A salesperson can sell you a dream. Social media can sell you a lifestyle. Sometimes, your own heart sells you hope. That's fareb.

Often translated as deception, fareb isn't quite the same as dagha. A stranger can deceive you; only someone you trust can betray you. Through the poetry of Fana Nizami Kanpuri, Mirza Ghalib, Bahadur Shah Zafar and Momin Khan Momin, we explore false promises, self-deception and why the hardest illusions to let go of are often the ones we create ourselves. Tune in.

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Mumbai is halfway through June and still waiting for the monsoon. Every few days the forecast promises rain, and every few days the clouds seem to change their mind. So, it feels like an act of 'daghaa'
Often translated as betrayal, 'dagha' is more than just being deceived. It is the hurt that comes when trust is broken. Through the poetry of Shakeel Badayuni and Qateel Shifai, we explore friendship, loyalty, disappointment and the peculiar ways human beings let one another down. What makes betrayal hurt? Why does a friend's failure feel different from a stranger's? And can failing to truly understand, and showing up for the the ones closest to us also become a kind of daghaa?
Because a stranger can fool you, but 'dagha' usually comes from someone closer. 
Tune in for some gems from Shakeel Badayuni and Qateel Shifai on dagha. And fareb? We'll get to that next week.

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As another summer pushes temperatures to record highs, darja-e-haraarat , meaning 'degree of heat', has become part of our daily vocabulary. We hear it in weather reports, worry about it when a child feels warm, and increasingly experience it in a world shaped by climate change.
On this week's Urdunama, we explore the Urdu word haraarat. While it literally means heat or temperature, poetry gives the word a far richer and tender life. it can signify warmth, affection, vitality, conviction, and even the spark of resistance.
Through verses by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Muztar Khairabadi and Majaz Lakhnavi, Fabeha Syed traces the many shades of haraarat in Urdu poetry and reflects on how a word associated with heat can also illuminate the warmth that binds, heals and moves us to action. Tune in.

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World Environment Day may come around once a year, , but the questions it raises remain. As temperatures rise and green spaces shrink, the humble shajar feels less like a poetic image and more like a reminder of what sustains us.
On this week's Urdunama, we explore the Urdu word shajar, meaning tree. In poetry, a tree is never merely part of the landscape. It can offer shade to a weary traveller, bear the fruits of patience and perseverance, or remind us of the roots that anchor us to our origins.
Through verses by Bashir Badr, Javed Akhtar, Parveen Shakir and Qateel Shifai, Fabeha Syed traces the many meanings of shajar in Urdu poetry and reflects on why, in an age of climate change and environmental anxiety, this timeless symbol feels more relevant than ever. Tune in.

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“Ujaale apni yaadon ke hamare saath rehne do,
na jaane kis gali mein zindagi ki shaam ho jaaye.”

With Bashir Badr sahab’s passing on May 28, Urdu poetry lost one of its warmest and most humane voices. In this episode of Urdunama, we remember the poet who made shayari feel intimate, conversational and deeply personal. From love and loneliness to loss, memory, riots and modern city life, Bashir sahib wrote about ordinary human emotions in a way generations instantly connected with.

Fabeha Syed revisits some of his most iconic ghazals and reflects on the quiet grace and resilience that made Bashir Badr’s poetry timeless.

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In Urdu, 'nadarad' means 'ghayab', when something is absent, has disappeared or is missing. Until you see how it’s used in poetry.
It’s usually not just about something being gone. It’s about something that should have been there but is not.  A person who didn’t show up. A message that never came. A moment that didn’t happen the way you thought it would, and has left you with an overwhleming need for closure. 
That’s why the word has many layers to it and poets like Momin Khan Momin and Mirza Ghalib have talked about 'absence' in their ashar without necessarily using the word itself. Because nadārad isn’t just about what’s missing, but it’s about what stays behind, even after it’s gone. Tune in. 

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After a short vaqfa, Urdunama returns with an episode on the very idea of pause. What does a simple break or interval mean in the language of Urdu verse?
Through lines by Mir Taqi Mir, Ahmad Mushtaq, and Aziz Bano Darab Wafa, we explore how pauses, silences, and brief halts often carry as much meaning as the words themselves. In poetry, the space between two phrases can deepen emotion, shape rhythm, and allow a thought to breathe.
This episode looks at how poets turn a vaqfa into metaphor which sometimes becomes a moment of rest, sometimes looks like a distance between longing and fulfilment, and sometimes it feels like the space where meaning emerges before the next line begins. Tune in.

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In the vocabulary of Urdu poetry, sahra, meaning the desert, is far more than a barren landscape. It is a metaphor for the inner wilderness of the heart: solitude, longing, and the untamed intensity of love. In this episode, we wander through verses by Mirza Ghalib, Daagh Dehlvi, and Jaun Elia to explore how poets transform the desert into a space of vahshat, searching, and emotional vastness. Tune in.

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In Valentine’s month, we are drawn to a picture-perfect version of love that is warm, dazzling, and effortless. Yet real love asks for more than beauty. It calls for ikhlaas meaning pure intention to be sincere and have honest devotion that persists even when the glow fades. True love thrives in patience, understanding, and care, beyond grand gestures and fleeting romance.
In this episode, we draw wisdom from literary masters like Ahmad Faraz, Rahat Indori, and Jaun Elia, celebrating a sincerity that holds the courage to love, to be loved, and ultimately, to become love itself. Tune in. 

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Junoon is often translated as passion or madness, but in Urdu poetry it carries layered, sometimes conflicting meanings. For poets like Mirza Ghalib, junoon is dangerous if exposed or fully unpacked. It then becomes a force so raw that it can undo the self. 
If Ghalob's junoon is intense, self-aware, and often destructive, poets like Ahmad Faraz and Ameer Qazalbash later engage with the same intensity differently. Where Ghalib is wary of junoon’s excess, they explore what happens when that intensity is held with awareness and direction when madness becomes purposeful rather than consuming.
This episode traces that shift in from junoon, from a volatile force that must remain partially veiled, to junoon as a creative energy that can transform darkness into light. Junoon, in the end, is not one thing. It is a risk and sometimes, a possibility.

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