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hana-no-seiiki · 2 years ago

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RECREATIONAL

THIRD PART TO FEROZEVE SERIES : [PREVIOUS] [MASTERLIST] [NEXT?]

YANDERE POP IDOL! OC x MANAGER! READER x YANDERE ROCKSTAR SMUT

tw/cw: reader uses gn pronouns but has a dicc, unprotected seggs, unrealistic seggs, anal seggs. switch! reader, switch! eve, gong! feroze. dub/non con.

status: unedited.

thank you hubby @moyazaika for letting me use your son again, and for the voters that picked this fic (🤰🏻) in the emoji poll.

By pressing the Keep Reading button you are confirming that you’re 18 and above + consent to seeing dark / sexual content.

“Mx. Ma-na-ger~ !” Eve drawled as he glomped you from behind. Despite not hearing what he had to say or do aside from assaulting you with hugs, you were already dreading the next moments of your life.

“Eve, no.” You tried slipping away but are unfortunately unable to defeat hours of dance routines and gyms sessions Eve had to go through as a part of his training and work.

“But Mx. Ma ↗ na ↘ ger ↗ ! ! ! ” His pitch fluctuated as you had resorted to shaking him off instead.

“Eve, I already told you that I’m busy.”

And then he pouted.

You see, when an idol like the Jisoo Han pouts it is almost as if the entire universe has ended. It’s like the feeling you’d get when every puppy or god forbid every kitten dies. The feeling of utter sadness so insurmountable you almost crumble to your knees.

Eve had the power to create smiles and laughter across the globe, but he also had the power to completely destroy any semblance of happiness from a person. You knew that power very well.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, desperately attempting not to cringe or cry from his actions.“Fine. I’ll be free next evening. Don’t. Bother. Rosy.”

You thought he’d be satisfied with your answer but he only pouts even harder.

You sighed. This absolute man-child. “. . . Soo.”

He immediately flicks back to his cheery self. A boyish grin on his face as he separated himself from you and skipped away. “Okay~! I’ll see ya soon.”

That was way too easy. Oh god. What could that demon be thinking of?

As soon as he left, another one of your man-children came into your office. Groaning, he plopped himself atop one of your bean bag chairs.

Feroze doesn’t utter a word, and you could tell that his hangover had been a pain to deal with. Usually he’d already be all over you. It sort of reminded you of how he was during your early days with him. Still, he made the effort to show up despite the massive migraine he should be feeling right now.

“I—“ You started, but you are unable to finish your words as he’d already beat you to the chase.

“I love you, really love you, but if your next words are I told you so. Just don’t.”

Darn, he knew you too well. Time to take a different approach to asserting your correctness.

“Well you know what they say—“

“I’m going out to eat.” He seemingly teleported in front of you, flicking your forehead. And then, he was out. Just poof. Disappeared.

You stared at the hangover medicine you prepared for him located in the drawer of your desk, and humphed, “. . .He didn’t even let me finish.”

There are many stages of love in Urdu and Arab world. Attraction, love and even death, but infatuation; عشق (ishq) was what Feroze identified with. Literally speaking it just meant love. Symbolically however, it meant so, so much more.

It was both all of love in itself and a stage of it. It was above the notion of logic or sense. Just as how he felt with you.

❝

Ishq Nazuk-Mizaj Hai Behad (Love has a delicate disposition)

Aql Ka Bojh Utha Nahin Sakta (It cannot bear burden of logic)

❞

As an Urdu poet Akbar Allahabadi would say.

Feroze’s entire existence revolved around yours. He breathed for you, he’d die for you. The biggest regret in his life was how he didn’t meet you sooner, didn’t treat you the way you were supposed to sooner.

Feroze wasn’t actually mad or even annoyed by your words earlier. He could never, ever have such feelings towards you. He just needed an excuse to follow Eve. As to why he didn’t just do that? Well he had to see your face that morning to cleanse himself, of course. One look at you per day and all the negative energy in his life seemed to just fade away.

“Mr. Khan! How’s the hangover?” Speaking of negative energy.

Eve and him had been bonding quite well over the past few weeks. It was a miracle in itself. Despite the former’s overt interest in Feroze’s manager, he found the boy too cute to be murdered in his sleep. He had this ‘baby-ghorl’ aura about him that Feroze couldn’t help but be amused with. The rockstar could see why this idol had so many fans.

Eve approached him, his usually sparkly grin covered by the dark mask his disguise included. Promotional material for their collab had already been released to the public and has thus put them in the spotlight once more. Trying to go to that bar last night was already hell in the first place, meeting in a cafe where anyone could see them? That was just a wish for death.

Eve slid a small glass bottle that looked a lot like those syrups they marketed for younger kids. Or poison, one or the other.

Without a word, Feroze downed the liquid. And then immediately regretted his decision, hacking at the taste of it all, “What did you just give to me?”

“A hangover cure. Those usually don’t taste good no matter what country I go to. I knew you were a lightweight but I barely got to drink before you —“ Eve halted his bullying as soon as he saw the deathly glare Feroze threw at him.“Fine~ Fine! I’m sure Mx. Manager already made fun of your situation.”

Feroze turned his hazel eyes to the bottle.

“You spiked my drink, didn’t you?”

Eve doesn’t freeze up, he doesn’t even flinch, not a sign of guilt could be found on him. Feroze wouldn’t be surprised if the ravenette actually didn’t feel a hint of remorse for what he did. He acknowledges the boy’s fearless attitude. “I’m sorry?”

“I said, you spiked my drink didn’t you? Last night. I saw you put it in, but decided you could have a little fun with your ex-manager.” He emphasized your current status, that being out of Eve’s employment and in his. “So, did you?”

Eve twirled a lock of his bangs, avoiding eye contact. His ears had turned completely red. The usual glow about him somewhat dissipated. “Not enough.”

Feroze who was much less careful about his reputation and actions took Eve’s hand in his and held it, tightly. His callused fingers contrasted greatly to Eve’s soft, moisturized hands. “Well, we can’t have our Soo here feeling unsatisfied do we?” He massaged each finger vigorously while simultaneously keeping it as still as possible.

“What’s the catch? You wouldn’t just give away the love of your life away. Would you?”

“No. You’re right. I would never. But the benefits outweigh the negatives. I believe this collaboration of ours will help everyone in the long run.”

“Deal.”

You loved schedules and planning. It was everything to you. It’s why you worked as a manager for all these years. The intricacies of time management gave you a rush you could not explain. Perhaps this emotion was akin to what Feroze confessed to feeling about you. Though you heavily doubted it was that close.

You weren’t the type to beat up people if they didn’t follow you or your beloved schedule.

Were you?

In any case, as appointed, you arrived at Eve’s and Feroze’s shared studio. Perfectly on time.

“So, what did you want me for?”

“Well, I was recording this track. I already have Mr. Khan’s vocals and mine I just need . . .”

You had the knack to read Eve’s mind before he even spoke. It was why he adored you so much. Studying him was just a part of the job in your case. Despite his almost angelic demeanor, he felt more like the child you had to babysit rather than a proper partner.

“No way. I can’t sing.” You waved your hands in protest. You can barely hold a regular note for too long, how were you able to keep up with those trained singers the company usually hired for these things? You were meant to be in the backstage, not the center or anywhere near there.

Eve easily shoved you in the recording booth, “That’s why I’m here silly. To help you, now get in the booth.”

“Eve—“ You mouthed, trying your best to get out. But the exit had already been locked. Damn, how was he so fast?

And it’s official. The idol had you trapped. So easily as well. He should have done this ages ago. “Soo.” Your voice barely came out, anxiety hindering its proper passage. This wasn’t going to actually be a recording session was it?

His right hand then grabbed your outer thigh. You flinched, you thrash around, but he doesn’t stop.“Soo, I can’t do this with you — gah —“

“But why not~? Aren’t you a good little manager? You’ll do this for me won’t you?” He unbuttoned your pants, slowly pulling them down. Savoring the reveal of your precious [s/c] skin. While his scarlet eyes were firmly glued to your face, his left hand wandered to your clothed cock. Three fingers pressed against it, moving up and down gently.

“Mmf — For your information, I’m only obliged to follow Feroze’s —“ He stopped.

His appendages leave your side in a second. You were utterly disappointed in yourself as you realized you already missed his skin making contact with your body.

“Soo?”

He stood still for seconds until his fingers twitched.

After which, he laughed.

“HAHAHAHAHA! You think you were ever someone else’s? You’re mine, [Y/N]. Mine.”

It unnerved you. Not how maniacal his words or his guffawing, no, it was how genuine it felt in comparison to his usual one. In fact you were so caught up with his breakdown that you couldn’t even protest as he carried you in his arms, shoving lube up your little asshole and making you face the wall.

You hadn’t even realized his own penis was not covered anymore.

Everything just hits you when he thrusted in. Filling you with one slide.“Now make music for me, hm?”

Despite the microphone being a little too far from you, you were positive it could pick up the moan you just made.

It was like you felt everything, pain and pleasure mixed inside you and you couldn’t tell if you were enjoying this sick act or completely hated it. But one thing was for sure, you do nothing to stop him. Completely consumed by the feeling of his dick rearranging your organs.

“Louder, baby.” He picked up the pace, before shortly cumming inside you without warning. A reminder of his status as a virgin despite his personality. It doesn’t take long for him to get going again. “I wanted to be inside you for so long. I want to stay inside you forever.”

As Eve started speeding up, a mop of red hair entered your vision, “Rosy—“

You expected anger, you expected a murder you’d have to somehow cover up. But all your current client does was grab Eve by the shoulders.

“Ease up there, Soo.”

Eve’s horrifically ‘calm’ expression switches back into his playful once he faced Khan. You didn’t even know how much fear was pumping within your veins until he calmed down (at least outwardly) “C’mon. I know even you wouldn’t be able to resist this little hole.”

Were they . . . in this together? No they couldn’t be. They were just so different.

If only you knew how alike they were.

The limited space in the booth didn’t really feel good to the three of you upon Feroze’s words “Scooch over.” Eve had to back up while he was still inside you, allowing the other man to squeeze in.

Feroze grabbed your chin with one hand making you look to his face. “Look at me, meri jaan. My ishq.” and your cock with the other, tenderly stroking your member. “I love you alright? More than anything else in this world.”

“Then —“

“Let you go? Not a chance in hell.” He chuckled, increasing the pace of his handjob.

If you thought that Eve using you was too much, it was nigh impossible to imagine the stimulation you were currently receiving. “Sh- sto . . hah — p. Please.”

“Don’t break them yet, I haven’t even came.” You could however imagine the pout on Eve’s face. His thrusts stuttering from its once regular rhythm.

“Ssh. We’re doing this to record their pretty voice aren’t we?”

“Stop! Wh - hah - what about Soo’s reputation?”

Eve would use those words to blame you for his future breakdowns later on, your show of concern making his dick even harder than it already. But for now he could only express this feeling of gratitude by pushing it in deeper. “I’m a solo act now baby. It’s fine~”

“F-Fuhuck, I’m — “ He came inside you the second time, making your slick hole even wetter and causing you to cum all over Feroze’s hands.

“My turn.” The older man yanked you away. Eve’s semen dripped down to your thighs and legs as he’d separated from you.

“Hey!” He protested. But if there was one person who was more swole than Eve it was Feroze. The man putting him in a slightly bended position; looking away, and you in between the two singers.

“Hold on to his waist, meri jaan.”

You do as your told, feeling Feroze align your dick to Eve’s hole. Wait- he was completely dry how would he-

The answer was that Eve would take you no matter what. It did not feel great to either one of you, the only lubrication that existed was your previous ejaculation, and part of you knew that Feroze intended that. “Mmf—!” Mostly because he doesn’t take any time to warn you before he also inserts himself but in you. “I haven’t done something like this in ages . . . but nothing could compare to this”

Feroze helps you into a rhythm that ensured that you were either completely inside Eve or him inside you at every moment. Overstimulating you once more. When it came for his turn to thrust however, he put so much power that often times it would move you forwards and go a bit to deep.

“Shit! You’re doing that on purpose!”

“Not my fault you’re too excited to put a lil lube in!”

“I- I - think I’m — ! “ You closed your eyes, feeling your second release. A high you’ve never once reached before. A kind of high that ruins others as you’d find yourself chasing it.

But you knew, you knew it’d be impossible without these two men aiding you in that climb.

Feroze was right behind you as you reached the top. Thick, hot ropes of cum spill all over inside of you.

The three of you took deep breaths, but it was only a short respite for what would be a long, long, night. “We’re not done yet. I only came once.”

“The hell—“

Feroze turned you to face him, positioning you atop Eve’s back. His handsome face looked stunning even underneath the dim lighting.

You did not know if his following question was directed towards you or ravenette, “You won’t mind this, won’t you?” Just that his cock had already been enveloped by Eve’s canal.

“Mr. Khannnn, you could have let me lube up.” The idol complained between moans.

“You took them no problem but not me?”

“You’re different! And bigger! Ah, fuck!”

“You deserve a little punishment for spiking my drink. Besides their cum should be more than enough.”

“He did what?!”

“Ack—!”

“Take it, کنجر (kanjr)”

Feroze cackled at your worried face and Eve’s pain, pounding into him without a care in the world. His sadism really knew no bounds.

You three ended up staying the studio all night. Your hole and cock being used up for all its worth.

The album ended up being a massive hit. The title track, the one with your ‘vocals’ ended up breaking records and staying at the top of charts for months.

Comments on the song largely talking about how realistic the sensual sounds of sex in the background was. Completely unaware that it was the two famous singers making love to you.

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2023

fun fact: i was rocking out to mlp music while writing this lol (that and my cousin watching van helsing in the background, very very loudly)

#hns.eve #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagine #yandere oc #yandere fic #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x you #yandere x you #yandere idol #yandere rockstar #feroze #yandere ocs x reader #yandere story #yandere core #yan core #oc x reader

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om-is-ok · 7 months ago

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Dhamkā ke bose lūñgā ruḳh-e-rashk-e-māh kā

Chandā vasūl hotā hai sāhab dabāv se. —Akbar Allahabadi.

[1. Bose = kiss] [2. rukh-e-rashk-e-māh = face to which even moon envies, more beautiful than moon]

#om is ok ig #urdu words #urdu quote #urdu lines #urdu stuff #couple stuff #intimacy

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his-heart-hymns · 7 months ago

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Jo kahan main ne ke pyaar aata hai mujh ko tum per,

hans ke kehne lagi aur aap ko aata kya hai.

-Akbar Allahabadi

#urdu lines #urdu poetry #urdu literature #urdu shayari #urdu aesthetic #desi academia #desi aesthetic #desiblr #desi tumblr #urdu stuff

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hopefulkidshark · 11 months ago

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It requires two hands to clap

Seduction can be both negative and positive.

Positively, it could be about charming someone, making someone feel good about themselves or reducing their unnecessary fears.

Negatively, it could be using temptation to deceive people and get them to do something that they wouldn't normally do.

Don't step outside without a veil

And on top of that your youth is amazing

Over here there's a meaning hidden in every question

Think before you answer as the world is full with evil

One of the most luxurious and sensual body preparations comes to us from the East where, reputedly, it was used when women in the harem were prepared for the sultan’s pleasure. It removes dead skin cells and leaves the skin glowing, fragrant, and soft as silk.

Yesterday when I saw a few women

Then this poet fell on the ground

When I asked them about their veil

Then they said that, it has covered the minds of men

Akbar Allahabadi

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infantisimo · 2 years ago

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In the 1950s and ’60s, women baked cakes in the abandoned ammunition boxes left behind by British troops in the villages of Nagaland, a state in northeast India. The Naga writer Easterine Kire recalls how wives of Christian missionaries taught English and cake-baking to young girls, including her mother. While they didn’t really pick up the language, the tradition of baking cakes was passed down “from mother to daughter and from daughter to granddaughter.” It was the men who thought to repurpose the boxes — they were airtight, preserved heat well and fit perfectly over the wood fire. Since they had no temperature controls, the baker had to sit by the fire, constantly stoking it and eventually reducing it to embers. The timing had to be perfect: A minute too soon or too late could alter the fate of the cake. The boxes eventually ended up becoming part of a family’s heirloom until electric ovens became commonplace.

In the opposite corner of India, in Kerala in the deep south, several bakeries trace their history to the Mambally Royal Biscuit Factory in Thalassery, established in the late 19th century. Its founder, Mambally Bapu, is said to have baked India’s first Christmas cake. Bapu had trained as a baker in Burma (now Myanmar) to make cookies, bread and buns. When he set up shop in 1880, he made 140 varieties of biscuits. Three years later, the Scotsman Murdoch Brown, an East India Company spice planter, shared a sample of an imported Christmas plum pudding. Wanting to re-create this traditional recipe but unable to source French brandy, Bapu improvised with a local brew made from fermented cashew apples and bananas. He added some cocoa and — voila — the Indian Christmas cake was born.

The beauty of the Indian Christmas cake lies in its local variations. The Allahabadi version from north India features petha (candied ash gourd or white pumpkin) and ghee instead of butter, along with a generous helping of orange marmalade. Maharashtrians, in west India, add chironji, also known as cuddapah almonds. The black cake in Goa derives its color from a dark caramel sauce. In the south, in Kerala and Tamil Nadu, cashew nuts are added to the mix. The Indian version is “a close cousin” of British plum pudding, but it has no lard and is not steamed. “Indian Christians add a generous dose of hot spices such as nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves and shahi zeera (royal cumin seeds), roasted dry and then ground and added, also referred to as ‘cake masala,’” writes Jaya Bhattacharji Rose, an Indian publishing consultant, in “Indian Christmas,” an anthology of personal essays, poems, hymns and recipes.

“Our Christmas cakes reflect how India celebrates Christmas: with its own regional flair, its own flavor. Some elements are the same almost everywhere; others differ widely. What binds them together is that they are all, in their way, a celebration of the most exuberant festival in the Christian calendar,” writes Madhulika Liddle, co-editor of the anthology. Reading the book feels like a celebration in itself and makes one realize that Christians in India are as diverse as India, with Syrian Christians, Catholics, Baptists, Anglicans, Methodists, Lutherans and others. Though Christians make up just 2% of India’s population, this equates to some 28 million people.

Christianity came to India in waves. It is believed that Thomas the Apostle arrived in present-day Kerala in 52 BCE and built the first church. Syrian Christians believe he died in what is now Chennai in Tamil Nadu. San Thome Basilica stands where some of his remains were buried. Toward the end of the 15th century, the Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama landed on Indian shores, followed by others, paving the way for Portuguese colonies in the region. Christian missionaries, who set up Western educational institutes, spread the religion further. The trend continued under the British Empire.

What is unique about India is the “indigenization of Christmas,” notes Liddle. It can be seen in the regional dishes prepared for Christmas feasts and celebrations. Duck curry with appams (rice pancakes) is popular in Kerala, while Nagaland prefers pork curries, rich with chilies and bamboo shoots. In Goa, dishes with Portuguese origins, such as sausage pulao, sorpotel and xacuti, adorn the tables. Biryanis, curries and shami kababs are devoured across north India.

The same regional diversity can be seen in Christmas snacks. “East Indians,” a Christian community in Mumbai described as such for their close ties to the East India Company, fill their plates with milk creams, mawa-filled karanjis (pastry puffs filled with dried whole milk), walnut fudge, guava cheese and kulkuls (sweet fried dough curls). In Goa, a platter of confectioneries called kuswar is served, including kormolas, gons, doce and bolinhas, made with ingredients ranging from coconut to Bengal gram, a yellow lentil. In Kerala, rose cookies are popular. Common across north Indian Christian households are shakkarpara, a sweet fried dough, covered in syrup; namakpara, a savory fried dough studded with cumin seeds; gujiyas, crisp pastries with a sweetened mix of semolina, raisins and nuts; and baajre ki tikiyas, thin patties made from pearl millet flour sweetened with jaggery, an unrefined sugar.

Liddle, who used to spend the festival at her ancestral home in the north Indian town of Saharanpur, also tells us about a lesser-known variation of the Christmas cake: cake ki roti. (In Hindi, “roti” means “flatbread.”) Like most communities in India, many Christian families in north India buy the ingredients for the Christmas cake themselves and take them to a baker who will prepare it. Bakers used to make the Christmas cake by the quintal (220 pounds) or more, and cake ki roti was a byproduct of that large-scale baking. The leftover Christmas cake batter was “not enough for an entire tin, not so little that it can be thrown away,” Liddle explained. So the baker would add flour and make a dough out of it. “It would be shaped into a large, flat disc and baked till it was golden and biscuity,” she said. The resulting cake ki roti may have “stray bits of orange peel or candied fruit, a tiny piece of nut here or there, a faint whiff of the spices … It was not even the ghost of the cake. A mere memory, a hint of Christmas cake.” Since cake ki roti was considered “too pedestrian,” it wasn’t served to the guests. Instead, it would be reserved until the New Year and eaten only after all the other snacks were gone.

Jerry Pinto, co-editor and contributor to “Indian Christmas,” recalled his childhood Christmases in Mumbai. There may not have been much snow in this tropical city, but wintry scenes of London and New York adorned festive cards and storybooks, and children would decorate the casuarina tree with cotton balls, assuming it to be pine. The mood would be set with an old Jim Reeves album featuring “White Christmas.” “Where do old songs from the U.S. go to die? They go to Goan Roman Catholic homes and parties,” quipped Pinto. Raisins would be soaked in rum in October, and cakes baked at an Iranian bakery. Every year, there was a debate about whether marzipan should be made with or without almond skins. The “good stuff” meant milk creams and cake slices with luscious raisins, while rose cookies and the neoris (sweet dumplings made of maida or flour and stuffed with coconut, sugar, poppy seeds, cardamom and almonds) were just plate-fillers.

The feasting is accompanied by midnight mass, communal decorations and choral music, with carols sung in Punjabi, Tamil, Hindi, Munda, Khariya, Mizo tawng, as well as English. “One of our favorite carols was a Punjabi one, which we always sang with great gusto: ‘Ajj apna roop vataake / Aaya Eesa yaar saade paas’ [‘Today, having changed His form / Jesus comes to us, friend’],” Liddle remembered.

Starting as early as October, it would not be unusual to hear Christmas classics by Boney M., ABBA and Reeves in Nagaland’s Khyoubu village. “The post-harvest life of the villagers is usually a restful period, mostly spent in a recreational mood until the next cycle of agricultural activities begins in the new year,” wrote Veio Pou, who grew up in Nagaland.

“Christmas is a time when invitations are not needed. Friends can land … at each other’s homes any time on Christmas Eve to celebrate. … The nightly silence is broken, and the air rings with Christmas carols and soul, jazz and rock music. Nearly every fourth person in Shillong plays the guitar, so there’s always music, and since nearly everyone sings, it’s also a time to sing along, laugh and be merry,” wrote Patricia Mukhim, editor of Shillong Times, a local newspaper in the northeastern state of Meghalaya.

Neighborhoods in areas with Christian populations, like Goa and Kerala, are lit up weeks in advance with fairy lights, paper lanterns and Christmas stars. In Mizoram’s capital of Aizawl, local authorities hold a competition every Christmas for the best-decorated neighborhood, with a generous prize of 500,000 rupees ($6,000) awarded to the winner. This event is gradually becoming a tourist attraction.

Rural India has its own norms and traditions. In the villages of the Chhota Nagpur region, mango leaves, marigolds and paper streamers decorate homes, and locally available sal or mango trees are decorated instead of the traditional evergreen conifer. The editor Elizabeth Kuruvilla recalled that her mother had stars made of bamboo at her childhood home in Edathua, a village in Kerala’s Alappuzha district. The renowned Goan writer Damodar Mauzo, who grew up in a Hindu household, said his family participates in many aspects of the Christmas celebrations in the village, including hanging a star in the “balcao” (“balcony”), making a crib and attending midnight mass.

In the Anglo-Indian enclave of Bow Barracks in Kolkata, Santa Claus comes to the Christmas street party in a rickshaw — the common form of public transport in South Asia. “Kolkata’s Bengali and non-Bengali revelers now throng the street, lined by two rows of red-brick terrace apartment buildings, to witness the music and dance and to buy the home-brewed sweet wine and Christmas cake that some of the Anglo-Indian families residing there make,” wrote the journalist Nazes Afroz. Bow Barracks was built to house the Allied forces stationed in Kolkata during World War I, after which they were rented out to the city’s Christian families.

Kolkata also is home to a tiny community of about 100 Armenian Christians, who celebrate Christmas on Jan. 6, in line with the Armenian Apostolic Church. Many break their weeklong fast at the Christmas Eve dinner, known as “Khetum.” The celebration begins with an afternoon mass on Christmas Eve followed by a home blessing ceremony to protect people from misfortune, held at the Armenian College and Philanthropic Society, an important institution for the community. The Khetum arranged for the staff members and students includes a customary pilaf with raisins and fish and anoush abour, an Armenian Christmas pudding made with wheat, berries and dried apricots, among other dishes. The Christmas lunch also includes traditional Armenian dishes such as dolma (ground meat and spices stuffed into grape leaves) and harissa, a porridge-like stew made with chicken, served with a garnish of butter and sprinkled ground cumin.

“Missionaries to Indian shores, whether St. Thomas or later evangelists from Portugal, France, Britain or wherever, brought us the religion; we adopted the faith but reserved for ourselves the right to decide how we’d celebrate its festivals,” Liddle wrote. “We translated the Bible into our languages. We translated their hymns and composed many of our own. We built churches which we at times decorated in our own much-loved ways.”

#christmas

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shayariforest · 1 year ago

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Love Shayari

There are a whole lot of renowned writers who wrote shayari for us. We in shayariforest.in share these shayaris for you.

List of all the renowned famous shayari writer :

1. Mirza Ghalib

2. Faiz Ahmad Faiz

3. Ahmad Faraz

4. Wasim Barelvi

5. Daagh Dehlvi

6. Firaq Gorakhpuri

7. Nida Fazli

8. Meeraji

9. Sahir Ludhianvi

10. Jigar Moradabadi

11. Dr Muhammad Iqbal

12. Bashir Badr

13. Jaun Elia

14. Mir Taqi Mir

15. Qateel Shifai

16. Akhlaq Mohammed Khan

17. Dushyant Kumar

18. Gulzar

19. Akbar Allahabadi

20. Munawwar Rana

21. Rahat Indori

22. Javed Akhtar

Shayari is for revealing the feeling of love. That is why they wrote love shayari, sad shayari for us.

Love Shayari

वो मोहब्बत भी तुम्हारी थी नफरत भी तुम्हारी थी,

हम अपनी वफ़ा का इंसाफ किससे माँगते..

वो शहर भी तुम्हारा था वो अदालत भी तुम्हारी थी.

यूँ भी इक बार तो होता कि समुंदर बहता

कोई एहसास तो दरिया की अना का होता

बेशूमार मोहब्बत होगी उस बारिश की बूँद को इस ज़मीन से, यूँ ही नहीं कोई मोहब्बत मे इतना गिर जाता है!

आप के बाद हर घड़ी हम ने

आप के साथ ही गुज़ारी है

तुमको ग़म के ज़ज़्बातों से उभरेगा कौन,

ग़र हम भी मुक़र गए तो तुम्हें संभालेगा कौन!

दिन कुछ ऐसे गुज़ारता है कोई

जैसे एहसान उतारता है कोई

तुम्हे जो याद करता हुँ, मै दुनिया भूल जाता हूँ । तेरी चाहत में अक्सर, सभँलना भूल जाता हूँ ।

इश्क़ की तलाश में क्यों निकलते हो तुम, इश्क़ खुद तलाश लेता है जिसे बर्बाद करना होता है।

तुझ से बिछड़ कर कब ये हुआ कि मर गए, तेरे दिन भी गुजर गए और मेरे दिन भी गुजर गए.

आऊं तो सुबह, जाऊं तो मेरा नाम शबा लिखना, बर्फ पड़े तो बर्फ पे मेरा नाम दुआ लिखना

वो शख़्स जो कभी मेरा था ही नही, उसने मुझे किसी और का भी नही होने दिया.

सालों बाद मिले वो गले लगाकर रोने लगे, जाते वक्त जिसने कहा था तुम्हारे जैसे हज़ार मिलेंगे.

जब भी आंखों में अश्क भर आए लोग कुछ डूबते नजर आए चांद जितने भी गुम हुए शब के सब के इल्ज़ाम मेरे सर आए

जिन दिनों आप रहते थे, आंख में धूप रहती थी अब तो जाले ही जाले हैं, ये भी जाने ही वाले हैं.

जबसे तुम्हारे नाम की मिसरी होंठ लगाई है मीठा सा गम है, और मीठी सी तन्हाई है.

वक्त कटता भी नही वक्त रुकता भी नही दिल है सजदे में मगर इश्क झुकता भी नही

एक बार जब तुमको बरसते पानियों के पार देखा था यूँ लगा था जैसे गुनगुनाता एक आबशार देखा था तब से मे��ी नींद में बसती रहती हो बोलती बहुत हो और हँसती रहती हो.

होती नही ये मगर हो जाये ऐसा अगर तू ही नज़र आए तू जब भी उठे ये नज़र

मेरा ख्याल है अभी, झुकी हुई निगाह में खिली हुई हँसी भी है, दबी हुई सी चाह में मैं जानता हूं, मेरा नाम गुनगुना रही है वो यही ख्याल है मुझे, के साथ आ रही है वो

तुम्हें जिंदगी के उजाले मुबारक अंधेरे हमें आज रास आ गए हैं तुम्हें पा के हम खुद से दूर हो गए थे तुम्हें छोड़कर अपने पास आ गए हैं

उतर रही हो या चढ़ रही हो ? क्या मेरी मुश्किलों को पढ़ रही हो ?

सुरमे से लिखे तेरे वादे आँखों की जबानी आते हैं मेरे रुमालों पे लब तेरे बाँध के निशानी जाते हैं

तेरे इश्क़ में तू क्या जाने कितने ख्वाब पिरोता हूं एक सदी तक जागता हूं मैं एक सदी तक सोता हूं

गुल पोश कभी इतराये कहीं महके तो नज़र आ जाये कहीं तावीज़ बनाके पहनूं उसे आयत की तरह मिल जाये कहीं

पता चल गया है के मंज़िल कहां है चलो दिल के लंबे सफ़र पे चलेंगे सफ़र ख़त्म कर देंगे हम तो वहीं पर जहाँ तक तुम्हारे कदम ले चलेंगे

उम्मीद तो नही फिर भी उम्मीद हो कोई तो इस तरह आशिक़ शहीद हो

कोई आहट नही बदन की कहीं फिर भी लगता है तू यहीं है कहीं वक्त जाता सुनाई देता है तेरा साया दिखाई देता है

तू समझता क्यूं नही है दिल बड़ा गहरा कुआँ है आग जलती है हमेशा हर तरफ धुआँ धुआँ है

टकरा के सर को जान न दे दूं तो क्या करूं कब तक फ़िराक-ए-यार के सदमे सहा करूं मै तो हज़ार चाहूँ की बोलूँ न यार से काबू में अपने दिल को न पाऊं तो क्या करूं

एक बीते हुए रिश्ते की एक बीती घड़ी से लगते हो तुम भी अब अजनबी से लगते हो

प्यार में अज़ीब ये रिवाज़ है, रोग भी वही है जो इलाज है.

जाने कैसे बीतेंगी ये बरसातें माँगें हुए दिन हैं, माँगी हुई रातें.

ऐसा कोई ज़िंदगी से वादा तो नही था तेरे बिना जीने का इरादा तो नही था.

वो बेपनाह प्यार करता था मुझे गया तो मेरी जान साथ ले गया

झुकी हुई निगाह में, कहीं मेरा ख्याल था दबी दबी हँसी में इक, हसीन सा गुलाल था मै सोचता था, मेरा नाम गुनगुना रही है वो न जाने क्यूं लगा मुझे, के मुस्कुरा रही है वो

इस दिल में बस कर देखो तो ये शहर बड़ा पुराना है हर साँस में कहानी है हर साँस में अफ़साना है

कोई वादा नही किया लेकिन क्यों तेरा इंतज़ार रहता है बेवजह जब क़रार मिल जाए दिल बड़ा बेकरार रहता है

धीरे-धीरे ज़रा दम लेना प्यार से जो मिले ग�� लेना दिल पे ज़रा वो कम लेना

दबी-दबी साँसों में सुना था मैंने बोले बिना मेरा नाम आया पलकें झुकी और उठने लगीं तो हौले से उसका सलाम आया

खून निकले तो ज़ख्म लगती है वरना हर चोट नज़्म लगती है.

उड़ते पैरों के तले जब बहती है जमीं मुड़के हमने कोई मंज़िल देखी तो नही रात दिन हम राहों पर शामो सहर करते हैं राह पे रहते हैं यादों पे बसर करते हैं

इतना लंबा कश लो यारो, दम निकल जाए जिंदगी सुलगाओ यारों, गम निकल जाए

शाम से आँख में नमी सी है आज फिर आपकी कमी सी है

ख़ामोश रहने में दम घुटता है और बोलने से ज़बान छिलती है डर लगता है नंगे पांव मुझे कोई कब्र पांव तले हिलती है

Sad Shayari

तन्हाई अच्छी लगती है

सवाल तो बहुत करती पर,. जवाब के लिए ज़िद नहीं करती..

तुम्हारी ख़ुश्क सी आँखें भली नहीं लगतीं वो सारी चीज़ें जो तुम को रुलाएँ, भेजी हैं

"खता उनकी भी नहीं यारो वो भी क्या करते, बहुत चाहने वाले थे किस किस से वफ़ा करते !"

हाथ छूटें भी तो रिश्ते नहीं छोड़ा करते वक़्त की शाख़ से लम्हे नहीं तोड़ा करते

मैं हर रात सारी ख्वाहिशों को खुद से पहले सुला देता,

हूँ मगर रोज़ सुबह ये मुझसे पहले जाग जाती है।

टूटी फूटी शायरी में लिख दिया है डायरी में आख़िरी ख्वाहिश हो तुम लास्ट फरमाइश हो तुम

मुस्कुराना, सहते जाना, चाहने की रस्म है ना लहू ना कोई आँसू इश्क़ ऐसा ज़ख्म है

हमने देखी है उन आँखों की खुशबू हाथ से छूके इसे रिश्तों का इल्ज़ाम न दो सिर्फ़ एहसास है ये रूह से महसूस करो प्यार को प्यार ही रहने दो कोई नाम न दो

ख्वाबी ख्वाबी सी लगती है दुनिया आँखों में ये क्या भर रहा है मरने की आदत लगी थी क्यूं जीने को जी कर रहा है

कहीं किसी रोज यूं भी होता हमारी हालत तुम्हारी होती जो रातें हमने गुजारी मरके वो रातें तुमने गुजारी होती

उम्मीद भी अजनबी लगती है और दर्द पराया लगता है आईने में जिसको देखा था बिछड़ा हुआ साया लगता है

कोई तो करता होगा हमसे भी खामोश मोहब्बत.. किसी का हम भी अधूरा इश्क रहे होंगे…

आखिरी नुकसान था तू जिंदगी में, तेरे बाद मैंने कुछ खोया ही नहीं..

सब खफा हैं मेरे लहजे से, पर मेरे हालात से वाकिफ कोई नहीं..

तन्हाइयां कहती हैं कोई महबूब बनाया जाए, जिम्मेदारियां कहती हैं वक़्त बर्बाद बहुत होगा..

मेरे कंधे पर कुछ यूं गिरे उनके आंसू , कि सस्ती सी कमीज़ ��नमोल हो गई..

जर्रा जर्रा समेट कर खुद को बनाया है मैंने, मुझसे ये ना कहना बहुत मिलेंगे तुम जैसे..

बहुत करीब से अनजान बनके गुजरा है वो शख्स, जो कभी बहुत दूर से पहचान लिया करता था..

उतार कर फेंक दी उसने तोहफे में मिली पायल, उसे डर था छनकेगी तो याद जरूर आऊंगा मै..

सब तारीफ कर रहे थे अपने अपने महबूब का, हम नीद का बहाना बना कर महफ़िल छोड़ आए..

वो हमे भूल ही गए होंगे भला इतने दिनों तक कौन खफा रहता है..

आज थोड़ी बिगड़ी है कल फिर सवांर लेंगे जिंदगी है जो भी होगा संभाल लेंगे…

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