karachi nights...

He drew in a long breath of the sea air and stood up. For a moment he lost balance but then was stable on his feet. It was time to go in. It was a good night, with the stars and the clouds fighting it out for control over the sky. His companion had gone in sometime back. For a moment he pondered on what he might have been thinking when he had left. He looked out into the parking lot and his mind went back to politics. ‘Dirty old Pervaiz Elahi,’ his mind announced to him in a rather annoying British accent, ‘the bastard’s screwed up everything; hadn’t it been for him, we would have been in a much better position today.’ Time to collect the glasses. He picked them up very gently, as if careful not to crack them with his fingers. The door confused him a bit but he figured it out; stepped in feeling very light. Why is the air-conditioning on? He clearly remembered telling him to leave it off. He checked and it was off. Must be the chill he had brought in from outside. He put the glasses in the kitchen. A sudden commotion in his gutt caught him by surprise and he walked to the bathroom. But halfway there it subsided as quickly as it had appeared, and he slumped on the couch. He wondered if this had any precedence in the history of his life. He thought about what he had been told about himself and whether that could be true, but he dismissed these thoughts quickly. It would require more brain-power than he wanted to provide that night. He flicked channels but nothing worthwhile was on. At least nothing upon which he could bring himself to focus attention. Dilemma! Sleep was far from his eyes and he had nothing to do. Two sensations simultaneously hit him. A strange nausea in the belly and the urge to write in the head. Keeping his priorities straight, he headed to the bathroom; still nothing. He went back to the couch thinking where he could find pen and paper. What’s the computer for, a voice shouted in his head. He tiptoed into the room and groped around for a bit in the dark. At first, he couldn’t figure the machine out and wondered if he should call for help. But better sense prevailed and after an eyes-wide-open search operation, he located the power button and pressed it. The computer whirred to life and he waited for it to finish the boot. For a moment, his urge to write lessened. Why not talk to a few old-time friends. But nothing was going through and reluctantly he opened the text editor. He hacked out sentences amidst a series of long pauses, indicating that he was finding it hard to maintain his train of thought. He knew what he was writing had nothing to do with the thoughts with which the sudden desire to write had gripped him. He typed on nonetheless. After what seemed like ages to him, he was done. He checked the time; it had only been an hour. He felt as if he had written a whole novel and gave a small chuckle, which came out like a cackle, when he discovered it was only three-fourths of a page. He turned around to see if he had disturbed his friend with the sound he made. Didn’t seem like it. He went back to what he had written and cursorily read through it. Yep, it was nothing like what he had originally imagined. He stood up. His stomach gave a nasty churn, and his head a delicious spin. Had he ever felt this good before? This bad? His brain rudely reminded him that it refused to process questions on relativism that night. The idealist in him put up a fight. The escapist advocated surrender. His knees felt weak and he sat down. And then with a faint, unconcerned smile on his face, he said to himself: ‘don’t know about the good or bad, but that was one hell of a joint.’ And then there was a hush.

Shakir

the great seraiki poet, Shakir Shuja'abadi, is on his deathbed and the Ministry for Culture is treating this with the same callous indifference it has perviously displayed towards all other intellectual greats who were not Urdu or Punjabi speaking. Be this as it may, Shakir's work clearly depicts the cultural mood of the Seraiki people, colored as it is by a feeling of disorientation and deprivation. i have been making frequent use of Shakir's works in my ramblings, but here are my all-time favorites.

bur koon dedhan, bah'r koon dedhan
dua'a koon dedhan, asar koon dedhan
kaheen de seenay te yaar sumdhin
kaheen dee sikdi qabar koon dedhan

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khoon dunya te peenda vada'een, khaaki thee ke punjeenda vada'een
ajab naseeb hayee ghareeb lut ke ghareeb parwar sadeenda vada'een

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kal tamasha ajeeb ditthem, te raah te kusda ghareeb ditthem
tarapda lasha haa begunaah da, te kol hunsda raqeeb ditthem

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aayee tarf asmaan toon und-chithi, meday aalhnde ne jhad jhad keetee
wal rul ke badal te badliyaan ne hik khauf bharee kud kud keetee
naee tars aya meday Malik koon, today haye haye te rud rud keetee
ghar sarda dekh ke Shakir da, jug taadiyan dee tud tud keetee

Although the mullah's God has traditionally been against the artistic expression that is poetry, I hope that the God of saner people would be a bit more compassionate towards a man whose life has been a bed of thorns and whose only crime has been that he has dared to ask why?