Musings VI

jadanr daang hijjar dee pondee hay
saadi qismet aap koon rondee hay
tekoon kya aakhoon o yaar langah
kehri hasrat dil vich hondee hay

- Hasni Khan

resignation

There is no point doing this when I don't feel a thing. My head is so cluttered with work-related complications and family-related issues and apprehensions about the future that I have stopped thinking too deeply altogether. But then that was always the intent right? Get Hasni to start doing more and thinking less. And I guess this is inevitable once you get out of your self, or are dragged out of it to be more precise, and try to become a part of real life, governed by real rules and constraints, having a real different outlook than the world you had created for yourself in your head. Sometimes it is hard to focus and I drift back in time; but in the real world that is called absent-mindedness. Sometimes I indulge my intellect too but whatever the results of that are are almost always shunned as negativity. Survival is tough and that is the hardest lesson I have been taught yet. But the big question is have I really learnt? Because despite all this conformism that I have been forcing upon myself, there is a sullen, obstinate part of me that puts up a fight every step of the way and I never really can figure out who's the victor: the rebel or the conformist. I do not get this: is this life really worth living like a sheep among a huge flock or is it just my thought patterns that are too rigid? Anyway, there is something in my head that I am definitely not getting a finger on. And I dont even know how to feel about that!

plan of action

koee din gar zindagani aur hai
apne jee mein hum ne thhani aur hai

atish-e-dozakh mein yeh garmi kahan
soz-e-gham haaye nihaani aur hai

baar ha dekhi hain unn ki ranjishein
per kucch ab ke sir girani aur hai

dey keh khat muun dekhta hai namabar
kucch toh pegham-e-zabani aur hai

ho chukeen Ghalib balayen sab tamam
aik marg-e-nagahani aur hai...

Perception

Take a passport-sized photograph of yourself, yes that same one with the fake half-smile that you put on your face just to get the photographer to shut up with his incessant 'smile please', and in which the honest, sincere look in your eyes can be easily mistaken for that peculiar expression which makes itself visible when you're locked in a life-and-death struggle with three days of constipation and you're carefully contemplating that final desperate measure: lubrication. Now invert the picture such that the image is upside down. Please observe how, at first glance, your nose suddenly appears as an excellent pencil-holder and the image looks like a quaint bald man with an asymmetric beard who's been a victim of divine comedy as regards the placement of his facial features. Now hide the nose, mouth and chin of the image with your thumb and for a moment, forget that its your picture, forget that it's been inverted and forget that you're a moron for being doing this in the first place, and concentrate on the eyes. Look at them in a detached manner, as if you've never looked at them before, as if you don't want to look at them either. Are they not the most hideous, unworldly, cruel-looking pair of eyes that you have ever seen? Eyes hovering above black platters that seem to have been placed there merely for added effect. And they say a man's eyes are a window into his soul. But is a window not supposed to show the same view whichever way you look at it? Nonetheless, if you fail to see this as such, you need to alter your perceptions. For doing that, you might want to introduce yourself to Lucy.

Trapped!

Have you ever felt trapped? Its a nauseating feeling. You feel like screaming at the top of your lungs but the sound just does not come out because you know you need to keep up the facade: cool, alert, active. You know what you're getting into is not your thing. But do people understand? No. All they can come up with is fucking advice and 'pearls of wisdom' that only serve to confuse you more. Abrupt breaks from one reality and finding yourself in a totally different picture makes you feel as if someone's got their bloody head stuck up your ass. But who cares eh? Its time to give life some direction, its time to diversify, its time to live up to a hundred expectations. But is this fair? What they don't get is that you're not a salesman. You could'nt sell a bone in a goddamn dog fair if it ever came to it. On top of that, living at others' tender mercies is something that just doesn't come to you. But there had to be a day when your wings were clipped, when you were forced to come back to earth. But do they expect you to live on charity? Every promise has been broken, every word reneged upon. You got a life to make or so you're told. Selling! What in the Lord's name is that? Sales! How would you like to go about on a truck begging khokha-walahs and every kind of goddamn bazari to buy women's sanitary pads from you? What kinda fucked-up thing is that? What kinda diversification is that? Some moron 8th grader could do that. Is there any fun in life? Torn apart from familiarity just so your professional credentials won't have a blank space. Its a pity this world is. Your life is governed by externalities. Is 'internality' even a word? How much say do you have in your life? None. That is because you don't care. You dont care whether you work or not. You don't care whether you become anything or not. You don't care whether people take you seriously or not. Because you don't like to assert yourself. If only you were a born a hundred years ago in the same surroundings, the going would have been good. In fact, if you had been a born a coupla thousand years ago, you might have been one of those loonies people mistook for holy men. But that still is possible, isn't it? Reality check: you're trapped. There is no way out of here and you can't live like this. What the fuck is going on around you? You don't wanna know and you don't really care. At this point, all you need to concentrate on is stifling that scream.

Friday the 13th

On this supposedly inauspicious day this piece is more of a product of the paranoia that comes with the entire ‘its-gone-to-the-dogs’ syndrome than anything else. Even this difficulty I am having in getting started is freaking me out to a great extent. But tonight was to be different with stuff like the Nile crocodile, childhood theories on contemporary political structures and some peasant satire on the agenda. But in a household obsessed with death moods tend to fluctuate without a moment’s notice and normal small talk can take sudden turns toward morbidity. It all started when they told on TV that the eyes in Anne Boleyn’s decapitated head continued to shift around till some seconds after the beheading as if trying to come to terms with what had happened and how her ghost still haunts the Tower of London. And then the regular, everyday conversation on food and obesity and missed opportunities rapidly degenerated into conjecturing on what goes on in a man’s head in the space between when the realization of the end strikes him and the actual moment of demise, in his final moments when he actually feels his soul being torn away from his body, when he is locked in that ultimate struggle that he is bound to lose. Trying to conjecture at the goings on in the mind of a man already on the ferry across the River Styx is extremely frustrating for the living because there is nothing concrete to surmise about. But such frustration could only be a fraction of the frustration felt by the dying man for in his head are thoughts the likes of which he is never likely to have thought before, thoughts that he is dying to express but cannot for all modes of expression fail him, thoughts that are destined to be buried with him for all eternity. Imagine a man being shot like an animal in full view of his children and then dying in a few minutes with his gaze transfixed upon them, trying to speak but remaining unable to do so. What could have gone on in such a man’s head in those few minutes, I do not even dare think about for to my own surprise I still value my sanity. They say time is the greatest healer but there are things that transcend all limitations of time and burn in one’s memory like the sacred flame of Zartusht. Lucky are those whose moment of truth is nothing but a split second because even though all their hopes and dreams are dashed they do not have to face the harsh reality of death full frontal. For death is the scariest thing about life. But what could be scarier still is when life chooses to play tricks on you in the guise of death. There was a statistic in some newspaper a few days back stating that 30% of all people are buried alive. Even though this in all probability is a gross exaggeration, even the thought is enough to lose sleep over. Maybe there is some sense to cremation after all or maybe we should have working telephones buried with us in case they fail to differentiate between death and a coma, or better still, loaded revolvers. But unlike the constitution of this country, the laws of God contain no clauses for necessity. Suicide is a free pass to an eternity of pain. The poor bastard who finds himself alive six feet under with a loaded gun sure has one hell of a decision to make.

The Old Man and the Pipal

The old man is a mere shadow of what he was and yet thousands bask in that shadow’s glory. He sits under the Pipal with solitude as his greatest companion and faith as his raison d’etre. His voice trembles when he speaks but resonates across the land, heard and revered. His eyes that in times long past went red with fury, striking fear in the hearts of men, are permanently red with the tears he has cried. Yet his gaze commands respect and submission. He is unsteady in his gait, yet many scramble to follow his lead. His shoulders are stooped under the weight that time and fate has deposited upon them but retain enough strength to keep his world together. Even though his vision is blurry and his hearing impaired, he sees and hears all that goes on and judges in accordance. His back is bent from delivering fragments of his soul into the earth but he continues to haul the load of the dynasty for he alone is worthy of it.

The Pipal is ancient, yet tall and majestic. It casts a dense shade under which life takes refuge from its enemies. It has a broad base with long, thick branches going up towards the sky, like arms outstretched in prayer. Within these branches lives a multitude of God’s creatures that cohabit in relative harmony. The Pipal has weathered many a test of time. Sometimes nature and sometimes man has attempted to try its strength. But it has withstood these tests with an unshakeable tenacity, with its roots remaining firmly planted into the land, even though it has lost some of its sturdiest branches. It continues to stand tall, a symbol of antiquated power and forbearance.

Many centuries ago, when the Sultan of Ghazni sacked the Temple of a Hundred Idols, a spiritual riddle presented itself to him. As his sword sprung back with a metallic clang when he struck a worshipper kneeling to an idol, the invader realized that in his immense devotion to the stone deity, the devotee himself had turned to stone. Such was his dedication to the god in his head; such was the metaphysical bond between the living and the lifeless, that one’s physical reality was entirely consumed by the other’s. The old man and the Pipal also present a riddle of transcendent spirituality, although somewhat of a different nature. In their story, it is not quite clear whose essence has permeated into whom. But if a crude verdict is to be given, it has to be said that the Pipal is nothing but the old man’s soul tearing out of the heart of the earth.

the debate

"What's wrong with it?", he asked, agitated. "She is one of them. It is not possible under any circumstance," she replied, semi-amused. "What's so different between us and them? Are they not just like the rest of us?", he countered half-heartedly. "They are of that line. Our line is inferior to theirs. Just like this land is inferior to that land, for that land has been watered with their blood and there is no other place like it anywhere," she explained to him calmly, with a concerned expression. "What about the blood of the others? Does it not balance the equation?" he said with a sullen grimace. "That blood is of no consequence since it is inferior to their blood and pales in comparison," she told him forcefully. "How could this make them any different?" he retorted in exasperation. "The laws are not the same for all of us. If she really is of that line, she will be thrown off it," she said matter-of-factly. "But what if it is discovered that she is not of that line?" he asked casually. "If lines have been switched deliberately, that makes her unworthy of ours," she beamed in return. He laughed loudly. "It is like that of those behind the bush!" she commented, astonished. "Perhaps it is," he said, chuckling. She got up. "As to the earlier question, there's nothing to have," she announced carelessly and went away. He waited.

well of wisdom

had written a whole fricken piece that was lost in electricity fluctuation. aur energy nahi hai phir se likhne kee woh saaree qawali. buss yeh yaad hai:

itne sadme utthaye hain mein ne
sir utthane ke qabil nahi hai

aur yeh bhee aaj kee tamaam guftugu urdu mein honee thee. aur yeh waqayah bayan hooa keh Maula ne kaha, 'Mesum, herr raat meray paslion ke darmian aik toofaan sa utthta hai jo bahar aana chahta hai, per mein majboor ho kerr usse aik koon'ein mein daal ata hoon.' phir Meesam ne poocha, 'Amir-ul-Momineen, yeh kaun sa aisa toofaan hai jo keh aap ko itna majboor aur be-chaen kerta hai?' toh Maula ne jawab diya, 'yeh ilm ka toofaan hai Meesum, jo bahar aane ke liye tadapta hai, perr dunya mein koee samajh rakhne wala nahi!' i cant seem to figure out its connection with what i was writing, but it is beautiful nonetheless and i will keep it. baqi ab kucch samajh nahi aa rahee; lagta hai frequency kum karnee pare gee. waqt aya hai apne qadmon per khade honay ka which is the last thing i want to do iss halat mein. lekin kya karein, bardasht karna pare ga. bohat zaroori hai yeh bhee zindagi mein. yeh sala weird al pata nahi kya chahta hai? accha, iss se pehle keh mein gharq ho jaoon, let me take my leave on a wanjhli dee mithdi taan. i still have to mourn the loss of such effort on extraction of lyrics from qawali. lekin haan yeh bhee kehna thaa:

aaye kucch abr, kucch sharaab aaye
uss ke baad aaye jo azaab aaye

and why the fuck is that picture always on?

Birthday!

nunhi si qabr khod ke, Asghar ko gaadh ke
Shabbir utth khade hooye daaman ko jhadh ke

No Man's Land

People who haven't seen this movie, or worse, not heard about it either are sincerely advised to get their hands on it and watch it. I have never, in my entire movie-watching career, seen such profound symbolism portrayed so beautifully. In fact, I think from now on I would look at any other movie with a changed perspective, subconsciously weighing its merits against those of No Man's Land. And as much as I am itching to narrate the storyline here, I realise my literary inadequacies and I know that any such attempt would do no justice to the original and could never even hope to convey the effect, capture the material the movie offers in its entirety. For there is enough material to do a doctoral thesis on. Suffice it to say that the main theme is the Bosnian crises of the 90's and the human tragedy of it. And its awesome how the entire crises is depicted without comprimising the film's basic status as an alternative, low-budget movie and making it into an epic. Hats off to the genius behind this masterpiece, the Bosnian director, Danis Tanovic. As a matter of fact this movie was his debut and has been his only movie to date.

On a more personal note, life itself seems to be in no man's land these days. The trick is to go with the flow and I am trying my best to achieve that despite all apprehensions and misgivings. But I fear that this resolve to conform might blow up in my face too in some time exposing me to their eyes. What then would become of me? Nonetheless, this blog becomes more unoriginal with every post. But I don't feel like doing anything about it tonight. For its a quiet night, can't even hear the music. Looks like the hush outside has drowned out the noise inside. And in such a state, listening to U2's Velvet Dress totally freaks me out. Trust Ghalib to come to the rescue.

kab se hoon kya bataoon jahan-e-kharab mein
shabhaye hijr ko bhee rakhoon ger hisab mein

mujh tak kab unkee bazm mei aata tha daur-e-jaam
saqi ne kuchch mila na diya ho sharaab mein

Ghalib chhuti sharab, per ab bhee kabhi kabhee
peeta hoon roz-e-abr-o-shab-e-mahtab mein

the dog speaks...

murshid sohni keetee bahu
sakoon pal vich cha bakhshaya hu

The music sounds so good tonight!

Overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves in labyrinths of coral caves
The echo of a distant tide
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine
And no one showed us to the land
And no one knows the wheres or whys
But something stirs and
Something tries
And starts to climb towards the light
Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me
And do I take you by the hand
And lead you through the land
And help me understand the best I can
And no one calls us to the land
And no one crosses there alive
And no one speaks
And no one tries
And no one flies around the sun
And now this is the day you fall
Upon my waking eyes
Inviting and inciting me to rise
And through the window in the wall
Comes streamin in on sunlight wings
A million bright ambassadors of morning
And no one sings me lullabies
And no one makes me close my eyes
So I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky.

It's all over!

“But whoever believes, and works righteousness, he shall have a goodly reward, and easy will be his task as we order it by our command.”
(Al-Quran, Surah Al-Kahf: 88)

With an unconditional sajda upon the words of the Lord, the sun has set on all hopes and dreams of happiness that might have returned to the family in two years; the brief respite that Providence afforded us has reached a bizarre ending. The ‘beray da malah’, everyone’s ‘sir da chhappar’, and ‘herr kaheen dee sambhaal lahand ala’ is gone forever, taken away as a consequence of one more random, inexplicable occurrence, the kind that has happened too often with us but is impossible to get used to, reinforcing everyone’s mortal fear of telephones ringing in the night, a fear that had initially crept in on the night of January 4, 2002. Cardiac arrest it is proclaimed to be with no prior history of heart problems. Mind-numbingly difficult his death is to accept; Chacha, though overweight, was the most physically active out of all his brothers and had never had poor health. In fact, he was one of the few in the family who are not afflicted with that most deadly ailment, hypochondria. But in one silent, surreptitious moment, the man who had always sacrificed his own happiness for the people around him, who had what it takes to be a friend in the hour of need, and who had the matchless ability to throw his arms around the world, was no more. Chacha was the base upon which the family’s strength and unity rested and was the main force behind the organization of all major activities, be it a majlis or a wedding or some political gathering. Quiet and seemingly aloof, he was all love for the family but could never bring himself about to express it. One had to spot the sincerity behind a sardonic remark or an angry outburst. Through every domestic crisis he held the family together by refusing to take sides and join in the mud-slinging. Even when haveli intrigue and family politics made married life hell for him, he remained a dutiful husband, father and son. Chacha was a true father figure, the only one with the integrity and the ability to replace Dada as the head of the entire family. But fate would not have it. As my 80-year old grandfather sat by the body of his eldest born and his second dead son, he cried out in a hoarse whisper, ‘Ay meda putr meda vee Baba ha!’ For in passing away, Chacha has orphaned the entire family, from the oldest to the youngest. In fact, he has orphaned the entire ‘wasaib’, from the sardar to the lowest ‘kami’. What would those families do who were fed from his kitchen three times a day, seven days a week, where would the small farmers go who could not afford pesticide and other such supplies and he invariably bought it for them, and what about those poor innocents whom he regularly saved from police victimization without them having to pay a single paisa as bribes. For it is true that Chacha was endowed with a kind of reckless generosity characteristic of old-school zamindars. Common village folk are mourning him as much as the family for this very reason. He would have made a fine sardar someday, a latter-day Rahim Yaar Khan maybe. But this was not to be and he wore the ancestral ‘pug’ into the grave.

Had he lived, today would have been his 56th birthday; he died two weeks shy of it. There are not many Scorpios in the family. In happier times my father used to say how my temperament was exactly like my ‘bara’ Chacha’s. If one is somewhat spiritual with some inclination towards religion, the fact that Chacha was born on the 10th of Moharram and died painlessly on the 15th of Ramadan while sitting on the prayer mat reading the Quran has significant meaning. My elders say these are sure signs that his lifelong services in the way of ‘Hussainiyet’ have been rewarded and he stands in high regard in the eyes of the Lord. I hope in the name of everything that is holy that this is true. But what is bothering my mind is that for a man of faith, is this the promised goodly reward that he lives his entire life on a bed of thorns and just as some semblance of happiness and mental peace begins to enter his existence, his life is taken away from him. For it is true that it was only in recent years, especially after Jaffer was born, that Chacha was truly happy; it showed on his face. He saw all his joys and dreams in the eyes of his grandson. And no matter what many celestial signs his death carried, the question remains: did he want to die at this point in time when for the first time in his life he was at the top of the world? The chapter of Chacha’s life closed abruptly, incomplete, anti-climactic. Iqbal, as usual, gives us false hope:

Jahaan mein ahl-e-eemaan soorat-e-khursheed jeetay hain
Idhar doobey, udher nikley; udher doobey, idher nikley

But in my observation of ahl-e-eeman, I have only seen them sink. With Chacha, the fortunes of the entire family have sunk. Everyone’s going around like zombies unable to comprehend what they could have done to deserve this. And what of the old man who has seen two sons into the grave, sons who did not have a single gray hair on their heads, who were in the prime of their lives, who were his pride and his strength? What has he done to deserve this? In a moment of weakness, even this iron man once cried out, “Maula, eeho sila denday way naukri da?” But his faith is too firmly entrenched. He will spend the days left to him begging for forgiveness and mercy. Who will take care of his legacy? He lost the warrior four years ago, now the heir is gone too. The heart bleeds to see him go to his sons’ graves supported by two men, to hear that in the middle of the night he gets up and makes his way, stumbling and falling, to their graves and goes and lies down on the cold hard earth. Does everything happen for a reason, or is the divine scheme of things a bit too arbitrary. What can one mere mortal say? Ghalib, I think, truly understands pain and the contradictions in the universe:

Sab kahan kucch lala-o-gul mein numayaan ho gayeen
Khaak mein kya sooratein hoon gee keh pinhaan ho gayeen

Runj se khoogar hoaa insaan toh mit jata hai runj
Mushkilein mujh per pareen itni keh asaan ho gayeen

Yoon hee ger rota raha Ghalib toh ay ahl-e-jahan
Dekhna inn bastion ko tum keh veeraan ho gayeen

Asghar Hussein Khan (November 2, 1949 - October 19, 2005)

words fail me...

As the scale of the devastation caused by the quake becomes more horrifyingly clear with every passing day, it also becomes evident that this country is totally ill-prepared for a natural disaster of these proportions, and after crises has struck, completely inadept at efficiently deploying the limited resources at its disposal. But then, when the mighty USA could not manage its hurricane crises effectively, how can the government of a poor, third-world country be really blamed for disaster mismanagement. It has been more than 72 hours since the quake struck and there are many areas where relief efforts have not yet begun. In most of Kashmir, people are working on a self-help basis to find people trapped in the rubble. Watching TV these days is too depressing. Where big machinery is needed, you see people clawing their way through the debris with pick-axes and shovels but mostly with their bare hands in the hope to rescue someone alive. You see little children being dug out of holes with the shadow of death upon their faces. You see people crying out in despair for help that is not forthcoming. And it is not because there is no feeling within the general public. There are massive issues of coordination. In cities like Karachi and Lahore, tonnes of aid has been gathered but no one can figure out how to send it across. And even if it does get sent across, who is to be responsible for its receipt and disbursement. Selfish interests are out to make a profit from this calamity. Truckers have increased their fares from Karachi to the northern parts of the country almost twofold. The price of cloth for 'kafan' has also doubled. So much for Shauket Aziz's free market economy and the joys it has brought to the nation. In the disaster-hit areas, people are beginning to get frustrated at how selectively help is being provided. Rural people looted an aid-carrying convoy on the Mansehra-Balakot road today. It has been obvious from the start that all relief efforts are aimed at urban areas. The rural populations of those regions have been left to fend for themselves against hunger, disease and the rapidly-approaching winters. In Azad Kashmir, people are bitterly voicing their protest against the government. For it is true that in most districts of AJK, help began filtering in 48 hours after the quake had struck and that too mostly in the form of foreign rescue teams. At the most filmed location of the quake, Margalla Towers, the rescue efforts somehow seem to be happening in the spirit of excavation rather than with the zeal that comes with rescuing live human beings.

In my opinion, our President spoke too prematurely when he said that Pakistan needs mostly financial assitance for it has enough manpower of its own. This was a stupid thing to say. We need all the help we can get, especially in the form of specialised disaster management teams who can coordinate on the spot activities to save as many lives as possible. In fact, if we do an honest self-analysis, we do not need as much financial assistance as is being touted. It is high time for our corporate fat-cats to live up to their slogans of corporate social responsibility. This country has enough money, though concentrated in a few hands, for launching and sustaining a large-scale relief effort. But how to get the money out of those hands is the real issue. In fact, the real question is whether the civil-military establishment really wants to take money out of those hands. There comes a time in every nation's existence that calls for honest introspection and a sincere appraisal of the wrongs in society. This is the time when all the if's and but's and should have's become important. And I think now is that time for Pakistan.

The role that media plays in such situations is of immense significance. PTV, the government's propaganda machine, has been a disappointment like always. All its focus is on how high-level government functionaries are doing great things to help people in the disaster zone. There is minimal news of what is actually happening on the ground, what has transpired so far and what still needs to be done. And while, from all accounts, the death toll has reached 40,000, PTV sticks by its two-day old casualty figure of 20,000, qualifying it with the statement that the government expects the number to double. In its efforts to please the higher-ups, PTV is extensively covering the movement of every federal minister in NWFP and AJK. Sometimes one wonders that even if some big government guy hiccups in the field, PTV would report that too. Geo, surprisingly, has been no better. It has also adopted the policy of sucking up to the government. The ruins of Margalla Towers and some aerial shots of Muzaffarabad and Balakot are shown on repeat all day long with useless debate and discussions. The smaller networks like Indus Plus and ARY, however, have been truer to the cause, presenting in-depth analysis of the situation with vital criticisms and ground realities. Although I believe that in such times there should not be criticism just for the heck of it, the government and the authorities need to know that the world is watching their every move.

The year 2005 has wrought terrible natural calamities upon humanity. There have been tsumanis and floods and earthquakes and hurricanes. We hear people around us say that the end is near, that we have invited God's wrath upon ourselves with our misguided lives and disregard for the path of righteousness. It may be so. But is God as insensitive as man that he makes one group of people into examples for others? For we, despite all our tall claims to humanitarianism and sympathy for the affected, are an insensitive kind. We watch TV and get all worked up about the misery and the suffering. And the next moment we get up and go feed ourselves at franchise food outlets. The fact that the Muzaffarabad jail also collapsed and some of the inmates escaped is a cause of amusement to us. We watch movies and sleep long hours thinking nothing of the many thousands who have to spend their nights out in the cold with hailstorms and torrential rain. And it is true that we can never really imagine the suffering for we are far removed from it. But is God far removed from it too? If an example was needed, why did He not strike the cities which are the centers of vice. Why destroy one of the most religiously conservative regions in the country? Or is God trying to make a point that none of us is getting. But who can question His writ. And as the hailstorm continues, and the onslaught of a premature winter threatens to finish off what the earthquake could not, the dead wait to be buried, and the living wait to be rescued.

milestone achieved

Today our much advertised grassroot level democracy delivered the nation neatly from all pretensions of free and fair electoral competition and into the hands of the same man for whose legitimization the whole shebang was originally created and his civilian lapdogs. Our beloved leader must be patting himself on the back, he has achieved what even Zia could not, the complete devolution of power to comprador elite ensuring his survival at the top. And if he can reinforce this achievement in 2007 that would be the last nail in the coffin. As things stand now, that is almost inevitable. The country would then be effectively reduced to a one-party system and he would be the unchallenged despot. From the looks of it, Pakistan is headed straight towards becoming a fascist state, client to none other than the burning torch of freedom and democracy, the great US of A.

The beauty of the entire thing is that elections have neither been outrightly rigged nor the electoral process unfairly tampered with as compared to the elections of the past. In fact, there was no need to. The system is designed such that the prize had to fall in the ruling party's lap. Let's start with a given: in Pakistan, there has never been any real party-based politics per se. People who get elected to the national and political legislatures do so on the basis of their own political contracting at the local level which is merely a function of their families' wealth and influence in the area. This means that the people who are generally elected are from the elite of a given area. And at the higher level, it is this elected elite that decides which party to support and which ideology to espouse. This is how it has happened whenever democracy's been given a chance since 1947. And it is also abundantly clear from past experiences that this political elite, both when in or out of power, is prone to switching affiliations and allegiances to suit its own interests. But the Devolution system offers such incentives that are every politico's dream come true, for it promises to empower them at the local level. In the past, local power had always been the domain of bureaucrats and civil servants and the local political elite lusted after it, and deeply resented the bureaucracy for it. Now the positions of District Nazims and Tehsil Nazims are so enticing that people are willing to give up their seats in the National Assembly for them. And it is this lust for local power that the powers in Islamabad have optimally exploited. The local political elites know that if they toe the line and unite under the banner of the King's party, they would get to share these lucrative posts created at the local level. Else, they would have to face the entire machinery of the state against them. This is why you get to see people who would normally be traditional rivals in the local political arena trying to create an atmosphere of a truce. So the local politico's, using all their instincts for side-switiching and maximum power-grabbing, line up behind the hand that is supposed to feed them. And then with all proper ado, the General's cronies distribute the hallowed posts among these people. Someone gets the District, the other the Tehsil. All major political groupings at the local level are satisfied and there remains no cause for dissent. The ruling party makes a clean sweep in an election that was on a non-party basis in the first place. And so in October 2005, for gaining limited power over limited pieces of land, our political elite has sold out the entire nation to a man who has no business being where he is today, vindicated him and made him even more powerful, if that is possible. In essence, our entire political elite has been bribed without them even realising it. The General and his associates have doled out these positions of prominence and the local elites have lapped them up like hungry street dogs. They have sold their conscience and their souls. And if this trend is strengthened in 2007 and the General's current clients remain loyal to him, this country is headed for absolutism. Then, I think, he would be crowned absolute monarch and worshipped as the image of God upon this Earth, ruler by Divine right. I wonder though who the Crown Prince would be.

profit and loss statement

The family seems to have decided that its going to make up for the losses suffered from 2000 to 2003 in 2005 and make the overall situation a zero-sum game. Well its easy to make up in numbers and that is how i shall keep it, for the sheer magnitude of the losses can never be expressed in words. The cycle started in October 2000, during my first quarter at LUMS, with Chachi. Then on April 4, 2001, Shab-e-Aashoor, Dadi Jaan. Exactly nine months after, on January 4, 2002 the family was shattered forever with Chacha's murder. The weight of the world fell upon a gray head between two stooped shoulders as Dada Jaan tried to keep his flock together and in the twilight of his time took the responsibility of his orphaned grandsons, a responsibility that taxes his every faculty. Someone spoke correctly at Chacha's wake, 'Khan da pahaar da jigger hay.' May he have a long life for our sake. On a tangent though, the exact nine-month difference between mother and son continues to haunt me still. April 14, 2002 Addi Amma. The Lord decided to give us a year-long breather. June 4, 2003, end of Junior year with the final exam of Colex, Chacha Tehroo. And then on November 15, 2003, the night of the 21st of Ramazan, in the middle of the Autumn finals and two days before my 21st birthday, Nana Jaan passed away. Exactly as had happened at Chacha's death, I skipped two exams and made a nocturnal journey back home. Exasperated voices cried out to heaven - no more, please, no more! As the family reeled from one painful shock after another, fate had another cycle planned, a cycle of birth which started not long after. On November 19, 2003, Syed Turaab Afghan stepped into the world, what a kid mashAllah. Can already tell the difference between a fake cellphone and a real one. 'Eeeeee' he calls it. Iblees Jr. Nana Jaan would have called him. April 24, 2004, Jaffer Reza Khan was born and although they put him onto artificial milk which caused the poor baby to inflate he is now the life of the paternal side of my family; spoiling him rotten they are. All his Grand-Uncles are crazy after him; i guess they see their own grandchildren in him. Then came March 2005 with Syeda Itrat Zehra, my Nana Nani's second great grandchild. This one already promises to be a ball of fire with her temper tantrums. April 21, 2005, Mohammed Ghazi Saeed, a baby providence chose to give after years of intense prayer and many a traumatic experience. Ghazi is going to be the wonder-boy of the family inshAllah, may he live forever and make his parents proud. Then came the 'Jahanpur dee pug da waaris' on the 2nd of September, Meekaeel Murtaza. Stately looks this one has mashAllah from the emailed pictures, still gotta see him in person though. Then on October 1 came the 'Sijaalpur dee pug da waaris', Mohammed Taqi, still in peaceful post-natal slumber. Tonight, two days from Taqi's arrival, another one is on its way. And in a few months' time inshAllah, Jaffer will have a sibling. The parents are 'secretly' hoping for a daughter; as am I. My paternal side of the family is in dire need of some 'rehmat'.

If you have taken the trouble of reading this far, I hope you're doing the math as well because i surely am not. My point is that although i pray from the bottom of my heart and even more sincerely than i do for myself that all these babies have long lives and grow up to be splendid people and a source of strength and joy for their parents, it is still a long time before they develop their independent personalities and really start to matter in the scheme of things. Some of the people who were taken away were taken away before it was really their time. And these were people who were already there, who were important to other people in many ways. But the Lord works in mysterious ways. And one can only hope that these newborns, when they come into their own, will surpass those whom they would never see but would hear about a lot in character and personality. But i guess by the time that happens, i would be dead and gone, another statistic on nature's frequency table. And so what im looking at, at the moment, is a deadweight loss. But then ive always been known to be a bit too pessimistic for my own good. Regardless of that, the fact that im writing all of this on a blog for the entire world to see may yet point to another loss that i think i will have to mourn pretty soon. Someday I will write a piece on how to hurt, lose, driveaway people who care. And then i will hopefully choke on my own nasal fluids and die.

Ali Da Malang...

suni awaaz uss shokh kee see
Ilahi yeh jalsa kahan ho raha hai?

az chehre niqaab afgan ay shahid-e-bathahi
aalam ra shavad roshan ba ru-e-nabinmai
der chahsm-e-haqeeqat bhee, w'Allah muamai
Maula-e-huma banda, hum banda-e-maulayi

kahein jiss ko Nabi mun kunto maula, lehma-ka-lehmi
nabi ka woh Vasi al-mukhtasir yoon bhee hai aur yoon bhee
jo Kaabe mein ho paida, aur shahadat paye masjid mein
Khuda ke ghar ka Malik woh bashar yoon bhee hai aur yoon bhee

Ali Imam-e-Manast-o-Manam Ghulam-e-Ali
hazar jaan-e-girami fida beh naam-e-Ali

backwaters...

On the turf, there always had to be a first time. He crushed it under his sandal and turned around. The dog spread out before his feet. He patted it for a bit and it spread out more. He walked on. It did not follow. He closed the door behind him and locked it. The music floated into his ears and he was attracted to the sound. With every step he thanked the Master of the Universe for such bliss. He knew that stuff was bad but he had been making it worse in the past. Now it was good. The urge gripped him. He checked the monitor. It was still coming down. She still wasn't there. He sat down and hoped that history with such stuff would not repeat itself. The traffic was down to a halt and he wondered whether he would get to the page. The thought of the night before came to him. 'Since childhood you're told to fear God, for God sees all. I always replace that with for Ammi sees all.' The thought of his mother seeing him through his eyes was scary. He missed his friend. He had an idea and began hacking away. He wondered why the alphabet was appearing at the wrong side. He was a brave man on these grounds. Brave and safe. She appeared. He hoped she would talk to him. He needed someone to talk to. She did not appear interested. He told her what was happening on his side. Breathing was making him choke. He changed the number. He did not need this crap. What he needed was still coming down. Selfishness like this would get you closer to God, the sufis had taught him. Whose majboori's were these he asked? What had Vital Signs to do with it? Every number sounded different from what he had originally remembered. Too different. But there were no explanations he could give. He liked it though. Thank you, O Noble Deity! She did not like what he had told her and he stopped listening. Had he locked the door or was he unsafe? With a surge of energy, he went and checked. He came back and remembered his friend again. He wondered whether his in-built mechanisms to maintain his personality had loosened enough, as discussed with the Malah, or was he still not fully revealed to himself. Now no one else please. Not in the mood. The voice droned on about a huge search for something. With a slight sound it came down. He smiled and checked. He recognised the name. The voice talked about the secrets of the heart. He dragged it into the list. A momentary pause and then with full fanfare it broke into 'Mun Kunto Maula'. Everything else faded into oblivion.

Musings V

hin mein jayhn een jahan utte budchalan kaee badkaar kaee
bedeen kaee, bemazhab kaee, bepeer kaee, bekaar kaee
safai aapni de keetay hin lafz mekoon darkaar kaee
per such ay hay een dunya vich insaan hin ghutt murdaar kaee

- Hasni Khan

karachi nights...

He drew in a long breath of the sea air and stood up. For a moment he lost balance but then was stable on his feet. It was time to go in. It was a good night, with the stars and the clouds fighting it out for control over the sky. His companion had gone in sometime back. For a moment he pondered on what he might have been thinking when he had left. He looked out into the parking lot and his mind went back to politics. ‘Dirty old Pervaiz Elahi,’ his mind announced to him in a rather annoying British accent, ‘the bastard’s screwed up everything; hadn’t it been for him, we would have been in a much better position today.’ Time to collect the glasses. He picked them up very gently, as if careful not to crack them with his fingers. The door confused him a bit but he figured it out; stepped in feeling very light. Why is the air-conditioning on? He clearly remembered telling him to leave it off. He checked and it was off. Must be the chill he had brought in from outside. He put the glasses in the kitchen. A sudden commotion in his gutt caught him by surprise and he walked to the bathroom. But halfway there it subsided as quickly as it had appeared, and he slumped on the couch. He wondered if this had any precedence in the history of his life. He thought about what he had been told about himself and whether that could be true, but he dismissed these thoughts quickly. It would require more brain-power than he wanted to provide that night. He flicked channels but nothing worthwhile was on. At least nothing upon which he could bring himself to focus attention. Dilemma! Sleep was far from his eyes and he had nothing to do. Two sensations simultaneously hit him. A strange nausea in the belly and the urge to write in the head. Keeping his priorities straight, he headed to the bathroom; still nothing. He went back to the couch thinking where he could find pen and paper. What’s the computer for, a voice shouted in his head. He tiptoed into the room and groped around for a bit in the dark. At first, he couldn’t figure the machine out and wondered if he should call for help. But better sense prevailed and after an eyes-wide-open search operation, he located the power button and pressed it. The computer whirred to life and he waited for it to finish the boot. For a moment, his urge to write lessened. Why not talk to a few old-time friends. But nothing was going through and reluctantly he opened the text editor. He hacked out sentences amidst a series of long pauses, indicating that he was finding it hard to maintain his train of thought. He knew what he was writing had nothing to do with the thoughts with which the sudden desire to write had gripped him. He typed on nonetheless. After what seemed like ages to him, he was done. He checked the time; it had only been an hour. He felt as if he had written a whole novel and gave a small chuckle, which came out like a cackle, when he discovered it was only three-fourths of a page. He turned around to see if he had disturbed his friend with the sound he made. Didn’t seem like it. He went back to what he had written and cursorily read through it. Yep, it was nothing like what he had originally imagined. He stood up. His stomach gave a nasty churn, and his head a delicious spin. Had he ever felt this good before? This bad? His brain rudely reminded him that it refused to process questions on relativism that night. The idealist in him put up a fight. The escapist advocated surrender. His knees felt weak and he sat down. And then with a faint, unconcerned smile on his face, he said to himself: ‘don’t know about the good or bad, but that was one hell of a joint.’ And then there was a hush.