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

Birthday '10: Addendum

I can write the saddest lines tonight.

Write for example: ‘The night is fractured
and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance’

The night wind turns in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
I loved her, sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like these I held her in my arms.
I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes.

I can write the saddest lines tonight.
To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her.

Hear the vast night, vaster without her.
Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass.

What does it matter that I couldn’t keep her.
The night is fractured and she is not with me.

That is all. Someone sings far off. Far off,
my soul is not content to have lost her.

As though to reach her, my sight looks for her.
My heart looks for her: she is not with me

The same night whitens, in the same branches.
We, from that time, we are not the same.

I don’t love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her.

Another’s kisses on her, like my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes.

I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her.
Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.

Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms,
my soul is not content to have lost her.

Though this is the last pain she will make me suffer,
and these are the last lines I will write for her.

- Pablo Neruda

Birthday '10

So, it’s that time of the year again, the day when I must fulfill the tradition I started five years ago. Not that I ever thought much of this day. As far as my memory goes, I don’t remember coming into my parents’ dreams and asking them to copulate so as to bring me into this House of Wonders that is this world. Nor do I remember filing a request with Allah Saeen, if he has anything to do with such biological matters i.e., to have my soul descend into this fetid mess that he calls his magnum opus. Goddamnit, must all creativity be cooked in a bit of looniness with a hint of self-delusion? Anyway, long before November 17, 2005, I had, painfully, I must add, been compelled to learn that the only certainty associated with a date of birth is a date of death. Again, that’s just how the Supreme Dude has laid out his version of a Star Plus soap. But around 17-11-05, I had been confronted with the grief of simply existing so starkly that I began to wonder whether such days which people generally take as celebrations of life are actually much more, or less, or even nothing at all. So, I vent what I feel every year on my birthday; and these are grotesque feelings, for which I am regularly accused of having a penchant, as opposed to being happy and feeling special just on account of the fact that the particular accident of my birth happened on this day.

What, then, is so special about a birthday? What makes us strut about the face of the earth on this particular day, expecting special treatment from everybody? Do we think that our existence is such a blessing upon all creation that everybody ought to bow down in thanks for it, and sing accolades to our greatness? Or, is it because our lives are so worthless that we leap at this 24-hour opportunity to actually dupe ourselves into thinking that we matter? Of course, parents make us feel as though we matter. But is it more about us or about celebrating their own success since we technically represent fruits of their labor? And friends and family, they just want to fulfill a social norm, wish you a ‘happy birthday and many more to come’ so as to continue having cordial relations with you. After all, getting along with people is what makes one move along in life. But, even in our limited social context, what about the ones we have hurt, the ones we have let down, the ones we have dropped by the wayside as our life-priorities shift and we evolve into newer, fuller human beings? The ones we have fooled with false words and promises, forced to accept our viewpoint as regards life, and conveniently discarded once they have been fully converted while we move on to bigger and greater things, without even a look back at what we may have done to them, without a strand of remorse for not taking responsibility for our own word or deed? Why should they be happy, or thankful? And even if they are, hopelessly devoted as some fools tend to be despite all repudiation, why should they behave and express it in a way that is only acceptable to us? Expecting them to would be a lot like a torturer of the Spanish Inquisition releasing his victims from the death-vices, iron maidens, crowns of barbed wire, swinging razor pendulums etc only to sing him a birthday cheer. After all, the torture is for their own benefit, their souls are being cleansed, their demons exorcized, their wayward and ‘self-destructive’ beliefs corrected. Throughout history, the oppressor has told the oppressed: ‘this is for your own good.’ Such is the way of things.

Anyway, before I get carried away, birthdays are not special if we ourselves insist on them being so. They are special if people we know, whose lives we have touched in one way or the other, feel it in their hearts that the incident of our birth is worthy of celebration. Dada Jaan does not even know the date of his birth, and yet, everyday, people quietly pray for his long life and health in solitude, and recognize his existence as essential for the continued well-being of not just the family, but of a large number of people outside of the haveli walls as well. Perhaps, that makes every day his birthday. Nano was born on March 1, 1928. But the fact that this family celebrates her life everyday even three generations down perhaps indicates that she has transcended the need to feel special for just one day of the year. These are two people who have taken responsibility for their lot in life, taken pains in the pursuit of its fulfillment, suffered for people, with people, and have had glory as their reward. In complete contrast is the much-cherished individualistic ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega’ creed of our times, where we are all so desperate to stand out, ‘notice me, notice me, I am different, I am special,’ that we all end up clawing at one another’s faces and being miserably the same. Special, in our case, can only be taken to mean retarded.

I turn 28 today, a day that coincides with the great ritualized slaughter that is a prized tenet of our glorious religion of peace. Leaves an impertinent idiot like me to question whether in the BC’s the G-Man was a groupie to Baal’s cult of blood and gore. Today I will gorge myself on mutton and not even think about what an abusive, leech-like, take-all-give-nothing relationship I have with life. And for all that I have got to show for my 28 years, I might as well have been 82 today, a dying geriatric in an old-home with savings multiplying by themselves in some bank account or a fluid-sustained vegetable in a hospital bed, or just plain dead, and it wouldn’t have mattered one bit.

N-bombing the netherworld!

This place is a graveyard, a barren expanse pervaded by death’s unapologetic fragrance. In shallow unmarked pits lie rotting many hopes, many dreams, many voiceless desires, all unfulfilled, incomplete, merging into one another, shaping death’s forlorn face. Night and day they waste away; the stench of their decay spreads far and wide, carrying death on its sprawling wings, withering every sign of life in its path. Life in this desolation is only known through the touch of death. Then comes the night of death’s helpless retreat; one night in a long chain of putrid nights and days, the ephemeral night of the ivory moon. And she sings, this gentle moon with celestial lips, the melancholy stars her willing chorus. She sings, this magical moon with honey voice, a balmy serenade, stirring all that is dead and decaying, singing them out of their shallow unmarked pits, separating them one by one from the morbid mass of death. They emerge, these many hopes, dreams, unvoiced desires, ghosts of what they used to be, reveling, banshee-like, in an unbridled frenzy, calling out for the moon, reaching for it, yet remaining unfulfilled, incomplete. For as sure as the miracle night is fleeting and the life-breathing song brief, the solemn, uncaring sun climbs up into the colorless horizon. With the easy conceit of the eternal monarch, he blots out the dreamy moon in his harsh, all-encompassing glare, beginning another seemingly endless chain of death-infused nights and days. And all hopes, dreams, unspoken desires withdraw, scorched, blinded, into their shallow unmarked pits, into the impenetrable folds of death’s shameless odor, unfulfilled, incomplete, awaiting the night of transitory life, the night of the ivory moon. For this place is a graveyard, the unending wasteland of my soul.

where pessimism is not just masochistic self-indulgence!

tekoon yaad hosi mein aakhya hum
dildar mittha
tu chhor veysein

wal wal quran te hath na rakh
na qasman cha
tu chhor veysein

kujh soch samijh te faisla ker
na josh dikha
tu chhor veysein

ker shakir ku barbaad sajanr
bas loag khila
tu chhor veysein

- Shakir Shujabadi

fana o baqa

chup chaap rahey dekhte tumhari janab mein
ghairon pe nazr e kar'm rahi lutf e shabab mein

safaid o syah ki bheer mein utthi yeh ik sada
koi toh ho jo rung bharey dil ki kitab mein

gar zindagi k taar ulajh jayein bhi toh kya
likh do tamam uljhanein meray hisaab mein

aayeenay ka aks fareb o makar na ho
kabhi rung apna dekh aks e sharaab mein

keh ker k haal e dil woh muntazir rahey
k hum bhi kahein unhi ka qaseeda jawab mein

Ghalib ki pairvi mein hoon shaida e yaar e dost
mashghool e haq hoon bandagi e Bu Turab mein

eight years

meray dil, meray musafir
hua phir se hukm saadir
keh watan-badar hon hum tum
deyn gali gali sadayein
karein rukh nagar nagar ka
keh suragh koi payein
kisi yaar e nama-ber ka
herr ik ajnabi se poochein
jo pata thha apney ghar ka
sir e koo e nashanayan,
hamein din se raat karna
kabhi iss se baat karna
kabhi uss se baat karna
tumhein kya kahoon keh kya hai
shab e gham buri bala hai
hamein yeh bhi thha ghaneemat
jo koi shumaar hota,
hamein kya bura thha marna
agar aik baar hota?!

- faiz

Birthday '09

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

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'

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

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!