Book Review: Edward Snowden’s ‘Permanent Record’

My first writing for public platform.
This review is special because I read this book in the hospital ward

Cafe Dissensus Everyday

By Rashid Abbasi

Imagine an omniscient surveillance system in which all your online activities are being recorded without consent and become a permanent record. And a search engine used by government that returns results from your emails and messages. Constantly evolving technology creates new ethical puzzles. The State is perceived as a necessary evil, but the question of how much privacy of the individual the state has a right to breach has developed into numerous facets. Edward Snowden’s memoir Permanent Record is about his courageous attempt to unmask the unethical approach of the United States (US) and the corporate entities towards mass surveillance of citizens. It is about his journey from a well-established and high profile government employee to a whistleblower and citizens’ rights activist living in exile.

The autobiographical account begins with his childhood. He grew up in North Carolina and his parents worked for the government. He loved…

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One night in Jaipur

I was in Jaipur only for a night and was preparing to get sleep in the hostel. I was supposed to present a paper in Kolkata. At the reception there was a well dressed group of people getting ready for a party. Hesitatingly i asked them if I could join. They welcomed me but the problem was that I was without a partner. Apparently stag entry was charged for around 2500 and was only free if there was a woman with you. We reached there anyway and a fellow hosteler requested a group of women if one of them could pair with me. We entered and it felt like any place in Hauz Khas in Delhi. I do not dance but had to pretend that I can; to stay with the group. Although I really like to sit and enjoy by watching people enjoying. Plus, it was very crowded. I could smell the typical perfume mixed with sweat in the environment. Any shitty song would sound nice in such setting and lights were making everyone look good especially the women wearing red lipsticks. Although they all looked similar to me. Drama unfolded after a while with entry of a woman who was so drunk or high that she was hugging random guys. She was not hugging in a ‘Free Hugs’ kind of way but was using random shoulders to fall asleep. Maybe it was a prank or something but I am not sure. However I preferred to stay away from her path. One side of bar counter was full of women. They were being served for free. On the corner there was a woman with lips like permanent pout and was enjoying kind of dry humping with a guy. She was much taller than him and I never saw his face because in whole party he was behind her. She was continuously looking at her appearance with the front camera of her phone and was checking everyone around with an inviting gaze. That made me think that she could be an escort/prostitute and my friend agreed with me. Most memorable for me was another woman who was dancing in an extremely provocative way. She was wearing backless dress and shorts. I would say she was kind of fearless and original in her attitude. Guys were greeting and dancing with her. It looked like she was regular there. She was accompanied by two tall and bulky guy, for her security, because I overheard her saying to my japanese and Korean acquaintances that, “I am alone.” While dancing, she offered drink to my fellow hosteller and he replied, “I don’t drink.” She asked his name and when he said, “Faraz,” She said,” Wah…Muslim!…you are so cute” and kissed him on the cheek. Faraz would never forget her I am sure but the guy was really decent and sweet. While dancing in an unusual way sometimes she was sticking her tongue out and used the pole to show her pole dancing skills. Another moment, we were sitting on a sofa and a girl with a group of friends put her hands on my thigh. Then she moved to another guy from the hostel who, in my opinion, resembled the actor Ranbir Kapoor. He embraced her and after a while they were into each other. Something I did not dare to do. She was disturbed by something and opened up about tragedies of her life, as the guy told me next day. She repeatedly kept complimenting him. I felt that conversational skills of (sasta) Ranbir Kapoor consoled her. Next day he told me that she took his number and they will be on a date. I remember he emphasized on ‘she took his number’ and he was actually not interested. I remained mostly dazed and silent, like a meditating Gautam Buddha unaffected by dancing apsaras. Something you can expect to be in such scene after months of spending time in libraries. It felt like alternative epicurean world, where connection was easy to establish especially if you look good, have a good personality and can dance well. But as I said, the lights made everyone look good.
I was back to hostel around 4 in the morning. Next day I was supposed to reach Kolkata for an experience that was polar opposite and tragic enough that I can only dare to share as a fiction someday.


Dear future wife,
I wish I can call you by name. Such a terribly cold and lonely night and I am thinking of you. I wonder if you like to stay up late night or wake up early in the morning. I can’t even guess how you look like, what language you speak and what religion you profess. I wonder if you often think about me and are concerned about your career in the similar way. I wonder if you drink a lot of tea or prefer coffee. Well, I often try to cheat my mind by having hot water like I am doing now while writing this. I had too much of tea today. If you smoke a lot then I must tell you that too much smell of nicotine really puts me off. So never anticipate a kiss from me after smoking. Once I asked a crush of mine if she likes poets or philosophers. And she replied, “Poets”. I read Diwan-e Ghalib to impress her. I actually discovered the book those days and that generated my interest in poetry and other disciplines. I supplied her a lot of poetry. It worked for a while but not after I ran out of comprehensible stuff and she totally lost interest in me. Now i laugh at myself when I think of those days. I don’t want to say much but her car driver was earning more salary than I was. Anyway, I am a grown up man now and I don’t read to please anyone. I read like my life depends on it. And my life now depends on my PhD and the choices I will make in this period. Do you also often think that nobody understands you? And that is not easy to express the way you feel but the same time that helps you to have empathy for others? I have always found kind and intelligent woman extremely attractive and you must be the epitome of those qualities. I admit that I am not so clear about you. If you exist, you will uncondition me from one secretly held perception of mine that every woman I find attractive is attracted towards the other guy, who often seem to me either rich, or popular. I still do not underestimate myself too much. This letter is an example that my idealism is not dead yet. It will not die as long as I am reading good stuff, thinking better thoughts and friends around showering me with their love. I need a lot of improvement and i wish to learn from the qualities of the different people I meet. I try to understand what is likeable or interesting about them. Someone is energetic, someone is generous, someone is so well read, someone is so eloquent and someone is so focused on their work. Nothing is as encouraging as great qualities (that most of the 99 names of God also talks about) are visibly embodied in the people around you. I wish I can I incorporate those qualities in me. I have lot of interesting and secret experiences of mine to share with you as a single man looking for love. I understand money is important, but lusting after fame, money and power is not my style and I am sure yours not too.

Hope to see you in the future,
8/9 January 2019


She appeared-
as my hope for the colors
of the ghetto’s narrow labyrinthine lane
a noisy dullness-
teeming with men and veiled women
Her white scarf-
green-blue flowers and fringes
draped over her head and shoulder
A jacket-
dark blue
A long skirt-
kaleidoscopic print over pale white
The stalls-
selling clothes, bangles
and other adornments
fluorescent, or incandescent light above them
ensuring their bright appearance
She walked slowly-
not looking ahead
bending over a little
looking more closely
Her small, deft hands
over bangles
At our closest distance-
I saw the calm grace
of her face
A sudden sparkle
from her nose-pin-
broke my gaze

Colors that reached my eyes-

reflected subtraction
 of the absolute light
Colors she kept behind
to herself-
painted a mystery transfiguring
I was back again
to the dullness
My holey boots-
in the crowd
over my hesitant shadow
with hands inside my pockets
Inexplicable to my mind-
the afterglow of colors
of her nose-pin-
revealing itself
as my clear moment
with the light.
*Batla House is a Muslim ghetto in Delhi.

Touch Deprivation

The other day I was reading at the Café and was going through the same page of the book probably for the third time. Maybe the language was too difficult or maybe my heart was not at it. I was aware of a mild headache. That was a kind of headache when you feel some weight on your head. I caressed that part of my head with my hands.
On my left a man explaining a business plan to another. Repeating again and again that poor people remain poor because they do not change their ways. I tried to avoid his irritating talk, but he was loud. On the other side of the glass wall that is on the open terrace of the café, I saw this rich looking couple. They were well dressed with undeniably attractive bodies. Their bodies have the presence of the kind Walt Whitman talks about in his poetry.
While the lemon slices were floating in their colorful drinks, the woman was stroking his hair and face like he is her child. I started observing other people around to see how many are touching each other. The touch I thought has whole philosophy to it. Perhaps those around me not touching each other might be touching each other through words or unable to do so. After all, one can be very specific about who they allow to touch and where. Touching could be a way of understanding each other. It is how we transfer healing warmth from the one body to the another.
I was looking at that couple again. I was thinking that these two must be enjoying closeness to each other. How healing it must be for him to feel her breast, her hair and her face so close to him. Edward Munch would not have created his ‘Madonna’ without experiencing such closeness. I reached to a conclusion that my headache might be out of a deprivation, especially the touch deprivation. I liked the precise term I coined for my sickness. I can borrow money to have coffee here but I cannot borrow a touch.                  
This is where my failure lies?
I carried on with my reading.

On Beauty

<Interesting question asked by friend. I forwarded the same question to my friends and got these responses>


Vinay Ramki (to me): You seem to be loving beauty. I seem to have an opposite opinion I guess. So would love to know more about your perspective.

Beauty, especially physical beauty is one big unfair thing in the world. We have a particular definition of it (most cases it’s being fair color, appropriate size, etc etc) we see that as beauty/sexy(while typing I’m referring to women). It is just how we define, or more appropriately, accept the definition of beauty as. There is an African tribe I guess where pot bellied women are sexy. There’s an other tribe where disfiguring your face in particular ‘cuts’ is beauty.

There are most people who follow this definition and fantasise that beauty. This is extremely unfair on people who mostly don’t fall in that category. Some might not want to fall in that, but nevertheless… Most want to be seen as beautiful, but alas our definition! They don’t fall in that category. It could be for many reasons beyond their control too.

You on the other hand seem to appreciate in a gentle and poetic way, the same beauty. It is beautiful in poetic sense, but isn’t it the the same unfair concept.

So can you give your perspective on this. Many artists also think like you I guess. So knowing why and what you think would help me understand similar (artistic) people.


Indira Krishnamurti Pradhan: In the society we live, our primary scale of value, which is most unfair is in the physical. We are conditioned by factors such as culture, educational background and class and are bombarded daily by the western cultural misogynistic values that emphasize how to remain “young and attractive” for ever. Billions of dollars are generated each year promising the human body a status of “permanent beauty” and also sexuality that are highly valued in western and westernized societies.
Thus our explanation of beauty becomes subjective, when considering beauty and aesthetics. In truth, we all know that the value of an object goes beyond our sensory judgment of what we consider as “beautiful”. It would have to embrace judgment based on emotional and intellectual values of what we are reacting to when we view an object or person by way of beauty.
I would go along with what Aristotle said, which is that it is the experience of the audience that actually determines whether something is art or not. So he does not place importance on the creator’s intention as much as on how the audience reacts to the artwork. It is an absolutely personal decision and conclusion we arrive at when we judge a piece of art.
As far as poetry is concerned, I’d like to quote what Shelley had said: “A poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal truths.” It is these truths that we are in search of and get sidetracked by externals, which are but a superficial reflection of what lies inside and which we struggle to find. Kant also said: “Whereas the beautiful is limited, the sublime is limitless, so that the mind in the presence of the sublime, attempting to imagine what it cannot, has pain in the failure but pleasure in contemplating the immensity of the attempt.”
Even the rich and famous Hollywood folks whose survival depends on the value placed on their “beauty and wealth” go through a feeling of emptiness and depression beyond a certain point. There is no way they can find permanent joy in the kind of beauty they are programmed to worship in themselves and others. Just as we see beauty in nature or in its natural form externally, we are also infused with its presence internally. This ensures that we live our inner lives too. Beauty is not stagnant; we are in a sense nomadic and travel from threshold to threshold where we discover new possibilities and avenues of creativity and beauty.
In a true sense, we are constantly searching for a state of wholeness, which is a place where we feel that everything is integrated. And until we find that wholeness and attempt to integrate ourselves with our spiritual aspects, ‘beauty’ can only remains “skin deep” in our eyes.

Terry Dalfrano: Beauty counts not for what it is, but for what it suggests: a dream of perfection. A beautiful woman, picture, poem, song are a sort of utopia of a better world. Formal perfection is the negation of the real world. It might sound unjust for the ugly women and bad poets. But it is precisely because we do not like the real world that we like beautiful things. And when we really come to know the object of our admiration, with all its imperfection, we are disillusioned. This is why love cannot be eternal: the real people, and their artistic products, are not eternal, are not perfect.

Please note: Everyone is invited to express their opinion  on the question asked by my friend.

Indian state’s crackdown on students freedom of expression

What kind of a nation is this?
Deleting love from its curriculum
The art of poetry
The mystery of women’s eyes
What kind of nation is this?
Battling each rain cloud,
Opening a secret file for each breast,
Filing a police report for every rose…
~ Nizar Qabbani

Urdu poets on mystery, wonder and beauty of woman’s hair

Neend us ki hai, dimaag us ka hai, raatein us ki hain
ye zulfein jiski baazuon par pareshan ho gayin.


Sleep is his, pride/head is his, the nights are his
on whose shoulder your curls became scattered/tangled
– Ghalib


Javaab naama siyaahi ka apni hai vo zulf
kisuu ne hashr ko ham se jo sawaal kiya


The answer for the ink (of our deeds) would be those tresses
if anybody will ask us the question on the day of judgement
– Mir Taqi Mir


Idhar aao tumhari zulf ham aarasta kar dein
jo gesu ham sanwaareinge kabhi barham nahi honge


Come here; let me straighten your troubling hair locks
when I set them right your tresses shall never ever be entangled again
-Kaleem Ajiz


Kya ho gaya hai gesuu-e khamdaar ko tere
aazad kar rahein hain giraftaar ko tere
Ab tu muddaton se hai shab-o-roz ruu-ba-ru
kitne hi din guzar gaye didaar ko tere


What has happen to your curly hair
they are releasing your captive now
It’s been long since we’ve come face to face night and day
many days have passed without any sight of you
– Jaun Elia

Painting by John William Godward


A Dream

They were wandering, holding each other’s hand on the University campus.


They went to the parking to find a personal space, and like any young couple they were enjoying snuggling and cuddling.


He remembered he was gazing at her lips while she was telling him that she likes reading poetry, and is working on a Samuel Huntington’s poem (yes the man from clash of civilization), so he went to Chawri Bazaar to get some books for her. There he saw his father- a teacher who taught him about South Asia- and his dead uncle, talking to each other. Surprisingly they didn’t notice him.


Again they are together, wandering on that road that leads to the boy’s hostel from the University’s Post office. Many gossips echoed from somewhere in his mind about her multiple affairs and past lovers. He only remembers there were multiple voices and he didn’t pay much heed to them.


Suddenly, a contingent of soldiers appeared marching on the same road. One of the soldiers shot them with his gun. The bullets hit them but there were no wounds, or feeling of death. Instead of blood there was a profusion of perfume from their bodies and a mystical fragrance all around.


A woman with too much makeup appeared from behind that soldier’s contingent. She offered them dinner in exchange for the trouble they had been through. She said “it’s a Valentine’s Day party” and they must come. They realized their bodies still had the smell of the fragrance that had emanated from the hit of bullets.


She asked the woman, “What cake is going to be served at the party?”


The woman asked her if she had a suggestion, and she offered a most beautiful name- but suddenly the boy woke from his dream and that name drifted beyond the reach of his memory….

(Photo credit: Stella De Genova)12662553_962802470471530_225040070066017816_n

Your lips

Your lips

A red rose

Soft with dew

As the petals tremble

I am vulnerable


I long to feel

The flames

Of their touch

Even if offered

With thorns

Of rejection


In those flames

I wish to hide myself

Eventually burn



And disappear


Into the world

Of mystical


~Rashid Abbasi

Man of Success

Her last message was not goodbye.
It was like, “you are a nice guy…
but after a certain age,
a woman
can only love
a man of success.”
Next morning he was riding his bike very fast.
Wind with the loud howl was creeping inside
through unbuttoned part of his shirt.
The dark clouds in the horizon were giving a false impression
of a mountain range at the unreachable end.
All of a sudden it was raining.
Rain did not spare any part of his body.
He got himself a cappuccino in a nearby mall.
While supplying warm sips to his solitude,
he was only feeling thankful
that nature
is not
of the fact
is not
a man



~Rashid Abbasi


I am here again after a long time
My instinct brought me to you.
Give me a sign, when these demons will turn into angels?
I feel too tired and old now.
I wish for a day without pain:
When I will wake up with enthusiasm
and sleep satisfied.
I don’t want to be afraid of people’s questions,
their critical analysis on what is I am doing to my life.
I want to praise beautiful things
and be honest in whatever I write.
I want to be a courageous lover,
who loves passionately the woman he likes.
There are so many things I wish to do,
but I am stuck in this darkness
and unable to get out of it.
Why don’t you take care of me God?
Am I not your favorite child?

– 10th Sept 2015

Note- Lately, while going back home, the sound of Azaan moved me and I found myself inside the mosque reading namaaz. This is an edited version of dua part.

All My Praise

In the name of Allah

The gracious and the merciful.

The light of my eyes

that my eyes cannot see.

All my praise is for the mystery of the darkness:

Where there is no shadow, no sun.

The abyss-From where the echoes of God-

And spirituality return.

All my praise is for the space-time singularity-

For the day I will discover the truth, and make peace with it.

And for my death-

For it will reveal to me other dimension of reality.

All my praise is for love-

In love: I must lose myself.

As I will keep swaying like a wave-

Between the life I dream,

and the life

I live.

All my praise is

for all that is truly alive in me.

And all that wish to die in me.

All my praise is for the peace to my soul

The attainment of clarity

And the beauty of unity.


P.S. – I was reading about singularities and black holes. Generally, positive idea of light brings negative idea of darkness. I have tried to contemplate on both of them.  There is an influence of the poem , “Unfound” by my  friend  Talah also.

Incomplete reflection on the Kuhn’s Structure of the scientific revolution

I was thinking what should I do after reading a book, when I have no one discuss it? So, I thought of writing about it.

In this note I will try to convey what I have learned or experienced after reading the essay, “the structure of scientific revolution” by Thomas Kuhn. Kuhn wrote it in 1962 after he began teaching sciences to non-science students. The book lays out a schematic theory for the evolution of science in general and scientific specialties. It draws upon several famous historical examples, mostly from physics and astronomy, but perhaps more to illustrate Kuhn’s system than to substantiate it. The book divided in various chapters with a post-script added by Kuhn seven years later. (That I am yet to read in order to improvised on this note)

During the early twentieth century, a group of logical positivists, (for example Bertrand Russell and  Ludwig Wittgenstein), rejected all metaphysical doctrines and held that true knowledge comes from human experience alone (correct me if I am wrong!), particularly via its most rigorously controlled form, the scientific method: the accumulation of data under controlled conditions, construction of theories on the basis of the data, and verification of theories by experimentation and observation according to objective standards of logic.  Although subsequent adherents to this school often call themselves as logical empiricist’ and they insisted that theories cannot be really verified, only falsified, the underlying assumption  of them was that the history of science has been the unbroken accumulation of knowledge in an orderly, unified sequence. (I will soon add citation to this)


In the Structure of Scientific Revolutions, Thomas S. Kuhn disagrees with the logical positivists almost completely. Although he also believed that scientists aim for an increasingly accurate understanding of nature, he found that community of scientists, such as physicists or biologists, often goes through period of divisive disagreement of theory and the nature of data. The final triumph of one faction of a scientific field over another involves the interactions of people. or in other words most scientists spend their entire careers posing and solving problems in accordance with an establish paradigm, assuming that they have fundamental grasp of how nature behaves. (Each group uses its own paradigm to argue in that paradigm’s defense. for example, Priestley and Lavosier both saw oxygen, but they interpreted their observations differently).

For Kuhn, Science is a social process as well as a knowledge-gathering enterprise. He has given various examples to strengthen his arguments. I am not sharing them to keep the note short.

The key features of his arguments are

  • The idea that sciences relies on paradigms, a term that Kuhn borrowed from linguistics
  • Second was Kuhn’s distinction between normal science and scientific revolutions.
  • Third, Kuhn’s system presents a scientific revolution as phenomena among a community of workers; therefore, it is social.

So, don’t feel bad if you were never good in sciences or in solving those mind-wrecking problems. They are and they were just paradigms. And this also shows us how our education system has been ruined by focusing more on problem solving (May the problem that does not exist at all) rather than critical thinking or questioning.

A science student has no touch with philosophy or social sciences and social science student has no curiosity for sciences. Everything is job oriented. Or better to say, corporate oriented.  Although, the questions that are still with me are about the link between science and technology. How even after rejecting and struggling with many paradigms has not stopped us advancing technologically? There is definitely a link between science and technology.

Kuhn concerns himself with only the pure science, and he specifically addresses the cognitive (or epistemic) function of science. He does not explore science’s ultimate value of truth of its place in human culture. And please note that Kuhn is not underestimating sciences but he is only questioning it.


To hear nothing but your own voice


I try to realize


I am the realization

A deep breath (plays within)

I wonder if it is that simple?

Dance of feelings (inside)






Perhaps, I wish to mourn.

I wonder if it is that simple?

Dance of needs (interior)





Perhaps, I wish to feel connected.

I wonder if it is that simple?


in this fire.


will burn .


will stay.

Or maybe,

the ashes

will become seeds

and grow up again.

Perhaps, I am forever searching.

And I wonder if it is that simple?

A deep breath. (to hear nothing but my own voice)

I become words.

Conviction by Colleen McLaughlin

From whence comes a man’s conviction

that no stone-crusher could ever destroy?

And from whence comes a man’s conviction

in the court of hypocrisy and greed?

One self-imposing,

the other imposed-

One from heaven,

the other hell-

In this life





and it shall make all the difference.

About the poet:
Colleen McLaughlin is an artist, musician, and a Master Gardener. A native Vermonter, she is the proprietor of Elemental Artworks at Studio 266 in Burlington.

Being-in-the-World with Anxieties

I just finished reading about ISIL’s atrocities in Iraq and I cannot get over the photo of a crying girl displaced due to this conflict; that has made me unutterably melancholic. I am thinking about my grief and that little girl’s grief. But somehow I am only able to write about MY anxiety.

This month of June with its hot, humid weather and other mundane difficulties of joblessness- and reading all day- has contributed to a kind of unrest in my body. Mostly I waste time by pondering about being in the world, all of its pain and pleasures and how it has always been complex and complicated, and will always remain like this.

The frequency of the questions about my career interest and advice from concerned friends has increased. My interest in philosophical and poetic forms of expression has definitely made friends close to me to have an opinion about my inclination. Although, I believe that it could be just a phase. And not only about me; I have felt this about many people- that there is always something in their inner self that wants to rise to some expression.

It is still remains unresolved for me as to, what is the better way of expression? And how can one write without self-doubt or fear of being judged; and why should I even ‘shamelessly’ express my experiences, my dreams or my concerns? Things are never easy to understand as one would like to believe, as there is always something that is out of reach of everyone’s awareness, about themselves, about others, and the world around them.

Most of the time out of my laziness and ignorance, I helplessly engage myself with the surface of things rather than allowing my mind to go into a deeper level. Like a breeze constantly blowing the ripples in the pool of water and preventing me from seeing the clear reflection of myself. I do not know if it is possible to watch our thoughts or control them. Neither do I believe in judging them like a criminal. But I do believe in power of vigilance because when we really go deeper into our thoughts the deepest concerns of our life emerge. It is like trying to extract the most possible truth out of everything or contemplating the infiniteness of the sky rather than engaging self only with the beauty of clouds.

Being-in-the-world: If I investigate the question ‘who am I?’ I might not have immediately a philosophical answer to this question. On surface that might simply put down to the fact that I am a complicated person, or psychologically unstable, or unsure of what career I would like to follow. But is not the nature of “being” much more mysterious than this? An individual who is born and dies within the confinement of a palace cannot behold its tomb. I do not know the reality of my being before the birth and after the death. The existentialist writings I have read so far encourages me to be brave and live life with freedom and fullness. At the same time my heart finds comfort in idea of a selfless Sufi.

The chronic persistent uneasiness points out the possibility that most things happening inside us are beyond expression. I call them inexplicable anxieties. The relationship between one human being and another has been hampered by the unshared or unperceived anxieties. The difficulty of love and empathy arise as our awareness about ‘human condition’ has been shaped by absurd materialism, self-interest and dogmatic religious, cultural beliefs. Art has become for art sake especially when artists become synonymous with a luxurious life. As Rilke once said, “nobody likes to explore the limitless possibilities of river but comfort himself at the fallow stretch of the shore where nothing happens.”

Being-with-the-others: These days I am just adapting myself to live with the questions and share them with other beautiful and brave souls. They are brave because possibly having their own inexplicable anxieties they still manage to be calm, composed and concerned about others. They are beautiful because they have managed to do something about others in their own way. My experiences with the others in their multiplicity make no ‘similar’ replies to my opinion how should I live with the others. That means these matters of self and others could not be settled once and for all, like our perceptions about our relationship with God. I ought to take responsibility of the self and live in this potentially unrealized state, rather than taking readymade ideas as it is. So these failures and uneasiness may continue at surface but this anxiety might not be my real anxiety- It must not be-

My real anxiety should be my lack of understanding of others pain and their condition.

Perhaps, some of these anxieties are not meant to be expressed but to acknowledge and make our relationship better with the self and the others. Sometimes we have nothing to say or my mind goes blank and I find that rather than converse with human being, it is better to talk to a piece of paper.

Nonetheless, most of our anxieties demand constant vigilance and action (as great philosophers suggested). Right now I might not be able to do anything for a victim in Iraq, a rape victim in India or Pakistan, or jobless and homeless people anywhere. But my anxieties challenge me to create meaning out of my strange existence. And do something about my knowledge of the self in order to understand and improve my relationship with the others. I might like to engage myself with the resistance for justice and equality like a Sufi or any ancient or post-modernist thinker would suggest. But I must create a meaning out of nothingness. I must discover/create myself in order to make myself something useful for humanity. And I consider this moment a beginning.

Poet or Philosopher

Rashid:… I actually want to understand if according to you the personality of a poet and a philosopher is complementary or has potential to merge with each other? For example, a poet shamelessly write about his personal experience but philosopher does not. Philosopher is much more careful about his action and try to control himself while poets are carefree. 

Musab Iqbal: This subject has occupied me for a long but it doesn’t mean that I know the answer. I am far from the answer. I am far from answer for most of my question perhaps this is the answer of all my queries.

A philosopher can be defined in number of ways and so is the poet. The problem occurs that who is there to define. Usually the emergence of knowledge as discipline plays a critical role in defining or subjectivising the objects.

Having said that it is clear that there is an entity called philosophers and there is someone known as poet. Both dwell deep into thought. Both are thinkers. Both reflect. Both go through violent and incessant pain.

The difference emanates in observation and expression. Poet throws himself into situation and philosopher pulls himself out. ‘Miraji’ cannot live without ‘Miraji’ to produce poetry or thought, his love is a pure indulgence and an only source of production or poetic existence while for Plato this is nothing but ‘a serious mental disease’

This play of getting in and getting out is what defines a philosopher or a poet.

A poet experiences and tries to live it, he/she expresses this experience in a lyrical form and as a personal experience while a philosopher sees it as a problem (not mere experience) and he/she considers his/her existence in the experience as mere accident (as Derrida would argue) therefore a philosopher avoids autobiography (historically) and Derrida says that this politeness and impoliteness is philosophy. This may be one of the reasons why philosopher doesn’t commit suicide and poets do.

For a poet entire universe starts to converge in his being while for a philosopher everything starts to diverge and scatter from his being.

A poet is ‘always there’ while a philosopher is ‘never there’.

A philosopher always tries to make even his experience/observation a universal question. He tries to expand it, he tries to broaden the horizon of every single problem, experience and observation. The poet don’t try it, never articulate it – jo dil pe guzarti hai raqam karte rahenge(continue to write from whatever our heart has gone thorough). A poet tries to individualize the pain instead of universalizing it.  Therefore one finds his solace in a poet not in a philosopher.

Controlling one action is also linked to the above-mentioned point. I don’t completely agree with your statement because there were philosophers who lived carelessly, said what they wanted to say, and lived the way they wanted to live, indulged in things in which they wanted to indulge. Foucault is the best example. A poet appears to be more carefree because he doesn’t fear the value judgment; he is not giving lessons in ethics or morality. He can write shikwa (Complaint) and jawab e shikwa (answer of complaint) .

He can expose the incoherence and contradictions of life in the most contradictory fashion while a philosopher tries to find coherence in the incoherence and incoherence in the coherence.  There are poets who are philosophers and there are philosophers who are poet. This is perhaps the most interesting category and most complex one – The epitome of rational – emotional fusion. Jon elia, Iqbal, Ibn e Hazm, Derrida, Nietzsche and many other belong to this category.

To read more of Musab Iqbal-

24th March 2014

  • Rashid Abbasi: Why do people write poems? I mean don’t you ever feel discouraged?

    Musab Iqbal: discouraged with/discouraged for?

    Rashid Abbasi:We belong to a different era. The method to express yourself creatively has changed. Technology has made it easy at the same time everyone is too busy in dealing with information overflow. When people are too busy in other modes of entertainment or communication. who has the time to contemplate or find out hidden meaning of a poem? or is it important for me to think about that? Because at the same time I feel I should keep on writing and my love for poetry doesn’t mean that I am a good poet.

    Musab Iqbal: I think for me writing is the only way not to get discouraged, through writing I get the light, I feel the light. Writing is not only about expressing but it has deeper project the project of archiving the time – the emotion of the time – the tension of the time. My poem is the translation of my time. The question may arise that why am I writing a poem – was it intended?

    In age of absurd material/industrial production or hyper capitalism what poetry has to do may be asked as a question. I think Walter Benjamin in two of his brilliant work raised similar question. One, while writing on poet Baudelaire and one on question of art in age of mechanical production. His both writing might help.

    I can guarantee you one thing even everything is on table, everything is on google – the thinking, the thought has a future. Poetry is a form of thought. It may take new forms of expression but since thinking has a future, poetry has too

    It was indeed a beautiful conversation.
    Now, a Poem* by N.M. Rashid which describes beautifully the preoccupation with creative effort and state of absorption.

    Phir bhii andeshah vuh aaindah hai jis mae goyaa
    miir ho , miirzaa ho , miiraajii ho
    kuchh nahiin dekhte hain

    Nevertheless thought is that future in which, so to speak,
    Mir would be, Mirza [Ghalib] would be, Miraji would be
    we see nothing

    mahvar-e ishq kii khvuud-mast haqiiqat ke sivaa
    apne hii biim-o-rajaa apnii hii suurat ke sivaa

    except for the self-intoxicated reality of the absorption in passion,
    except for our own terror and hope, our own face,

    apne rang , apne badan , apnii hi qaamat ke sivaa
    apnii tanhaaii-e jaan-kaah kii vahshat ke sivaa

    except for our complexion, our body, our stature,
    except for the wildness of our life-exhausting solitude,

    dil-kharaashii-o- jigar-chaakii-o- khuun-afshaanii
    huun to naa-kaam par hote hain mujhe kaam bahut

    heart-lacerating and liver-tearing and blood-scattering
    I’m useless, but there remain for me many tasks.


OF RASHID(a ghazal for your birthday)

We rise to the ether, for the I Ching of Rashid

Star-soaked words from the mouth of Rashid

Turbulent current, “As above, so below”

We sail on the broken wing of Rashid

Will your book be penned in complete absentia?

Dear friends, what news do you bring of Rashid?

Terrestrial bard, an unknowing Prince

Because only Ghalib is King of Rashid

Word-seeker pierces your heart with arrow

As my muse informs me, to sing of Rashid

-Poetsings Muse

January 14, 2014

Time Cancels All



Take it as a FAILED attempt to express my attachment

Frustration and misery of being a man.

To write what should not be written

To complete what was not incomplete.


You will meet many men in your life-

Some of the men will just cross your path

Being smart you will know.

Some of the men will say they have lost their heart

Being beautiful you will understand.

And also the men you fall in love with

Being human you will suffer.


I wish I could have seen myself through your eyes

To had a glimpse of truth and not be deceived by lies.

I am confused, if I was a failed lover, or the poor one?


Your actions filled me with jealousy

Other man saw in you what I could not see?

Your sad eyes- to me they were never belong-

Cruel fate never gave me chance to dive into them for long.

I never explored your wonderful body

Never smelt your hair.

But If I become religious for a moment

You will be an answer to all my prayer.


I will never forget, our walk together and our philosophical talk-

The new perspectives about life in me you have sparked.


I wish another one you have found loves you equally madly

And you have accepted that madness very gladly.


I’m afraid, when somebody will speak out your name,

My soul will rediscover its lost oppressive pain.


Time will kill our memories

Time will heal our pain

Time will turn our heart into stone

And prepare us to fall in love again.


With some injuries

And a sense of loss

This is not the sad end

But a strength provided-

A freshness given-

To the mysterious voyage called life.

March 11, 2014

There is no death

This is not the end but

another beginning.

He has gone back to the place

from where he came.

He found himself out of this world,

more close to

the darkness and the empty sky

then to the people.

A failed lover-

who loved people-

Always prefered roses over yellow, white flowers.

A failed writer-

Who loved poems-

Always prefered poems by others than by himself.

A failed human-

Who loved human beings-

Always prefered grief of other than of himself.

Too much self-appreciation-

Is this another effort of throwing himself high?

Every stone thrown above-

Must fall-

And life is a perpetual falling.

Nobody remembers him

except few grief-stricken.

Not a memory?

But he is liberated

and at much awaited place of his life.

February 23, 2014

What is Worse?

They tore down his suit
broke his wrist watch
they all look like him
& laughing like monsters

He looked all around,
found himself helpless
so he tried to concentrate in his technical book
but he can only see one word in every word

fail fail fail!
[As  ignoring self, he is trying to follow others advice]

Is his condition really worse
but what is worse?
Death of a man
or death of his dreams?
Silence like an ocean
or a loud scream?

Hating someone
or unexpressed love?

Not having friends
or never choosing one?

He couldn’t figure it out
in a state of aimlessness
and thoughtfulness

He is in a continuous struggle
struggle with some kind of fear inside

but is it a fear of living
or dying without achieving?

He runs,
runs to catch the forest
and tries to escape

At each step
the forest distance appears to him the same

he is a loser
a worst performer

If life is a game.

May 8, 2012

Force Beyond Self

Curl  on your face
Your pink satin suit
A nightmare for my wild thoughts
The desirable woman
You look very cute
You frown
You smile,
Talking  with another guy
Looking at me occasionally
Sometime confident
Sometime shy

The curve of your holy grail
A perfect fit for my manhood
My wild thoughts prevail
My flaws as a man
I understood

Your beautiful feet
With nail-polish red
I want to kiss them
Like I never had.

24 feb 2013

Traffic signal

Helmets motionless
like dead

helmets creating sound
they exist

Helmets in race to get ahead
its apparent now
who got more power.

October 20, 2012