When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.
With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.
- The Donkey by G.K. Chesterton
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
You!
if I know,
my life’s breath, o friend of my heart
if I know
the weariness of your heart
the sadness of your eyes
the desolate burning in your bosom
words of tender love
may erase
if my words of solace be the salve with which
your ravished soul, your withered mind
comes alive
your forehead is cleansed
of all marks of shame
your diseased youth
is forever cured
only if I know,
my soul’s whisper, o friend of my heart
night and day,
dawn to dusk,
I’ll balm your wounds
serenade your soul
with song, soft and sweet
songs of waterfalls
and spring
and lush meadows across a stream
songs of the light of dawn
and the moon
and far off stars, as if in a dream
and I’ll sing you tales of beauty and love
of how the icy bodies of unfeeling nymphs
tremble
stir
melt
at the caress of a warm hand
of how the unchanging look of a face familiar
changes beyond all knowing
in the flash of an eye
and the crystal glass of the lover’s cheek
rushes to burn up with a wine
a magical red rye
and how to the reaper of all its worth
the rosebush gaily does itself present
filling the night-chamber with a blissful scent
so, I’ll sing songs
just for you
sit by you,
create verse and song,
just for you
but my song, ‘tis not the cure you seek
may it be a soothing strain
soul penetrating it can not be
may it be a restful balm
a lance to your woes it can not be
your cure is naught
but a bayonet sharp,
a lance unto your woes
and its wielder
its whimsical, unflinching, merciless wielder
is not mine to own
nor anybody else’s among creation,
but yours
only yours
and yours alone.
- An attempt at translating Faiz's 'Meray Hamdam, Meray Dost'
my life’s breath, o friend of my heart
if I know
the weariness of your heart
the sadness of your eyes
the desolate burning in your bosom
words of tender love
may erase
if my words of solace be the salve with which
your ravished soul, your withered mind
comes alive
your forehead is cleansed
of all marks of shame
your diseased youth
is forever cured
only if I know,
my soul’s whisper, o friend of my heart
night and day,
dawn to dusk,
I’ll balm your wounds
serenade your soul
with song, soft and sweet
songs of waterfalls
and spring
and lush meadows across a stream
songs of the light of dawn
and the moon
and far off stars, as if in a dream
and I’ll sing you tales of beauty and love
of how the icy bodies of unfeeling nymphs
tremble
stir
melt
at the caress of a warm hand
of how the unchanging look of a face familiar
changes beyond all knowing
in the flash of an eye
and the crystal glass of the lover’s cheek
rushes to burn up with a wine
a magical red rye
and how to the reaper of all its worth
the rosebush gaily does itself present
filling the night-chamber with a blissful scent
so, I’ll sing songs
just for you
sit by you,
create verse and song,
just for you
but my song, ‘tis not the cure you seek
may it be a soothing strain
soul penetrating it can not be
may it be a restful balm
a lance to your woes it can not be
your cure is naught
but a bayonet sharp,
a lance unto your woes
and its wielder
its whimsical, unflinching, merciless wielder
is not mine to own
nor anybody else’s among creation,
but yours
only yours
and yours alone.
- An attempt at translating Faiz's 'Meray Hamdam, Meray Dost'
Thursday, September 17, 2009
the way I wrote it
I am writing in response to ‘Division of Punjab opposed’ which was carried on September 9, and endorsed an earlier letter ‘No parochial provinces, please’. The gist of the letter of September 9 was that the federating units of Pakistan should not be restructured along ‘parochial’ lines, and that any such restructuring will be harmful to the federation of Pakistan itself. I find it to be quite a contradiction that the author of such a treatise speaking of the larger interests of the federation of Pakistan is writing from a platform as parochial as the ‘Punjabi’ National Conference.
The letter speaks of a Punjabi motherland, its historical significance, and the threat posed to it by the creation of a Seraiki province. The foundation of this so-called Punjabi motherland commenced at the sword of Maharaja Ranjit Singh in 1818 when he captured the Muslim state of Multan, which had always been an independent province in all the Muslim empires of the subcontinent, and had encompassed the entire Seraiki region. In fact, Multan was a state more ancient than Lahore testimony to which are the words of Data Ganj Bakhsh. When this saint set up his abode in the current precincts of Lahore, he wrote ‘we dwell in the outskirts of Multan.’ After the Sikh era, the British gave shape to this motherland with their conquests of 1848, and afterwards with the partition of India in 1947. Finally, the Punjab gained its final shape with the forced annexation of the Bahawalpur state in the mid-1950’s. These 200 years do not even take a candle to the glorious history of the Seraiki area all the way from the Indus Valley Civilization, and, therefore, cannot buttress claims as to the current province of Punjab being the Punjabi motherland. What history does show, however, is that the Seraiki regions have been deprived of the right to determine their own destiny since 1818.
Geographically, the Seraiki region is the valley of the Upper Indus and comprises all of southwestern Punjab from Rahim Yaar Khan in the south to Khushab and Mianwali in the North, and the D.I. Khan, Bannu and Tank districts of the NWFP. It is, in fact, what connects the Punjabi speaking Central Punjab to the rest of the provinces. It is also one of the most neglected and under-developed regions in the country. Pakistan, for most of its existence, has suffered a misfortune not unusual for ex-colonies: direct and indirect rule by a nexus of the civil and military establishments, rather than by democratic forces. And the amount of sanctioned representation of the Punjab in the civil and military services is no secret to anyone. Within the province, though, the dynamics are more complex. The Northern and Central parts of the province have had a greater trend towards western education from colonial times, an important contributing factor towards which was the famed loyalty of the Punjabi elite towards the British. Thus, certain regions of the province got a lot more than their fair share of representation in the federal and provincial bureaucracies, and the armed forces, and the fruits of development and official favor were distributed accordingly, further compounded by the unabashed exercise of nepotism and favoritism, as was demanded by the complex code of biradri and socio-religious linkages, and other such sociological compulsions. The letter in question is correct in saying that the creation of a Seraiki province would take away from the population and the area of the Punjab. What it fails to mention, and which is a great apprehension among the establishment, is that a new province would also take away the opportunities of one region or one set of the population, to capitalize upon the ignorance and backwardness of the other.
Feudalism is blamed for the woes of the Seraiki people. One must concede that decadent, myopic and ultra-conservative feudal mindsets that persist are a great hindrance to progress. But look closely and you will see that the back of feudalism is effectively broken in the Seraiki belt. Barring a few notable exceptions, through generations of inheritance, and at least one successful round of land reforms in the first military era, landholding has dwindled to an average of 250-500 acres for the biggest landlords. This is peanuts by any feudal standard, and even though they may retain the airs of their ancestors, even the greatest feudals these days are nothing but large-scale farmers. Landlessness is almost unheard of in these times. Going forth, the feudal is as much tied to the land as a peasant who owns 1 acre of land. They both bear the vagaries of the climate, the whims of nature and the unpredictable convulsions of the market. This strengthens the centuries-old familiarity, and the affinity that is borne out if it, that exists between them as denizens of the same village, and partners in language and culture. There is a reason why the much-maligned jirga system refuses to go extinct even in times as these where no one man has lordship over many others as in the old feudal days. The poor people of the Seraiki belt still trust the village Zamindar or Sardar to dispense greater and cheaper justice to them than the police stationed in the nearby town. For the latter in common perception, far away as they are from their homes mostly in Central Punjab, will only make justice serve those who can line their pockets better. Such exploitation is a daily affair in the police stations of rural southwestern Punjab. Furthermore, when the industrialists, mill-owners and businessmen band together to skew the market in their favor, both the feudal and the peasant down south feel cheated out of the fruits of their agricultural produce, and the bond is strengthened. There is little wonder then that the same people get elected over and over again. To understand why they often fail to deliver then requires a more systemic analysis of the method of executive government in Pakistan. One proposed solution is to have a new province so that the elected representatives would stay closer to home, and thus, be more accountable to their constituencies, rather than merely using the masses’ vote as a means towards plush, elitist living in Lahore. One cannot deny the ancestral roots landowners have among the people. One can wager, though, as to whether this system is actually more evil than the ascendancy of fluid capital and the whimsical free market in the Central Punjab over the past 30 years, the sociopolitical and socioeconomic fallout of which is yet to be witnessed by history.
The letter in question alludes to the debacle of 1971 in arguing that the Pakistani federation is inept at handling provinces, and therefore, new provinces should be avoided. It is less a question of a geographical existence of a province than one of the very real suppression of rights. The Bengalis felt cheated out of their rightful political and cultural share in Pakistan especially given that they were the majority province in terms of population. And the ‘federation’ failed to address, much less redress, their grievances. It is a global fact that it is not the recognition and promotion of ethno-linguistic and sociocultural groups that leads to strife but the suppression of them. Rwanda and Pakistan in 1971 are actually examples that favor this fact. But if the author of the letter feels that such cultural and ethnic distinctions need to be suppressed, or sacrificed, to form a greater national identity in the peculiar case of Pakistan, the fact that he is sticking so fast to his Punjabi identity is more than just a tad confounding. Or shall we continue to grudge others, what we cherish for ourselves? If Pakistan needs to restructure itself into newer federating units to actually recognize its ethno-linguistic composition and work to take everybody along rather than drag them by their hands and feet, is it not about time? Our neighbor to the East massively redesigned its provincial compositions right after independence, and now we must grudgingly admit the vibrancy of their democracy. Why is the status quo the only thing not taboo to speak about in the Punjab? In the present-day, all smaller provinces, Balochistan being the most candid instance are complaining of a similar suppression of rights at varying levels. The federation seems to be coming apart at the seams for there are widespread insurgencies in at least two provinces. The seraiki question notwithstanding, are these signs of a strong and contented federation? The letter refers to the federation as if it were an alien force, a third party. It fails to include in its analysis that the federation, the federal government, springs from the provinces, and it has been delineated earlier in this piece, which part of the country has always had the controlling share in it.
A major problem with Pakistan has always been internal imperialism. Sindh and Balochistan have always lamented the exploitation of their natural and human resources. The ancient Seraiki civilization of the Upper Indus does not even have a platform to voice its grievances effectively; to postulate a fundamental moral and ethical principle that the first right to any river goes to its immediate drainage basin, its valley; likewise for all natural and mineral resources. The Upper Indus belongs to the Seraiki belt and to Sindh. It is between these two regions that the question of any dam-construction must be addressed. The far-off plains of Central Punjab have no right to the Indus, or to protest its loss. The drying up of the southern rivers of Sutlej, Ravi and Beas as a consequence of the Indus Water Treaty signed by the powers that were in1962 has already left the eastern half of the Seraiki belt on the verge of acute water shortage and complete desolation. Damming the Indus and creating a canal system out of it at Kalabagh solely for the benefit of northern Punjab will sound the death knell, not only for the lower Seraiki regions but also Sindh. Therefore, any such decision should rest with the immediate effectees, and nobody else.
The letter stops short of condemning the cause for a Seraiki province as sedition. It rails against imperialism and warns against conspiracies to break up the country on the basis of cultural and linguistic groupings. All cultural identities, except for the Punjabi identity, are presented as dangers to the existence of Pakistan with the full potential of becoming ‘permanent exploiters and blackmailers’. Of course, any new exploiters and blackmailers appearing on the scene would be a certain threat to the interests of the already established exploiters and blackmailers. It is interesting to note though that it contains within itself elements of cultural imperialism. It proposes that Punjabi be made the standard medium of instruction all across the Punjab, knowing full well that half the people of the province do not speak that language. Seraiki is written in the Sindhi script. It has more letters in its alphabet than Punjabi, which has the same script as Urdu. Spoken Seraiki has more sounds and syllables than either Urdu or Punjabi. Linguistic experts hold Seraiki and Punjabi to be distinct languages in their structure and form. Would not the imposition of a standardized form of Punjabi in the entire province of Punjab virtually kill an entire language, the development of which, like all other human languages, has taken millennia? Does not the death of language mean the death of culture? Do Punjabi and Seraiki both not already suffer enough out of the fact that they are not taught in schools at all? Such bigoted demagoguery and displays of cultural arrogance and imperialism, an instance of which is evidenced in this letter of September 9 will only serve to give fresher impetus to the cause for new provinces and greater provincial autonomy. Such is the arrogance which pushes even moderate people towards extremism. We need to respect, appreciate and find beauty in one another’s cultural differences, rather than aim to suppress, negate and eliminate them. Only when such an attitude of inclusiveness and acceptance is attained can we be sure of being safe against all the disasters that the letter has so ominously forewarned against.
Hasnain Haider Langah
Farmer
Shujatpur, Jalalpur Pirwala
Multan
The letter speaks of a Punjabi motherland, its historical significance, and the threat posed to it by the creation of a Seraiki province. The foundation of this so-called Punjabi motherland commenced at the sword of Maharaja Ranjit Singh in 1818 when he captured the Muslim state of Multan, which had always been an independent province in all the Muslim empires of the subcontinent, and had encompassed the entire Seraiki region. In fact, Multan was a state more ancient than Lahore testimony to which are the words of Data Ganj Bakhsh. When this saint set up his abode in the current precincts of Lahore, he wrote ‘we dwell in the outskirts of Multan.’ After the Sikh era, the British gave shape to this motherland with their conquests of 1848, and afterwards with the partition of India in 1947. Finally, the Punjab gained its final shape with the forced annexation of the Bahawalpur state in the mid-1950’s. These 200 years do not even take a candle to the glorious history of the Seraiki area all the way from the Indus Valley Civilization, and, therefore, cannot buttress claims as to the current province of Punjab being the Punjabi motherland. What history does show, however, is that the Seraiki regions have been deprived of the right to determine their own destiny since 1818.
Geographically, the Seraiki region is the valley of the Upper Indus and comprises all of southwestern Punjab from Rahim Yaar Khan in the south to Khushab and Mianwali in the North, and the D.I. Khan, Bannu and Tank districts of the NWFP. It is, in fact, what connects the Punjabi speaking Central Punjab to the rest of the provinces. It is also one of the most neglected and under-developed regions in the country. Pakistan, for most of its existence, has suffered a misfortune not unusual for ex-colonies: direct and indirect rule by a nexus of the civil and military establishments, rather than by democratic forces. And the amount of sanctioned representation of the Punjab in the civil and military services is no secret to anyone. Within the province, though, the dynamics are more complex. The Northern and Central parts of the province have had a greater trend towards western education from colonial times, an important contributing factor towards which was the famed loyalty of the Punjabi elite towards the British. Thus, certain regions of the province got a lot more than their fair share of representation in the federal and provincial bureaucracies, and the armed forces, and the fruits of development and official favor were distributed accordingly, further compounded by the unabashed exercise of nepotism and favoritism, as was demanded by the complex code of biradri and socio-religious linkages, and other such sociological compulsions. The letter in question is correct in saying that the creation of a Seraiki province would take away from the population and the area of the Punjab. What it fails to mention, and which is a great apprehension among the establishment, is that a new province would also take away the opportunities of one region or one set of the population, to capitalize upon the ignorance and backwardness of the other.
Feudalism is blamed for the woes of the Seraiki people. One must concede that decadent, myopic and ultra-conservative feudal mindsets that persist are a great hindrance to progress. But look closely and you will see that the back of feudalism is effectively broken in the Seraiki belt. Barring a few notable exceptions, through generations of inheritance, and at least one successful round of land reforms in the first military era, landholding has dwindled to an average of 250-500 acres for the biggest landlords. This is peanuts by any feudal standard, and even though they may retain the airs of their ancestors, even the greatest feudals these days are nothing but large-scale farmers. Landlessness is almost unheard of in these times. Going forth, the feudal is as much tied to the land as a peasant who owns 1 acre of land. They both bear the vagaries of the climate, the whims of nature and the unpredictable convulsions of the market. This strengthens the centuries-old familiarity, and the affinity that is borne out if it, that exists between them as denizens of the same village, and partners in language and culture. There is a reason why the much-maligned jirga system refuses to go extinct even in times as these where no one man has lordship over many others as in the old feudal days. The poor people of the Seraiki belt still trust the village Zamindar or Sardar to dispense greater and cheaper justice to them than the police stationed in the nearby town. For the latter in common perception, far away as they are from their homes mostly in Central Punjab, will only make justice serve those who can line their pockets better. Such exploitation is a daily affair in the police stations of rural southwestern Punjab. Furthermore, when the industrialists, mill-owners and businessmen band together to skew the market in their favor, both the feudal and the peasant down south feel cheated out of the fruits of their agricultural produce, and the bond is strengthened. There is little wonder then that the same people get elected over and over again. To understand why they often fail to deliver then requires a more systemic analysis of the method of executive government in Pakistan. One proposed solution is to have a new province so that the elected representatives would stay closer to home, and thus, be more accountable to their constituencies, rather than merely using the masses’ vote as a means towards plush, elitist living in Lahore. One cannot deny the ancestral roots landowners have among the people. One can wager, though, as to whether this system is actually more evil than the ascendancy of fluid capital and the whimsical free market in the Central Punjab over the past 30 years, the sociopolitical and socioeconomic fallout of which is yet to be witnessed by history.
The letter in question alludes to the debacle of 1971 in arguing that the Pakistani federation is inept at handling provinces, and therefore, new provinces should be avoided. It is less a question of a geographical existence of a province than one of the very real suppression of rights. The Bengalis felt cheated out of their rightful political and cultural share in Pakistan especially given that they were the majority province in terms of population. And the ‘federation’ failed to address, much less redress, their grievances. It is a global fact that it is not the recognition and promotion of ethno-linguistic and sociocultural groups that leads to strife but the suppression of them. Rwanda and Pakistan in 1971 are actually examples that favor this fact. But if the author of the letter feels that such cultural and ethnic distinctions need to be suppressed, or sacrificed, to form a greater national identity in the peculiar case of Pakistan, the fact that he is sticking so fast to his Punjabi identity is more than just a tad confounding. Or shall we continue to grudge others, what we cherish for ourselves? If Pakistan needs to restructure itself into newer federating units to actually recognize its ethno-linguistic composition and work to take everybody along rather than drag them by their hands and feet, is it not about time? Our neighbor to the East massively redesigned its provincial compositions right after independence, and now we must grudgingly admit the vibrancy of their democracy. Why is the status quo the only thing not taboo to speak about in the Punjab? In the present-day, all smaller provinces, Balochistan being the most candid instance are complaining of a similar suppression of rights at varying levels. The federation seems to be coming apart at the seams for there are widespread insurgencies in at least two provinces. The seraiki question notwithstanding, are these signs of a strong and contented federation? The letter refers to the federation as if it were an alien force, a third party. It fails to include in its analysis that the federation, the federal government, springs from the provinces, and it has been delineated earlier in this piece, which part of the country has always had the controlling share in it.
A major problem with Pakistan has always been internal imperialism. Sindh and Balochistan have always lamented the exploitation of their natural and human resources. The ancient Seraiki civilization of the Upper Indus does not even have a platform to voice its grievances effectively; to postulate a fundamental moral and ethical principle that the first right to any river goes to its immediate drainage basin, its valley; likewise for all natural and mineral resources. The Upper Indus belongs to the Seraiki belt and to Sindh. It is between these two regions that the question of any dam-construction must be addressed. The far-off plains of Central Punjab have no right to the Indus, or to protest its loss. The drying up of the southern rivers of Sutlej, Ravi and Beas as a consequence of the Indus Water Treaty signed by the powers that were in1962 has already left the eastern half of the Seraiki belt on the verge of acute water shortage and complete desolation. Damming the Indus and creating a canal system out of it at Kalabagh solely for the benefit of northern Punjab will sound the death knell, not only for the lower Seraiki regions but also Sindh. Therefore, any such decision should rest with the immediate effectees, and nobody else.
The letter stops short of condemning the cause for a Seraiki province as sedition. It rails against imperialism and warns against conspiracies to break up the country on the basis of cultural and linguistic groupings. All cultural identities, except for the Punjabi identity, are presented as dangers to the existence of Pakistan with the full potential of becoming ‘permanent exploiters and blackmailers’. Of course, any new exploiters and blackmailers appearing on the scene would be a certain threat to the interests of the already established exploiters and blackmailers. It is interesting to note though that it contains within itself elements of cultural imperialism. It proposes that Punjabi be made the standard medium of instruction all across the Punjab, knowing full well that half the people of the province do not speak that language. Seraiki is written in the Sindhi script. It has more letters in its alphabet than Punjabi, which has the same script as Urdu. Spoken Seraiki has more sounds and syllables than either Urdu or Punjabi. Linguistic experts hold Seraiki and Punjabi to be distinct languages in their structure and form. Would not the imposition of a standardized form of Punjabi in the entire province of Punjab virtually kill an entire language, the development of which, like all other human languages, has taken millennia? Does not the death of language mean the death of culture? Do Punjabi and Seraiki both not already suffer enough out of the fact that they are not taught in schools at all? Such bigoted demagoguery and displays of cultural arrogance and imperialism, an instance of which is evidenced in this letter of September 9 will only serve to give fresher impetus to the cause for new provinces and greater provincial autonomy. Such is the arrogance which pushes even moderate people towards extremism. We need to respect, appreciate and find beauty in one another’s cultural differences, rather than aim to suppress, negate and eliminate them. Only when such an attitude of inclusiveness and acceptance is attained can we be sure of being safe against all the disasters that the letter has so ominously forewarned against.
Hasnain Haider Langah
Farmer
Shujatpur, Jalalpur Pirwala
Multan
Saturday, September 05, 2009
extra! extra!
dampened eyes and running tears
are signs of pain and sorrow
the anguish is for all to see
and from it, some do borrow
but what of shriveled shameless eyes
and cheeks that have no traces?
and hearts that bleed but fail to make
trusty mirrors of their faces?
nothing!
are signs of pain and sorrow
the anguish is for all to see
and from it, some do borrow
but what of shriveled shameless eyes
and cheeks that have no traces?
and hearts that bleed but fail to make
trusty mirrors of their faces?
nothing!
Saturday, June 27, 2009
and it was all yellow!
So, I am sitting here on my monstrous butt; monstrous, stretch-mark free butt might I add, the latter attribute, I am told, being proof that I have an extra ounce or two of celestial matter in my creation. Wonder then whether the loose hanging flesh that surrounds my posterior is the halo that is supposed to mark my divinity. I kid you not! After the first conjectures regarding the rather esoteric relationship between my bottom and saintliness were made, I decided to strip myself in front of a man-sized mirror and put my backside through a rigorous examination. The person in the mirror cut a very sorry figure: tenderly fondling his own bottom and craning his neck backwards to see with a highly sheepish grimace on his mug. At that moment, a million, ‘mildly’ philosophical questions invaded my head, a lighter one among them the one about the halo. Another nastier one was what if God had made this, the rear end, the functional end of a human being? As in, what if people ate and spoke through this end, and its present functions were assigned to other parts of the body? Hahah…now we say ‘she is so soft-spoken, uss k toh muun se phool jhartey hain!’ What would we say in the other case? ‘Uss ki g**** se phool jhartey hain’? Haahaha. But it wouldn’t really have mattered, I say. Human civilization would have evolved around that anatomy and everything would have been just as it is. ‘Ass’inine, such line of reasoning, I chide myself, the reserve of fools and no-good do-littles like me. So, I sit here on that which may very well have been something else compelling all of us to very literally put our asses where our mouth is, thinking about what to write in the way of a ‘decent’ blog-post.
Poor, long-suffering Michael Jackson kicked the bucket yesterday after 50 years of a life that changed color often, both in body and in spirit. Made me especially sad, his departing. I still remember my first ever exposure to western music was with the video of MJ’s ‘beat it’ back in the summer of ’88 in Okara. I watched it at my Mamu’s place with my cousins, and the machismo the moon-walking, break-dancing black singer was displaying in it had me completely bowled over. I asked for the tape to be rewound and replayed so many times, my older cousins finally got sick of me and deposited me with my mother for an afternoon siesta. But, at that time I mistook the ‘beat it’ in the song to be ‘peethay’, ‘peeth’ being the term used in my family for a child’s bottom. (With such an ass-centered beginning, doubt this post is going to be able to free itself from the yoke of the anus….blecch! this just keeps getting dirtier and dirtier). Anyway, I still remember asking ‘Mallo baji! Yeh peethay peethay kyun keh raha hai?!’. Still remember the laugh that went around the room. God it felt good to be funny as a child. And, another, closer in time Michael Jackson memory. It was my first year at college, a Monday morning, and an Uncle at whose place I had spent the weekend was to drop me off at my college. Now, as I was having breakfast while watching MTV, ‘In the closet’ started showing with Naomi Campbell’s sinuous figure gyrating all over the TV screen and MJ having the time of his life fooling around with her. Now, obviously, it caused a rumble in my underpants! And in the middle of all of that, Uncle came and said ‘lets go’. I managed a measly 'Ji!', while not budging an inch from the sofa I was planted on. He looked at me confused, then saw the TV and said smilingly ‘Ready when you are, Hasni Mian!’ That was one embarrassing moment. Yet, after that, I downloaded the video and now have every second of it burnt in my memory. So, MJ, you made for some good times. May your soul rest in peace!
On the personal front, I have been down with the sickness for more than a week now; a mild case of Hepatitis-A. The pupils of my eyes are dilated as if at some unseen horror, and seem to be floating around in two pools of yellow muck. And, as is the theme of this post, my ass-hole seems to have lost control over what it’s supposed to hold in, and at the most inopportune times, solid, liquid and gaseous emissions come gushing forth to strike the fear of God in my heart at even the tiniest commotion in my belly. An hour ago, my mother made me have three-fourths of a kilo of jaaman; jammu, in seraiki, for those like me more used to the desi name of it. Its fibrous insides are supposed to be very good for clearing one’s intestines of all sorts of filth. And I think its beginning to work. So, I better get going before I soil my shorts just sitting here. Wonder why I started this piece and why I am ending it?! Hope though, that this post is easier on your sensibilities than the previous one.
Poor, long-suffering Michael Jackson kicked the bucket yesterday after 50 years of a life that changed color often, both in body and in spirit. Made me especially sad, his departing. I still remember my first ever exposure to western music was with the video of MJ’s ‘beat it’ back in the summer of ’88 in Okara. I watched it at my Mamu’s place with my cousins, and the machismo the moon-walking, break-dancing black singer was displaying in it had me completely bowled over. I asked for the tape to be rewound and replayed so many times, my older cousins finally got sick of me and deposited me with my mother for an afternoon siesta. But, at that time I mistook the ‘beat it’ in the song to be ‘peethay’, ‘peeth’ being the term used in my family for a child’s bottom. (With such an ass-centered beginning, doubt this post is going to be able to free itself from the yoke of the anus….blecch! this just keeps getting dirtier and dirtier). Anyway, I still remember asking ‘Mallo baji! Yeh peethay peethay kyun keh raha hai?!’. Still remember the laugh that went around the room. God it felt good to be funny as a child. And, another, closer in time Michael Jackson memory. It was my first year at college, a Monday morning, and an Uncle at whose place I had spent the weekend was to drop me off at my college. Now, as I was having breakfast while watching MTV, ‘In the closet’ started showing with Naomi Campbell’s sinuous figure gyrating all over the TV screen and MJ having the time of his life fooling around with her. Now, obviously, it caused a rumble in my underpants! And in the middle of all of that, Uncle came and said ‘lets go’. I managed a measly 'Ji!', while not budging an inch from the sofa I was planted on. He looked at me confused, then saw the TV and said smilingly ‘Ready when you are, Hasni Mian!’ That was one embarrassing moment. Yet, after that, I downloaded the video and now have every second of it burnt in my memory. So, MJ, you made for some good times. May your soul rest in peace!
On the personal front, I have been down with the sickness for more than a week now; a mild case of Hepatitis-A. The pupils of my eyes are dilated as if at some unseen horror, and seem to be floating around in two pools of yellow muck. And, as is the theme of this post, my ass-hole seems to have lost control over what it’s supposed to hold in, and at the most inopportune times, solid, liquid and gaseous emissions come gushing forth to strike the fear of God in my heart at even the tiniest commotion in my belly. An hour ago, my mother made me have three-fourths of a kilo of jaaman; jammu, in seraiki, for those like me more used to the desi name of it. Its fibrous insides are supposed to be very good for clearing one’s intestines of all sorts of filth. And I think its beginning to work. So, I better get going before I soil my shorts just sitting here. Wonder why I started this piece and why I am ending it?! Hope though, that this post is easier on your sensibilities than the previous one.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
love, disowned!
I drank
by her hand
greedily, lustily
and in between unapologetic quaffs
I prayed, ‘give me that,
which in your cellar abounds;
for if I taste a vintage rare,
tomorrow, my thirst
all the oases of this wilderness
shall quench, nor sate’.
and she,
in whispers,
cautious and carefree
diffident and bold
expectant and aloof,
spoke:
‘yesterday this day's madness did prepare;
tomorrow’s silence, triumph, or despair:
drink! for you not know whence you came, nor why:
drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.’1
by her fancy,
I drank.
when my rapture
I could not contain
I cried, ‘No more’,
And, meant it not.
she put her burning lips to my ear,
and poured in the nectar of an otherworldly allure:
‘blossoming verse underneath the bough,
a bowl of wine, some bread, and thou,
beside me singing in the wilderness,
oh, wilderness were paradise now!’2
on her shoulder, my stupor did rest
without a thought, a care or regret;
and when I woke
there was naught;
just the scorching sun
to mock my lot.
my face I held in my hands
and through baffled tears
I wondered,
could it be just a dream?
a mirage?
or some unearthly game?
treacherous trickery!
thence,
however, it must be told
to my approach runs dry
every oasis
in this barren
irredeemable
godforsaken
zone.
and I waste away,
thirsty, forlorn
sans that which by her hand
I drank.
--------------------------------------
1 Omar Khayyam. Ruba’i 74.
2 Omar Khayyam. Ruba’i 6.
by her hand
greedily, lustily
and in between unapologetic quaffs
I prayed, ‘give me that,
which in your cellar abounds;
for if I taste a vintage rare,
tomorrow, my thirst
all the oases of this wilderness
shall quench, nor sate’.
and she,
in whispers,
cautious and carefree
diffident and bold
expectant and aloof,
spoke:
‘yesterday this day's madness did prepare;
tomorrow’s silence, triumph, or despair:
drink! for you not know whence you came, nor why:
drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.’1
by her fancy,
I drank.
when my rapture
I could not contain
I cried, ‘No more’,
And, meant it not.
she put her burning lips to my ear,
and poured in the nectar of an otherworldly allure:
‘blossoming verse underneath the bough,
a bowl of wine, some bread, and thou,
beside me singing in the wilderness,
oh, wilderness were paradise now!’2
on her shoulder, my stupor did rest
without a thought, a care or regret;
and when I woke
there was naught;
just the scorching sun
to mock my lot.
my face I held in my hands
and through baffled tears
I wondered,
could it be just a dream?
a mirage?
or some unearthly game?
treacherous trickery!
thence,
however, it must be told
to my approach runs dry
every oasis
in this barren
irredeemable
godforsaken
zone.
and I waste away,
thirsty, forlorn
sans that which by her hand
I drank.
--------------------------------------
1 Omar Khayyam. Ruba’i 74.
2 Omar Khayyam. Ruba’i 6.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
late last night
sit up with a start. eyes staring glassily at the muted TV screen lose focus for the first time in two hours. 'go to bed. go to bed! can't u see what time it is? go to bed this very instant!' what the hell for, dipshit?! 'it's a weeknight, asshole. you want to sleep through the precious hours of the morning? you want life, shackled and constrained, to wait for you while you get done with your beauty sleep? get up off your monstrous butt right now and go to bed.' oh. haha. jackass! nothing awaits me in the morning. nothing! neither life, nor death. just gaping nothingness. get lost, and leave me in peace. let me at least adorn this vaccuum with dreams of how it would be like to live, for real. fuck off! and don't u dare disturb my reverie again tonight, you paranoid fuck!
Thursday, May 28, 2009
the God complex
By writing what I am about to write, I do not presume to conjecture upon the existence of an almighty God. Far be it for me, an infinitesimal speck on the limitless expanse of creation, to be vain enough to put forth hypothetical claims and opinions as regards the existence of an Omnipotent being, the Prime Mover Unmoved, Yahweh, God, Allah. All I mean to do is to talk about certain thoughts that are befuddling my thinking process after a very interesting exchange I had with a friend on the subject of god and his manifestation in terms of nature and life on earth. Although, if I am honest to myself, I think I am actually more motivated by what this other friend said. He told me that my blog seems to be drying up and perhaps I am losing the ability to write; nothing like an affront to what one secretly holds very dear to prod one into action. So, if nothing else, this post provides occasion to play Victor Frankenstein to the lifeless monster that is my blog. Hope that by the end of this piece, I can gleefully announce: ‘it’s alive!’ Here goes, then.
Life, as we experience it, and by ‘we’ I mean every living thing on the planet Earth and not just human beings, is cyclical. The concept was first introduced to me by Mufasa from The Lion King; the great circle of life. It’s an elaborate system in which species prey on other species just to survive in a never-ending game that engages all of life’s basic faculties and instincts: greed, opportunism, stealth, strength, brute force, hunger, desperation, hope, and most importantly, just the pure will to survive. Intense intellectual debate still abounds as regards the origins of this system. Some believe that this natural scheme of things evolved over millennia through rigorous processes of natural selection and the application of Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest in which millions of species existed and then went extinct to reach the face of life on earth as we know it today. Others speak of a divinely ordained intellectual design whereby this system was set in motion by the Lord Himself, persists because He wills it to, and will come to an end at a time of His choosing. In this carefully constructed divine system, God has given power to some species over others to do with as they please, and Man, being the best of all His creations, stands at the top of this power structure.
Now, let me start with the circle of life itself. Mufasa had us believe that although the lion eats the antelope, when the lion dies his body turns to grass, and the antelope eats the grass; a radical, new perspective for any 13-year old Disney enthusiast. At the age of 26 though, Mufasa’s philosophy seems to have broken down as I perceive a definite break in the circle. The circle is more like a triangular pyramid to me where all of the earth’s natural resources tend towards Man because of his intellectual and material superiority over all other species, while Man himself contributes minimally to the balance of nature. Deforestation, extinction of animal species and hazardous climate changes are all instances of Man’s arrogant ascendancy over the planet. The funny bit is that even when he dies, he is disposed off in manners that ensure that the earth does not benefit much from it either in terms of nutrients or as food source for lesser species.
Having said all of the above, it is universal belief that God is an Absolute being. He is One and cannot be compared to any other. His omniscience is unquestionable, and He exists in totality, and not in relation to any other object or being. Life on earth, on the other hand, is relativism incarnated. Man, by depending on his relative strengths upon other beasts and his ability to subjugate them to be used as beasts of burden or as items on the dinner menu, guarantees his own survival and dominance over all else. Lower down the food chain, all species are competing against each other as per their relative strengths and weaknesses in the struggle to survive. The Alaskan Grizzly knows that at this certain time of year, hundreds of thousands of salmon would try and come upstream to breed. And consequently, the salmon have to run a gauntlet of merciless claws and teeth just to be able to perpetuate their kind. It’s a system all right; a system where the strong takes down the weak and all is fair in the battle for survival. It’s a system that works; has worked for millennia, much before any conception of God or religion came about. Notwithstanding the question as to why a Being existing in totality would want to create anything in the first place, does such a system of relativity that we see on the earth seem like the handiwork of an Absolute God? Is a God whose creations are beset with such levels and gradations and relative strengths and weaknesses even absolute? And if an Absolute, Omnipotent God did create the world and gave life to it was this so-called circle of life with all its Darwinist trappings of cutthroat competition and survival of the fittest the only scheme in His Infinite Wisdom to sustain life? Or is one to believe that since Man is created in God’s own image, like Man, God Himself is callous and whimsical in the exercise of His Infinite Power, and has initiated this Great Game of life just to keep Himself entertained as the Lord and King of all in a very human-like conception of Kingdom and Lordship? How is this all to be understood in juxtaposition to the concept of the Absolute God?
Also, we are told since childhood that God is the Supreme Artist, and that He is Absolute Love. Every creation of His is like a work of art, and He loves each of His masterpieces; with a love that is absolute. Yet, he has subordinated some of his creations to others; to be utilized and dealt with according to the latter’s wishes, to be eaten or mistreated or simply killed just for fun. The Absolute Lover loves some of his creations much more than others such that He has made the former the arbiter of the latter’s lives and destinies. So much so that He commands His most favorite creation, Man, to sacrifice the lives of countless goats and sheep and oxen to Him at a given day in the year. Does a bleating goat feel no pain as its throat is slit? Does it not feel the life slowly draining out of it? Are those last-minute spasms and blood spurts signs of joy to be sacrificed to the Eternal One? Or is it just what it is, the macabre dance of death? Is such a bloodlust befitting to the One who professes Absolute Love? What difference then remains between Him and those minor deities he uprooted not too long ago; Baal, with his cult of human sacrifice, and all the gods and goddesses of Greece, Babylon and Egypt? Does either God (as we understand Him) or Man realize that life granted by an Absolute God to any being is an Absolute Reality and that, in principle, taking that life is an Absolute Crime? If Love is Sympathy, can God feel the pain of the dying animal, or is this sympathy overwhelmed by His Love for Man as he merrily takes life and then proceeds to feast on it? Why is human life alone sacred and all other life subject to the will of Man, when all life to all creation is granted by the Absolute God, and He alone should be the arbiter of fates? What is Man but the only beast that requires artificial skin on top of his own to even brave the weather? What is Man but a beast with all the basic instincts and desires of all other living creatures, but just the extra capacity for more efficient execution of all that his animal nature demands?
And what of the Supreme Artist? Why does He prefer a vertical ladder in the arrangement of His works of art, and not a horizontal shelf? From an entirely human, and therefore, probably irrelevant, perspective, would a Creator-Lover ever have His creations do to one another what life does to itself on the planet Earth?
By now, I am certain that any webspace pilgrim who has chanced upon this page has branded my line of thought a fine specimen of utmost stupidity. And it may very well be that. This is one reason I write over here where I am certain not many people will stumble upon it, at least not many of those who can actually get me strung up for such blasphemy, as it would appear to most. My weirdness stays in my own space. However, after many years of empty philosophizing, I have led myself to believe that the notion of God that we humans subscribe to is nothing but solace for our own tormented minds against the vagaries of that very system of life that He Himself is supposed to have created and set in motion, even if its current form has been shaped by human beings themselves over the centuries; a form in which the utility of a Divine Being guiding the hands of destiny stands visibly reduced. And after having observed this system, I can only hope that if there does exist an Absolute God, who is the Absolute Master of all Time and Space, let Him bring about a Day of Absolute Justice, so all would know what it was really all about.
Life, as we experience it, and by ‘we’ I mean every living thing on the planet Earth and not just human beings, is cyclical. The concept was first introduced to me by Mufasa from The Lion King; the great circle of life. It’s an elaborate system in which species prey on other species just to survive in a never-ending game that engages all of life’s basic faculties and instincts: greed, opportunism, stealth, strength, brute force, hunger, desperation, hope, and most importantly, just the pure will to survive. Intense intellectual debate still abounds as regards the origins of this system. Some believe that this natural scheme of things evolved over millennia through rigorous processes of natural selection and the application of Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest in which millions of species existed and then went extinct to reach the face of life on earth as we know it today. Others speak of a divinely ordained intellectual design whereby this system was set in motion by the Lord Himself, persists because He wills it to, and will come to an end at a time of His choosing. In this carefully constructed divine system, God has given power to some species over others to do with as they please, and Man, being the best of all His creations, stands at the top of this power structure.
Now, let me start with the circle of life itself. Mufasa had us believe that although the lion eats the antelope, when the lion dies his body turns to grass, and the antelope eats the grass; a radical, new perspective for any 13-year old Disney enthusiast. At the age of 26 though, Mufasa’s philosophy seems to have broken down as I perceive a definite break in the circle. The circle is more like a triangular pyramid to me where all of the earth’s natural resources tend towards Man because of his intellectual and material superiority over all other species, while Man himself contributes minimally to the balance of nature. Deforestation, extinction of animal species and hazardous climate changes are all instances of Man’s arrogant ascendancy over the planet. The funny bit is that even when he dies, he is disposed off in manners that ensure that the earth does not benefit much from it either in terms of nutrients or as food source for lesser species.
Having said all of the above, it is universal belief that God is an Absolute being. He is One and cannot be compared to any other. His omniscience is unquestionable, and He exists in totality, and not in relation to any other object or being. Life on earth, on the other hand, is relativism incarnated. Man, by depending on his relative strengths upon other beasts and his ability to subjugate them to be used as beasts of burden or as items on the dinner menu, guarantees his own survival and dominance over all else. Lower down the food chain, all species are competing against each other as per their relative strengths and weaknesses in the struggle to survive. The Alaskan Grizzly knows that at this certain time of year, hundreds of thousands of salmon would try and come upstream to breed. And consequently, the salmon have to run a gauntlet of merciless claws and teeth just to be able to perpetuate their kind. It’s a system all right; a system where the strong takes down the weak and all is fair in the battle for survival. It’s a system that works; has worked for millennia, much before any conception of God or religion came about. Notwithstanding the question as to why a Being existing in totality would want to create anything in the first place, does such a system of relativity that we see on the earth seem like the handiwork of an Absolute God? Is a God whose creations are beset with such levels and gradations and relative strengths and weaknesses even absolute? And if an Absolute, Omnipotent God did create the world and gave life to it was this so-called circle of life with all its Darwinist trappings of cutthroat competition and survival of the fittest the only scheme in His Infinite Wisdom to sustain life? Or is one to believe that since Man is created in God’s own image, like Man, God Himself is callous and whimsical in the exercise of His Infinite Power, and has initiated this Great Game of life just to keep Himself entertained as the Lord and King of all in a very human-like conception of Kingdom and Lordship? How is this all to be understood in juxtaposition to the concept of the Absolute God?
Also, we are told since childhood that God is the Supreme Artist, and that He is Absolute Love. Every creation of His is like a work of art, and He loves each of His masterpieces; with a love that is absolute. Yet, he has subordinated some of his creations to others; to be utilized and dealt with according to the latter’s wishes, to be eaten or mistreated or simply killed just for fun. The Absolute Lover loves some of his creations much more than others such that He has made the former the arbiter of the latter’s lives and destinies. So much so that He commands His most favorite creation, Man, to sacrifice the lives of countless goats and sheep and oxen to Him at a given day in the year. Does a bleating goat feel no pain as its throat is slit? Does it not feel the life slowly draining out of it? Are those last-minute spasms and blood spurts signs of joy to be sacrificed to the Eternal One? Or is it just what it is, the macabre dance of death? Is such a bloodlust befitting to the One who professes Absolute Love? What difference then remains between Him and those minor deities he uprooted not too long ago; Baal, with his cult of human sacrifice, and all the gods and goddesses of Greece, Babylon and Egypt? Does either God (as we understand Him) or Man realize that life granted by an Absolute God to any being is an Absolute Reality and that, in principle, taking that life is an Absolute Crime? If Love is Sympathy, can God feel the pain of the dying animal, or is this sympathy overwhelmed by His Love for Man as he merrily takes life and then proceeds to feast on it? Why is human life alone sacred and all other life subject to the will of Man, when all life to all creation is granted by the Absolute God, and He alone should be the arbiter of fates? What is Man but the only beast that requires artificial skin on top of his own to even brave the weather? What is Man but a beast with all the basic instincts and desires of all other living creatures, but just the extra capacity for more efficient execution of all that his animal nature demands?
And what of the Supreme Artist? Why does He prefer a vertical ladder in the arrangement of His works of art, and not a horizontal shelf? From an entirely human, and therefore, probably irrelevant, perspective, would a Creator-Lover ever have His creations do to one another what life does to itself on the planet Earth?
By now, I am certain that any webspace pilgrim who has chanced upon this page has branded my line of thought a fine specimen of utmost stupidity. And it may very well be that. This is one reason I write over here where I am certain not many people will stumble upon it, at least not many of those who can actually get me strung up for such blasphemy, as it would appear to most. My weirdness stays in my own space. However, after many years of empty philosophizing, I have led myself to believe that the notion of God that we humans subscribe to is nothing but solace for our own tormented minds against the vagaries of that very system of life that He Himself is supposed to have created and set in motion, even if its current form has been shaped by human beings themselves over the centuries; a form in which the utility of a Divine Being guiding the hands of destiny stands visibly reduced. And after having observed this system, I can only hope that if there does exist an Absolute God, who is the Absolute Master of all Time and Space, let Him bring about a Day of Absolute Justice, so all would know what it was really all about.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
on being cynical
Although I like to believe I am beyond the days when I actually cared about what adjectives people apply to me, I have often been dubbed cynical by my nearest and dearest ones at times when I least expected it. Sometimes it has been because the words ‘sarcastic’ and ‘cynical’ are used interchangeably in colloquial expression; at other times, I admit I may have displayed cynical tendencies. The purpose of this piece of writing at this ungodly hour (for an early sleeper like me) is to, however, discuss two hypotheses: that I am not more cynical than the next guy and that the general understanding of cynicism is somewhat awry.
Cynicism, as explained by an online dictionary, is ‘an attitude of scornful or jaded negativity, especially a general distrust of the integrity or professed motives of others’. Fair enough. I shall begin with an example from daily life. You go to the market to get something as simple as a turnip and a bagful of potatoes. Why do you haggle and holler with the salesman over the prices? Is it because in some abstract, unreachable corner of your mind, you are convinced that the other person’s foremost purpose is to rip you off, and the least you can do is try and minimize the damage he is going to cause to your wallet? On the other hand, why is the shopkeeper selling his vegetables at bloated prices, if that truly is the case? Perhaps he thinks that if it were up to you, you would never pay him his product’s worth. Hence, the way out for him is to set the initial price higher than the actual so that after all the demeaning haggling, whatever profit he’s making is not compromised. And if you are the rare, not-bargaining kind, he makes an extra buck or two, and you get what you deserve for being naive in the ways of the market. Take this model to a higher level. Why are all corporate deals, all transactions between big businesses, so painstakingly negotiated with attention to every little detail and precautions against all possible loopholes, with all legalities and paperwork in place? The same principle is at work: it’s up to you to save your own ass, because, if given the chance, the other guy will pound it without remorse. It’s the economics of distrust; distrust, the middle finger of the invisible hand that eluded the contemplations of poor old Adam Smith. What we experience everyday then, in the name of laissez-faire, is cynical economics; and we participate in it fully, by choice or by necessity.
Politics, however, is a game more ostensibly cynical in its machinations. Anybody who has grown up in Pakistan would invariably attest to that. As it is, the subject is expansive enough to be fit for a thousand doctoral theses. A half-baked intellectual’s nighttime ranting could hardly do it justice. Therefore, sidestepping any theoretical discourse, I will keep the following Machiavellian proposition as the basic benchmark for my conception of politics: politics, in any shape or form, is the exercise for the attainment of absolute power, and the exercise of such power over the longest possible period of time. Now, in the wake of a lot of kite-flying related deaths in Lahore over recent years, the government took a very noble step; ‘basant’ was banned. The consequent controversy was huge; an entire industry had been destroyed, it was a big blow to tourism and culture, a very cheap and effective means of public entertainment had been lost, etc. In the opinion of a bleeding-heart humanist like me, it was the right thing to do; human life ought never to be the cost of a bit of fun. Along came the long march, a perceivable threat to the power of the people in charge. Now, inevitably, clever functionaries of state put their heads together to think up means to ebb the tide rising towards Islamabad. And the first light bulb that went on in somebody’s head was for the retraction of the ban on basant on the eve of the march on the capital. It would kill countless birds with one stone. The earlier acrimony among the lahoris would die down, and the support for the march in the Punjabi heartland would be checked for people would be more interested in a night of partying and kite-flying than preparing to march for a cause, the ultimate fruit of which remains questionable and distant, for all intents and purposes. Within twelve hours of the lifting of the ban, there have been two deaths, guys in their twenties, throats slit by wayward twine descending from the sky; a macabre exercise in the politics of cynicism. The powers that be had an end to attain. The means they chose for it they knew would be too irresistible for the general public, placing their bets on a national attitude of acting first and thinking later. These two deaths are collateral damage in what war, I fail to understand. If his writings are any estimation of the man himself, Machiavelli must have been one tough guy. Wonder if this made him turn in his grave.
At a more personal level, how often have you been genuinely nice to someone without getting the ‘hope he doesn’t collect too heavily on this one’ look in return? How often have you earnestly sought a friend’s opinion and gotten vigorous affirmation of your own opinion in return, only to be told later that since you only needed corroboration of your own ideas, it was provided in good faith? At the workplace, aren’t all your words and actions first weighed by your coworkers as potentialities by which they could be harmed or, at least, their interests put in jeopardy? Why are there incessant office power plays when everybody’s got their heart in the right place? Life, it seems, is brimming to the full with subtle cynicisms. The catch, however, is that if you live by these contradictions, you are a normal human being, a person striving to make his way in the world, a person having the right to live. If, by some odd chance, you start pointing out the inherent cynicism of life, and choose to have nothing to do with it, wanting rather to lose yourself in the simple pleasures of the dhol, and the shehnai, and love, and an occasional ghazal, you are, surprise surprise, a Cynic, a sociopath, a disparager of all that is good and the upholder of all that is evil. And from here, the circle runs in reverse till you’re the one convinced that you’ve got it all wrong in your head.
Cynicism, as explained by an online dictionary, is ‘an attitude of scornful or jaded negativity, especially a general distrust of the integrity or professed motives of others’. Fair enough. I shall begin with an example from daily life. You go to the market to get something as simple as a turnip and a bagful of potatoes. Why do you haggle and holler with the salesman over the prices? Is it because in some abstract, unreachable corner of your mind, you are convinced that the other person’s foremost purpose is to rip you off, and the least you can do is try and minimize the damage he is going to cause to your wallet? On the other hand, why is the shopkeeper selling his vegetables at bloated prices, if that truly is the case? Perhaps he thinks that if it were up to you, you would never pay him his product’s worth. Hence, the way out for him is to set the initial price higher than the actual so that after all the demeaning haggling, whatever profit he’s making is not compromised. And if you are the rare, not-bargaining kind, he makes an extra buck or two, and you get what you deserve for being naive in the ways of the market. Take this model to a higher level. Why are all corporate deals, all transactions between big businesses, so painstakingly negotiated with attention to every little detail and precautions against all possible loopholes, with all legalities and paperwork in place? The same principle is at work: it’s up to you to save your own ass, because, if given the chance, the other guy will pound it without remorse. It’s the economics of distrust; distrust, the middle finger of the invisible hand that eluded the contemplations of poor old Adam Smith. What we experience everyday then, in the name of laissez-faire, is cynical economics; and we participate in it fully, by choice or by necessity.
Politics, however, is a game more ostensibly cynical in its machinations. Anybody who has grown up in Pakistan would invariably attest to that. As it is, the subject is expansive enough to be fit for a thousand doctoral theses. A half-baked intellectual’s nighttime ranting could hardly do it justice. Therefore, sidestepping any theoretical discourse, I will keep the following Machiavellian proposition as the basic benchmark for my conception of politics: politics, in any shape or form, is the exercise for the attainment of absolute power, and the exercise of such power over the longest possible period of time. Now, in the wake of a lot of kite-flying related deaths in Lahore over recent years, the government took a very noble step; ‘basant’ was banned. The consequent controversy was huge; an entire industry had been destroyed, it was a big blow to tourism and culture, a very cheap and effective means of public entertainment had been lost, etc. In the opinion of a bleeding-heart humanist like me, it was the right thing to do; human life ought never to be the cost of a bit of fun. Along came the long march, a perceivable threat to the power of the people in charge. Now, inevitably, clever functionaries of state put their heads together to think up means to ebb the tide rising towards Islamabad. And the first light bulb that went on in somebody’s head was for the retraction of the ban on basant on the eve of the march on the capital. It would kill countless birds with one stone. The earlier acrimony among the lahoris would die down, and the support for the march in the Punjabi heartland would be checked for people would be more interested in a night of partying and kite-flying than preparing to march for a cause, the ultimate fruit of which remains questionable and distant, for all intents and purposes. Within twelve hours of the lifting of the ban, there have been two deaths, guys in their twenties, throats slit by wayward twine descending from the sky; a macabre exercise in the politics of cynicism. The powers that be had an end to attain. The means they chose for it they knew would be too irresistible for the general public, placing their bets on a national attitude of acting first and thinking later. These two deaths are collateral damage in what war, I fail to understand. If his writings are any estimation of the man himself, Machiavelli must have been one tough guy. Wonder if this made him turn in his grave.
At a more personal level, how often have you been genuinely nice to someone without getting the ‘hope he doesn’t collect too heavily on this one’ look in return? How often have you earnestly sought a friend’s opinion and gotten vigorous affirmation of your own opinion in return, only to be told later that since you only needed corroboration of your own ideas, it was provided in good faith? At the workplace, aren’t all your words and actions first weighed by your coworkers as potentialities by which they could be harmed or, at least, their interests put in jeopardy? Why are there incessant office power plays when everybody’s got their heart in the right place? Life, it seems, is brimming to the full with subtle cynicisms. The catch, however, is that if you live by these contradictions, you are a normal human being, a person striving to make his way in the world, a person having the right to live. If, by some odd chance, you start pointing out the inherent cynicism of life, and choose to have nothing to do with it, wanting rather to lose yourself in the simple pleasures of the dhol, and the shehnai, and love, and an occasional ghazal, you are, surprise surprise, a Cynic, a sociopath, a disparager of all that is good and the upholder of all that is evil. And from here, the circle runs in reverse till you’re the one convinced that you’ve got it all wrong in your head.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
the way it is...
tussan malik saadi dil de ho
jadan khwab vichaley mildey ho
janbaz dassan kya haal thheenday?
mein ronda han, tussan khildey ho
- Janbaz Jatoi
jadan khwab vichaley mildey ho
janbaz dassan kya haal thheenday?
mein ronda han, tussan khildey ho
- Janbaz Jatoi
Monday, January 26, 2009
ennui?
It comes upon him in the dead of night; an insidious specter, delighting in joining in the melancholic games of solitude the dark is playing on him, yet wary of his cornered spirit, his troubled mind. ‘What do you fear?’ it murmurs, mimicking the breathless tone of a lover about to bestow love's first kiss. ‘My vacillating faith’ he replies, sullenly, resignedly, not showing any interest in being wooed. The stillness of the dark is, for a moment, ruffled. ‘What is there to be afraid of?’ it asks in a manner of gentle bemusement. ‘I do not want to lose it again’ he answers after a long, empty pause. The dark gets denser around him, heavier. ‘And how do you fear losing it?’ it inquires, woefully, as if knowing what is to follow. ‘It’s a cruel, selfish world which does not comprehend the value of trust. When trust is shattered, all faith is shattered, all else is lost. I will not be able to survive any of that anymore’ he speaks wearily, half-expecting to be understood, half-imagining a ray of light in the unrelenting dark. ‘Sanctimonious liar’, it hisses, ‘you yourself are the thief, the desecrator of trust. And your only fear is that you may be avenged of your sin. You fear that which you deserve, and long for that which you do not. Be damned!’ ‘Amen’, he sighs. The dark closes in.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
seven years
Chacha Saeen
Ay raat jehri k sirf tuhadi yaad di raat hay te jeendi sik ich meda poora saal langhdey, aj traye baldyein angaryein di veil vaindi payee hay jehray dozakh di aakhri chund toon unchithay meday utey un dhatthin aur meda cheta itna ral gaye k mekoon na apna hosh reh na dunya o mafeeha da. Bus itna pata hay jo medi saari raat hunr tarapdyein guzarsi.
Tuhakoon andaza kaini saeen jo mein kitna sharminda han. Aur kitna mayoos vi kyunke mekoon nazarda pe jo mein een hik saal ich kitna khud-gharz te aapni haqeeqat toon kitna andha thhee giyan. Lekin, aye mein apney naal ehd karendan jo jay agley saal tayeen jeenda reehum, tan vala een raat koon khaali kaina vanjanr desaan. Te je mar giyum tan een kanu behtar biya kya thhee sagdey?
Bus, eeho kujh aahda hum. Kash bala das te phera marendi hovay ha. Kash tuhadi ja mein hovan ha.
Hasni.
Ay raat jehri k sirf tuhadi yaad di raat hay te jeendi sik ich meda poora saal langhdey, aj traye baldyein angaryein di veil vaindi payee hay jehray dozakh di aakhri chund toon unchithay meday utey un dhatthin aur meda cheta itna ral gaye k mekoon na apna hosh reh na dunya o mafeeha da. Bus itna pata hay jo medi saari raat hunr tarapdyein guzarsi.
Tuhakoon andaza kaini saeen jo mein kitna sharminda han. Aur kitna mayoos vi kyunke mekoon nazarda pe jo mein een hik saal ich kitna khud-gharz te aapni haqeeqat toon kitna andha thhee giyan. Lekin, aye mein apney naal ehd karendan jo jay agley saal tayeen jeenda reehum, tan vala een raat koon khaali kaina vanjanr desaan. Te je mar giyum tan een kanu behtar biya kya thhee sagdey?
Bus, eeho kujh aahda hum. Kash bala das te phera marendi hovay ha. Kash tuhadi ja mein hovan ha.
Hasni.
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