birthday '25

What am I?

birthday '24

In another life

I might have humored the intellect

Doctor this, Professor that

Full of my insufferable truths

In another life

I might have nursed the animal instinct

Smooth

Silver-tongued

Grabbing at every bit

Of money 

Power

Fame

Crushing souls

My own included

Along the way

In yet another life

Maybe

I might have indulged the self

The central deity

In a pantheon of false gods

Worshipping it

Through worshipping them;

Being blind to everything 

Beyond the tip of my nose,

Narcissism

By spiritual means.

Or maybe,

I'd have found faith

The kind that has you whispering in desperation 

To yourself 

Thinking some great power is listening

Coming to save you

To rescue you

From your zero-sum existence.

In this life

Though

I choose love.

birthday '23

I am up. I am up, but I don’t want to get up. I will lie here, without budging an inch, eyes tightly shut. I don’t want that single ray of light breaking through that crack in the curtains hurting my eyes, ravaging my mind; that one ray of light whose sole purpose is to wake me up, get me up, dress me up, fuck me up.

So no, I don’t want to get up, this day, or any other day. Why should I get up anyway? What does this day have to offer? As soon as it begins, I will need to take a deep-dive into abject servility. Every person that I meet will try and educate me on which end is up. And I will only be left loathing myself for allowing every dipshit into my mind, to play with the monsters that lurk in all its dark recesses. Every moment of the day will be filled with dread, of a phone call or a message or an email portending imminent doom. The mourning for my lack of a spine will begin early, as will the realization of how little I know of the world, and how easy it is for even the most superficially clever to run circles around me.

I will be overwhelmed way before the day is out. I will seek emotional support from those who ought to be looking towards me instead. And when I see the fear and the confusion and the incapacity in their eyes, my inadequacies will begin their naked dance of reproof. I will writhe and ferment and despair in my own head until I can take it no more. All because of that one sneaky, unwelcome ray of light. Where is my ray of light? That can blind me to my own miserable self; that can lift me up from oblivion and give me a fleeting sense of being alive?

Go away, stealthy, slinky ray from an unwanted sun. I am not getting up, not until my eyes refuse to stay shut any longer; or my bladder bursts.

a hospice for bruised souls

Walls

that keep out

the world's incessant need

to interfere,

and doors

that only let in love. 

A quiet solitude

for the ministrations

that bring the half-dead

back to life,

that exorcize 

the demons carried over

from normality,

and windows

that admit

just the right amounts of sun

as catalyst

to the process,

a balm

to festering sores. 

A peace

undisturbed

by the moans

of the suffering 

as their suffering

melts away,

and a salubrious bliss

settles in,

fleeting

or permanent,

who is to say? 

An aura

that tempers 

the heat

of body & mind,

and interprets anew

all meanings

of tenderness,

of passion,

of care. 

This is a hospice

for bruised souls

birthday '22: The Big 40

Trustee old device;
here I sit
one more time,
contemplating your dirty screen,
forcing through
verse and rhyme.

For I can’t write.

Not since
my nasty wound is healed,
my sinister scars
beneath fresh skin
concealed.

Not since
my mornings
of the most cynical taint,
see me wake up
without slightest complaint;

Or my days
in the grip of fate,
keep giving me a reason
to hope
and wait.

I can’t write.

What if it’s time
to bid you adieu?
Because
until my days
regain their familiar
desolate
hue;
and body
and soul
are lacerated
anew,

I can’t write.

a nightmare in '93

It is just past sundown. He is fast asleep with no desire to wake up until way past sunup. But, his eyes are forced open as he feels something wet slide between his thighs. He groggily takes in a lurid face bent over him; red, reptilian eyes, a slight moustache, clipped, oiled, and a thick shock of hair, middle-parted, combed according to the fashion for youth. In the dim night-light, he can see that the man has the fall of his own kameez underneath his chin, an erect penis jutting out from under, and the man’s knees straddle his yet half-awake form. He can also feel his own nakedness from the waist down, the man having pulled down his night pajamas while he was in deep slumber.

The man sees his opening eyes and says with an obscene leer, “well then, here I am”, while spitting on the fingers of his own left hand, and attempting to rub it between the buttocks of the body underneath. “What the fuck are you doing, you son of a whore? Get away from me,” he retorts in what is at best a loud whisper, while straightening himself from the half-prostrate position the man had placed his sleeping body in. “Shh, shh, you don’t want them to find out, do you? We are friends, aren’t we? You know this is not going to hurt. It never hurts. Please. You have eluded me far too long,” the man says, half-reassuringly, half menacingly, but frozen in place. “Get off me, get off my bed, you filthy motherfucker!” he whispers aggressively again, kicking the man in the stomach with all his might. The man, now resigned, clambers off the bed, ties up his shalwar, the erect penis still sticking out underneath the fabric, and mouths, “you will regret this; you will pay for this; we were supposed to be friends.” As soon as the man is off of him, he jumps up off the bed, pulls up his pajama, and rushes to the bathroom to wash off the man’s saliva.

Upon returning from his frenetic self-purification, which never worked, because he only ever felt dirty, he sees the man perched on the first-floor sill, trying to figure out how to climb down to the ground. “Why don’t you go through the door and down the stairs, you fucking bastard?” he mocks, mustering all of his unseasoned sarcasm. The man only scowls back. In that moment, epiphany strikes. All he needs to do is to push the man sitting on his haunches at the sill, and he could be rid of him forever. He is tempted to dash towards the man, hurling him headlong two floors down. ‘But no. They might find out. They should never find out. I will never be able to explain myself.’ The man finds a foothold against a drainage pipe, and in a split-second, is gone.

He lies back down on his bed, more angry than scared or hurt. There are tears in his eyes, nonetheless, although, he doesn’t wail or sob. “Please help me, god” is the last thing he thinks before drifting off again, not waking up until long past sunup.

the dying Sutlej valley!!

I give my two cents on how the Sutlej basin is facing a water catastrophe because of flawed water policy from the get-go on a vlog with NayaDaur. 

اس سال گرمی پہلے سے زیادہ پڑرہی ہے جس نے فصلوں کا بہت نقصان کیا ہے بارش بلکل نہیں ہوئی ریگستانی علاقوں میں پانی کی کمی کی وجہ بارش کا نہ ہونا بھی ہے۔ ریگستان میں زیر زمین پانی کی کوالٹی کبھی بھی اچھی نہیں رہی، حسنین حیدرhttps://t.co/90bJvRxtvg pic.twitter.com/CBl5SBsaEU

— NayaDaur Urdu (@nayadaurpk_urdu) May 13, 2022

YouTube link: https://youtu.be/rQd9xjetYdg 

If the people of the Seraiki belt are underprivileged in this country, within the Seraiki belt the people of Rohi have it the worst. They are politically dominated by canal colony settlers who hold them in a political and economic stranglehold. They themselves are mainly nomads, herders and small farmers with absolutely no one to speak for them. 

birthday '21

I lie

as a vehicle for growth

I lie

as a means to survive,

to get what I want;

and lately,

I've witnessed myself lying

by pure force of habit.

But today,

I lie sick in bed,

contemplating all the times

that I've lied to myself.

I've lied myself into believing

that there are ideals loftier

than the pursuit of self-interests,

that there are cut & dried notions

of right and wrong,

that there is something noble

in doing what others expect you to,

want you to,

to walk a course others chart for you.

While the truth is,

there is nothing larger than the self;

all else is the means,

the self is the end. 

Everything must serve

the gratification of the self,

the projection of the self,

the fulfillment of the self.

At 39, it's probably too late 

for a chronic people-pleaser,

a spineless pushover

like me

to fully embrace

this hard reality.

But, heaven help me,

I will make

selfish pricks

out of my kids.

And I hope

other parents of my generation

are doing the same,

for the good

can't exist

without the bad;

altruism only makes sense

when juxtaposed with

selfishness.

And in so doing,

if we hasten the end of humanity,

so be it.

shaazi

What had been fermenting for two years and a half is finally out! "Shaazi" got published at The Aleph Review today. Really hope it packs a punch. Any resemblance to characters, living or dead, is purely coincidental!

https://www.thealephreview.com/post/spotlight-hasnain-haider

Owe a debt of gratitude to The Aleph Review team who were extremely patient with me and my schedules through the editorial process.

Ghadeer

God's letter to His Friend, the Prophet Mohammad, on the 18th Day of Zil-Haj, 10 AH, to declare the vicegerency of Ali to the Muslims, in the imagination of legendary Seraiki poet, Ferdowsi e Pakistan, Saeen Irshad Jhandeer.

بعالٰی خدمت حضورِ حضرت حبیب محبوب محترم اے

جنابِ اعلٰی حضورِ والا تہاݙے توڑیں ضروری کم اے

اِتھاں وی خیر اے تے خیر منڳداں تہاݙی پل پل اتے مدامی

 تے ݙیݙھی پردہ بخیر ہوسی نہال ہوسن سڄݨ تمامی

تے پیار ٻالاں کوں میݙی طرفوں تے گھر درود و دعا سلامی 

گھدی ہے مکتوب میݙا آندا تیݙا سنہڑوُ میݙا پیامی

ݙواہے فی الفور وقت اینکوں منڳے جݙاں اذنِ ہم کلامی

تے حال سارا سڄݨ پیارا میں کیتا مکتوب وچ رقم اے

تہاݙے توڑیں ضروری کم اے

گو مُد گزر ڳئی یاد ہوسی غریب خانے تے آئے ہاوے

قدم ہا رنجہ حضور کیتا ہزاراں احسان لاۓ ہاوے

زمیں دی عظمت دی بارگاہ وچ فلک دے جھنڈے جھکاۓ ہاوے

تے دستِ پنجہ ملیندے ہوئیں زمیں دو تک مسکراۓ ہاوے

اٹھاراں سالاں دی رات تھئی ہئ جاں آئے تے ول سدھائے ہاوے

اڄݨ وی ممنون ہاں تہاݙا، وݙی نوازش وݙا کرم اے

تہاݙے توڑیں ضروری کم اے

جِتھاں اے خط خیر دا آن پہنچے، اٹھاں کوں سئیں ہُش کراوݨے چا

ول پلاݨاں دا جوڑ مِنبر اَتے خط اُتے چڑھ سݨاوݨے چا

ہے ہر کوئی رعیت، علّی ہے مولا، تے ہر کہیں توں مناوݨے چا

جیہڑا نہ منے اونہی توں پہلے بخن دا نعٰرہ مراوݨے چا

تے سارے الحاج صوفیاں کوں سݙا کے کولہوں ٻلاہوݨے چا

منیسی فرمان تیݙا میݙا مگر او جیہڑا حلالی دم اے

تہاݙے توڑیں ضروری کم اے

اے عام خط نئیں ایں خط کوں تائیں میں خاصکر سئیں ٹھہا کے لکھئم

امر دی لوح نال قلم قضا نال مَس مَوَدت دی لا کے لکھئم

ہم  آپ پڑھیا دُرود پہلے تے قدسیاں توں پڑھا کے لکھئم

تیݙے وصی دا، میݙے ولی دا، علّی دا نعٰرہ مرا کے لکھئم

سجیلا سانول سجیلے ویلے سجیلے خط کوں سجا کے لکھئم

 نہ لاڈلا سوہݨا رس پوویں توں جو خط دا لہجہ وٹا کے لکھئم

تاریخی خط ہے، تاریخی ݙینہہ ہے، تاریخی قرطاس تے قلم ہے

تہاݙے توڑیں ضروری کم اے

shauq da mul

At a friend's request, translated the following Urdu Poem into Seraiki:

ہک شاخ تے ہک ݙینہہ کھل پیا ہا، تیݙا وعدہ وانڳ گلاب

تے تتلی تھی اوں تے جھمدا ہا، میݙا شوق بے حساب

ہݨ خاک دو ݙیکھ پیاں رلدیاں ہن، اوں پھل دیاں بے رنگ پتیاں

 ترٹے پکھ میݙے پروانے دے، موت کول ہارئے، دھوڑ وچ غلطاں

Seraikast was also very kind to share the translation on Facebook & Twitter.

https://twitter.com/seraikast/status/1409419142495625217?s=19

Child Sexual Abuse: Policy Prescriptions

My two cents on the immediate policy interventions needed to begin tackling the phenomenon of child sexual abuse in Pakistan. Hope it isn't just vox clamantis in deserto.

https://nayadaur.tv/2020/12/child-sexual-abuse-without-addressing-root-causes-remedial-action-is-bound-to-fail/

birthday '20 +1

If the fresh breath of the morning breeze
wishes to shower the landscape of your mind
with rose-petals,
let it

If an abandoned torment,
buried in the crevices of a bygone time,
wishes to burn bright again,
let it

As if only with a stranger,
sit before me for a fleeting moment,
or two

Although, my regret at having lost you,
the void that fills my soul,
will only get worse,
once we part again

Although, every word we speak
will stumble
on the invisible obstacle
of all those that can’t be said

I will not remind you
of pledges made & unmade
of faith kept & unkept

But, if through the gathered dust of time,
my tired eyes try to speak to you
upon the first instance of sight,
you may choose to listen,
or not.

And if words fail me completely,
in that moment,
you may choose to speak to me,
or not.

- Murder at my hand of Faiz's "koi ashiq kisi mahbuba se"

External Link

Seraiki Podcast # 1

Cherry be popped! My first ever podcast and on a subject that is very near to my heart. Seraiki marginalization is real. The denial of the Seraiki identity is real. The culture that is at the geographical center of this country cannot afford to remain silent or invisible anymore. 

So boys, when you grow up and see this, know that this was a proud first for your father. Hope for more visible and forceful engagement here on out.

Nawabzada Hassan Hussein Qureshi is spearheading the initiative and putting in sincere effort to make these podcasts happen. The object is to reach the masses and not just be an echo chamber for the Seraiki elites. People who arrive here are requested to follow @Seraikast's Twitter Handle and share the podcast as widely as possible on social media.

The video and audio of the podcast I participated in on November 5, 2020:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qdqRjRL08k&feature=youtu.be

Listen to "Seraiki Podcast Episode 3" on Spreaker.

https://www.spreaker.com/user/seraikast/seraiki-podcast-episode-3

Click here for the original @Seraikast tweet with the video-link to the podcast. And here, for the tweet with the audio-link.

Click @Seraikast for their Twitter profile.

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/