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.

the sanctuary

He enters. The silence is deafening. He wonders if this truly is a refuge from the screaming chaos that is outside, chaos that is bent upon breaking in. At least, he tells himself, he has learned some methods to deaden his wits against the relentless attacks of the uncertainty and the confusion that is outside. This hush, however, is pitiless. He looks around. In the bright light a few faces are visible like apparitions from a long-forgotten past, hardly recognizable, distant, uncommunicative. Its nothing like the bustle that used to be in this place not too long ago. All for the best, he mutters under his breath. How would they who are not even worth acknowledging understand the demons and how they plague him? Hell, has he even shut them out properly or have they followed him in? He stares blankly into the light hoping for a miracle to take form from within it. The hope makes him wait, foolishly, quietly, stubbornly. Faces pop in and out, more familiar faces, faces that he wants to touch so as to make his presence felt. But they are in a hurry like always. Cursory engagement and they are out. He is amazed at how they do not seem to need asylum from the outside like he does. Are they stronger than him? Or is it just his perception of things that is jaded? But now it is obvious that the vaccuum around him is widening; just more empty spaces for the demons to inhabit. The wait continues. Every passing moment is heavier than the last. The noise from the outside begins to breach the walls of his sanctuary. He realises that his time is up. Reluctantly, he gets up to leave. As darkness abruptly consumes the light he knows it will not be long before he is back. It is just the wait that he has given up, not the hope.

five years

wasl ki shab thee toh kis darja subak guzri thee
hijr ki shab hai toh kya sakht garaan thehri hai
ik dafa bikhri toh hath aayee hai kab mauj-e-shamim
dil se nikli hai toh kya lab pe fughan thehri hai?

- Faiz