deathly still

kucch hameen ko nahi ehsaan utthaney ka demagh
woh toh jab aatey hain ma'yel ba karam aatey hain
aur kucch der na guzrey shab-e-furqat se kaho
dil bhee kam dukhta hai, woh yaad bhee kam aatey hain

- faiz

fiat justitia ruat caelum

As much as I disdain to soil my blog with an opinion piece on temporal matters, the times are such that even the most phlegmatic of bystanders goes like ‘what the hell is going on?’ It has been well over a year that the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan, even though there is nothing proverbial about the ever-increasing stench, and the dark stains of humiliation upon the nation’s face. On the 9th of March, 2007, a dictator, drunk on eight years of unchecked power, and deluded by some notion of his personal indispensability to Pakistan, threw a gauntlet that has since become a massive, nationwide struggle, underscoring disgrace and defeat for some, individual glory and public accolades for others, and a noble contest between right and wrong, justice and injustice, for yet many more. However, as of today, what remains at stake? The restoration of some 60-odd judges of the superior judiciary who were gallant enough to resist the dictators’ PCO and bore the vagaries of the state’s heavy-handedness, all starting from the Chief Justice’s resounding ‘No’ sending shockwaves throughout the country, the first time the commando ordered him to get packing. The questions that have been plaguing my mind, however, are at a bit of a tangent from the larger issue. I do not intend to doubt the rightfulness of the cause for restoration. True to my lethargic self, all I am trying to figure out is whether this entire ruckus is worth all the attention it gets or all the energy that has been expended thus far.

An independent, not free, judiciary, as an institution, is generally seen as the cornerstone of a fair and a just society. The idea of an independent judiciary springs from the theory of separation of powers articulated initially by Baron de Montesquieu in the early eighteenth century, and is said to be successfully implemented in the constitution of the United States, and is also thought to be effectively practiced in the United Kingdom and in other developed countries of the West. This theory attempts to bring about a balance of power between the three pillars of state, the legislative, executive and judicial, such that a check is maintained on the power of one by the collective and simultaneous powers of the other two, ensuring that neither branch has freedom enough to infringe beyond what is sanctioned by law on the rights and freedoms of its citizens. In this we see the raw skeleton of a social contract the likes of which every third world country in the postcolonial era is expected to emulate along with some form of democratic government, presidential, parliamentary etc. This emulation is necessary for survival in the new world order as much foreign aid and international acceptance depends on it. In this blind emulation of these systems that seem to be working quite well in the First World, both the exporters and the importers of such political philosophies forget that for such types of organized and institution-oriented governments and states to succeed, there needs to be a strong socio-economic base, and not vice versa. Domestic stability is the key. Let us examine the stellar examples we have. The United States gained that stability by an extremely vicious process of internal colonialism, that was irreversible, gradually eliminating an entire people, and by its policies of politico-economic imperialism in recent times. The United Kingdom achieved domestic stability through the 400 year long era of colonialism, in which the British Empire was built on the blood and corpses of peoples from the Americas to Australia. In the postcolonial stage, it maintains that stability by being the foremost client of the world’s strongest power, and everything looks to be hunky-dory for sometime to come. Unfortunately, third world countries, newly released from the shackles of colonialism, have no opportunities for similar glory, and are caught in the dilemma of building institutions on the Western pattern, without the requisite objective conditions. Just looking at ourselves, in a polity so fragmented, divided in a million ways, having multiple identities within one state, how is the simple concept of ‘majority rule’ supposed to work? On the other hand, the assumption on the part of the West that since they succeeded with a certain model of governance, it has to work in the rest of the world too is arrogant to say the least. Does the US forget its own bloody civil war over the question of ‘states rights’, which is now cleverly disguised as a righteous struggle against an evil as uncouth as slavery? Or was it that slavery did not pose as big a moral question, as it did an economic and political one. Be that as it may, like they say in Punjabi, ‘jeday ghar daaney, oday kamley vi siyaney’. The situation that countries like Pakistan face is rife with institutional failures. Pakistan, specifically, is currently experiencing one of the worst times of its history.

Our history as a nation-state is short and, therefore, easy to take a bird’s eye view of. In this short history, the history of the judiciary as an institution is way less than glorious. It has been the most honorable judges of the highest courts in the country that have provided judicial cover all sorts of upheavals, military, bureaucratic, democratic, beginning from the first articulation of the ‘doctrine of necessity’ by Justice Munir in 1953. The judiciary has been up for grabs for various players in the power game, facilitating, or shall I say, taking wholehearted part in such acts as the judicial murder of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto, or the recognition of martial coups through eclectic interpretations of the various constitutions we have had. This is not surprising to me at least. Was it not out of the Quran that the tyrannies of sultans and shehnshahs justified by over-zealous qazis and mullahs? Was it not that after having raped and pillaged entire populations, proud Muslim generals stood tall and quoted from the Quran, saying ‘And He disgraces those that He desires!’ In this context, the misinterpretation of a man-made constitution sounds almost trivial. Needless to say then that the judiciary, when compelled to choose between justice and political expediency, has often opted for the latter; it has shirked its responsibilities. And this has been primarily because judges have owed their high offices to generals and politicians, and have done exactly what they were supposed to do in a system of never-ending favors and a vicious cycle of ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.’ Most of the 60 judges in question accepted Musharraf’s coup of 1999 by taking oath under the 2001 PCO. Senior Supreme Court judges were superseded for the appointment of Mr. Iftikhar Chaudary as the Chief Justice by none other than Musharraf himself. Is it possible that at that time, a campaigner as weathered as Mr. Chaudary did not realize that there could be strings attached? That the favor that had been bestowed upon him would never be called? Did he actually think that being handpicked by a dictator for such an important post would allow him to function independently, and that all he needed to do was get there via the dictator’s favor, and that the end would justify the means? And when he started showing some signs of independence by striking down prime projects of the regime, did he not expect his benefactor to feel wronged, and do what dictators do best: summary execution? In my opinion, the events of the 9th of March were careerism gone wrong for the CJ. If Mr. Chaudary was concerned about justice and fairplay, he would not have postured and lobbied to get the highest judicial post in the country through the good offices of the President-General in the first place.

This brings me to the next, bigger question. Are these judges, for whose reinstatement such a movement is in action, wedded to the ideals of justice and upholding the law and the constitution, or are they, like the average professional that we see around us, and ourselves are, believe in doing the 9 to 5 routine and heading back home to enjoy all the perks that come with their positions? The cars, the mansions, the butlers etc? For if they are just time-servers like the rest of us, and only come to work a day at the office, i.e. if that is their psychology, the only difference between them and the judges that have taken the oath under November’s PCO is that of names. For if these latter ones are beholden to Musharraf, the former ones, if reinstated, will owe a debt of gratitude to one Mr. Nawaz Sharif. And anyone who was alive in the late 80’s and the 90’s in Pakistan knows that that cannot really be a good thing. Nawaz Sharif is being hailed all around for taking a principled stand on everything, from the judiciary to democracy, which is one factor that has given his party unanticipated electoral success in urban Punjab earlier in the year. I personally know people who flew all the way from Karachi to their hometowns in the Punjab to vote for Mian Sb. Notwithstanding the question as to whether he really is firm on principles this time around, or is just finding it politically beneficial to go with the general mood of the people for the time being, Nawaz Sharif and his cronies are children of the establishment, through and through. In fact, they’re children of the worst military regime in Pakistan’s history, that of the humble Momin, Zia-ul-Haq. They are people who came into the political mainstream on the backs of military intelligence and ISI, and continue to truly represent only a certain segment of Pakistani society, the industrial-business elite, insofar as their party structure is concerned. Nawaz Sharif himself is beset with an upstart industrialist mentality which dictates gauging every action in the narrow prism of profit and loss. Is his commitment to democracy and an independent judiciary only a part of his personal vendetta against Musharraf for overthrowing his government? Will his resolve to work towards institution building only remain strong till the time the General’s ousted? These are questions only time will answer because his history does not support any such hopes. I have to hand it to the Pakistani public though. Even after all the disappointments of the past, their faces had this strange gleam of hope on the morning of the 19th of February. It made a cynic like me wonder if such undying optimism ought to be celebrated or lamented. What I do lament, however, is our collective short memory, and inability to learn from experience.

Our civil society, which is just a more ‘civil’ term for the upper and upper-middle classes, seems to have decided that capitalistic democracy is the panacea for all our ills. However, this strata of society, which includes myself, seems to be more confused than anything else. A friend of mine, a successful corporate banker, and quite active in the movement for the restoration of judges as a part of the Direct Action Committee, attending rallies, shouting slogans, distributing propaganda material, praised the principled stand of the judges and of Mian Sb’s party in their fight against the dictator. Five minutes later, he spewed some pearls of wisdom on corporate success, saying that the first principle of survival in this world is, and I quote, ‘to screw the other before he gets a chance to screw u’. And the first thing that came to my mind was, isn’t that what Musharraf tried to do? Anyway, it’s been more than a month since that happened and I’m still pondering on the apparent dichotomy of principles, and how it plagues our class and my generation. In this respect, though, the media has had a very significant role to play. Like the clergy of medieval Europe, it is the fourth pillar of the state today. I draw such a comparison because the potential for demagoguery appears equally enormous in both cases. In Musharraf’s economic boom, besides banking and telecom, media is the only industry that has proliferated. And now, as is natural, it does not know what it ought to do with itself, since quantity has effectively inundated quality. So, in between the Indian style soaps to pander to the tastes of the wider market, rather than restricting itself to keeping the public informed of facts so that it could draw its own conclusions from them, it has taken to opinion-forming. There is a ‘breaking news’ and every channel has a different story as to the actual happening. Old-timers sit together in talk shows and analysis programs and tell the public exactly what they ought to be thinking. And that’s what the public is doing. Everybody believes in the righteousness of the lawyers’ movement because some droning journalist on TV said so. Nobody seems to be thinking out loud on national TV that if these judges are restored would the lawyers, and especially the frontline leaders in the lawyer community, never try to capitalize on their blood and sweat? Will that not leave the superior judiciary in the same sort of fix that it always has been in? Earlier it used to do the bidding of generals and bureaucrats. Now, it will owe a lot to bar councils and senior lawyers, and you never know what new direction that may lead us into. Everybody believes in the sacrosanct nature of the freedom of speech, not realizing that that also gives a natural edge to the one who can shout the loudest.

Finally, let me bring forth what little I know of the justice system in Pakistan. I will restrict myself to the rural areas since I have little knowledge of how stuff gets done in the cities. This in itself is saying a lot since 70% of Pakistan is still supposed to be rural. To the rural poor, the first adjudicator, or dare I say, the scribe of their destinies, is the Thana incharge. Whatever he writes in his FIR is the basis of all litigation afterwards. Therefore, this man wields tremendous power, and consequently, enjoys tremendous opportunity for making money. This is where the poor soul who got himself involved in such a messy business as seeking justice is bled for the first time. If he gets lucky, he’ll only get away with paying a few thousand bucks in bribes. Else, if the SHO likes his daughter, he might have to offer her up to make sure that the cattle that are his livelihood are returned safely from the robbers who took them. Also, if he is on bad terms with a local influential who is on good terms with the police, or the offending party, he might end up getting charged for a crime himself and might find himself tasting the hospitality of a rural interrogation office. There are a million possible combinations wherein a poor man seeking justice may have to sacrifice his belongings, dignity or honor and I could possibly not list them all. Let’s just say, to get the process moving effectively, u need to have money, contacts, guile and zero self-respect. From here, the process moves into the courts. Here the baser things are truly not en vogue, since judges are educated, refined types, and only work for money, or the right person calling them up. This is where property disputes can take more than a decade to sort out, and where murderers and rapists are let free based on how well they are connected. Although, it must be granted that the level of corruption decreases as you move up from the district courts to the provincial high courts and then on to the supreme court, isn’t the corruption at the lower end, the end closest to the civilian, the deadliest? Because it is here that lives are made or broken. A poor man, whose son’s murderer is acquitted in a district court, may not have the resources or the will or the physical strength to take the case to a higher court. He may just do what people in our parts have been doing for centuries: leave it to God’s ultimate judgment. All the 60 honorable judges have passed through this very system. I do not attempt to associate any sort of corruption or malpractice with them and I am very sure that they are all men of great integrity and moral fortitude. But all of them have passed through this system. All of them know what goes on in the peripheries and at the lower levels. In this entire 14-month struggle, has there been a single cry for reform? For actually taking any steps towards changing a system in which justice is bought and sold like a common whore? Will this system where the SHO of a thana somewhere in some long-forgotten tehsil of a district in the middle of nowhere earns at par with any corporate fatcat, profiting on the misery of the poor, be allowed to persist after everything is ‘set right’? Has any leading lawyer raised a voice of protest against this system in his speeches on freeing this country from the clutches of dictatorship? Or do they assume that with Musharraf gone, everything will correct itself from top to bottom? I am very sorry but people assumed the same about Ayub and Yahya and Zia, and nothing happened. And it is actually sad to say that it feels to me as if this entire struggle has become a battle of egos centered around the basic notion: ‘give them their jobs back’ and ‘I want my job back!’ Hell, at the risk of sounding repetitive, if you’re only going to do what you did before you were kicked out, and what the PCO judges are doing now, might as well stay out. Most I can do is condole with you over loss of perk and privilege. For I feel that we have had enough of a top-down approach in this country. It’s time that we started bottom-up, towards a system in which everyone matters, where justice is just blind, not deaf. Laws that are not uniformly applied at every level of society encompassing the entire body politic of the nation are not worth the paper they’re written on. And all well-suited gentleman who like to fancy themselves the custodians of law and its actual spirit, should also have the courage to fully understand what is truly engendered in such grand titles, and that it actually means a lot of responsibility to each and every citizen of a country in much need of justice, not just posturing to effect a favorable balance of power at the top. And suffice it to say that the top, from the perspective of the people, is way out of reach. Everyone in this country aspiring to do great things at the top, the politicians, the lawyers, the generals, the media, all of them have had their fair share of trying to win the hearts and minds of people. And even when the people have demonstrated vigorous willingness to be won over, they have been let down. Now would be the perfect time for a revolution of hearts and minds, a complete change in mindsets and attitudes, and in deference to an old national habit, it would be much better if that transpires top down.

To keep on repeating ‘how dare a dictator do that?’ is like oversimplifying the issue because then one would have to make an honest inquiry into why the dictator is there in the first place, and soon enough, not much of our ‘civil’ society or the civilized world, will be able to avoid blame. Remove the dictator by all means, but also make sure that the restoration of the judiciary does not simply equate to professional reinstatement. For I feel that justice, rather than any institution that claims to administer it, is the solid base upon which the edifice of state and society ought to be erected. But it will continue to remain an illusory ideal till we can effect a change in mentalities. I believe that that is what our brightest minds should be working on. The nation has had enough of protracted wars of wits and egos, even if the realization of that has not yet dawned fully.

from on high

Snakes, bright and glittering, slithering along, atom by atom, side by side, on intersecting pathways of light, straight and unending, through a jungle of an unearthly aura, alive, breathing, lost in its own consciousness, forbidding to any callous adventurer. A dense jungle; every leaf, a vibrant sign of life, a sparkling dot of color, a thousand different colors intermixed, stretched out till where the eye can see, shaming the stars in their monochromatic night sky. Is this my Garden of Eden?

The Day Before, Act I

He woke early, feet cold as ice on an otherwise temperate spring morning. He had a crick in the nick and a dull ache in the back; the bunk’s nocturnal hospitality. Why was he still there? When he ought to be someplace else? Yelling, screaming or kicking up a fuss was not his method, even if he willed it to be. Patience, a thankless virtue, remained the only logical course of action.

Why had they caged him so? Such that what he had tasted in the days before, he could not savor again, on that day; nor could he nurture thoughts of a distant refuge, faraway but within reach. As his head slowly recovered from the drowsy effects of an unsatisfactory night, a struggle between needs and wants gripped him, the former hard realities, the latter cherished dreams. But where needs and wants clashed invariably amongst themselves, so did wants against desire, and needs against necessity. What was a man, already thus constrained, to do?

Word came from every direction, as if upon angel wings, clearing his immediate path if not allaying the turmoil inside. He hastened himself through the motions of presentability, and rushed out to grapple with the forces of destiny one more time. Life whizzed past him in its raging monotony and he cared not to notice; nor did he think much of the patches of shadowy darkness that peppered his brightly lit way.

The dilemmas of the early hours still plagued him, making him breathe uneasily. As he approached that which he desired, the ubiquitous need to distinguish between right and wrong asserted itself. Amidst the chaos, a voice spoke into his ear. Deliverance was around the corner. An ephemeral flash of color beyond the first, almost ineffectual, barrier released him from the stranglehold of uncertainties. With the first gasp for air, all the warring wants and needs fused instantly into a single amalgam, focused and unerring in their singular intention. He allowed himself a smile knowing that when he turned around, peace, albeit momentary, had come forth to permeate his being.

to the Savior

chaudvan Mustapha Aal-e-Imran da

thheevo Ka’abe te aa jalwagar hay
aye qudrat-numa muntazar hay

aye Mohammad makeen waadi Khazra
chhoro waadi te aa kholo dar hay
dekhoon wasda Mohammad da ghar hay

aye zamanay da moojib baqa’a ay
tussan sa’yel nai khaali valaa’ey
jehray jehray keeta dar gadaa’ey
baab rahmat toon ho’ee attaa’ey
herr mohib dee eeho iltijaa’ey
fulk-e-asmat te hovay sahar hay
aye Shams-uz-Zuha’a, wal ubhar hay

aye Shahnshah ha mulk-e-villa da
aye nusairi de Rab da Shehzadah
aye muhafiz deen Khuda da
deen khaa gya'ey baani hus’bunna da
deen mohtaj tedi zi’ya da
sunr Panah Deen da aye pisar hay
tedi raah te Maseeh di nazar hay

chaudvan Mustapha…

- Ghulam Abbas Shah Bohriyen Wala, Shujatpur, 1975

six years

utth
dekh
keh woh khaak jo rangeen huyee
teray khoon se uss bhayanak lamhey
nahi rahi
bik gayee

aur woh mitti
keh jis ka rizq bana tera badan
saakit hai,
ik afsurdah khwahish liye
ik murdah khwab liye

aur goonj rahi hain falak-bos aahein,
khamoshi se
kayee pardon mein
teri yaad ka nauha kehtay

aur aansoo
jo keh khushk hain kayee barson se
beh parrey hain achanak
kayee sawal liye

per dekh,
ay bujhey huye dil,
teri raggon ka lahu
daur raha hai kis dhaj se
unn jismon mein,
aur wohi payrh
keh jiss ki chhaoon talley
teri jawani ko kaisa haseen urooj milla
jhukka diya hai ussi ko teri furqat ne
kerta hai wohi teri yaad ki rakhwali
keh khud jo muddat se kayee mausamon ki zad mein hai

khuda karey keh yeh saya sada salamat ho
luttey naseeb mein chalo itna toh manzoor rahey
aur kucch nahi chahiye hai qismet se
rahatein millein na millein
ammaan manzoor rahey

Alas! 2007

In trying to talk about the recent turn of events I am moved simply to confront my own insignificance, my helplessness. As I look in the mirror, my eyes mock me: 'kya piddi aur kya piddi ka shorbah?' I am compelled, and heart-wrenchingly so, to see the pointlessness of having a heart for this blood-soaked land of ours. And the only words that I can get past this stubborn, three-day old lump in my throat are:

kal bhee bhutto zindah thaa
aur aaj bhee bhutto zindah hai...

And even though I wonder if desensitising one's self is not prerequisite to survival in the current scheme of things, here is something that has moved me to tears for the nth time since the 27th:

http://www.thenews.com.pk/top_story_detail.asp?Id=11951

Bas!

disillusioned?!

Disillusionment, n., freedom from illusion.
Illusion, n., deceptive appearance, false conception, a false sense-impression of reality.

How is it that whenever there's talk of somebody being disillusioned, there are eyebrows raised, in concern, or in pity, or in sheer disdain? Hasn't shedding all that is false for all that is true always been mankind's stated objective? Or is this notion an illusion in itself? Who's to say?

Birthday '07

izzat-e-takht-e-khilafat kuja, sharaab kuja
hasool-e-sharf-e-nayabat kuja, ashab kuja
chara layeen na shavand ghasiban-e-haq-e-Batool
sawal-e-Zehra kuja, talkhiye jawab kuja

- Mir Usman Ali, Last Nizam of Hyderabad Deccan

listening, aphrodite?

when you were not nigh
all was such as it is
the limitless horizon, limitless
the unending road, unending
the empty goblet, empty

and now
the goblet, the road, the color of the sky
is the color of my heart before it bleeds to death

crystal, the color of sweet reunion
and the gray of a desolate moment;
the color of autumn leaves, of a thorny desert
and the flaming red of a rosery in bloom
the color of death
the color of blood
the color of a moonless night

the horizon, the road, the goblet
a story of a thousand tears
of throbbing pain;
a reflection in the mirror
treacherous, deviant, changing every instant

now
that you are come
stay
so that some color, some mood, something
gains permanence
and once again
everything is as it is
the limitless horizon, limitless
the unending road, unending
the empty goblet, empty

- A transliteration of Faiz Ahmed Faiz's 'Rung Hai Dil Ka Meray'

first principle

I
inebriated, repudiated, perforated
resembling that wretched rag-doll
the one the dog hated;
faded,
jaded,
infuriated
but perhaps, as time unfolds,
emancipated?

then again,
whose to say how,
or which way,
things are fated;
at the end,
will only the vow of silence stand consummated?

silence, so vocal, more than the maddening crowd,
silence, so opaque, more than a funeral shroud,
silence, so harsh, so loud,
commanding me,
compelling me,

I, so justly adjudicated,
I, so appreciably depreciated,

to break out, break free
of the bounds,
the suffocating confines,
of me,
myself
and I.

the conundrum

Lately, all my life has been is one big 'I don't wanna!' but with foolproof reasoning behind not wanting to do that which I am not doing. So, here's the deal. I don't want to hit the books for the civil services exam because they just seem so boring to me now. After all, haven't I attained some sort of Confuscian wisdom that really needs no more intellectual augmentation? I don't want to continue with my job at the bank because its too meaningless (as if I have a clue as to what 'meaning' means)! I don't want to socialise or even get out of the house because all humanity is evil (and i'm a reincarnation of the Lord Buddha, albeit a bit farther away from nirvana). I don't want to express my feelings lest they cause long-term hurt and acrimony all around(and there is sufficient precedent for me to be convinced of that). I don't want to let people close, to have them take a peek into my soul lest this pseudo-philosophical facade I have is compromised and I am unmasked for the shallow fool I undoubtedly am. I don't want to be nice to my folks because they haven't been nice to me, but through no fault of their own or mine. I don't want to be not nice with my folks because they're my folks after all. I don't want to believe in God because I have evolution all figured out. I don't want to believe in evolution because them looney scientists change theories faster than I change underwears. I don't want to embrace the world because it is wicked and oppressive. I don't want to embrace the weak and the oppressed because I don't even know where to find them. Do they really exist? I don't want friends because they're all just selfish bastards in the end. But then, I don't want to be alone because that plays with my head, trumps up my insecurities and those childhood complexes of being unclean and unworthy that are beginning to resurface after quite a few years of dormancy. I don't want to view everything in my life through the prism of my own selfish interest because that's just plain unethical. And then, when I am unethical, I don't want to blame myself because it is all about what one wants for one's self ultimately; survival, the most selfish of human instincts. I don't want to pray because what good are prayers that are never answered, what good is faith that does not fulfil its basic purpose, spiritual satisfaction for the believer? I don't want to forsake religion though because the individual is not even as significant as a speck in the greater scheme of things. What if there really is a Hand giving motion to the 'circles of the heavens and the earth'? I don't want to laugh lest they think I'm too expressive in joy. I don't want to cry lest they think I'm too expressive in pain. With all of this going on, should I really be surprised when I guffaw for no obvious reason staring at the walls, or break into tears just like that, or close the door to the bathroom and scream at the top of my lungs, or give my head small, abrupt jerks in the hope that that would return some sanity to it? Should I really be worried about me going crazy? Nonetheless, I am open to all sorts of suggestions for things I might want to do in this mortal existence. Although, it would only be ethical of me to state beforehand that only those ideas will be entertained that are backed up with reasonings as sound as the ones I have presented for my actions, or lack thereof.

Moses speaks

"Said (He), 'O my Nurturer!
Broaden me my heart
Ease my task for me
And loosen the knot of my tongue
So they may understand what I say'"

The Qura'an, Ta'ha: 25-28

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.