکان میں. فیض چچا، میں نے کہا، اپنا پرانا محلہ پہچان میں

طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیز مل گئے۔

I've tried my hand at translating a poem from English into Urdu. The poem is 'I find Faiz Blowing on his Saucer of Tea' by Imtiaz Dharkar. You'll find the same text in Nagri letters and Naskh. طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیض مل گئے۔ طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیض مل گئے پڑوس کی دکان میں. فیض چچا، میں نے کہا، اپنا پرانا محلہ پہچان میں

Against the Death of Dream (in Wasafiri, 40th anniversary issue, Autumn 2024)

I've written my first essay for the lastest issue of Wasafiri, themed Futurisms. Here's a very short extract from my essay, Against the Death of Dream: One of the most dangerous things, Pash warned, is the clock that moves on your wrist but not in your eyes. For years I wondered at this image of a stopped clock in the reader’s eye, and the way the poet juxtaposes frozen time against