Monday, June 3, 2019

Solo in a Pack

"When you practise on your own, you meet yourself." Giselle, my yoga teacher said softly. She smiled her usual warm smile, her eyes disappearing in the rise of her cheeks, only the shining sparkle of her wisdom shone through. 

I was sitting on my mat feeling at peace with my body. The class had come to an end. Mats were being rolled up, blankets were being stacked neatly and placed in a blue Ikea bag. All the students were in different stages of getting ready to leave. 

It was the last class before a long summer break. To me, it felt like a weaning off session, an attempt by our soft spoken guru to nudge us towards our mats without the scaffolding of her words guiding our limbs, our breath and our thoughts. 

She may have said something after that last sentence. But I didn't hear her. Something about 'meeting myself' made me stop in my tracks. Like a camera lens, my thoughts zoomed in on those two words. The rest of what was being said and done around me faded into a blur.

How easy is it to meet yourself? 

Are we ever ready to make our own acquaintance? Truly and honestly? 

Why do I find it easier to drive to a class to practice than to roll out my mat at home? 

Keeping the raging dialogue hidden inside my head, I  paid up, said goodbye and left. 

When I resist the mat, am I in some way refusing to meet myself? I wondered as I drove out.

I had put my reluctance down to lack of discipline and general laziness. I never thought of it as being unprepared or unwilling to meet myself. 

And what does meeting oneself really mean? 

'Listen to your body', Anusha, my first yoga guru, used to say. 'Don't worry about others, be present on your mat.' 

'How you are on your mat is how you are in your life.' was another one of  Anusha's favourite things to say during a class. 

For me, the words I hear in class are as important as the techniques I'm shown. My teachers' wise utterances keep playing in the recesses of my self, especially the bits that I need to pay attention to. 

Summer is unique in Doha. As the school year comes to its natural end in June, many families move out of the city for good to either head back home, or move to a new place with better job opportunities or to be close to where their children are (at universities etc.) Doha's working population is predominantly ex-pat, so it's natural for the city to be a transient stop for many.

A friend recently remarked how her corner of the yoga class she's been part of has emptied out as many of her yoga buddies have left.

Getting attached to a group of people, a class time-table, your favourite place in the shala to unroll your mat, a sequence of asanas, or even a yoga teacher are all shades of that which yoga is showing us to distance ourselves from: attachment. 

And going back to Giselle's words, only in finding the discipline and courage to make a date with myself to meet me can I hope to distance myself from all the above attachments. Otherwise, any one of the above has the capacity to interfere with my practice.

Being solo in a pack is a beautiful place to be in. 

Often on treks, despite being part of a group and despite respecting the safety codes of trekking (not lagging too far behind or running too far ahead), I often detach from others and walk with myself. It's a beautiful and liberating feeling.

Watching the daisies dance with the breeze, the play of the morning sun on leaves, the dusty clouds that keep puffing out of soles of the one walking ahead of you and rustling leaves are all present like my teachers' words: telling me to listen to the voice inside, to meet the soul that has been given a body that I use to live, to walk, to practise yoga, to write, to cook, to love, to laugh, to sing off tune, to dance with abandon, to dress up in a saree or to spend an entire day in old pajamas, to bathe in waterfalls, to slip on big rocks, to hold a friend's hand, to give her long and tight hugs and to sip hot tea.

"We are not becoming experts.
  We are just finally becoming good students."
Says William Martin in The Sage's Tao Te Ching

As a student, I hope I can use the steps my teachers have shown me to practise the discipline of detachment so that I may meet myself more often on my mat. And in doing so, I can be a better version of my solo self, one day at a time.

Whatever your daily practise, be it a walk in the park, mediation, preparing food for family, writing, singing, dancing, listening, earning money or just being, I wish you all the best. 

I'm writing a blog post after a long time. Bear with me while I flex my writing muscles. The thoughts I've poured out today have been knocking my insides for a few days.

The photos I've shared on this post were clicked in the Himalayas (Maunda and Chakrata) a couple of weeks ago.

Eid Mubarak to all who are celebrating .

I'll sign off with these lines from The Sage's Tao Te Ching by William Martin

"Work with passion and energy
at the tasks you cherish,
but connect often with that part of you
that is watching it all happen
with eternal joy and love."
**********************************
I'd love to know what you make of Giselle's words. What do you do to meet yourself? Do you do that often? 


Wednesday, April 10, 2019

A Thank You note: to the lookout journal

If you've been a part of this blog's journey, then you would've noticed the long silences.

The past six months have been a jumble of thoughts and emotions. The novelty of empty nesting refuses to wear off and I find that I'm so preoccupied with 'what's next' that I'm not doing anything now.

For the first time in three years, the A to Z blogging challenge has stood out of reach. I was sure I'd be ready for it and then when the last day of March turned into the first day of April, I realized I wasn't.

I'm at an intersection of so many plans and ideas that choosing the 'one path' is proving tricky.

There's a new camera to get familiar with.

Then there's a voluntary pursuit that started off as an art therapy session at a hospital four months ago. But it has evolved into a promise of an art exhibition in the very near future.

And the freedom of an empty-nester combined with the blessing of rebate air tickets has meant frequent travels out of Doha.

Also, as with any creative pursuit, long rest periods can develop into breeding grounds for self-doubt and laziness. 

As a result, this quarter has been busy but without any blogging.

So, when the lovely duo at the lookout journal, Anusha and Vangmayi, showed interest in a proposal I sent them, I was thrilled.

This was a first for me. To write a piece for a journal. To work with edits. To look at my writing from an editor's point of view. To say what I wanted to say but not say it in so many words. To be happy with snips and corrections.

I'm utterly grateful to the duo at the lookout journal for making this easy and enjoyable for me.

Here's the link. Have a read. Tell me what  you think. Share it if you'd like someone else to read it too.

of saris, goddesses and the common woman

I hope I can come back to regular blogging soon. I miss it for sure. It's time to make time and find the focus. 

Thank you for reading my words.
Have a wonderful day.

Friday, January 25, 2019

The attitude of greytitude


What is grey?

Is it a minus or a plus?

Is it the fading of colour from lush black hair?

Or an adding of salt and pepper to their ripeness? 

Is the lack of colour a reminder of my mortality?

Or a timely reminder to celebrate the years lived?

How you look at grey is entirely up to you.

I'll be celebrating my forty-eighth birthday soon. I've been greying for a few years now. After almost a decade of henna application regimen of once a month, I switched to hair colour when the rate of greying spiked. I convinced myself that No Ammonia written in purple letters on my box of shop bought colour meant it's almost chemical free and therefore harmless. I was wrong. My hair didn't take to the colour like I'd hoped it would and so I'm back to applying henna twice a month. The henna I use these days is organic. Yes, I believe the claims made by the packaging.

I've thought about greying naturally many times. To not bother about covering up my ripening roots. To celebrate rather than hide my luck to have lived this long, and mostly in good health. I'll be a year older than my mother ever was when I turn 48. 

But this pull of vanity makes me pick up that brush, load it up with goopy green henna paste, slather it on my head, paying special attention to the pesky roots, the obstinate growth above the temples that NEVER changes colour, no matter how many layers of colour or henna I put on it. Then there's the 4 to 6 hours of waiting, wearing a drying henna crown covered in cling film or shower cap. A couple of sheets of kitchen towel are twisted and stuffed into the edges of the shower cap to stop the henna from leaking on to my forehead or ears or clothes or the floor. The washing off of henna takes time. The bath gets super messy. All in all, it's a very messy and tedious process. 

Of course, this can all be replicated in a salon. I don't have the patience to sit for long periods of time in salons and my middle class Punjabi upbringing runs strongly through my veins. So, if I can achieve the same results at home, I'd rather wear my crown of crusty henna for a few hours every fortnight while I cook or watch Netflix or read.

The question I struggle with is why do it at all? 

I admire women and men who are happy with their greys. My husband is one of them.

I'd like to be just like them when I grow up.

I keep promising myself that I'll stop colouring my hair after this next milestone in my life. Our son's high school graduation in May. Our daughter's university graduation in June. Our holiday in September. That dinner at a friend's last Thursday. Yes, you get the idea. The pull of vanity is strong with this one. 

At times like these, I take refuge in the shade of greytitude (a term that popped into my head on one of my morning walks): a state of being that allows a person to be kind to themselves. It's when grey mixes with gratitude. It's when after having lived a few decades of accumulating material comforts, one realises how important the free things in life are. Not just important, but essential and irreplaceable.

Greytitude has to be cultivated, like a habit.

So, I show myself the kindness I find easy to give to others. 

I remind myself  that I have hair and it's healthy and the choice to colour or not is mine. When it feels right, I'll stop. For now, I'll cover my greys. But, I won't let the greys cover me with self-conscious gloop. I've lived my thirties is boxes of what will people say. It's time to discard those suffocating boxes. 

Today, as I sit at my kitchen table to write a post after almost five months, I look out.

Doha sky is wearing a soft grey blanket. Winter has arrived very late this year. 

The month of December was warm. Both our children were home for the holidays. The four of us were together under one roof after almost a year. Our collective chatter, arguments, silly jokes, leg pulling, telling off, accusations, sharing of news, making of plans, meals at the kitchen table, pizza slices in front of TV, saving and then savouring of favourite episodes filled the house to the brim with the warmth of family.

January arrived. The children left.

An empty nest. A quieter home. 

The clearly defined lines of mothering, the black and white of raising a family have been blurring into the greyness of what next. What does my role as a mother of adult children mean to me? to them?

Like a drop of dark ink in a bowl of clear water, I feel my world of parenting disappearing into a bigger, wider world. I feel like that drop of ink: spreading one molecule at a time, mixing with the water, losing my essence as a mother to the world that my children now inhabit. A world where they don't need me or my cooking. The black and white world of bed-time stories, school runs, packed lunches, help with homework, PTA meetings, school plays and proms has disappeared like that drop of ink. 

I sigh deeply as I type this post out. The drop of ink may have disappeared, but the water carries the tinges of its colour. 

Greytitude comes to my rescue again.

It's time to take down the scaffolding of mothering.

I celebrate the diluted inky waters of my new role as a mother who gets more Whatsapp messages than hugs.

I rejoice in the 'miss you too' and 'love you' sign offs.

I look forward to the next time this home will house us all in its fold.

In the meantime, I celebrate the open pastures of time where I can frolic with a book, volunteer at a hospital or at a special needs school, enjoy long languorous lunches with friends or just sit and stare at  sparrows in the garden as they flit from a purple petunia to a buttery frangipani, cheerful in their tweets and sprightly flights. I can do whatever I choose to do with my time, which is no longer bound by the knots of school runs.

I choose greytitude: an attitude of gratitude as I enter my fuzzy, soft, warm grey years.
I choose to be far away from hard lines, from definitions, rules that stifle, clothes that restrict, make-up that covers up more than it shows, people who find faults with everything, human stories that only focus on the ugly and the offensive. 

Instead, I choose to savour my grey like one savours the soft pink and white splendour of cherry blossoms or the orange and red of an autumnal birch. For like the seasons, my greys  will dissipate in a blink of an eye. Whether I will be blessed with the bliss of a snowy winter, I do not know. 

In the meantime, let me relish these grey pauses and welcome the peace and quiet of my home of brick and mortar into my heart of flesh and blood. Let me sit in silence and dip into my inner well often so I may draw from it the milk of human kindness. Let me ground myself enough so I may have the strength to share the warmth of my  grey blanket with a soul in need. 

Let me line my attitude with the warmth of gratitude.

Leaving you with these most beautiful words written by Guru Nanak Dev ji, sung like a dream by Shivpreet Singh and sent to me by my dear friend, Vidya. Her name means knowledge in English. I smile.




Wishing you all many moments of peace and tranquility.

Friday, August 31, 2018

A story: Of four women on a road trip in India

"If you need soda or sprite for the evening, please get it when you go to the waterfall." informed the caretaker of the homestay when we checked in. 

It was almost time for lunch. The plan was to explore Elle Neer waterfall before sunset.

The caretaker's  simple and matter of fact suggestion implied that we may be pouring a glass or two of our chosen poison at the end of the day.

So what's the big deal?

Nothing, really. No big deal.

But there's a reason why I'm sharing this here on my blog today.

Let me explain.

Almost a month ago, I read Deepa Krishnan's facebook post of 21st July 2018. Her post was about the "singular lack of multiple narratives about Indian women" vis-a-vis women's safety in India. Krishnan had shared this Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's famous TED talk video focussing on the "danger of a single story" and written, "If you keep telling one story it becomes the defining image of a people." on her post.
Something in those lines nudged me to tell my story, our story: a simple story of four ordinary Indian women travelling from Bangalore to Kudremukha for a weekend to trek, to share dreams and disappointments, to laugh out loud, to make fun of each other, to plan the next rendezvous, to enjoy delicious food, to sip fresh filter coffee in the morning and vodka tonic in the evening, to ask for spicy peanuts to go with the drinks in the evening as easily as demanding (politely, of course) bhajias with coffee. 

Some of you who've read the last para may think: so what's the big deal? Where is the story? 

And therein lies my point. There is no story to spin. Four of us: all women, travelled in a car driven by a woman, found a beautiful home-stay to spend two nights, trekked a bit, got very, very wet under a waterfall, got bitten by leeches, cackled over silly jokes and then travelled back to our homes, lives, jobs, husbands, children etc. --all in one piece without a single man bothering us in any shape or form. 

The roads were Indian and the humans who guided us to step carefully over slushy mud to see a gorgeous horizon or to bathe under a thunderous waterfall were men (yes, Indian)--gentle, kind, caring men. Indian men cooked delicious dosas and prepared hot steaming coffee on demand and served us our food with a smile. 

The humans who sat and chatted on the little porch overlooking the gorgeous green and grey of tea gardens smothered in fog were all men, too: c0-owners of the home-stay called Thengaali. They were happy to receive feedback on how to make their place even more comfortable for future guests from our group of four women. Apu pointed out that they should put extra hooks for clothes in their bathrooms. They nodded and promised they'd get that sorted.

This is the 'other' story--the one that is repeated day in and day out in streets and on roads of India but never ever gets reported. Why? Is it because it's inconsequential? Or, perhaps, it's not spicy enough to sell?

Of course, there are exceptions. There are parts of India where we're less likely to travel like we did from Bangalore to Kudremukha. Those kind of places and areas exist in every nook and city of this world--from Chicago to Birmingham to Jakarta. Common sense should be the first thing you pack when you plan a holiday whether you're a man or a woman. 

There are states in India where the caretaker will not be happy to serve you sprite or soda with vodka--whether you're a man or a woman.

There are men who'll be reading this post and wondering how my husband allows me to go off gallivanting with my girlfriends like this.

There are women who'll be reading this post and wondering the same. Perhaps there will be more women than men. I don't know.

Perceptions and prejudices are part and parcel of the human story. I'm not an expert but I'd say prejudices and perceptions are evolutionary tools that helped us get to where we are today. One perceived danger and avoided it. Over time that perception morphed into prejudice. Or perhaps it did so when we lived as tribal nomads. Thus, helping tribes to keep their own safe against perceived or actual danger from other tribes.

That was then. This is now. We have moved from tents to tower blocks, but we insist to carry those prejudices with us like second skin. 

Single narratives protect and nourish this second skin.

Everything you feel, goes through the pores of this second skin. It becomes your reality. If you don't know otherwise, what you know becomes your truth--you don't question it.

So, the whole point of this post is to present a side of India that doesn't get talked about much: the safe and unbiased side--where men are so comfortable with themselves and their place in society that they have the courage to treat women as an equal and advise them to stock up on soda and sprite before the corner shop up in the hills of western ghats shuts for the day. 

It's become fashionable to call such men feminists these days. I'm married to one such man. He seems normal to me. 

After reading Krishnan's post, I've decided to share examples of ordinary men and women in India who live a life of equality as often as I can. I want to infuse my two pennies worth into the human narrative of the country I was born in.

I'm aware that reporting and talking about men behaving badly is very, very important. I'm aware that drinking alcohol is not a measure of liberty for either men or women. I'm aware that there is a long and arduous journey ahead of us before women can feel truly equal to men--not just in India but everywhere in the world. I may be a dreamer but my feet are firmly grounded in reality. Yes, I'm aware of the stark naked unfairness so many women face every day. 

But, stories that are ordinary and mundane and not anti-men also need to be shared. Otherwise, we are in danger of painting a single 'image of a people.' 

What's your story? Please share instances of 'good' whenever you can, no matter how small or inconsequential it may look.
Leaving you with this cheerful portrait of Ms. Bano (I forget her first name: sorry) who is a Gujjar from Madhya Pradesh. She, along with her family, is hired as a tea picker to work on daily wages on this tea plantation in the Western Ghats.
Enjoy a happy and peaceful weekend.

Sunday, August 12, 2018

a gathering of drops on moss in a liberal democracy


every drop
has her own point of view.
the village of clouds that raised them is a liberal democracy.

even today
when they gather together
on a mossy bench,
they share their stories
the way their rain mother showed them to:

Fearless.

Free.

Un-filtered.

a complete collective
of eclectic points of view.


It's been a long absence from blogging for me. I'd thought I'd take a couple of weeks off after the April blogging challenge and get back to my regular pace in June. But June became July and July turned to August and apart from my short shares on Insta, I haven't written much at all this summer.

It's been a summer of amazing reads and graduations and short trips to those graduations and one to a monsoon soaked western ghats (near Bangalore) where the above two pictures are from. 

I hope you've been well and happy.

Travelling opens up ones horizons, they say, but it also highlights the polarization of thoughts among people who choose to feed on news as their source of intellectual nourishment. If I had my way, I'd put this statutory warning on every news item that peddles the us and them junk: "This is injurious to your and your planet's health." 

It's been a summer of listening and absorbing so far. And if political narrow-mindedness has shocked me for I found it in the most unlikeliest of places: on the lips of an evolved dear friend, some attitudes and stories I've witnessed have made me jump with joy for their open-mindedness and acceptance, even though I found those in unlikely corners too--far away from the city, in the words of ordinary and not very educated men. More about that in my next post.

Have a super Sunday dear readers and I do hope to get back to blogging a bit more regularly and visit all of your wonderful blogs too:)

Monday, May 7, 2018

Reflection post #AtoZChallenge

Is this the sun
reflected in water?
Or
have the waves given birth to many suns?
Or
Are stars skinny dipping in broad daylight
to refresh and relight
before they go back up to twinkle in the night sky?

Coruscant! Deborah may say.
What will you?
*****
This year's A to Z has been the most enjoyable one for me. This is my third year of diving in unprepared (just like the previous two times). So what was different this time round? I reckon it's the rhythm of this year's challenge that I stumbled upon quite by accident which made it such a treat despite the demands of posting daily.

April stared with family visiting, so I had limited hours each day in which to post and visit. As a result, I didn't seek out too many bloggers--just four or five to read every day. By the end of that first week, I had fallen into a comfortable pattern of visiting bloggers who'd visited me and some whose comments on other bloggers' posts made me want to visit them.

This year, my heart's desires were more about seeing than being seen. So, after writing and  posting, I allotted my time to visit the blogs which pulled me towards them. I will be sharing a list of those in this post.

I'm a blogger and the reason I share what I write is because I do enjoy being seen. So, no-- I'm not heading to the hills to become a hermit just yet. But, there was a sense of calm that I felt this year. If I got comments, it was awesome and if I didn't, that was fine too. I visited the blogs I enjoyed at different times of the day.

Mornings were usually set aside for reflective posts from :
Yamini who ignited a desire within to explore Advaita Vedanta 
Susan who introduced me to Lilith
Deborah offered new old words and perfumed my mornings with her fragrant writing
and Beth provided the morning stretches.

Humour and giggles were provided by:
So anytime I needed a little respite, I'd visit them.

Evenings were spent with a cup of tea and fiction set in the EU with Iain Kelly and
sometimes discovering new weird things like a diamond prince in a rubber suit with  ZALKA CSENGE VIRÁG.

Post dinner time which till March was Netflix time, got assigned to visiting my blogging friends from last year's challenge: 
Jz who can make you laugh out loud with a post on zucchini--trust me.
Emily who was awarded the title of the Ambassador of all things wonderful from Ecuador by Deborah. 

This year I added the blogs I enjoyed to my blog roll, so it was easier to visit whenever I could snatch snippets of time in between washing dishes and tempering daal with cumin and curry leaves.

I met a bunch of talented bloggers from India:
Shilpa's travel inspired posts gave me some very useful tips.
Seema's art and words made me want to pack my bags and head out to India--such amazing talent.
Shalini's love of books criss-crossed my path and made me happy.
Kalpana writes and photographs and with the magic of her photos managed to convince me that I must see Delhi with fresh eyes.

And then there was poetry and lyrical verse: whimsical, beautiful, sometimes direct, sometimes wavy...
and
Lissa whose words and art are moon dust--whimsical and poignant, magical and real.

I couldn't visit TamaraShirley and Kristin as often as I'd have liked to. Thank you girls for dropping by:)

And then there is my old blogging buddy April who I visited the least number of times in April. I love her writing and she's a beautiful soul. I reckon I'll let April spread over my summer while I play catch up with all the missed posts.

Thank you for your visits Eva and Pinkz:) 

I met Ashwini on Z. So, I've not had a chance to visit her properly. 

I hope that the abundance of April will spill over into the rest of the year and we'll continue to meet and visit each other.

It's been an amazing month of seeing and learning. I'm grateful to all you generous souls who took the time to visit me. If you left a comment, it made me very happy. And if you read or looked at the photos and let me into your day for a few minutes, and didn't sign your presence, it made me happy too.  And if you chose not to stop by, that was cool as well. When it's time, it's time.

A Big Thank You to all the organizers.

As I said, it's been an awesome April. I'm grateful and so is my heart. 
May your days sparkle like stars 
and 
May your nights keep you safe
and 
May the in-between hours be filled with magic.
*****
A list of A to Z that was a gift of April---in case you're in the mood to read or browse:)
Art bought from a tiny shop in Phnom Penh:
artist unknown
 joy of journey: known, felt and relished.

Monday, April 30, 2018

Z is for Zaroorat and Zahrah #AtoZChallenge

Zaroorat means need in Urdu.

I heard an elder give this as a blessing to someone who'd bent down to touch her feet, "Bhagwaan khush rakhe, na zaroorat se zyada aur na zaroorat se kam de."

Translation: May God Bless you. May He/She give you just enough, no more and no less than you need.

Can you imagine such a blessed life? Just enough to eat, to wear, to read, to watch, to drink, to share, to walk on, to fly in, to escape to, to hold on to,to hug, to let go, to forget, to remember, to laugh, to cry, to sigh, to think about...just enough...no more and no less.

"What should I get from the shops?" My father used to ask my mother on his way to work, to check if she needed anything for her kitchen or home. His shop was in the bazaar so he would pick fruit and vegetables and sundries on his way back.

"Sirf zaroorat ka samaan." (Only what we need ) Mummy would say.

Our parents never made long shopping lists. We always had enough to eat--almost always fresh. I can't recall a single time when any food was ever wasted. Left-overs didn't usually happen because Beji, my gradmother, was a stickler for eating only freshly prepared meals.

Whenever I come across a bowl of food that's been moved to the back of the fridge or a can of something that's gone past its best by date, my Indian conditioning churns. Buy only zaroorat ka samaan (only what you need) Arti. I have to remind myself of this simple tip. 

So as I come to Z and look back at a journey of plenty, of sharing, seeking, reading, smiling, nodding, even guffawing every now and then, I thank the A to Z team for this month's 'just enough.' For just as the typing muscles are starting to ache and the reading cells are coming up to saturation, Z has appeared on the horizon.

After every day, there's a night. After every challenge, there must be rest.

I know that despite my best intentions, I will write less, blog in-frequently and visit the people I've visited every day, only every now and then.

Rumi's words: "And don't think the garden loses its ecstasy in winter. It's quiet, but the roots down under are riotous." point to a sleeping that is full of preparation and renewal. 

It's time, then, to wave a fond farewell to all the people whose words and pictures visited my days and filled my nights, woke me up before sunset (jet-lagged week that went by) and somehow managed to push Netflix out from my April. That's an achievement fellow A to Zers:) And I thank you for it.

Until we meet again...

I pray for all our lives to be blessed: may all our zarooratein (needs)be met and when they are met, may grace guide us to see we've reached our plenty, may our hearts then sing with gratitude for our life of enough.

Leaving you with another Z word but this time it's from Arabic: Zahrah meaning flower or blossom or beauty.
 These beauties are from the garden that sits by the kitchen where I type out my posts.
Zinnia, Lantana, lemon grass, sunflowers, mogra, chameli (jasmine) fill my needs.
Na zaroot se zyadae
aur na hi kam
No more
No less
Just enough.
Spring has sprung in many places I've visited in this A to Z.
Doha is heating up for summer. 
Spring is short lived here, so I captured it in a post and whenever I feel the zaroorat,
I log on to enjoy the the colours this garden once wore
Here's a beautiful ghazal by Faiz, sung by Tanya Wells.
It's spring with subtitles:)
I know you'll love it.