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Things are going to change

Things are going to change

This year you must stay, you deserve it.

When you think things go wrong

When you think things go wrong

There is always someone who will give you a hand.

Where are you going tonight?

Where are you going tonight?

Some day we'll go back there, our secret place.

Do you remember those moments?

Do you remember those moments?

This is going to get sweet!

I really feel younger.

I really feel younger.

Maybe I'll give it a little taste.

Oh pretty mama, you're the best!

Oh pretty mama, you're the best!

I do not think I'll ever forget it, thanks.

Saghar Siddiqui

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Saghar Siddiqui Poetry and Biography:

 

Saghar Siddiqui (takhallus: Saghar) was born in 1928 n Ambala (in united Punjab under British India). He was named Muhammad Akhtar at birth.

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He was the only child of his parents and he spent the early years of his life in Ambala and Saharanpur (UP, India). He received his early education from Habib Hassan, a friend of the family. 
Young Akhtar was much impressed by this gentleman, and he got interested in Urdu poetry because of him. He writes that at 7-8 years of age, he had became so fluent in Urdu that people used to come to him to get their letters written. 
Then he moved to Amritsar, Punjab, India. At that age he regularly read Urdu newspapers like Zamindar, Ahsan, and Inquilab . He for a couple of months used Nasir Hijazi as his pen name, but later he chose Saghar Siqddiqui. In the pre-teen years, he used to live with his teacher Habib Hassan in Amritsar. At age 16, he would regularly attend mushairas. He was also active in an Urdu majlis (society) formed for the advancement of Urdu literature by Dr. M. D. Tasir and Maulana Tajwar Najibabadi and attended its mushairas. He attended the Urs of Pir Sabir of Kalyar Sharif in 1945 and participated in the mushaira there. 
At the time of partition he was only 19 years old. In those days with his slim appearance, wearing pants and boski (yellow silky cloth) shirts, with curly hair, and reciting beautiful ghazals in a melodious voice, he became a huge success. But perhaps he was too sensitive for this cruel world. He probably had some tragic turns in his life. 
Sometimes he would have to sell his ghazals to other poets for a few rupees. He would use the waste paper spread around to light fires to stay warm during winter nights. There, on the street, he passed away in Lahore on 19 July 1974 at age 46. His dead body was found one early morning outside one of the shops. Despite his shattered life, some of his verses (ash'aar) are among the best in Urdu poetry. It is unbelievable that he kept his inner self so pure and so transcending.

 

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