I give my two cents on how the Sutlej basin is facing a water catastrophe because of flawed water policy from the get-go on a vlog with NayaDaur.
اس سال گرمی پہلے سے زیادہ پڑرہی ہے جس نے فصلوں کا بہت نقصان کیا ہے بارش بلکل نہیں ہوئی ریگستانی علاقوں میں پانی کی کمی کی وجہ بارش کا نہ ہونا بھی ہے۔ ریگستان میں زیر زمین پانی کی کوالٹی کبھی بھی اچھی نہیں رہی، حسنین حیدرhttps://t.co/90bJvRxtvgpic.twitter.com/CBl5SBsaEU
If the people of the Seraiki belt are underprivileged in this country, within the Seraiki belt the people of Rohi have it the worst. They are politically dominated by canal colony settlers who hold them in a political and economic stranglehold. They themselves are mainly nomads, herders and small farmers with absolutely no one to speak for them.
What had been fermenting for two years and a half is finally out! "Shaazi" got published at The Aleph Review today. Really hope it packs a punch. Any resemblance to characters, living or dead, is purely coincidental!
God's letter to His Friend, the Prophet Mohammad, on the 18th Day of Zil-Haj, 10 AH, to declare the vicegerency of Ali to the Muslims, in the imagination of legendary Seraiki poet, Ferdowsi e Pakistan, Saeen Irshad Jhandeer.
بعالٰی خدمت حضورِ حضرت حبیب محبوب محترم اے
جنابِ اعلٰی حضورِ والا تہاݙے توڑیں ضروری کم اے
اِتھاں وی خیر اے تے خیر منڳداں تہاݙی پل پل اتے مدامی
تے ݙیݙھی پردہ بخیر ہوسی نہال ہوسن سڄݨ تمامی
تے پیار ٻالاں کوں میݙی طرفوں تے گھر درود و دعا سلامی
گھدی ہے مکتوب میݙا آندا تیݙا سنہڑوُ میݙا پیامی
ݙواہے فی الفور وقت اینکوں منڳے جݙاں اذنِ ہم کلامی
تے حال سارا سڄݨ پیارا میں کیتا مکتوب وچ رقم اے
تہاݙے توڑیں ضروری کم اے
گو مُد گزر ڳئی یاد ہوسی غریب خانے تے آئے ہاوے
قدم ہا رنجہ حضور کیتا ہزاراں احسان لاۓ ہاوے
زمیں دی عظمت دی بارگاہ وچ فلک دے جھنڈے جھکاۓ ہاوے
تے دستِ پنجہ ملیندے ہوئیں زمیں دو تک مسکراۓ ہاوے
اٹھاراں سالاں دی رات تھئی ہئ جاں آئے تے ول سدھائے ہاوے
اڄݨ وی ممنون ہاں تہاݙا، وݙی نوازش وݙا کرم اے
تہاݙے توڑیں ضروری کم اے
جِتھاں اے خط خیر دا آن پہنچے، اٹھاں کوں سئیں ہُش کراوݨے چا
ول پلاݨاں دا جوڑ مِنبر اَتے خط اُتے چڑھ سݨاوݨے چا
ہے ہر کوئی رعیت، علّی ہے مولا، تے ہر کہیں توں مناوݨے چا
جیہڑا نہ منے اونہی توں پہلے بخن دا نعٰرہ مراوݨے چا
تے سارے الحاج صوفیاں کوں سݙا کے کولہوں ٻلاہوݨے چا
منیسی فرمان تیݙا میݙا مگر او جیہڑا حلالی دم اے
تہاݙے توڑیں ضروری کم اے
اے عام خط نئیں ایں خط کوں تائیں میں خاصکر سئیں ٹھہا کے لکھئم
امر دی لوح نال قلم قضا نال مَس مَوَدت دی لا کے لکھئم
ہم آپ پڑھیا دُرود پہلے تے قدسیاں توں پڑھا کے لکھئم
تیݙے وصی دا، میݙے ولی دا، علّی دا نعٰرہ مرا کے لکھئم
سجیلا سانول سجیلے ویلے سجیلے خط کوں سجا کے لکھئم
نہ لاڈلا سوہݨا رس پوویں توں جو خط دا لہجہ وٹا کے لکھئم
تاریخی خط ہے، تاریخی ݙینہہ ہے، تاریخی قرطاس تے قلم ہے
My two cents on the immediate policy interventions needed to begin tackling the phenomenon of child sexual abuse in Pakistan. Hope it isn't just vox clamantis in deserto.
Cherry be popped! My first ever podcast and on a subject that is very near to my heart. Seraiki marginalization is real. The denial of the Seraiki identity is real. The culture that is at the geographical center of this country cannot afford to remain silent or invisible anymore.
So boys, when you grow up and see this, know that this was a proud first for your father. Hope for more visible and forceful engagement here on out.
Nawabzada Hassan Hussein Qureshi is spearheading the initiative and putting in sincere effort to make these podcasts happen. The object is to reach the masses and not just be an echo chamber for the Seraiki elites. People who arrive here are requested to follow @Seraikast's Twitter Handle and share the podcast as widely as possible on social media.
The video and audio of the podcast I participated in on November 5, 2020:
The Pipal is dying. Every
strong dust-storm exacts its toll, taking away a branch, a formerly sturdy
bough, never to be replaced again. The Pipal is dying; of thirst. Standing tall
atop a creek-side mound, its verdant opulence was once visible from a mile
away. Ever since the river ran dry, its roots now struggle to drink from the
water beneath the earth. The sharp, soulless instruments of human machination
have cut down on its lofty stature. And for the better, because it would have dried
up altogether had it been allowed to keep its regal size. Though it still hosts
life in variegated form, its denizens are not as numerous as they used to be –
land around it is parched, and sustenance, in short supply. The Pipal is now a
broken shield against the excesses of summer. Where its shade was once impenetrable
for the pitiless summer sun, beams of hot, bright light now break through to
the ground. Those who seek refuge underneath it must now shift their positions
with the shifting time of day. Unconditional sanctuary, the Pipal does not
afford now to give. But still, it is a symbol of stubborn hope; the weathered mast
of an ancient galleon not yet sunk.
The old man is now a
memory, an echo across time. But he is not a memory that fades, or an echo that
dies away after reverberating a few times. His memory is a light that guides,
the echo of his words still ringing deep in the minds of men, his image
occupying a place reserved for majesty in their hearts. He remains the arbiter
of right and wrong, the touchstone for all strategy, a source of clarity in all
times of confusion. For many he remains that same rich voice that struck fear
in their hearts when thundering in anger, and inspired awe in them when speaking
softly. He remains the balancer of things, the reconciler of irreconcilably
inimical forces, the keeper of order in the midst of chaos. He lives on not as a
bent & broken old man, but as a tall prince, spine straight like an arrow,
walking with majestic dignity, his sons following at a respectful distance,
each step falling heavy on the spirits of his enemies, bringing joy to the
hearts of his friends. Even in death, his stature continues to dwarf friend &
foe alike, jealousy getting even more pronounced with the latter. For in
life, they found solace in reviling a person, while in death, he is a hero of
legend that none of their malicious words & deeds can harm.
Famed 13th
century Sufi poet, Amir Khusrau, when writing about love, spiritual and
temporal, presents an idea that mirrors the relationship between the old man
and the Pipal: a fusion of souls. Khusrau writes, “I have become you, and you
me; I am the body, you are the soul; No one can say hereafter, that I am
someone, and you, someone else.” It may be said, therefore, that if the Pipal
continues to live despite all odds, dutifully doing what it is expected to do,
it seeks its nourishment not from the increasingly stingy earth in which it is
planted, but from the immortal heart of a mortal man. The cool wind in its
leaves is an echo of the old man’s wisdom, its shade, an embodiment of the old
man’s essence itself.
Where all I see
are mindless animals,
and humans are scarce,
like trees in a desert.
This place,
which trust has renounced,
and love has long since forsaken;
where the vain control resources,
and the merciless play at justice;
where friendship lacks all charm,
and blood relations are just as dull;
where children are
their fathers’ enemies;
where the savior kills,
the bully leads,
the godman trades,
selling his edicts
to the highest bidder;
where the houses of God
are unsafe for His creation;
where cold-blooded murderers
call dibs on heaven,
for killing His people;
This can’t be a human dwelling,
This place I call home.
Has a plague visited this land,
this kaleidoscope of color,
this bright rainbow of diversity?
Yes, there has been a plague,
a vicious swarm of locusts,
eating away all our shining shades,
our dappled hues,
save one,
which is now the color of everything.
And so,
black is white,
so is blue,
and red too.
The animals are white,
in their ignorant bliss,
and so am I,
can’t refute this.
And so must be anyone
who dreams of life,
like I once did,
as a mesh of color.
His spirit is to be broken,
his thinking set right,
he must be brought to heel,
and bathed in that insipid,
colorless,
puritanical
white!
While I,
I keep asking myself,
is this the realization of my dreams,
this dwelling of humans,
this place I call home
where I can’t even recognize myself
anymore,
and my life grates on, day by day?
Loosely translated from the Seraiki of Zafar Jatoi's timeless verse "pata nai ay kay jhaeen wasti hay?", on the recommendations of a friend. The only video link of Jatoi sahib reciting this poem that I could find is below:
Inspiration came upon me while on the throne this morning. Endless, moralistic talk will get us nowhere. True change, a true challenge to the established orders of oppression, demands action, and sacrifice!
باطل کی سیاہ رات میں حق کی تنویر بھی ہو
انالحق کا بیاں، مقابل شمشیر بھی ہو
نوائے خلق خود کاتب تقدیر بھی ہو
یزیدیت کا قلعہ، ہم سے تسخیر بھی ہو
ممکن ہے تبھی جب کوئی حق پرست، دل فگار
متاع جان لٹائے، کوئی شبیر بھی ہو
Who doesn’t love dogs? I know I do. And why do humans love
dogs so much? Because dogs, in a weirdly anthropomorphic way, suffer from a
feeble sense of the self.Nothing is
more gratifying to the human ego than having something or someone worship you
unquestioningly, love you unconditionally and grovel constantly at your feet.
And a dog’s entire existence revolves around catering to this most vulgar
aspect of human nature. A dog’s love is seldom for its own kind. It reserves
its love almost entirely for the humans in its life. Unless, it is kept by a
particularly jealous sort of a human who teaches it to love just one and be
mean to all others. Feed it, don’t feed it, beat it, lock it up, you will
always find a dog begging for your affections first, and its own sustenance
second. Sure, if you starve it too much, you might find it eating out of the
trash one day. And while you may tut-tut at the damn thing for not having
better manners, or punish it even, the dog only did what it is genetically
wired to do: feed. Even in doing so, your place at the center of its universe
is by no means compromised because a dog does not understand blame, or
cause-and-effect.
But a dog, like all things living, has its limitations. For
instance, you can’t hogtie one and throw it down a well, or abandon an
inconvenient one by the wayside as you speed away chasing mirages, and then
expect the mutt to come back to you by itself, as and when you want. It is not
that that dog does not want to return to you; it would probably sign away its
soul to perdition for a chance at coming back to you. The only problem, the
manner of its repudiation at your hand dictates that the dog absolutely has no means
of making the return journey. It is literally impossible as per the laws of the
universe. And so, you become solely responsible, not just for the slow,
miserable, often lifelong death you have condemned the animal to, but also for
your own pangs of conscience and your yearnings for uncomplicated love especially
when the transient possibilities you were pursuing have come to nothing.
And this applies to all dogs, mongrels or pedigreed,
high-born or strays, royal or proletarian. When you steal yourself away from
the center of a dog’s universe, all you leave behind is the pretense of life,
wretched, loveless, brutish. And in that, at least, I am a kindred spirit to
the unwanted dogs of the earth.
Act II – Duty
I am not looking for a mid-life crisis,
or expensive roller coaster rides
that will only end badly for me.
I want no part
of your cold-blooded cirque des émotions,
where you are in perpetual need
of a short-lived reprieve.
Nor do I fancy myself
the safety valve
to your pressure-cooker life.
I know full well who the first casualty will be
when that thing begins to scream.
I am fully absorbed,
curating the cemetery of my mind,
where I stumble about,
gravestone to gravestone,
mourning bits of me
that lie rotting underneath.
Act III – Requiem
While on the subject of decay, you know what continues to
fester? This feeling that while you were a monster, a bastard, for having been
angry when anger was all that was left to you, for all the hurt that your rage
caused them, they were absolutely justified in turning a deaf ear to your helpless
howls of pain, in totally disregarding the ferment inside of you that was wrecking
your emotional constitution, because greener pastures beckoned to them with
promising options and more attractive possibilities. For one, there are no
other options in love; and if there are, it was never love to begin with but a
self-indulgent market decision. And second, ever since the dawn of time, the
jury has been out on what could be more offensive to a person: the faraway, spasmodic
yelps of a wounded animal, or the whimsically cold, dismissive manner in which
they wounded it, with the cheerful gravy of ‘I always was heartless this way’
on top. You can’t murder somebody and then go, ‘hey, I did you the favor of
killing you silently, softly; did you have to make so much noise during your
protracted demise?’ History is replete with examples of how people bring
themselves to detest those they have wronged, dehumanizing themselves along the
way; of how even the tortured breathing of the oppressed feels like lèse-majesté
to the oppressor.
So, whatever you have confessed yourself to be over time,
cold, selfish, narcissistic, always on the lookout for a better deal, a
‘chutiya’, in so many words, please know that it is you who has to live with
yourself primarily, not even the option that is your current ego trip. It is
you who has to look yourself in the mirror every day. And for someone with a different
face for each and everything in their life, expediently changing with needs, desires
and ambitions, one wonders whether you even recognize yourself when you do.
As for the wounded, with time, wounds become scars, and
scars become friends that tell the most exciting stories. Anger, when gets too
toxic for the soul, abates, leaving behind enlightenment and peace. But the
facts, the facts remain as beacons to guide you for next when the fundamentally
dishonest chutiya surfaces to make you doubt the foundations of your existence.
Act IV – Salud
*clink*
Act V – Curtains
Why do you stand there,
over my corpse,
looking outraged,
half a teardrop
in your eye?
Didn’t you know
when you stab someone
in the heart
they fucking die!?
shaa'er ka jashn e salgirah hai, sharaab la
mansab, khitaab, rutba, unhein kya nahi mila
bas naqs hai toh itna k mamdooh ne koi
misraa kisi kitaab k shayaa'n nahi likha
And now, a draft of my thank you note to the Daily Times:
"Dear DT! If your subs are going to go fuckin' nuts on editing a submission, at least pass their masterwork by the original author before publishing it for the whole fucking world to see. You've defaced this piece beyond recognition. Everybody who's reading this is thinking this Multani boy doesn't even know jack about basic tenses, much less stringing together a decent sentence. It's moolah ffs, not mullah!! Moolah means money. How does mullah even make sense where your bachas have inserted it? Piece-of-shit editing! And screw you for ruining my most heartfelt rant yet. Love."
