Tere Ishq Mein Ghayal May 2026

They ask me why I limp through the bazaars, clutching my side where no sword has cut. They ask why my laughter sounds like shattered glass, and my eyes carry the weight of a monsoon that never falls.

In your ishq, the pain is not a poison. It is a pilgrimage. Every ache is a prayer bead. Every sleepless night is a temple. Every drop of sweat on my brow is a verse I cannot speak aloud. tere ishq mein ghayal

I tell them: I am ghayal.

You are the knife and the balm. You are the one who broke my ribs open, then filled my hollow chest with moonlight. They ask me why I limp through the

I have become the madman at your door, the faqir who collects thorns as if they were roses. The world calls it a sickness. I call it ghayali —the holy wound. It is a pilgrimage