the debate

"What's wrong with it?", he asked, agitated. "She is one of them. It is not possible under any circumstance," she replied, semi-amused. "What's so different between us and them? Are they not just like the rest of us?", he countered half-heartedly. "They are of that line. Our line is inferior to theirs. Just like this land is inferior to that land, for that land has been watered with their blood and there is no other place like it anywhere," she explained to him calmly, with a concerned expression. "What about the blood of the others? Does it not balance the equation?" he said with a sullen grimace. "That blood is of no consequence since it is inferior to their blood and pales in comparison," she told him forcefully. "How could this make them any different?" he retorted in exasperation. "The laws are not the same for all of us. If she really is of that line, she will be thrown off it," she said matter-of-factly. "But what if it is discovered that she is not of that line?" he asked casually. "If lines have been switched deliberately, that makes her unworthy of ours," she beamed in return. He laughed loudly. "It is like that of those behind the bush!" she commented, astonished. "Perhaps it is," he said, chuckling. She got up. "As to the earlier question, there's nothing to have," she announced carelessly and went away. He waited.

well of wisdom

had written a whole fricken piece that was lost in electricity fluctuation. aur energy nahi hai phir se likhne kee woh saaree qawali. buss yeh yaad hai:

itne sadme utthaye hain mein ne
sir utthane ke qabil nahi hai

aur yeh bhee aaj kee tamaam guftugu urdu mein honee thee. aur yeh waqayah bayan hooa keh Maula ne kaha, 'Mesum, herr raat meray paslion ke darmian aik toofaan sa utthta hai jo bahar aana chahta hai, per mein majboor ho kerr usse aik koon'ein mein daal ata hoon.' phir Meesam ne poocha, 'Amir-ul-Momineen, yeh kaun sa aisa toofaan hai jo keh aap ko itna majboor aur be-chaen kerta hai?' toh Maula ne jawab diya, 'yeh ilm ka toofaan hai Meesum, jo bahar aane ke liye tadapta hai, perr dunya mein koee samajh rakhne wala nahi!' i cant seem to figure out its connection with what i was writing, but it is beautiful nonetheless and i will keep it. baqi ab kucch samajh nahi aa rahee; lagta hai frequency kum karnee pare gee. waqt aya hai apne qadmon per khade honay ka which is the last thing i want to do iss halat mein. lekin kya karein, bardasht karna pare ga. bohat zaroori hai yeh bhee zindagi mein. yeh sala weird al pata nahi kya chahta hai? accha, iss se pehle keh mein gharq ho jaoon, let me take my leave on a wanjhli dee mithdi taan. i still have to mourn the loss of such effort on extraction of lyrics from qawali. lekin haan yeh bhee kehna thaa:

aaye kucch abr, kucch sharaab aaye
uss ke baad aaye jo azaab aaye

and why the fuck is that picture always on?

Birthday!

nunhi si qabr khod ke, Asghar ko gaadh ke
Shabbir utth khade hooye daaman ko jhadh ke

No Man's Land

People who haven't seen this movie, or worse, not heard about it either are sincerely advised to get their hands on it and watch it. I have never, in my entire movie-watching career, seen such profound symbolism portrayed so beautifully. In fact, I think from now on I would look at any other movie with a changed perspective, subconsciously weighing its merits against those of No Man's Land. And as much as I am itching to narrate the storyline here, I realise my literary inadequacies and I know that any such attempt would do no justice to the original and could never even hope to convey the effect, capture the material the movie offers in its entirety. For there is enough material to do a doctoral thesis on. Suffice it to say that the main theme is the Bosnian crises of the 90's and the human tragedy of it. And its awesome how the entire crises is depicted without comprimising the film's basic status as an alternative, low-budget movie and making it into an epic. Hats off to the genius behind this masterpiece, the Bosnian director, Danis Tanovic. As a matter of fact this movie was his debut and has been his only movie to date.

On a more personal note, life itself seems to be in no man's land these days. The trick is to go with the flow and I am trying my best to achieve that despite all apprehensions and misgivings. But I fear that this resolve to conform might blow up in my face too in some time exposing me to their eyes. What then would become of me? Nonetheless, this blog becomes more unoriginal with every post. But I don't feel like doing anything about it tonight. For its a quiet night, can't even hear the music. Looks like the hush outside has drowned out the noise inside. And in such a state, listening to U2's Velvet Dress totally freaks me out. Trust Ghalib to come to the rescue.

kab se hoon kya bataoon jahan-e-kharab mein
shabhaye hijr ko bhee rakhoon ger hisab mein

mujh tak kab unkee bazm mei aata tha daur-e-jaam
saqi ne kuchch mila na diya ho sharaab mein

Ghalib chhuti sharab, per ab bhee kabhi kabhee
peeta hoon roz-e-abr-o-shab-e-mahtab mein

the dog speaks...

murshid sohni keetee bahu
sakoon pal vich cha bakhshaya hu

The music sounds so good tonight!

Overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves in labyrinths of coral caves
The echo of a distant tide
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine
And no one showed us to the land
And no one knows the wheres or whys
But something stirs and
Something tries
And starts to climb towards the light
Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me
And do I take you by the hand
And lead you through the land
And help me understand the best I can
And no one calls us to the land
And no one crosses there alive
And no one speaks
And no one tries
And no one flies around the sun
And now this is the day you fall
Upon my waking eyes
Inviting and inciting me to rise
And through the window in the wall
Comes streamin in on sunlight wings
A million bright ambassadors of morning
And no one sings me lullabies
And no one makes me close my eyes
So I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky.

It's all over!

“But whoever believes, and works righteousness, he shall have a goodly reward, and easy will be his task as we order it by our command.”
(Al-Quran, Surah Al-Kahf: 88)

With an unconditional sajda upon the words of the Lord, the sun has set on all hopes and dreams of happiness that might have returned to the family in two years; the brief respite that Providence afforded us has reached a bizarre ending. The ‘beray da malah’, everyone’s ‘sir da chhappar’, and ‘herr kaheen dee sambhaal lahand ala’ is gone forever, taken away as a consequence of one more random, inexplicable occurrence, the kind that has happened too often with us but is impossible to get used to, reinforcing everyone’s mortal fear of telephones ringing in the night, a fear that had initially crept in on the night of January 4, 2002. Cardiac arrest it is proclaimed to be with no prior history of heart problems. Mind-numbingly difficult his death is to accept; Chacha, though overweight, was the most physically active out of all his brothers and had never had poor health. In fact, he was one of the few in the family who are not afflicted with that most deadly ailment, hypochondria. But in one silent, surreptitious moment, the man who had always sacrificed his own happiness for the people around him, who had what it takes to be a friend in the hour of need, and who had the matchless ability to throw his arms around the world, was no more. Chacha was the base upon which the family’s strength and unity rested and was the main force behind the organization of all major activities, be it a majlis or a wedding or some political gathering. Quiet and seemingly aloof, he was all love for the family but could never bring himself about to express it. One had to spot the sincerity behind a sardonic remark or an angry outburst. Through every domestic crisis he held the family together by refusing to take sides and join in the mud-slinging. Even when haveli intrigue and family politics made married life hell for him, he remained a dutiful husband, father and son. Chacha was a true father figure, the only one with the integrity and the ability to replace Dada as the head of the entire family. But fate would not have it. As my 80-year old grandfather sat by the body of his eldest born and his second dead son, he cried out in a hoarse whisper, ‘Ay meda putr meda vee Baba ha!’ For in passing away, Chacha has orphaned the entire family, from the oldest to the youngest. In fact, he has orphaned the entire ‘wasaib’, from the sardar to the lowest ‘kami’. What would those families do who were fed from his kitchen three times a day, seven days a week, where would the small farmers go who could not afford pesticide and other such supplies and he invariably bought it for them, and what about those poor innocents whom he regularly saved from police victimization without them having to pay a single paisa as bribes. For it is true that Chacha was endowed with a kind of reckless generosity characteristic of old-school zamindars. Common village folk are mourning him as much as the family for this very reason. He would have made a fine sardar someday, a latter-day Rahim Yaar Khan maybe. But this was not to be and he wore the ancestral ‘pug’ into the grave.

Had he lived, today would have been his 56th birthday; he died two weeks shy of it. There are not many Scorpios in the family. In happier times my father used to say how my temperament was exactly like my ‘bara’ Chacha’s. If one is somewhat spiritual with some inclination towards religion, the fact that Chacha was born on the 10th of Moharram and died painlessly on the 15th of Ramadan while sitting on the prayer mat reading the Quran has significant meaning. My elders say these are sure signs that his lifelong services in the way of ‘Hussainiyet’ have been rewarded and he stands in high regard in the eyes of the Lord. I hope in the name of everything that is holy that this is true. But what is bothering my mind is that for a man of faith, is this the promised goodly reward that he lives his entire life on a bed of thorns and just as some semblance of happiness and mental peace begins to enter his existence, his life is taken away from him. For it is true that it was only in recent years, especially after Jaffer was born, that Chacha was truly happy; it showed on his face. He saw all his joys and dreams in the eyes of his grandson. And no matter what many celestial signs his death carried, the question remains: did he want to die at this point in time when for the first time in his life he was at the top of the world? The chapter of Chacha’s life closed abruptly, incomplete, anti-climactic. Iqbal, as usual, gives us false hope:

Jahaan mein ahl-e-eemaan soorat-e-khursheed jeetay hain
Idhar doobey, udher nikley; udher doobey, idher nikley

But in my observation of ahl-e-eeman, I have only seen them sink. With Chacha, the fortunes of the entire family have sunk. Everyone’s going around like zombies unable to comprehend what they could have done to deserve this. And what of the old man who has seen two sons into the grave, sons who did not have a single gray hair on their heads, who were in the prime of their lives, who were his pride and his strength? What has he done to deserve this? In a moment of weakness, even this iron man once cried out, “Maula, eeho sila denday way naukri da?” But his faith is too firmly entrenched. He will spend the days left to him begging for forgiveness and mercy. Who will take care of his legacy? He lost the warrior four years ago, now the heir is gone too. The heart bleeds to see him go to his sons’ graves supported by two men, to hear that in the middle of the night he gets up and makes his way, stumbling and falling, to their graves and goes and lies down on the cold hard earth. Does everything happen for a reason, or is the divine scheme of things a bit too arbitrary. What can one mere mortal say? Ghalib, I think, truly understands pain and the contradictions in the universe:

Sab kahan kucch lala-o-gul mein numayaan ho gayeen
Khaak mein kya sooratein hoon gee keh pinhaan ho gayeen

Runj se khoogar hoaa insaan toh mit jata hai runj
Mushkilein mujh per pareen itni keh asaan ho gayeen

Yoon hee ger rota raha Ghalib toh ay ahl-e-jahan
Dekhna inn bastion ko tum keh veeraan ho gayeen

Asghar Hussein Khan (November 2, 1949 - October 19, 2005)