The Timeless Call of Hussain ibn e Ali

What I wrote:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-cllC0-hP-HDuFB191GjD87BPFVyfyFL/view?usp=drivesdk

What they carried after the usual editorial butchery:

https://nayadaur.tv/2020/08/heres-why-hussain-ibn-alis-call-for-help-in-karbala-is-still-relevant-today/

Oh well. Beggars can't be choosers.

The Old Man and the Pipal II

The Pipal is dying. Every strong dust-storm exacts its toll, taking away a branch, a formerly sturdy bough, never to be replaced again. The Pipal is dying; of thirst. Standing tall atop a creek-side mound, its verdant opulence was once visible from a mile away. Ever since the river ran dry, its roots now struggle to drink from the water beneath the earth. The sharp, soulless instruments of human machination have cut down on its lofty stature. And for the better, because it would have dried up altogether had it been allowed to keep its regal size. Though it still hosts life in variegated form, its denizens are not as numerous as they used to be – land around it is parched, and sustenance, in short supply. The Pipal is now a broken shield against the excesses of summer. Where its shade was once impenetrable for the pitiless summer sun, beams of hot, bright light now break through to the ground. Those who seek refuge underneath it must now shift their positions with the shifting time of day. Unconditional sanctuary, the Pipal does not afford now to give. But still, it is a symbol of stubborn hope; the weathered mast of an ancient galleon not yet sunk.

The old man is now a memory, an echo across time. But he is not a memory that fades, or an echo that dies away after reverberating a few times. His memory is a light that guides, the echo of his words still ringing deep in the minds of men, his image occupying a place reserved for majesty in their hearts. He remains the arbiter of right and wrong, the touchstone for all strategy, a source of clarity in all times of confusion. For many he remains that same rich voice that struck fear in their hearts when thundering in anger, and inspired awe in them when speaking softly. He remains the balancer of things, the reconciler of irreconcilably inimical forces, the keeper of order in the midst of chaos. He lives on not as a bent & broken old man, but as a tall prince, spine straight like an arrow, walking with majestic dignity, his sons following at a respectful distance, each step falling heavy on the spirits of his enemies, bringing joy to the hearts of his friends. Even in death, his stature continues to dwarf friend & foe alike, jealousy getting even more pronounced with the latter. For in life, they found solace in reviling a person, while in death, he is a hero of legend that none of their malicious words & deeds can harm.

Famed 13^th century Sufi poet, Amir Khusrau, when writing about love, spiritual and temporal, presents an idea that mirrors the relationship between the old man and the Pipal: a fusion of souls. Khusrau writes, “I have become you, and you me; I am the body, you are the soul; No one can say hereafter, that I am someone, and you, someone else.” It may be said, therefore, that if the Pipal continues to live despite all odds, dutifully doing what it is expected to do, it seeks its nourishment not from the increasingly stingy earth in which it is planted, but from the immortal heart of a mortal man. The cool wind in its leaves is an echo of the old man’s wisdom, its shade, an embodiment of the old man’s essence itself.

Read the first post, here.

birthday '19

I am not jealous

of what came before me.

Come with a man 

on your shoulders,

come with a hundred men in your hair,

come with a thousand men 

between your breasts and your feet,

come like a river

full of drowned men

which flows down to the wild sea,

to the eternal surf, 

to Time!

Bring them all

to where I am waiting for you;

we shall always be alone,

we shall always be you and I

alone on earth

to start our life!

Pablo Neruda

ye kya jageh hai dosto?!

Is this a human dwelling?
This place I call home?

Where my life grates on, day by day

Where all I see
are mindless animals,
and humans are scarce,
like trees in a desert.

This place,
which trust has renounced,
and love has long since forsaken;
where the vain control resources,
and the merciless play at justice;
where friendship lacks all charm,
and blood relations are just as dull;
where children are
their fathers’ enemies;
where the savior kills,
the bully leads,
the godman trades,
selling his edicts
to the highest bidder;
where the houses of God
are unsafe for His creation;
where cold-blooded murderers
call dibs on heaven,
for killing His people;

This can’t be a human dwelling,
This place I call home.

Has a plague visited this land,
this kaleidoscope of color,
this bright rainbow of diversity?

Yes, there has been a plague,
a vicious swarm of locusts,
eating away all our shining shades,
our dappled hues,
save one,
which is now the color of everything.

And so,
black is white,
so is blue,
and red too.

The animals are white,
in their ignorant bliss,
and so am I,
can’t refute this.

And so must be anyone
who dreams of life,
like I once did,
as a mesh of color.

His spirit is to be broken,
his thinking set right,
he must be brought to heel,
and bathed in that insipid,
colorless,
puritanical
white!

While I,
I keep asking myself,
is this the realization of my dreams,
this dwelling of humans,
this place I call home
where I can’t even recognize myself
anymore,
and my life grates on, day by day?

Loosely translated from the Seraiki of Zafar Jatoi's timeless verse "pata nai ay kay jhaeen wasti hay?", on the recommendations of a friend. The only video link of Jatoi sahib reciting this poem that I could find is below:

https://www.facebook.com/razarumi/videos/10155186694355511?s=504581580&sfns=xmwa

twitter verse!

Inspiration came upon me while on the throne this morning. Endless, moralistic talk will get us nowhere. True change, a true challenge to the established orders of oppression, demands action, and sacrifice!

باطل کی سیاہ رات میں حق کی تنویر بھی ہو
انالحق کا بیاں، مقابل شمشیر بھی ہو
نوائے خلق خود کاتب تقدیر بھی ہو
یزیدیت کا قلعہ، ہم سے تسخیر بھی ہو
ممکن ہے تبھی جب کوئی حق پرست، دل فگار
متاع جان لٹائے، کوئی شبیر بھی ہو

"evil" panchayat

The title is the editors', the text all mine!

The "Evil" Panchayat

https://nayadaur.tv/2019/06/the-dreadful-panchayat-system-and-its-speedy-injustice/

sasti khushaamad

Khud aap jo likhey hain aankhon ka taraana
Ye dil liye jaye kahan lachaar divaana?

Inn aankhon ki midh ho gi kya bandey bashar se?
Jin aankhon ka mol nahi saara zamaana

Inn aankhon ki masti k mastaney toh hazaaron
Par jal k mar jaaney ko bas aik parvaana?

Roodad mujh se pooch na akhyon k milan ki
Qissa alam naak hai, garchey hai suhana

Woh baat jo tere ang ang ne mujh se chhupayi
Bebaak teri aankhon ne keh daala fasaana

Akhyon se lari akhyan toh akhyan huyeen purnam
Ik roag umr bhar ka banna, akhyon ka laraana

Bemaar meri rooh hai, tere dar pe hee khari hai
Aur tu hai k kehta hai, mar jao, tab aana

Roohon ka milan na sahi, jismon ka hee ho le
Maana k dil mar chukey, jism toh hain tawaana

Ashiq ki nigah aur hai, mullah ki zubaan aur
Bas chashm e khuda aik hai, yakta o yagaana

Dil e vehshi se kaho tark karey nala o faryad
Harjayi hai aisa, na apna hua, na hee begaana

birthday '18

Act I – Canine

Who doesn’t love dogs? I know I do. And why do humans love dogs so much? Because dogs, in a weirdly anthropomorphic way, suffer from a feeble sense of the self.  Nothing is more gratifying to the human ego than having something or someone worship you unquestioningly, love you unconditionally and grovel constantly at your feet. And a dog’s entire existence revolves around catering to this most vulgar aspect of human nature. A dog’s love is seldom for its own kind. It reserves its love almost entirely for the humans in its life. Unless, it is kept by a particularly jealous sort of a human who teaches it to love just one and be mean to all others. Feed it, don’t feed it, beat it, lock it up, you will always find a dog begging for your affections first, and its own sustenance second. Sure, if you starve it too much, you might find it eating out of the trash one day. And while you may tut-tut at the damn thing for not having better manners, or punish it even, the dog only did what it is genetically wired to do: feed. Even in doing so, your place at the center of its universe is by no means compromised because a dog does not understand blame, or cause-and-effect.

But a dog, like all things living, has its limitations. For instance, you can’t hogtie one and throw it down a well, or abandon an inconvenient one by the wayside as you speed away chasing mirages, and then expect the mutt to come back to you by itself, as and when you want. It is not that that dog does not want to return to you; it would probably sign away its soul to perdition for a chance at coming back to you. The only problem, the manner of its repudiation at your hand dictates that the dog absolutely has no means of making the return journey. It is literally impossible as per the laws of the universe. And so, you become solely responsible, not just for the slow, miserable, often lifelong death you have condemned the animal to, but also for your own pangs of conscience and your yearnings for uncomplicated love especially when the transient possibilities you were pursuing have come to nothing.

And this applies to all dogs, mongrels or pedigreed, high-born or strays, royal or proletarian. When you steal yourself away from the center of a dog’s universe, all you leave behind is the pretense of life, wretched, loveless, brutish. And in that, at least, I am a kindred spirit to the unwanted dogs of the earth.

Act II – Duty

I am not looking for a mid-life crisis,
or expensive roller coaster rides
that will only end badly for me.

I want no part
of your cold-blooded cirque des émotions,
where you are in perpetual need
of a short-lived reprieve.

Nor do I fancy myself
the safety valve
to your pressure-cooker life.
I know full well who the first casualty will be
when that thing begins to scream.

I am fully absorbed,
curating the cemetery of my mind,
where I stumble about,
gravestone to gravestone,
mourning bits of me
that lie rotting underneath.

Act III – Requiem

While on the subject of decay, you know what continues to fester? This feeling that while you were a monster, a bastard, for having been angry when anger was all that was left to you, for all the hurt that your rage caused them, they were absolutely justified in turning a deaf ear to your helpless howls of pain, in totally disregarding the ferment inside of you that was wrecking your emotional constitution, because greener pastures beckoned to them with promising options and more attractive possibilities. For one, there are no other options in love; and if there are, it was never love to begin with but a self-indulgent market decision. And second, ever since the dawn of time, the jury has been out on what could be more offensive to a person: the faraway, spasmodic yelps of a wounded animal, or the whimsically cold, dismissive manner in which they wounded it, with the cheerful gravy of ‘I always was heartless this way’ on top. You can’t murder somebody and then go, ‘hey, I did you the favor of killing you silently, softly; did you have to make so much noise during your protracted demise?’ History is replete with examples of how people bring themselves to detest those they have wronged, dehumanizing themselves along the way; of how even the tortured breathing of the oppressed feels like lèse-majesté to the oppressor.

So, whatever you have confessed yourself to be over time, cold, selfish, narcissistic, always on the lookout for a better deal, a ‘chutiya’, in so many words, please know that it is you who has to live with yourself primarily, not even the option that is your current ego trip. It is you who has to look yourself in the mirror every day. And for someone with a different face for each and everything in their life, expediently changing with needs, desires and ambitions, one wonders whether you even recognize yourself when you do.

As for the wounded, with time, wounds become scars, and scars become friends that tell the most exciting stories. Anger, when gets too toxic for the soul, abates, leaving behind enlightenment and peace. But the facts, the facts remain as beacons to guide you for next when the fundamentally dishonest chutiya surfaces to make you doubt the foundations of your existence.

Act IV – Salud

*clink*

Act V – Curtains

Why do you stand there,
over my corpse,
looking outraged,
half a teardrop
in your eye?

Didn’t you know
when you stab someone
in the heart
they fucking die!?

O Democracy!

You give it a catchy title and then totally fuck up the editing? Why you do this, DT?!

Democracy for Dunces 101

https://dailytimes.com.pk/269218/democracy-for-dunces-101/

to the Other

Show your face, 

you, 

my comrade 

in the torments 

of her unspeakable beauty, 

which haunts my heart 

with a thousand fantasies, 

which blinds me 

to the world 

and its foolish tricks.

You are familiar with the path 

her lustful spirit treads, 

that shines bright in her afterglow, 

mocking my eyes 

for futilely worshiping 

the ground beneath her feet.

You bask in her closeness;

you breathe in the air

which mournfully bears 

the fragrance of her body. 

The moon sees you 

from its perch in the sky, 

as it once saw the dalliances 

of many an unfulfilled night.

You’ve touched that face, 

those cheeks and lips, 

to the memories of which 

I devote my life. 

You’ve beheld those eyes, 

that aloof, bewitching gaze; 

you know my life is not a waste.

The agonies of love 

have been equally kind to us, 

to you and I; 

a kindness that knows no limits,

or end. 

What this passion gives to me, 

or takes, 

I can hope to explain to no other 

but you, my friend.

It humbles me, 

this love, 

and makes me one with the beaten. 

It brings me new friends: 

melancholy,

and an endless ache of the heart. 

It acquaints me 

with the dishonor of abjection, 

and reveals to me

the cruel mysteries 

behind ashen faces 

and helpless sighs.

When they huddle together 

and weep, 

those whose eyes won’t shed tears, 

for fear; 

when the sustenance of the meek 

is snatched from their mouths, 

by the beasts 

bred of wealth, 

and stealth; 

when the honest toils of love 

are sold short, 

and the streets run red 

with the blood of the powerless; 

a fire consumes my soul, 

a rage 

I cannot contain; 

so patient through the travails of love, 

why my heart now loses control, 

I cannot explain.

An Inspiration from Faiz Ahmed Faiz's "Raqib Se!"

birthday '17

shaa'er ka jashn e salgirah hai, sharaab la
mansab, khitaab, rutba, unhein kya nahi mila
bas naqs hai toh itna k mamdooh ne koi
misraa kisi kitaab k shayaa'n nahi likha

- Faiz

offended, outraged, totally pissed off!

Our Fleeting Moral Outrage; Our Collective Social Amnesia

https://dailytimes.com.pk/131230/fleeting-moral-outrage-collective-social-amnesia/

And now, a draft of my thank you note to the Daily Times:

"Dear DT! If your subs are going to go fuckin' nuts on editing a submission, at least pass their masterwork by the original author before publishing it for the whole fucking world to see. You've defaced this piece beyond recognition. Everybody who's reading this is thinking this Multani boy doesn't even know jack about basic tenses, much less stringing together a decent sentence. It's moolah ffs, not mullah!! Moolah means money. How does mullah even make sense where your bachas have inserted it? Piece-of-shit editing! And screw you for ruining my most heartfelt rant yet. Love."

To send or not to send, that is the question.

The original, as I wrote it, is at the link for fair comparison: Our Fleeting Moral Outrage

Partition: The Seraiki Side of the Story

Salute to my forebears who acquitted themselves with honor, nobility and an uncompromising respect for humanity in a time when the entire world seemed to be going to hell. Dada, Nana Jan, Nano, Addi Amma, thank you for teaching me what it means to be a decent human being, above everything else.

Partition - Alternative Perspectives

http://dailytimes.com.pk/blog/07-Sep-17/partition-alternative-perspectives

dreams of you

dreams of you

in a drunken haze

in power-plays
as the novice lays
his hands on you

dreams of you

your yelps
and moans

your body heat
your heart of stone

your heavy sighs
your little lies

and the rhythm of love
that cracks your bones

dreams of you

from silken days
of easy thrills
and artless ways

before foreign shores
before drugs
and whores
before dry-eyed tears
and tight-shut doors

when you sang your song
and I played along

“you are mine,
and I am yours.”

no fair!!

You give them an article. They carry a letter. Never again!

Seraiki SOS! 

http://www.thefridaytimes.com/tft/letters-180/

wonky talk III

Tree-hugger for life!

Trees vs. Development: Roads to Perdition, or how they've titled it, Is the Road to Development leading Multan Somewhere Else?

http://blogs.tribune.com.pk/story/50362/is-the-road-to-development-leading-multan-somewhere-else/

Rohi

a strange spring's abloom
far away
in the desert

where my foolish love resides,
and a thousand lovers
with bewitching eyes

still, I remain
a traveler
without destination

Original:

Rohi di ajab bahaar dissey
jith maen nimaanri da yaar vassey
uth ashiq lakh te hazaar vassey
hik maen musafir bewatan

- Khwaja Ghulam Farid 

birthday '16

the madness of faith
and vanities of time,
frigid desire,
sorry self-deceit

a heat
that is cold
and a wetness
that’s dry,

and the noise
of a breaking heart,
inaudible,
among empty moans
and unfulfilled sighs,

are your story

in the arms of love,
my love.

in the stranger’s embrace,
you say?

pleasure for show,
your cries
for attention

living the moment
in borrowed
sensation

dishonest eyes
despoiled hair
sublets on skin
caramel or fair
consummate guile
circumspect glee?

that is the place

you’re meant to be!

wonky talk II

this is getting serious, baby! but don't worry. we will persevere!!

Dams: The Other Side of the Promise

http://www.pakistantoday.com.pk/2016/10/30/comment/dams-the-other-side-of-the-promise/

wonky talk

Forgive me, my unfailing database of woe! I cheated on you.

'The Unexplored Potentialities of the Pakistani Mango'

http://www.pakistantoday.com.pk/2016/09/25/uncategorized/the-unexplored-potentialities-of-the-pakistani-mango/