Of flights and airports

In times long past there was a child who had known nothing but love, uncomplicated and pure, restricted to people who to him were the embodiment of all goodness. He was loved and he knew how to love back, because love in those days was easy. It could be found in chasing jumbo jets with his Grandpa, betting on what’ll happen first, the airplane landing or them reaching the airport. It could be found in a mysterious wall-cabinet which opened like the sesame to reveal treasures that only a child could appreciate. And the first glimpse of the exquisite bottle which held that burgundy-colored medicine his grandpa took every night and his utter confusion at the elaborate lengths the old man went into to explain that that medicine was only for grownups and that too to help with chest congestion. Such unconditional love lasted its course, changing in form as the child matured. In the final days, it included watching a sexy siren gyrate on screen while the old man took his daily medicine with the steam-machine on and the child listening to anecdotes that flowed more merrily with every sip; eighty-two years of a life lived like a king, like a fearless lion who liked to take life by the scruff of the neck and point it in the direction of choice, with no regrets and the quiet realization that it would all end in not too long. This love was immortal, even as those between whom it was felt were not.

Now, as that child has grown to what would have surely been a disgrace in his Grandfather’s eyes, the memories flood him often, mostly reducing him into a lump of helpless, sobbing mass. While making his way to the airport after many years roughly at the same time of the day as he had done with his Grandfather, he looks up again and again into the sky to try and see any signs of the plane. He wants to beat it to the airport again just like he had done in his foggy memories. Instead, all he gets is eyes foggy with tears. He stands at the airport terminal only to amuse by-standers with the most lost expression on his face, turning around again and again to see the stall from where his grandfather had gotten him crisps and juice many years ago. If only it were proper for a fully-bearded man to break down and cry like an infant. And again, he is reminded of how things have changed, irreversibly. Is his life not the perfect analogy for an airport terminal? People come and go, nobody stays. All relationships are viewed in terms of gains and losses, advantages and disadvantages, in the twisted kaleidoscope of this new age. Where is the love he had known? And without it, are his aching gasps for breath even worth the trouble?

Upon achieving success...

A great man: 'I came, I saw, I conquered'

A determined rat-racer: 'I saw, I came, I conquered'

A loser who gets lucky: 'I conquered, I saw, I came'

ishq-o-masti

jamal-e-ishq-o-masti nainawazi
jalal-e-ishq-o-masti be-niazi
kamal-e-ishq-o-masti zarf-e-Haider
zawal-e-ishq-o-masti harf-e-Ra'azi

- Iqbal

scriptural humor

"You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free." (John, 8:32)

Who in hell does He think He's kidding?

I dance...

nami danam keh aakhir choon dam-e-deedar mi raqsam
magar nazm ba een zoqey keh pesh-e-yaar mi raqsam

keh ishq-e-doost her sa’at duroon-e-naar mi raqsam
gahey ber khaak mi ghaltam, gahey ber khaar mi raqsam

beya jana tamasha kun keh der amboh-e-jaan bazaan
basad saman-e-ruswai sar-e-bazaar mi raqsam

khusha rindi keh pamalash kunam sad parsai ra
zahey taqwa keh mun ba jubba o dastar mi raqsam

tawan qatil keh az bahr-e-tamasha khoon-e-man rezi
manam bismil keh zer-e-khanjar-e-khoon-khwar mi raqsam

manam Usman-e-Marwandi o yaar-e-Sheikh-e-Mansoor-am
malamat mi kunad khalqey o man bar daar mi raqsam


- Sheikh Usman Marwandi (Lal Shahbaz Qalandar)


How is it that at mere sight I am enraptured?
But it is only proper; it is for love I dance

And it is love that in eternal hellfire I am ecstatic
In dust I bathe, on thorns I dance

O life, see me amidst hordes of your fearless lovers
Shouldering my shame before their eyes, I dance

Blessed insolence that I grind to dust a hundred virtues
For piety is when in clerical robes, I dance

Such display may cause my killer to lust for my blood
And meek under the thirsty blade, I dance

For I am Usman of Marwand, apostle of Mansoor the Wise
Creation chides and condemns, and on the gallows, I dance.

rebel cry

Ghalib hai rutba fehm o tasawwur se kucch parey
hai ijz-e-bandagi jo Ali ko khuda kahoon

- Ghalib

an ode to despair

What time is it?
How many hours till that hour
When I lie down, rest these aching legs and feet,
These weary, swollen, bleeding feet?

When I close my bloodshot eyes
Will it go away?
That feeling that I am roped
To three hundred and sixty thoroughbreds
Tall, sturdy, impatient thoroughbreds
Facing in three hundred and sixty directions
Each direction a degree apart from the next

The ropes are agonizingly taut
The animals rearing to go
What if they do
Will each take a piece of me with it?

When all I want to do
Is stay
In one piece
In one place
Silent, motionless, at peace.

the sanctuary

He enters. The silence is deafening. He wonders if this truly is a refuge from the screaming chaos that is outside, chaos that is bent upon breaking in. At least, he tells himself, he has learned some methods to deaden his wits against the relentless attacks of the uncertainty and the confusion that is outside. This hush, however, is pitiless. He looks around. In the bright light a few faces are visible like apparitions from a long-forgotten past, hardly recognizable, distant, uncommunicative. Its nothing like the bustle that used to be in this place not too long ago. All for the best, he mutters under his breath. How would they who are not even worth acknowledging understand the demons and how they plague him? Hell, has he even shut them out properly or have they followed him in? He stares blankly into the light hoping for a miracle to take form from within it. The hope makes him wait, foolishly, quietly, stubbornly. Faces pop in and out, more familiar faces, faces that he wants to touch so as to make his presence felt. But they are in a hurry like always. Cursory engagement and they are out. He is amazed at how they do not seem to need asylum from the outside like he does. Are they stronger than him? Or is it just his perception of things that is jaded? But now it is obvious that the vaccuum around him is widening; just more empty spaces for the demons to inhabit. The wait continues. Every passing moment is heavier than the last. The noise from the outside begins to breach the walls of his sanctuary. He realises that his time is up. Reluctantly, he gets up to leave. As darkness abruptly consumes the light he knows it will not be long before he is back. It is just the wait that he has given up, not the hope.

five years

wasl ki shab thee toh kis darja subak guzri thee
hijr ki shab hai toh kya sakht garaan thehri hai
ik dafa bikhri toh hath aayee hai kab mauj-e-shamim
dil se nikli hai toh kya lab pe fughan thehri hai?

- Faiz

istighasa

qibla-e-deen madadi, ka'aba-e-iman madadi
ya Hussein ibn-e-Ali, rooh-e-ghareeban madadi

sales pitch

Ladies and Gents. Tonight we bring you the ultimate offer in slumberous delight: Sleeping on your left side. At the mere cost of a dull ache in your left arm, you can avoid laying on your back all night. Breathing will be easier and your butt and back will get out of the feeling that they have turned to stone. What more, you'ld be able to curl up your legs whichever way you like. Now what's lying there straight as a plank compared to such nocturnal bliss? However, we do not guarantee against flow of phlegm towards the left. In that case, you might experience heightened pain in your left ear and tonsil. But isn't that a small price to pay for such luxurious comfort? And, ladies and gentlemen, those selling the right side are nothing but absolute bastards!

Birthday '06

Is it true solitude when in teeming multitudes of humankind, utterly silent, with a hush as grave as death upon them, walking down a road with no known destination, you are the only one who can hear yourself screaming? Then, is it any wonder that among the vast crowds, those few faces that could have soothed your troubled mind with a mere glint of recognition, unvoiced but real, remain as cold and expressionless as the rest?

muted rage

ghar mein tha kya keh tera gham jisse ghaarat karta
woh jo rakhte thhey ik hasrat-e-taameer, so hai...

- Ghalib

Of locks and keys...

taaleef e nuskha-haye wafa ker raha thaa mein
majmooa e khayal abhee fard fard thaa

- Ghalib

revelation? realisation?

You don't have what it takes. Admit it, a person with zero ambition, half-baked brains and limited horizons cannot for long delude himself with fake visions of greatness, of doing something worthwhile with his existence. Mediocrity is your lot in life but you refuse to see it. You who finds it hard to survive in an environment where you are protected, bolstered even, harboring dreams of seeing the world, facing it, challenging it? Fat chance. It is your destiny to continue to stumble in the narrow confines of your own head asking yourself over and over again why you have inhibitions about things that seem to come naturally to most of the people around you. And after so many years of looking into yourself, the answer should be plain enough. It is time to toe the line. In your head, you picture yourself as a crazy hippie intellectual who is too cool to care about anything in the world and you think nobody can see through that, no one can tell what you say apart from what it really is, bullshit? Who are u trying to fool but yourself? It is time to step off of any and all pedestals that you may have put yourself at. It is time to get up off of your lazy butt, grab whatever comes your way by the balls and make it work for yourself. After all, it is a struggle to survive. You don't want your inflexibility, your unreasonable stubbornness to be the end of you. That which does not bend is ultimately broken. But then, as you are undoubtedly sniggering away to yourself, who wants to survive anyway?

chaudvin ka chand

chaudvin ka chand ho ya aftab ho
jo bhee ho tum khuda ki qasam lajawab ho
chaudvin ka chand ho....

zulfein hain jaise kaandhon pe badal jhukkey huye
aankhein hain jaise mai ke payale bhare huye
masti hai jiss mein pyaar ki tum woh sharab ho
chaudvin ka chand ho....

chehra hai jaise jheel mein hansta hua kanwal
ya zindagi ke saaz pe chhedi huyee ghazal
jaan-e-bahar tum kissi shair ka khwab ho
chaudvin ka chand ho....

honton pe khelti hai tabassum ki bijliyan
sajde tumharee raah mein karti hai kehkeshan
dunya-e-husn-o-ishq ka tum hee shabab ho

chaudvin ka chand ho ya aftab ho
jo bhee ho tum khuda ki qasam lajawab ho....

Mental space is all that is required to put up something good here!

the day the music died!

August 20, 2006: Formatted drive C: Discovered 2236KB in bad sectors. Reinstalled XP, a pirated version all the way from Indonesia. Bill Gates's genius did not pick up the sound driver. No qawwali, no pink floyd since then. On top of that, most webpages appear in Malay or some other weird far eastern language. Google Behasa Melayu is politely offering to Saya Rasa Bertuah. The system date today is showing 27 Ogos, 2006. Right-click on a file causes the machine to hang and all running programs terminate with a message "Dr Watson Postmortem Debugger failed". And there is no music. And to think that life a week, ten days ago had appeared to reach its threshold of drabness. But no! Seems that like Telenor, the stars controlling dreary and monotonous existences also want us to "Expect More"!

House of Helpers

They push you up against the wall and beat you to a pulp if you dare to snarl back. No protestations, no expressions of dissent allowed in this place. You either come around to thinking like them or you don't think at all. There are set rules and standards that cannot be compromised. You utter foolish and unnecessary words that further incriminate you in their eyes. But do they realise what pushes you to speak like that? To them words have always held more significance than thoughts, effect more import than cause. So, my friend, your indictment is complete. It is you who stands alone again and the decision is only yours to make. Or is it one more sacrifice? There is a gun in your hands but its barrels are empty. They have taken the bullets away. How arrogantly they demand solutions and how conveniently they make achieving those impossible!

little by little

We the people fight for our existence
We don't claim to be perfect but we're free
We dream our dreams alone with no resistance
Faded like the stars we wish to be

Y'know I didn't mean... what I just said
But my God woke up on the wrong side of His bed
And it just don't matter now

Little by little we gave you everything you ever dreamed of
As little by little the wheels of your life have slowly fallen off
Little by little you have to live it all in all your life
And all the time I just ask myself why are you really here?

True perfection has to be imperfect
I know that that sounds foolish but it's true
The day has come and now you'll have to accept
The life inside your head we gave to you