Shayari
The Market of Whispers
A veteran Lucknowi poet laments the transformation of the intimate mushaira into a digital spectacle, confronting her own complicity before turning to the quiet truth of her verses.
Mustard oil drips from the copper wick, staining the red brick of the courtyard.
Silence used to have weight here.
Now, the air feels thin, crowded with the artificial hum of a hundred mobile screens. They call it a celebration of art. I call it a funeral with a louder microphone.
In the old days—those slow, indigo evenings in Lucknow—a ghazal was a secret whispered between the writer and the shadow of the archway. We did not write for the crowd. We wrote for the one person who could hear the silence between the words. But today, the poetry must perform. It must dance on command. It must wear loud colors and shout its metaphors so that the back row can scream its approval.
This is the trade we made. We traded the slow, deliberate ink of our solitude for the cheap heat of instant noise.
I remember standing on a brightly lit stage last month, the cold metal of a collar microphone pinching my silk kurta, waiting for the red tally light of the camera to cue my voice. I too have opened the doors to the marketplace. The modern mushaira is no longer a gathering of souls; it is a circus of soundbites. Where is the room for the unsaid? Where is the space for the breath that catches in the throat before the second line is even uttered?
When we turn a private ritual of grief or love into a public spectacle, the words lose their weight. They become hollow brass bells, ringing loudly but containing only empty air. Under the heat of the studio lamps, the ink dries before it can sink into the paper.
We traded the slow, deep Subhan’Allah—the quiet nod of a true connoisseur—for the instant validation of digital double-taps.
The candle on my desk flickers. The wind from the street is too loud today. Here is what remains when the spectacle goes quiet.
Shahr ke is shor mein ab koi ghar bachta nahi,
Khamoshi ke darmeyan apna asar bachta nahi.
Bech kar ruswaiyaan jo daad lene aaye hain,
Unke hathon mein koi bhi hamsafar bachta nahi.
Pehle likhte the jise dil ki sunehri raakh par,
Ab usey likhne ko koi bhi jigar bachta nahi.
Bano is mehtab ke saye mein rona seekh lo,
Is tamasha-gah mein ab apna shahr bachta nahi.
The screen of my phone blinks. A cold blue light casts long, distorted shadows across the cracked plaster of the wall. I blow out the candle.
#writon