In the mirror of power, no one is just a friend

I use Ghalib because only poetry can hold the contradictions of this land without breaking. And I carry Derrida quietly, because this isn’t about one truth but the way meanings shift, retreat, and return, always unsettled.

Dulat and Farooq are not enemies in this story. They are co-authors of a text that was written long before this moment, and always at our expense.

بازیچۂ اطفال ہے دنیا مرے آگے
ہوتا ہے شب و روز تماشا مرے آگے

bāzīcha-e-atfāl hai duniyā mire aage
hotā hai shab-o-roz tamāshā mire aage

This world is a playground of children. Day and night, only spectacle unfolds before me.

Explanation:
The ones who live under decisions do not mistake them for destiny. When Dulat wrote, and Farooq flinched, I didn’t see shock. I saw a familiar routine.

I have seen more dangerous games played over this land with gentler words. This moment, too, is performance. One calls it memory. One calls it fiction.

But both know it’s just theatre built on the backs of people who never got to choose a role.

اک کھیل ہے اورنگِ سلیماں مرے نزدیک
اک بات ہے اعجازِ مسیحا مرے آگے

ik khel hai aurañg-e-sulaimāñ mire nazdīk
ik baat hai ejāz-e-masīhā mire aage

The throne of Solomon is only a game. Even the miracle of Christ just a story.

Explanation:
Power speaks in stories. Always has. And both these men one from the files, one from the stage know how to tell them.

One says, “He might have helped.”

The other says, “I am hurt.”

But I have seen too many thrones built here from bones. I do not believe in miracles. Not when the miracle always costs someone else their breath.

جز نام نہیں صورتِ عالم مجھے منظور
جز وہم نہیں ہستیِ اشیا مرے آگے

juz naam nahīñ sūrat-e-ālam mujhe manzūr
juz vahm nahīñ hastī-e-ashiyā mire aage

I no longer see the shape of the world only names. No longer substance only suspicion.

Explanation:
Dulat’s sentence might be true. Or not. It doesn’t matter. The moment a name like Farooq’s was placed beside Article 370, it began to rot.

In this land, names carry blood like scent. Even when denied, the damage is already done. What matters here is not evidence. It’s echo.

ہوتا ہے نہاں گرد میں صحرا مرے ہوتے
گھستا ہے جبیں خاک پہ دریا مرے آگے

hotā hai nihāñ gard meñ sahrā mire hote
ghistā hai jabīñ ḳhaak pe dariyā mire aage

The desert hides in dust. The river rubs its forehead against the earth.

Explanation:
They drank together. Sat in gardens. Smiled for pictures.

And perhaps, they believed it. But for us, their softness was never innocent. When friends hold power between them, their laughter can level cities. What bowed before them wasn’t affection. It was the weight of those who had no voice in the room.

مت پوچھ کہ کیا حال ہے میرا ترے پیچھے
تو دیکھ کہ کیا رنگ ہے تیرا مرے آگے

mat pūchh ki kyā haal hai merā tire pīchhe
tū dekh ki kyā rañg hai terā mire aage

Don’t ask what became of me after you left. Look at what you have become, standing before me.

Explanation:
Farooq’s voice trembled. He quoted poetry, not politics. But I did not hear grief. I heard the sound of a mask cracking.

The one called friend now looked like the one who watched. Who remembered too much. And chose what to recall.

⸻

سچ کہتے ہو خود بین و خود آرا ہوں، نہ کیوں ہوں؟
بیٹھا ہے بتِ آئینہ سیما مرے آگے

sach kahte ho ḳhud-bīn o ḳhud-ārā huuñ na kyuuñ huuñ
baiThā hai but-e-ā.ina-sīmā mire aage

Of course I’m vain. How could I not be with this mirror-faced idol before me?

Explanation:
Their bond was made of reflection. One flattered. One absorbed. Both were shaped by how they wanted to be seen. But when the mirror tells a new story, the idol doesn’t shatter.

It shifts. What Dulat gave Farooq was not betrayal it was a new reflection. One that couldn’t be unshown.

پھر دیکھئے اندازِ گل افشانیءِ گفتار
رکھ دے کوئی پیمانہءِ صہبا مرے آگے

phir dekhiye andāz-e-gul-afshānī-e-guftār
rakh de koī paimāna-e-sahbā mire aage

See how sweetly the words are scattered bring me wine.

Explanation:
There was no accusation. No harshness. Only recollection. And yet, those of us who have been buried under words know that even the gentlest ones can carry weight.

Dulat’s line was soft. His denial even softer. But meaning bleeds through tone, not text. And his tone was deliberate.

⸻

نفرت کا گماں گزرے ہے، میں رشک سے گزرا
کیوں کر کہوں لو! نام نہ ان کا مرے آگے؟

nafrat kā gumāñ guzre hai maiñ rashk se guzrā
kyūñkar kahūñ lo naam na un kā mire aage

It wasn’t hate it was envy. So how can I now say their name?

Explanation:
Farooq never called Dulat by name. Not in anger. But we saw it. The way friendship shifted into something colder.

And yet, he couldn’t call him anything else. That’s the cruelty of proximity. You can’t disown what once protected you. Even when it turns.

ایماں مجھے روکے ہے جو کھینچے ہے مجھے کفر
کعبہ مرے پیچھے ہے، کلیسا مرے آگے

īmāñ mujhe roke hai jo khīñche hai mujhe kufr
ka.aba mire pīchhe hai kalīsā mire aage

Faith holds me back, disbelief pulls me forward. The Kaba behind, the cathedral ahead.

Explanation
Farooq lives between two demands. One from here. One from there. But once Dulat’s sentence was out, neither side fully claimed him.

This is what happens in power games: the pawn is told he’s a king until the board flips. And then, he walks alone.

عاشق ہوں، پہ معشوق فریبی ہے مرا کام
مجنوں کو برا کہتی ہے لیلا مرے آگے

āshiq huuñ pa māshūq-farebī hai mirā kaam
majnūñ ko burā kahtī hai lailā mire aage

Yes, I’m the lover. But my trade is deceiving the beloved. Now Laila calls Majnun bad.

Explanation:
Dulat always spoke with warmth. Farooq was the wise one. The approachable one. And perhaps he believed it.

But warmth, here, is strategy. It draws you in until the story is no longer yours. When love becomes a method, truth becomes theatre.

⸻

خوش ہوتے ہیں پر وصل میں یوں مر نہیں جاتے
آئی شبِ ہجراں کی تمنا مرے آگے

ḳhush hote haiñ par vasl meñ yuuñ mar nahīñ jaate
aa.ī shab-e-hijrāñ kī tamannā mire aage

They rejoice in union, but don’t die from it. And now, the night of separation feels like relief.

Explanation:
Now both men retreat. The sentence becomes “misinterpretation.” The bond becomes silence. But I do not read this as reconciliation.

It is simply what happens when a script ends. They go quiet. And we are left with the noise they leave behind.

ہے موجزن اک قلزمِ خوں، کاش یہی ہو
آتا ہے ابھی دیکھیے کیا کیا مرے آگے

hai maujzan ik qulzum-e-ḳhūñ kaash yahī ho
aatā hai abhī dekhiye kyā kyā mire aage

A sea of blood churns if only it ended here. But let’s see what comes next.

Explanatio:
This wasn’t the first time a sentence rearranged history. And it won’t be the last.

Farooq and Dulat may write books, but what they’ve written in us remains unwriten. Their games no matter how polite are always played on our silence.

گو ہاتھ کو جنبش نہیں، آنکھوں میں تو دم ہے
رہنے دو ابھی ساغر و مینا مرے آگے

go haath ko jumbish nahīñ āñkhoñ meñ to dam hai
rahne do abhī sāġhar-o-mīnā mire aage

Though my hand does not move, my eyes still hold strength. Leave the wine before me.

Explanation:
I will not intervene. I will not shout. But I will watch. That is all I have left. Eyes that read their silences. Eyes that remember the cost.

ہم پیشہ، و ہم مشرب، و ہمراز ہے میرا
غالبؔ کو برا کیوں کہو، اچھا مرے آگے؟

ham-pesha o ham-mashrab o hamrāz hai merā
‘ġhālib’ ko burā kyuuñ kaho achchhā mire aage

He is of my craft, my drink, my circle why call Ghalib bad before me?

Explanation:
They were never enemies. They understood each other too well. But understanding, here, is not grace. It is complicity.

Their friendship, their fallouts all happened on the stage we were never allowed to leave. I do not curse them. I do not praise them. I simply refuse to forget.

Views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position and policy of Free Press Kashmir. Feedback and counter-views are welcome at editor@freepresskashmir.com.