The Virgin

When I moved into your bed I was not alone
--- there weretwo of us
A married woman and a virgin
To sleep with you
I had to offer the virgin in me
I did so
This slaughter is permissible
in law
Not the indignity of it
And I bore the onslaught of
the insult
The next morning
I looked at my blood stained
handsI washed my hands
But the moment I stood before the mirror
I found her standing there
The one whom I thought I had slaughtered last night
Oh God!Was it too dark in your bed
I had to kill one and I killed the other ?

Quotes from Amrita Pritam

Today, I call Waris Shah, "Speak from inside your grave"And turn, today, the book of love's next affectionate pageOnce, one daughter of Punjab cried; you wrote a wailing sagaToday, a million daughters, cry to you, Waris ShahRise! O' narrator of the grieving; rise! look at your PunjabToday, fields are lined with corpses, and blood fills the ChenabSomeone has mixed poison in the five rivers' flowTheir deadly water is, now, irrigating our lands galoreThis fertile land is sprouting, venom from every poreThe sky is turning red from endless cries of goreThe toxic forest wind, screams from inside its wakeTurning each flute's bamboo-shoot, into a deadly snakeWith the first snake-bite; charmers lost their spellThe second bite turned all and sundry, into snakes, as wellDrinking from this deadly stream, filling the land with baneSlowly, Punjab's limbs have turned black and blue, with painThe street-songs have been silenced; cotton threads are snappedGirls have left their playgroups; the spinning wheels are crackedOur wedding beds are boats, their logs have cast awayOur hanging swing, the Pipal tree has broken in disarrayLost is the flute, which once, blew sounds of the heartRanjha's brothers, today, no longer know this artBlood rained on our shrines; drenching them to the coreDamsels of amour, today, sit crying at their doorToday everyone is, 'Qaido;' thieves of beauty and ardorWhere can we find, today, another Warish Shah, once more

I will meet you yet again

I will meet you yet again
How and whereI know not
Perhaps I will become a figment of your imagination
and maybe spreading myself
in a mysterious line on your canvas
I will keep gazing at you.

The First Painting

There was I – And perhaps you as well.
I, a shade amongst other wandering shades,
And perhaps you another pale shadow
Bits of shadows midst the pervading darkness
But that's a tale of prehistoric times.
Darkness of nights and of groves there was,
They were these garments, we wore,
you and IA shaft of sunlight came in
And flashed through our bodies, yours and mine,
And spread itself on the stones it carved.
At the time it was only rounded limbs tipped with light.
Thus was the first painting of the universe made,
The leaves gave it their greens
Clouds their billowing whites,
the skies their greys,Flowers their reds, yellows, and crimsons.
The art of painting came much later.

The First Melody

There was I and probably you as well
And an infinite silent stillness.
Brittle like a dry, parched leaf,
Gritty like sands on a seashore
But that's a tale of prehistoric times.
At a road crossing I called out to you
And you answered my call,
And in the winds' throat there was a quiver
And particles of earth were animated
And the waters of brooks hummed in a melody
Branches of trees grew a trifle tense,
There was stirring in the leaves,
A little bud twinkled an eye,
And a bird fluffed out its feathers
That was the first song that the ears heard.
The septet of the lute came much later.