Birthday '11

the PI apologizes...

PI? Now what in the name of Jesus H. Christ’s controversial Dad could that be? Could it be that dratted π = 22/7 that appears in every mathematical identity, and whose point Archimedes himself could not explain? Or does it stand for something? Private(s) Investigator like that Magnum PI character we used to watch on NTM every week for lack of satellite or cable TV, the one who all the women used to drool over, and who, I still maintain, looks more like a gay pornstar than a ladykiller? Or perhaps, it means Poop Inquirer, or, wait wait, Pube Inspector! Now, in the latter case, one would have to apologize at so many different levels, it would simply cease to be funny! One would need to start apologizing from God Himself to one’s parents for never having the requisite credentials to merit a better job description to the subject of inspection itself. In the rare event, however, that the subject in question is a pube exhibitionist, taking great pride in the dimensions of his or her bush, as the case may be, the need for an apology would stand waived. In this case, the PI would deserve some token of appreciation, although self-obsessed subjects have seldom been known to give any.

No, my gentle, and by now I hope, sufficiently appalled readers, PI, for the purpose of this piece, means none of the scandalous options listed above. It merely stands for ‘pseudo-intellectual.’ My friends from the college days would remember me as one of those morons who would go on and on, ad nauseum, ad absurdum, about everything that had anything to do with politics, local or international, philosophy, religion, economics, society and culture. In fact, I used to be, and I state this most emphatically, an expert on every science that did not involve mathematics. This was more than just a tad ironic because I had A’s in both my O- and A-level Math, and was studying for a major in computer sciences with a minor in math. Be that as it may, I had an opinion about almost everything under the sun, and the disdainful certainty with which I propounded my opinions and rejected everybody else’s, makes me want to puke now. To me, God was a fictional character, I was the embodiment of all good with all the love for the poor and the downtrodden in my heart while everybody else lived selfishly and inhumanly, the true axis of evil was Bush and Musharraf, the maulvi, mullah, maulana, allama, ayatollah were all demons in sub-human form, communism rocked, the Seraiki people were all absolutely oppressed, the Punjabis all remorseless oppressors, hence, ¡Viva la revolución!, Marx’s words were nothing less than ‘hadith’, Che was the superhero, Adam Smith was a plagiarizing idiot, Mill an insufferable fart, democracy was a total farce and capitalism was evil, along with the entire white race. These are a few choice nuggets I remember out of an entire buffet of high wisdom from the days I fancied myself an intellectual. And now, just the firmness of my convictions amuses me.

Thing is, my nonexistent audience, as life rolled on, I realized that one does not really need to refer to high-sounding philosophies and ‘-isms’ to make sense of it all. One can pretty much make head and tail of most life-phenomena, if one views life as a perpetual game of conflicting and aligning interests. ‘Interest’ is what makes the world go round, the basis of all economic and politics. It is what governs human behavior at every level, from individual to the highest levels of social organization: socioeconomic classes, political parties, means and mechanisms of government etc. All history and religion fall into place. We find every political and economic theory speaking to or of one interest or another. I don’t intend to delve deeper than this, nor am I trying to prove any point. All that I am trying to say is, if one makes an unbiased assessment of one’s own existence, it is hard to find any action that is not motivated by narrow self-interest. Far be it for me to make crass generalizations, but barring even the overtly interest and greed-centered capitalistic world system, isn’t charity often done with the ultimate end of paradise in mind; point-scoring with the G-Man? Are all the proponents of Marxist revolution above taking it as a bid for gaining power? Journalists and social workers may be committed to the ideals of truth and social justice, but can all of them say that the motive of self-projection, fame and influence-garnering does not lurk somewhere in the background? Couldn’t academics and intellectuals be driven by the same? But let’s return to the individual level. In our limited spheres of existence, do we not do everything in our power using all the breathing space that life affords us to remove any obstacles in the path of our desires or ambitions, justifiable and otherwise, often letting go of even the last shreds of decency along the way: lying, making false promises, creating a whole lot of hurt and acrimony? And having done that all day, we go online, watch the 8 o’ clock talk shows and rant and rave about how Zardari is worst thing to have happened to Adam since Kane, the PPP has picked the country’s corpse down to the skeleton, the MQM are all bloodthirsty ethno-linguistic zealots, Nawaz Sharif is an elitist stooge, the Army is the root of all evil, Amreeka is an exploitative global hegemon etc. After all, aren’t all of them using all the space they have, the power they wield, to protect, preserve and project their own interests, the way they define and understand their interests, the same as us? Even if we think they are all thieves and murderers, don’t thieves and murderers organize to look after their own interest, just like we do? Who is the hypocrite here? Who gives me the right to sit in judgment on all these macro evils when I am just as evil at the micro level? It is at the micro level that people first perfect the unscrupulous exercise of self-interest into an art-form before they go on and execute it to a tee at the macro level. So, where is the big fucking difference?

In the final months of Nana Jan’s life, he was once having his nightcap when I went to spend some time with him. One of those 8 o’ clock shows came on and a bunch of politicians, intellectuals, media-persons, experts got together to opine on the political situation of the country, in sagely tones and self-righteous airs. I expressed a desire to be one such person one day, someone who is listened to, who can influence the way people think, who has a voice, someone who is not just a someone but a somebody. My dying nana spoke priceless words that night: ‘baba, ay sab barey bhenr de chud hin. channel change ker. Madhuri da dance gole.’ Literally translated, it means: ‘my dear boy, these are all sister-fuckers of the highest order. Change the channel. Find the channel where madhuri is dancing.’ This nanaismo is now the only ‘-ism’ I subscribe to, the only philosophy that makes sense in this life which is just a jumble of a thousand different complicating interests. Now, where to find my madhuri is the question?! And how?! Because the real one is now beyond even the MILF stage!

I have a feeling this piece has gotten a bit too dense for something that started out as an attempt at humor. I think I am still as big a PI I ever was. And I leave the definition of it to you this time, kind imaginary reader. The point is mankind would need to find a higher driving force than interest to be able to get in touch with its own humanity. Plato spoke of the need of a philosopher-king to set society right, not a sales-king, not a corporate-king, not any democratic dictatorship, not an absolute monarch nor a Machiavellian prince. A philosopher king! But hey, wait a minute, wasn’t he a philosopher himself?! O brother, it looks like even Plato had his own agenda; he is announcing his own candidacy for the top job, making his own sugar-coated grab for power for himself and his ilk. The bastard!

Musings VIII

tedi chashm siyah da a'ashiq hum

tedi mast nigah sab koor aahi

hun vaal teday meday sir di chhaan

bas mehak siwa sab koor aahi

teda shauq ta teday vas da nai

teday jism di bhha sab koor aahi

teday hij'r ich oon ta mar giya hum

ay maut langah, sab koor aahi

- Hasni Khan

the Ides of March III

thak gaya hoon

bohat thak gaya hoon mayn

ussi ik rah pe chaltey

girtey

sambhaltey

dhool khaatey

aur phir girtey

bohat thak gaya hoon mayn

safar zindagi ka talkh hee hai hamesha se

umeedon k saharey kat-ta bhi nahi

ma'aloom hai mujh ko

per tum aaye

aur lamhon mein

ka'ee se khwab bunn bethay

ka'ee sawalon k kitne rangeen jawab chun bethay

machal utha dil ye bhi

nakaam o nakara

barson baad mila iss ko

jeenay ka koi chara

per ye woh dil hai jo zindagi bhi

mer mer k jeeta hai

zindagi ki her ramak se

der der k jeeta hai

bolay tum meray be-chayn dil pe haath yoon rakh k

huns k, madhosh ho k, mast nazrein chaar ker k:

'sab theek hoye ga'

uth para mayn bhi phir safar ki tayari mein

dikhne laga rung, khuda, khushbu

tumhari yaari mein

ab aaye koi bhi toofan, dekha jaye ga

girey sir pe chahay aasman, dekha jaye ga

ma'aloom kya thha k tumhare saans ki mehak

tumhare honton ka ras

baney ga woh zehr e qaatil jis se

issi nadar musafir ka jigar chaak ho ga

woh khwab jo basaye tum ne meri aankhon mein

bikhar jayein ge raahon mein

raiza raiza ho k

kaanch ki kirchion ki tarah

khoon-khwar kaanton ki tarah

ab inhi raahon mein din raat kata kartey hain

tamasha dekhne waley

ji bhar k mujh pe hanstey hain

chalta hai yoonhi nok e sina be-bas saans ka raqs

khoon behta hai magar aisey k dikhta bhi nahi

dil woh hai k kisi tor bhi bikta hee nahi

bas yahee aag ka safar hai,

aur tanha mein

apni bejaan umangon k laashey gintey

dil k veeraney ko jazbat ki dafan-gah kartey

thak gaya hoon

bohat thak gaya hoon mayn.

the Ides of March II

'Justuju Jis Ki Thhi' from the film Umrao Jan Ada, 1981

the Ides of March I

after my death came one and placed a lighted lamp upon my grave,

ah, the hem of a passing breath snuffed it before the evening was gone.

when you have laid me in my grave, go say to her, 'O Angel face,

he who loved thee frenziedly is now the dust beneath thy feet.'

- anonymous

la'whore!

lahore, lahore

my screws have gone loose, have had it today

used to be a part of it - lahore, lahore

now my old worn-out shoes, are dying to get away

right out of this house of shit - lahore, lahore

why be in a city that doesnt let me sleep?

where it's all downhill, a stinkin' dung heap

my lil town blues, i'd take any day

i'm sick of making new starts of it - in cold lahore

i can't make it anywhere, especially not here

and its all because of you - lahore, lahore

lahore, lahore

why wake up in a city that gives me the creeps?

and find i'm a number none, bottom of the list, run of the mill

a number none

my lil town blues, please take me away

i can't make no new starts of it - in cold lahore

'cause i just can't make it here, i can't make it anywhere

it's all b'cause of you - lahore, lahore

lahore!

Sung to the tune of Frank Sinatra's 'New York, New York'

100: A Political Statement

The content of this post has been deleted by the author for purely non-political reasons. What was posted here before was a base attempt at currying favor with a vile and vulgar individual. The author retracts the previous statement in its entirety!

nine years

kab thehrey ga dard aye dil, kab raat basar ho gi
suntey thhey woh aayein ge, suntey thhey sehr ho gi

kab jaan lahu ho gi, kab ashk gohar ho ga
kis din teri shunwa'i aye deeda e tar ho gi

kab mehke gi fasl e gul, kab behke ga maikhana
kab subh e sukhan ho gi, kab shaam e nazar ho gi

wa'ez hai na zahid hai, naaseh hai na qaatil hai
ab shehr mein yaaron ki kis tarh basar ho gi?

kab tak abhi raah dekhein aye qaamat e jana'na
kab hashr mo'ayeeyan hai tujh ko toh khabar ho gi

- faiz

two-second admissions

jan zatan burdi wa darjani hunooz,
dard-ha daadi wa darmani hunooz.

aashkara seen-e am bashugaafti,
hamchunan dar seen-e pinhani hunooz.

ma za girya chun namak bagudakhtim,
tu bakhunda shukr afshani hunooz.

- Amir Khusrau

you left me lifeless, and yet, you are my life
pain you gave me aplenty, and yet, you are the only cure

shamelessly you pierced my chest and ripped out the heart
but within its darkest depths, you still somewhere hide

why should I cry if you grind salt into my wounds?
for such attention, my master, my king, I am forever grateful