places poetry

Remembering Rawalpindi Medical College (RMC)


Slowly, I leaf through the pages of

“Prof. Latif’s retirement special”;

With best wishes says the autograph

The year 1987.


His professional life, his achievements’ height

He’s long gone, like many others but memories

Are still fresh as the forest’s night


I feel the tug of 'that' invisible line,

That runs from my past,

From a place called RMC.


Extending way back through the corridors,

Looking past lecture doors

Brushing, the anatomy and physiology posters,

I drew then

Now hung on the walls.


I trace it round the dissecting hall.

Its desiccated bodies and formalin soaked specimens.

Bunked lectures and youthful shenanigans


Hanging out at the corner kiosk

Or playing cool in the college canteen


The line has never been forgotten.


But it gets covered, with day-to-day routines

Now, we have taken different roads,

Moving in different directions.


We read Facebook conversations,

Click through nostalgic pictures,

Yearning that youth, that young face:

That young feeling


The line has gaps in between, when we have been,

On several other journeys;

Operated in foreign theatres

Run clinics away from home...

Laughed and shed a tear, held a hand,

Solaced some one’s sad and untold fear.

Thinking do we need the line


Nostalgia has its own specific charm,

Smiles, unspoken words, tears,

All gather to form a new sphere,


40 years on it connects us

Extending from that old building

Connecting its countless souls

Synchronised with our heartbeats



It becomes visible


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Our 40th Reunion, I am planning to read it to my colleagues. I hope it stirs the same emotion I have experienced writing it.


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Golden Temple.




Riding high on the limpid waves

Rising high on the shimmering presence

Blue waters of white marbled chequers

For the eternal hymns of wayward heart

The golden domes invoking a saffron path.


Novices of thoughts and sunshine abiding

The golden swarms of vibratory atoms

The hush of pilgrims on the circular pitch

Tearing apart structures of egoed ditch.


Give vent to destinations of beauty & liberty

The concerns of soul now past its restrictions

Illuminate a glance bereft of the inner tumult

Saluting the Guru’s presence in a silent rebirth.

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Observations "Poets in the Bookshop" evening

Knitting needles working feverishly
Time slips by without notice
Escaping through the woven web
Of wool and verse
Coffee cups await tender lips
And the bottle of wine swoons
In pleasure
As the poet, choreographs
Verbs, metaphors and phrases
Hands on chins, the audience
Is entranced
In the corner
The guitar plays
Raindrops on window panes silently
I drench myself
And satiate poetry
Nothing else matters

Author's Notes/Comments: 

It was the last Poets in the bookshop evening before it was re-christened Poets in the Cafe. I sat there looking at people and what they were doing. I scribbled on a piece of paper and then yesterday the poem was born. Hope you like it

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