The Historial Spear - A Poessay

It is believed stomach is the mother of all inventions. Sex is placed metaphorically below the stomach on this list. More on it another time, perhaps. We, the Macaulay ki Aulad are still somewhat prudish. And Victorian. Yes, a double whammy!

A survey of the greatest inventions of all times will include Grunt, Fire, Wheel, Papyrus, Guttenberg (Printing Press,) Internal Combustion Engine (cars and planes,) Electricity, Telephone, Condom Abuse, Transistor (Computer,) Outsourcing (call centres, baby-sitters) and Internet according to most lists.

Nowhere will you find Yawning, Scratching Head, or the predecessor and Mother of all Arms - Spears, Plows (Abu Tractor) and Treatises on the Fallen and Erratic Behaviour of the Apostrophe in Its.

But stomach aside, we believe Boredom and Necessity are the mother of all inventions. Why would anyone rub two stones together? So chefs and cooked meals appeared. But we are getting ahead of ourselves.

Neanderthal Hunter, (American Mus. Nat. Hist.)

Empty stomachs like empty minds growl.

When stomach's fires is stoked, cerebral growling is lessened.

Fire - borne off boredom or observation came around the same time as man copied chimpanzees and tied a sharp edged stone to one end of a twig with dried roots. This was the Darwinian explanation. Reverse the order if you are of Biblical persuasion. We accommodate.

We were speaking of wooden Spears. (Britney has just been released. But we are not writing about thatSpear.) That would be the Paleolithic Age. Metal Spears came a little later in the Bronze Age.

Familiarity with apples gave way to boredom and inventiveness. Soon the Hunter-Gatherer era arrived. The hunters procured food. Children of course were a delightful (in)consequence of copulation and were looked after by the gatherers. You can say the hunters had it made, almost, even in those times. (Hon, I respect your space.)

And with fire came the gourmet barbecue.

The prickly spears spawned a paleolithic arms race that has continued unabated to the present Remote Age. Remote - distant, aloof, uninvolved and (wireless) unconnected - Age.

Cynics and critics use word barbs for mental discomfiture and rout. A quill is a small spear.

The military-industrial-complex uses advanced penetrating weapons to rain terror on mostly uninvolved civilians in their pursuit of democracy (read captured markets.)

Same sharp penetrative object. And objective - to kill and maim.

On Pros and Cons - A Poessay

Life is full of pros and cons. And they both lead us down the garden path to execution. Execution is not only cessation of breathing by any means. It is also the state of befuddlement. – of acceptance of status quo – of surrender to bullying.

Aspiring President George Dubya Bush is both a pro and a professional. Real President Dick Cheney is a pro’s pro.

The ongoing primaries select the presidential candidates for the forthcoming presidential elections. Our primaries were in the earliest part of our schooling.

The house James Hoban designed in 1792 had gray stone walls. The British troops turned it into smoked gray in 1814. The citizenry pushed them back and painted the walls white.

The primaries are a ginger step to occupy this white house.

But Abu Daulat, a euphemism for Almighty Greenback says it does not matter whether a republican or a democrat occupies the white house. The occupant is a puppet of AG.

This makes the president a pro.

Heidi Fleiss agrees. We don’t know how Umrao Jaan Ada would react to this. She was both a professional and a pro and her input would have been valuable.

There is a barely discernible fault line between a professional and a pro but this fault line gets the neon treatment when crossed – then a pro turns into a con.

Spiro Agnew started off as a professional, then graduated as a pro and retired as a con. The jury is out on his boss Richard Milhous. Did he turn con? Was he a con?

Supreme Court judges are professionals selected from amongst the lawyers who are also professionals. And there are pros amongst both. Very few have turned cons. But when do nations of the world suffer.

A digression is a must. A married housewife is a professional if you believe the feminists. She is a pro in the kitchen – and the living and bed rooms. She does things for which she does not get paid.

The ones that get paid are called pros. They move horizontally from ceiling to ceiling.

Life is full of pros and cons we said earlier. An aspiring writer friend, at an early stage, did not like to wait upon the tables. Instead she walked the corner of Carlton and Jarvis to sustain her passion. Once when we were discussing the pros and cons of life she looked us in the eyes and mused if a word-gigolo was a professional or a pro. We looked away.

This is perhaps the first of a new genre. It is a combination of an essay and a poem. Since I am not easily discouraged by the tremendous feed backs on poems here it is safe to assume that your generous feedback will only have the intended firming up of my resolve.

(first published Fe05/2008)

Charles Simic - A Poetic Journey

Charles Simic did not speak English till he was fifteen. He was born on May 9, 1938 in former Yugoslavia and his family moved to the US in 1954. In 2007, he was appointed the fifteenthPoet Laureate Consultant in Poetry in 2007 by the Congress.

He is an imagist and a minimalist who writes about his experiences in a language that is at once bare and appealing to the inner chords of the readers and resonates for long after.

About his work, a reviewer for the Harvard Review said, "There are few poets writing in America today who share his lavish appetite for the bizarre, his inexhaustible repertoire of indelible characters and gestures ... Simic is perhaps our most disquieting muse."

He is loathe to write on demand and writes when the muse strikes, using plain words, bizarre events and characters. When he was appointed the Poet Laureate Consultant, James H Billingotn, the Librarian of Congree wrote:

The range of Charles Simic's imagination is evident in his stunning and unusual imagery. He handles language with the skill of a master craftsman, yet his poems are easily accessible, often meditative and surprising. He has given us a rich body of highly organized poetry with shades of darkness and flashes of ironic humor."

Billington continues:

For those who haven't read Simic already, you're in for a treat. His poetry is ebullient and bizarre, rife with breathtaking images, and cultured allusions to both the arcane and the mundane things that make up the daily trafficking of our lives. You're as likely to meet a loquacious insect in Simic's poetry as you are the philosopher and theologian St. Thomas Aquinas or a dilapidated volume of Shelley's verse, and all of them have equally mesmerizing and opinionated insights into the give and take of our days and ways.

Take this passage from "Evening Walk":

You give the appearance of listening
To my thoughts, O trees,
Bent over the road I am walking
On a late summer evening
When every one of you is a steep staircase
The night is slowly descending.

Or this from "Grayheaded Schoolchildren":

Old men have bad dreams,
So they sleep little.
They walk on bare feet
Without turning on the light,
Or they stand leaning
On gloomy furniture
Listening to their hearts beat.

You can get caught up in these poems, haunted for days by an image, torn asunder by a line. This is the mark of a great poet, that he or she can speak so directly and so poignantly to our realities, even when the words chosen come from the realm of the wonderful, the magical, the surreal, the thoroughly unexpected.In his first ever online interview he had this to say in response to the question: what is the hardest thing for you to write about?

Everything is hard to write about. Many of my shortest and seemingly simple poems took years to get right. I tinker with most of my poems even after publication. I expect to be revising in my coffin as it is being loweredinto the ground.

This is something I empathise with and friends with whom I share my working poems know it - sometimes to the point of exasperation. A poet's job is never done.

It is not about perfectionism, even though it does play a role. A certain moment. a certain feeling or idea needs precise words and structure to depict and deliver. Even a comma or a word can tumble the rolling stone, leading to a crescendo wreaking havoc. (Please treat this as a digression from a small time poet.)

In addition to the Grayheaded Schoolchildren quoted earlier i will share one more of his poem Watermelons:

Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.

fickle memory

in the backyard she pranced and frolicked
six year old, bubbly, and vivacious
swishing her net after the waltzing
floating monarchs and when she finally
landed one in her net, her dazzling
giggles reached heavens, her face was lit
with an infectious kodak moment

the prisoner was put in a jar
covered with a holed paper lid
all evening long she talked with her
at bedtime i kissed and tucked her in
the jar placed on the table beside
- the monarch needs her sleep too

i told her, while telling myself to
set her free when bubbly was asleep
but when i came to fetch the flitter
it had flown to another garden
………me and my fickle memory

if trees could protest

courtesy nu teen

if trees could protest
would they sue
those who lit them up?

if trees could protest
would they bark on dogs

or men first?

if trees could protest
would they moan
cars, trucks, machines?

if trees could protest
would they hug
lurking cyber trolls?

if trees could protest
would they fault
the heavens, in print?

if trees could protest
would they eat
some poets alive?

The Tent Maker

The kids had eaten their Oreo, drank their milk and
brushed their teeth. They crawled into their sleeping
bags and requested to hear the story of the Tent Maker.

The tribes of Aynud were short sighted. Between them they had enough to eat. But they always coveted for more. They taught themselves to be unhappy and dissatisfied.

The Bawajis worshipped Fire because it gave them warmth and protection. Their cousins the Machlis prayed to the water. That was before the era of the Tent.

The Daudis were the first ones to pray to the Tent Maker.

The Crossers respected the Tent Maker's son more.

The Hilalis prayed to their own Tent Maker whom they described as the one and original.

There were others who laughed and scoffed at those who prayed to their Tent Makers. They thought that the first tent was not made by anyone.

"Then why do they fight and kill?"

Because they have different passports, son.

tristich: joke

tristich: joke

painting by moin

god's jokes
can be funny
but you aren't

i joked with god
got struck dead
he had the last laugh

lookin' for joke?
here?
liar!

hum say kiya mazaaq
hum thehray aashiq
puranay aapkay

bush the pinnochio
with tongue planted
spoke of lasting peace

late into the night
we accost
the object of their joke

don't joke with me
she said grimly
we had twins!

The Ultimate Union of the Heart-Mind

Dil say jo baat nikalti hay, asar rakhti hay
Par nahiN, taaqat e parwaaz magar rakhti hay

Words that emanate from the heart carry (more) weight
Without wings, they can fly (great) distances – Iqbal

The large majority of those who live in the west have difficulty in understanding what it is to think with the mind of the heart. Voltaire perhaps came closest:

Meditation is the dissolution of thoughts in Eternal awareness or Pure consciousness without objectification, knowing without thinking, merging finitude in infinity.

Mind is the quintessential overriding vehicle. Reason and thinking mind's cylinders. But there is an attendant risk. Such thinking may lead to a vacuous existential dilemma.

In the East - Central, South, Mid - we are luckier. Buddha, Kabbalah, Sufis, and Mystics all have recognized the value of heart’s meditative reverberations in life. Here heart is more than a muscle pump and certainly more than a symbol of existential infatuation.

Fatima Bhutto, granddaughter of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, daughter of murdered Murteza Bhutto and niece of Benazir, wrote from the heart-mind on her grandfather's eightieth birthday:

Zulfikar Ali Bhutto used to say that his mind was Western and his soul Eastern. By Western he meant he was a student of Bertrand Russel and Antonio Gramsci, among other great theorists and writers. But by Eastern, I believe he meant something different. The concept of love is paramount to Sufi philosophy. Without love, there is no path to the lord who seeks his followers as a lover seeks a companion. Sufis believe that the only way to achieve union with God is through the heart.

When Buddha spoke of living in the ‘present moment wisely and earnestly’ he meant more than ‘not mourning for the past or worrying about the future.’ He spoke of living through the heart’s mind.

The way is not in the sky. The way is in the heart.
Buddha

Krishnamurthi echoes this:

The moment you have in your heart this extraordinary thing called love and feel the depth, the delight, the ecstasy of it, you will discover that for you the world is transformed. Jiddu Krishnamurti

Dr. Pramod Karan Sethi who died January 5, 2008 was another person who spoke with his heart more than his mind. Thousand of amputees in India, Afghanistan and Pakistan would testify to this.

India and Pakistan are in a minority of countries that have not ratified the treaty banning the use of land mines. Mind over heart? And innocent civilians continue to lose their limbs and lives.

Tanay wrote here about Girish Bhardwaj who thinks with his heart as well as his mind.

Abdul Sattar Edhi philanthropist, social worker, in the Guiness Book because his Edhi Foundation runs the largest private ambulance service in the world will never receive the Nobel Prize. And he does not care one whit. For he serves his fellow human beings regardless of religion, or caste or nationality because his heart tells him to.

The disaster and mayhem driven media perhaps is to fault. Blood and gore drives readership and ratings higher than stories of passion and kindness. But let that not deter us to think from the heart in pursuit of inner peace. In the beginning I quotedMuhammad Iqbal's couplet. The people mentioned earlier give us hope. Their heart is in their mind - or their mind is in their heart. Either way, they shine hope in these dark moments. Let me close with Mewlana Jalal ud din Rumi:

In the orchard a Sufi inclined his face Sufi fashion upon his knee,
and sank deeply into mystical absorption.
An rude man nearby became annoyed:
"Why are you sleeping?" he exclaimed.
Look at the vines, behold the trees and the signs of God's mercy.
Pay attention to the Lord's command:
Look ye and turn your face toward these signs of His mercy."
The Sufi replied, "O heedless one, the true signs are within the heart:
that which is external is only the sign of the signs."
The real orchard and vineyards are within the very essence of the soul:
the reflection upon that which is external
is like a reflection in running water.
In the water only a reflected image of the orchard
quivers with the water's subtle movement.
The real orchards and fruit flourish within the heart:
the reflection of their beauty
falls upon the water and earth of this world.
If this world were not merely the reflection
of that delectable cypress, the heart of the saint,
then God would not have called it the abode of deception.
Oh happy is the one who has died before death,
for he has become acquainted with the origin of this vineyard.
[IV, 1358-66;72]

Translated by Camille and Kabir Helminski

The Ultimate Union of the Heart-Mind

Dil say jo baat nikalti hay, asar rakhti hay
Par nahiN, taaqat e parwaaz magar rakhti hay

Words that emanate from the heart carry (more) weight
Without wings, they can fly (great) distances – Iqbal

The large majority of those who live in the west have difficulty in understanding what it is to think with the mind of the heart. Voltaire perhaps came closest:

Meditation is the dissolution of thoughts in Eternal awareness or Pure consciousness without objectification, knowing without thinking, merging finitude in infinity.

Mind is the quintessential overriding vehicle. Reason and thinking mind's cylinders. But there is an attendant risk. Such thinking may lead to a vacuous existential dilemma.

In the East - Central, South, Mid - we are luckier. Buddha, Kabbalah, Sufis, and Mystics all have recognized the value of heart’s meditative reverberations in life. Here heart is more than a muscle pump and certainly more than a symbol of existential infatuation.

Fatima Bhutto, granddaughter of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, daughter of murdered Murteza Bhutto and niece of Benazir, wrote from the heart-mind on her grandfather's eightieth birthday:

Zulfikar Ali Bhutto used to say that his mind was Western and his soul Eastern. By Western he meant he was a student of Bertrand Russel and Antonio Gramsci, among other great theorists and writers. But by Eastern, I believe he meant something different. The concept of love is paramount to Sufi philosophy. Without love, there is no path to the lord who seeks his followers as a lover seeks a companion. Sufis believe that the only way to achieve union with God is through the heart.

When Buddha spoke of living in the ‘present moment wisely and earnestly’ he meant more than ‘not mourning for the past or worrying about the future.’ He spoke of living through the heart’s mind.

The way is not in the sky. The way is in the heart.
Buddha

Krishnamurthi echoes this:

The moment you have in your heart this extraordinary thing called love and feel the depth, the delight, the ecstasy of it, you will discover that for you the world is transformed. Jiddu Krishnamurti

Dr. Pramod Karan Sethi who died January 5, 2008 was another person who spoke with his heart more than his mind. Thousand of amputees in India, Afghanistan and Pakistan would testify to this.

India and Pakistan are in a minority of countries that have not ratified the treaty banning the use of land mines. Mind over heart? And innocent civilians continue to lose their limbs and lives.

Tanay wrote here about Girish Bhardwaj who thinks with his heart as well as his mind.

Abdul Sattar Edhi philanthropist, social worker, in the Guiness Book because his Edhi Foundation runs the largest private ambulance service in the world will never receive the Nobel Prize. And he does not care one whit. For he serves his fellow human beings regardless of religion, or caste or nationality because his heart tells him to.

The disaster and mayhem driven media perhaps is to fault. Blood and gore drives readership and ratings higher than stories of passion and kindness. But let that not deter us to think from the heart in pursuit of inner peace. In the beginning I quotedMuhammad Iqbal's couplet. The people mentioned earlier give us hope. Their heart is in their mind - or their mind is in their heart. Either way, they shine hope in these dark moments. Let me close with Mewlana Jalal ud din Rumi:

In the orchard a Sufi inclined his face Sufi fashion upon his knee,
and sank deeply into mystical absorption.
An rude man nearby became annoyed:
"Why are you sleeping?" he exclaimed.
Look at the vines, behold the trees and the signs of God's mercy.
Pay attention to the Lord's command:
Look ye and turn your face toward these signs of His mercy."
The Sufi replied, "O heedless one, the true signs are within the heart:
that which is external is only the sign of the signs."
The real orchard and vineyards are within the very essence of the soul:
the reflection upon that which is external
is like a reflection in running water.
In the water only a reflected image of the orchard
quivers with the water's subtle movement.
The real orchards and fruit flourish within the heart:
the reflection of their beauty
falls upon the water and earth of this world.
If this world were not merely the reflection
of that delectable cypress, the heart of the saint,
then God would not have called it the abode of deception.
Oh happy is the one who has died before death,
for he has become acquainted with the origin of this vineyard.
[IV, 1358-66;72]

Translated by Camille and Kabir Helminski

waltzing snow flakes

credit photobucket

the fluttering flakes floated
flaunting new found freedom
waltzing before camera eyes

one proudly claimed the bigness
.....................of mother cloud
the other one...............insisted

its father cloud was bigger more joined the aerial dogfights turning that day into a blizzard

the clouds in the sky, oblivious
...............of the mayhem below
floated away nonchalantly

finally, spent, they fell
..............................to the ground
as other flakes crushed their cries

when the spring sun shone
they melted away
..............................without whimper

doodh-patti and pakoRas

photo AP - David Duprey

what are late sundays
without newspapers
and steaming doodh-patti?

yesterday had difficulty
opening the door
(it is not easy pushing
two feet of snow away)

donning snow shoes
parka and gloves
shoveled the entrance
path, side walk
and driveway
with help from son

the air was crisp
snow settled on
climbing ivy and cedar hedges
looked post-card perfect
the whole world bathed
in pure powdery white

photo AP - David Duprey

and all the while i was outside
i kept thinking of doodh-patti
…………………and pakoRas

nary a thought of bali
global warming, kyoto
nor of darfur, iraq, iran
afghanistan, neoconzix
………………….cheney, bush,
israel, occupation, palestine
occupying khakistocracy
musharraf, election, boycott

just doodh-patti and pakoRas

photo - twisterMC

Tennyson's Brook & Pakistan's Crook

I come from haunts of boot and 'urn,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out a new pattern,
To bicker down a valley.

Till last by Delhi's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I klunker over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into marching bays,
I babble on stone marbles.

I order, order, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I steal by laws and grassy plots,
Under Margalla cloud covers;
I move the judges and justices
That grow for happy lawyers.

I shoot, I slide, I charge, I glance,
Among my skimming gallows;
I make the wary peasants dance
Against my sandy khakis.

I murmur under crescent stars
In Balochi wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my epaulets;

And out again throw curve and flow
To join the crying river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

With apologies to Lord Alfred Tennyson for abusing The Brook

indolence

photo credit Nat/Geo

indolence

under the facade
below the abyssal ocean floor
hidden by the grave dark
behind the veiled smile
beneath the abysmal roots
covered by the october carpet
………………..of april's distant hopes
lies serene embers of dormant fury
sequestered by light-less water

when the last straw
of environment’s rape
breaks down..………and tilts
the voluble volcano sounds
………………..go ululating
and once again the animals run
………………..and people
from far off consciences
………………..and continents
come………………..together

Honey

“Honey,” she said.

O, O!

This was not the nectar of flowers regurgitated by worker bees. This was not the honey mentioned in Biblical, Judaic, Buddhist, Islamic, Roman, and Western lore.

This honey had a certain presence – a nuance, an edge.

When whispered in the ears, by the fireside, on a furry skin (we will discuss animal rights another time) with outside temperatures dipping below freezing, and by a bowl of grapes and bottles of fermented or unfermented juices of the said grapes, depending on your inclinations and dietary proclivities, honey acquires a certain amorous sweetness.

I raked my brain. Both left and right sides cooperated fully.

The previous evening some friends had dropped in early and left late. When I was committed but unattached, cleanup was a chore to be done the next day. Or the day after – but certainly before the advent of the next weekend.

Today when I am committed and spoken for, cleanups are done before hitting the bed.

The assumptions in the above are obvious by the use of "hitting" – if I had written "crawling" then cleanups could have assumed a different colour alert code.

“Honey,” she said again.

Even though I am tone deaf, as happens in the times and history of committed men, I could detect a slight quivering impatience in the second “hello.” I could not be sure if it had husky or sultry overtones.

Committed – loaded word – in the first person it shows a degree of dedication and perseverance to a person, goal or passion – and in the second person it could mean dispatching one to a mental asylum in pursuit of that dedication.

The dishes, dinner plates, quarter plates, water glasses, forks, knives and spoons were collected from the dining table, sorted and placed in the sink to be cleaned after the guests left.

Once upon a time I had let all and sundry know I love doing the dishes. I do. Remove the detritus, soak, soap, wash, rinse, dry. There! Is there another job that shows such clean and shiny results in such short order? Show me any other item on the Things-to-do-list that can be completed in such short time.

The dishes were done, replaced. Phir kiya gaRbaR hay? Maybe nothing.

Could it be the stuff from downstairs? Glasses, trays, dishes, glasses, sheesha, ash tray? Had a look. All tabletops were clean, no glasses, no rolled or crushed paper napkins. The vacuum hose snaked its way around the furniture along a wall in anticipation of the morrow – the kids were asleep.

It cannot be a dirty dish, glass or leftovers. Did we run short of the celery or the dip? Was something stale? But everyone is gone, why fret?

When our first born had just learned to spit out words and phrases, one of the first ones that came out had sweet connotations, “eezzzsho shicky,” (eng: it is so sticky) he said playing with honey. We knew he would be the profound one in the family.

“If bee makes honey, why does honey attracts bees?” – son now aged ten.

What did I do – or did not do yesterday, last night? Grapes have a way of transforming crystal thoughts into foggy ones.

“Honey, come to bed.”

* * * *

M’s disclosure: I have never called t "honey"
t’s "honey" - delivered with a sigh, an exclamation mark and a query

pure wine / sharaab e tahoor

credit photobucket

pure wine

you and You
gleam and Light
goblet and sea
stone and water
death wish
death of wish
fleeing climax
lasting orgasm
love and Love
dot and circle

painting by moin

sharaab e tahoor

tu aur tu
naar aur noor
saghar aur sagar
patthar aur paani
khwaahish e mar'g
mar'g e khwaahish
hangaam joozvi
milaap abdi
ish'q ta shauq
daira e safar

How Free is Free Speech?

It is by the goodness of God that in our country we have those three unspeakably precious things: freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, and the prudence never to practice either of them. — Mark Twain

For those who stubbornly seek freedom, there can be no more urgent task than to come to understand the mechanisms and practices of indoctrination. These are easy to perceive in the totalitarian societies, much less so in the system of 'brainwashing under freedom' to which we are subjected and which all too often we sere as willing or unwitting instruments. — Noam Chomsky

I have the freedom to sing in my bathroom. I wish I had the freedom to interrupt a concert at the Metropolitan and sing. — Mahajirzadeh

Salman Rushdie graduated with a Masters in History with honours from King’s College in 1968. He was not a novice, and he knew about the world of Islam. As a writer he knew what he wrote in theSatanic Verses. He knew it would trigger consequences. If I were charitable I would say he miscalculated the reaction to his deliberate provocations.

The protests, deaths and the fatwa are history.

Those who defend his right to Freedom of Speech are selective in their defense. Haroon Siddiqui writes:

The West looks at all this and says:
What's the matter with Muslims? Why do they overreact to real and imagined slights? Why are they so intolerant of religious dissidents? Why do they mistreat non-Muslims? Why are they so misogynous?

Muslims, in turn, ask:
Why is the West waging wars in Palestine, Iraq, Afghanistan, Lebanon and Somalia, killing tens of thousands, and making millions homeless and destitute? Why is it waging cultural warfare in books, cartoons and the media on Islam and its revered prophet? Why does the entire machinery of Western governments, human rights groups and the media get galvanized against every single atrocity in Muslim lands but stays mostly mute on the death and torture and demonization of Muslims?

I do not condone violence and those who advocated it in case of Salman Rushdie, Taslima Nasreen or Theo van Gogh are wrong. The proper way to deal with them is under hate crime laws. They should be charged, given a fair trial and the verdict accepted by all.

I find it hard to grasp that Freedom Of Expression should be an unbridled license to promote hatred against another individual or group. The Nazi Holocaust epitomizes the double standards we employ.

If we have to live in harmony we have to respect the ideals and aspirations of others, however much they may be an anathema for our outlook and thinking. It is a sign of times that we live in an intolerant world. A world that tends to draw clear us vs. them lines. A world where phobias and intolerance reign supreme.

The choice is between harmony or chaos: between live and let live and murder and violence: between tolerance for other people's sensibilities and disregard for it. There should be an agreed upon universal demarcation for this. IF the beliefs cross over to violence against others - then however dear to those who hold such beliefs - they should be opposed forcefully.

Every person has a right to live in peace and respect – all gods and all religions and faiths aside. Subjugation of the human will, citing a religion, book or god should be scorned at. Individuals, as well as states, ought to rigidly live by respect and equality. When they veer off this chaos prevails.

Is that advocating censorship of artistic rights or rights of free speech? No. An artist or a writer is free to create. But if and when that creation enters the public domain then that person out to live by the consequences. Again, let me reiterate: the consequences of such freedom are not fatwas and death but charges under the hate crime laws.

grain of sand

a granite rock ensconced on a peak
aloof, majestic, on top of the world
fell in love with a coquettish cloud
floating miles from ocean
spreading shadow-relief
over parched fields and plains
hiding in its bosom water, sound, fury and

passion

but no love ..............to spare
it waltzed with the peak
flirted frivolously with the rock
before floating away sans commitment
the rock heart broken
broke free and fell
rolled some distance, rested.....and rolled on
cracking, splintering, fragmenting into stones,
each hurting encounter ...............each stone
singed - sighed with love lost
continued the spiral for millenia
breaking into pebbles................and grains
finally coming to rest at the beloved's feet
on the vast shoreline................of moksha

shiddat e ish'q say
hu'aye aakhir hum raq's
koh o aab zair e falak

Leave quotation of sacred texts to theologians

By Haroon SiddiquiEditorial Page

Pastor Terry Jones wanted to burn the Qur’an because he believes it preaches violence. That, in fact, has been an article of faith for critics of Islam post-9/11. “See, it says right here,” they say, pointing to the “Sword Verses,” of which they are a dozen. They quote them selectively, as does Osama bin Laden — he to justify violent jihad, they to demonize Islam.

As with most sacred texts, the Qur’an is open to human interpretation. But there’s consensus among reputable scholars, Muslims and non-Muslims, that the book sanctions war only for defensive purposes. Peace is the norm, not violence and warfare.

The most contentious verse, Slay them wherever you find them, is part of a passage that emphasizes self-defence, not warmongering:

Fight in the way of God against those who fight you, but begin not hostilities; Allah loves not the aggressors. And slay them wherever you find them and expel them from places whence they expelled you, for persecution is worse than slaughter. . . But if they desist, cease hostilities(2:190-93).

Another “sword” verse, Take them and slay them, was revealed when Muslims were being persecuted in seventh century Arabia:

If they leave you alone and do not fight you and offer you peace, then Allah allows you no way against them;(but) if they withdraw not from you nor offer you peace, then take them and slay them wherever you find them (4:90-91).

Another injunction, Fight the leaders of unbelief, has a qualifier:

If they break their pledges after their covenant (with you) and assail your religion, then fight the leaders of unbelief (9:12).

Another verse concerning fighting comes in the context of the right of both Muslims and non-Muslims to practise their religion.

Leave is given to those who fight, because they have been wronged . . . (and) expelled from their homes unjustly only for saying, ‘Our Lord is God.’ Had it not been for God repelling some men by means of others, churches, oratories and mosques . . . would surely have been pulled down (22:39-40).

Islamic tradition also holds that the “sword verses” were, in fact, overtaken by others revealed later when peace prevailed between Muslims and non-Muslims. Thus the Qur’anic exhortations to avoid war altogether, limit warfare, and, if attacked, to respond only proportionately, protecting civilians and not mutilating the dead:

Warfare is an awesome evil (2:217).

If your enemy inclines toward peace, then you, too, should seek peace (8:61).

Some of the 9/11 hijackers were said to have cited a verse calling on the believers to slay the idolaters. Here’s the full quote:

When the sacred months have passed, slay the idolaters wherever you find them, and take them (captive), and ambush them. But if they repent and establish worship and pay the poor-due (charity), then let them go free (9:5).

“Just as Old Testament passages regarding violence and warfare need to be understood as a response to a specific historical situation, so too the Qur’an,” says John Esposito, professor of Islamic Studies at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C.

In fact, Philip Jenkins, professor of religion at Penn State University and author of Jesus Wars and Dark Passages, has argued that “the scriptures in the Qur’an are far less bloody and less violent than those in the Bible. There’s a specific kind of warfare laid down in the Bible which we can only call genocide.”

In the first book of Samuel, God instructs King Saul to attack the Amalekites: “And utterly destroy all that they have, and do not spare them,” God says through Samuel. “But kill man and woman, infant and nursing child, ox and sheep, camel and donkey.” When Saul failed to do that, God took away his kingdom.

“In other words, Saul has committed a dreadful sin by failing to complete genocide. And that passage echoes through Christian history,” Jenkins has said.

All these issues are best left to theologians and historians. But, lately, they’ve become part of our public discourse. In that context, it’s useful to remember that religions have always been used for both good and evil; that people in a democracy are free to practise their faith — within the rule of secular law; and that those violating the law, for religious or other reasons, will have the book thrown at them.

These are statements of the obvious but they bear repeating in these highly charged times.

Chess At Dupont Circle: Circles of Life

“Want to play a game (of chess),” said my friend AJ from Fairfax, Va.
“Where are you?”
“You know the games we played at the Dupont Circle?”
“Where are you going with this yara?”
“Look up Wells Tower in the (Washington) Post Magazine today,” AJ said.

****

Our first summer in the US, we stayed at Hatnett Hall off Dupont Circle in the NW for a few weeks. In the evenings we would walk past the circle and would stop by the chess tables scanning moves.

On the odd occasion when a seat was available I would sit down for a game, or just sit down on a bench and watch the world pass by. One day, immersed in thoughts, I heard “Aap ka is’m e shareef kiya hay” (what is your good name?) I looked around and saw an old man feeding birds talking to himself, one sprawled on the grass, a few in a cluster holding brown bags and a couple in mid twenties. I ran a mental check list of what I had eaten or drunk earlier, and decided to ignore the query, thinking it a figment of my imagination.

Then I heard it again, “Aap ka is’m e shareef kiya hay?”

I looked around again and saw the same couple smiling at me. I replied this time and learned they were peace corps volunteers who had served in India.

****

Another evening, we were sitting on the bench when I suddenly got up and excused myself. AJ was used to me and said nothing, just nodded. I had spotted this old lady try to cross the Avenue but there was no let up in the traffic. I struck up a conversation with her and offered to help cross the Avenue. We exchanged small talk as I scanned the traffic for the right moment. She asked me from where I was, how long had I been in the US (two weeks). After I helped her cross the Avenue, she turned to thank me and made a point of mentioning that she was pleasantly surprised at how quickly I had learned the language.

Miss Val from my school would have shaken her head and smiled that dimpled smile if she had heard this lady.

****

Dupont Circle was not a smoke free zone those days. Mary Jane mingled freely with auto emission.

(AJ please reassure CJ that was not the reason why we frequented the Circle)

From the cover story by Wells Tower in the Washington Post Magazine, The Days and Knights of Tom Murphy I learned that the portion of Dupont Circle where they play chess has been christened Chess University of Dupont Circle.

I learned from Murphy that the entire tortuous body of the game's strategy is neatly reducible to three clean principles.
"Number one, king safety" — above all else protect your king. "Number two, control the center" — i.e., maintain influence over the board's four center squares."Number three, free the people and give everyone a healthy job" — that is, don't oppress your powerful rear echelon behind a torpid row of pawns; stagger your pawn platoon so that your ranking pieces can go to work attacking or defending.

Tom Murphy: Circles of Life
e4 –c5
sirens blare
Nc3 –Nc6
Philly unsettles
f4 – g6
stints stab
Nf3 – Bg7
passions bloom
Bb5 –Nd4
obsession ferments
Nxd4 –cxd4
on the wall of palms
graffiti masquerades
Ne2 – e6
clouds fog
d3 – Qa5+
chess black and white
life all gray
living red

The Cyber Rebirth of Pak Tea House

Desicritic Raza Rumi introduced me to the cyber rebirth of Pak Tea House in these words:

Pak Tea House is a little corner in the blogosphere that will endeavour to revive the culture of debate, pluralism and tolerance. It has no pretensions nor illusions but the motivation of a few people who want to see Pakistan a better place - where ideas need to counter the forces of commercialism, adverse effects of globalisation and extremism. And, ideas must translate into action that leads us to an equitable, just and healthy society.

The moving spirit and the editor behind Pak Tea House is Raza Rumi who blogs at Jahane Rumi

Pak Tea House has already attracted a few regular contributors – Aasem Bakshi, iFaqeer, Muzaffar, Shaheryar Ali and Yasser Nisar in addition to Raza. LINK

Some are based in Lahore and Karachi, others in the diaspora from where they hope to bring lively debates and outlooks on a variety of subjects to the internet community first. Later they would like to revive the coffee house experience physically in Lahore and other cities.

Dreams are born, small steps bring the destination closer. If they persist and garner acceptance and support of friends and well wishers they may replicate a cyber Pak Tea House in a few years.

* * * * *

The Cyber Rebirth of Pak Tea House Part II

Little is know of the origins of Pak Tea House on the Mall in Lahore. Some have mentioned that before the great divide two Sikh brothers owned Indian Coffee House and Indian Tea House on the Mall across from each other.They migrated to Delhi and opened Indian Coffee House off Connaught Circle. The Lahore one reopened as Pak Tea House and became the unofficial headquarters of an eclectic bunch of writers, artists, musicians and the Halqa e Arbab e Zauq.

Halqa e Arbab e Zauq was formed on April 29, 1939 as Baz’m e Dastaan Goyaan. Later its name was changed to Halqa. It attracted many leading names of the Progressive Writers Movement that was formed in 1935 in London and included Faiz Ahmed Faiz,Ahmed Faraz, Saadat Hasan Manto, Muneer Niazi, Mira Ji, Kamal Rizvi, Nasir Kazmi, Professor Sayyid Sajjad Rizavi, Ustad Amanat Ali Khan and Intezar Hussain. [link wikipedia]

Most of these writers either belonged to or were influenced by theProgressive Writers Movement that was formed in 1935 in London and later in 1936 in India under Sajjad Zaheer. In the list of members you will find a who-is-who of writers and artists such as:

Prof. Zoe Ansari, Dr M. D. Taseer, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Sajjad Zaheer, Prof Ahmed Ali, Dr Nusrat Jehan, Rashid Jahan, Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi, Ahmed Faraz, Kaifi Azmi, Krishan Chander, Ismat Chughtai,Rajinder Singh Bedi, Ali Sardar Jafri, Josh Malihabadi, Majrooh Sultanpuri, Makhdoom Mohiuddin, Munshi Premchand, Firaq Gorakhpuri, Majaz Lucknawi, Sahir Ludhianvi. (This list is taken from wikipedia and personally I have doubts if Ahmed Nadim Qasmi and Ahmed Faraz belonged to the Movement or were merely sympathizers.) [Progressive Writers' Movement]

Poet Ali Sardar Jafri writes:

Progressive Movement was a spectrum of different shades of political and literary opinions with Prem Chand, a confirmed believer in Gandhism at one end, and Sajjad Zaheer, a confirmed Marxist, at the other end. In between them were various other shades including non-conformists, but every one of them interested in the freedom of the country and glory of literature.

The basic and fundamental postulate of the Progressive Writers Movement is the unity of art, use and beauty. It is not a violent departure from the past or an angry revolt against tradition as such, although we did reject certain unhealthy and obscurantist trends. And that is how our path was new. What we tried to do was a reiteration of the values getting lost in modern commercial age, or distorted under the weight of the decaying social systems. It is a rediscovery with a new experience and consciousness, and new artistic giving fresh vigour to Urdu poetry and literature as a whole. The false notion should be discarded that a few hot-headed men can get together and launch a literary and artistic movement of such a dimension as the Progressive Movement. Poets and writers are like the seeds holding the heart; the movement provides them the good soil and the right climate to blossom.

Reminiscing about Pak Tea House novelist and writer A Hamid said the following in an article that was translated from Urdu by journalist/writer Khalid Hasan:

I remember the Lahore of the old days distinctly and long for its return. If you walked from the Tollinton Market towards Regal Cinema, just past Commercial Building, on the inside road, there used to stand the Sunlight Building, which was home to various companies and stores, including the Krishna Book House. If I remember, this name was later changed to Minerva Book Centre. There were also a couple of restaurants that the building played host to.

The India Coffee House and the Cheney's Lunch Home stood side by side. After independence, I saw more than once Saadat Hasan Manto at the Cheney's Lunch Home, as well as the sweet-voiced and handsome Amanat Ali Khan of the Patiala Gharana. The Coffee House was frequented by journalists, lawyers, teachers and writers. The regulars included Abdullah Butt, Bari Alig, Abdullah Malik, Prof Alauddin Kalim, Riaz Qadir, Manzoor Qadir, Ijaz Hussain Batalvi, the painters Shakir Ali, Ali Imam, Ahmed Pervaiz and Anwar Jalal Shamza.

Ayesha Javed Akram in Lahore Stories: Cracked crockery, writes:

They say Faiz Ahmed Faiz used to sit there. They say there was a time when the tea was made to perfection. They say the biscuits were crisp, the pastries fresh. Today though, the Pak Tea House is but a relic.

Though the Lahore Writer’s Club continues to hold meetings there, and just yesterday they conducted a musical evening at the Tea House, but it is no longer the literary hub of legend. It has since closed down.

Dr. Mohammed Umar Memon, professor and editor of Annual of Urdu Studies wrote in one of the editorials:

Pak Tea House (Lahore), having held on with a resilience all its own for well over fifty years as a home to countless poets and writers of all shades and political stripes, finally yielded place to the irreversible forces of commodity culture raging throughout the metropolis, dying quietly as the year 2000 was drawing to a close.

The Pak Tea House was not merely a place where writers hung out and passionately discussed literature, the arts, and politics, or where they held their literary meetings and dreamed their brave, fragile dreams, or where they stopped on their way to and from work every day for a brief chat, it was unique as a gathering place which never denied its hospitality to anyone, even those who could not afford to pay for a cup of tea. It chose to operate at a loss rather than submit to the indignity of closing its doors to the nation's destitute and chronically disenfranchised intellectuals.

It was everything the society at large was not—and above all it was a place where dreams could be dreamed, where time and history could be held at bay. The demise of such an institution calls for a proper eulogy, and who better to write it than one of its regulars, Intizar Husain, a loyal associate from its first days right up to its last. He entered it as a young man, fresh from his native Dibai (India), and as a man in his late 70s he was among the handful who gathered there in funereal silence to sip their last sad cup of tea. So when I asked him for an obituary, he graciously obliged. His piece, included in the Urdu Section, recalls the Pak Tea House with tender remembrance of its motley of well-off and penniless patrons, and their sublime and mundane concerns. It is more than an obituary notice, it is a writer's tribute to a place which provided fellowship and comfort and a home away from home.

ghazalesque

painting credit faiqua qayyum uppal

in vacillating eyes an inkling, how?
sweet the pain, biting the agony, how?

love intense, limitless then the doubts, how?
the eyes neglect the heart, not asking, how?

immersed in countless doubts, and her flair, how?
we remain wondering, she perks up, how?

you and i are here, explain the chasm, how?
instead of embraces - hide and seek, how?

your smile and mannerism mysterious, how?
poor temporal's senseless ramblings and how.

udaas ankhioun maiN chahat ki tapish kaisi
kaisa hay yeh kur'b aur yeh khalish hay kaisi

chahtaiN haiN bay panah phir yeh kasak kaisi
na dil say mili naz'r, na poocha ho kaisi

gharq e sud was'wi'sa hum, aur woh chaal kaisi
meh'v e hairaaN haiN, ithlati hay woh kaisi

hum tum aur yeh khalij e bay kinaar kaisi
ba'jai bos o kinaar yeh baychaini kaisi

tri muskurahat, tri aa'daaiN kaisi kaisi
ghareeb temporal ki baataiN aisi kaisi

Macaulay's Legacy - Desi Racism

Seemingly innocent name calling amongst us indicates the gravity. We tend to ignore the deeper ramifications of racism in our words and actions and yet are first to cry racism and discrimination when it a effects us personally.

This was brought home recently when I read Aditi Nadkarni's essay The Racism in Desism in India Currents.

In her essay, she says:

We are desis in a foreign country. Indian-Americans raised in the United States are promptly tagged ABCDs(American Born Confused Desis). And for a certain population of desis, the Chinese become “Chinkis,” African-Americans become “Kallus,” and white people become “Goras.” We see nothing wrong in making casual use of these names. We permit ourselves to do the very thing that would likely offend us if we were on the receiving end. If one were to ever refer to us as “brownies” or, even more disturbingly, as “rag heads,” we would be screaming “racism!” from the rooftops.

In another article the un-named author points out:

In 1835, Thomas Macaulay articulated the goals of British colonial imperialism most succinctly: "We must do our best to form a class who may be interpreters between us and the millions whom we govern, a class of persons Indian in blood and colour, but English in taste, in opinions, words and intellect." As the architect of Colonial Britain's Educational Policy in India, Thomas Macaulay was to set the tone for what educated Indians were going to learn about themselves, their civilization, and their view of Britain and the world around them. An arch-racist, Thomas Macaulay had nothing but scornful disdain for Indian history and civilization. In his infamous minute of 1835, he wrote that he had "never found one among them (speaking of Orientalists, an opposing political faction) who could deny that a single shelf of a good European library was worth the whole native literature of India and Arabia". "It is, no exaggeration to say, that all the historical information which has been collected from all the books written in Sanskrit language is less valuable than what may be found in the most paltry abridgments used at preparatory schools in England".

One hundred and seventy two years later Macaulay must have a satisfied grin on his face. His lament for the dearth of intermediarybabus has nearly succeeded, and in the process has created new fissures with graver concerns.

Aditi asks:

It is disappointing to see stale racial stereotypes reinforced by the largest film industry in the world. These scenes are meant to provide comic relief and evoke patriotism, especially among non-resident Indians, lest they forget their “Indian-ness” while living in a foreign land. But animosity towards other races and cultures cannot possibly be a display of national pride, can it?

We Indians love labels, don’t we? And I don’t mean Guccis and Pradas. I mean labels for people, of both Indian and non-Indian origin.

Discrimination is a loaded word and very negative in its manifestation. Is there another word to describe pride with discernment?

I was struck by a thought when viewing news footage of the astronauts landing on the moon. The broadcaster mentioned the names of each astronaut and the states they hailed from.

It was obvious that as an American they were proud of their state and country.

Aparna Pallavi writes about the plight of students from the North East in Delhi and how they suffer racial profiling and abuse. Aditi also mentions something similar in her essay.

What makes Americans proud of his state and his country? What makes an Indian discriminate and hurl racial epithets at another Indian? How can what Aditi describes as "regional pride" be displayed positively in the Indian context?

Speaking of comfort zone that cushions the move to another country Aditi observes that except for Indians from major urban centers all others drift to their communal ghettos.

She also laments blatant and subtle caste discrimination practiced innocuously by Indians in the U.S.

While caste discrimination has been banned by the Indian constitution and has caused immense harm to the communal ethos even in recent times, educated people still find it necessary to inquire about one’s caste. Once we are among a group of people with equal educational backgrounds and accomplishments, should it really matter what caste they are from? Even the most liberal Indians feel no qualms about stating caste requirements while listing arranged matrimonial eligibility.

This may be attributed to another of Macaulay's lingering legacies.

India's Many-splendoured Colours

pahar gunj

cramped bazaar, choking side streets
arteries splitting into veins
viscid dirt, body odours
whiff of perfume, auto emissions
the rickshaws, autos, scooters
............................and cows
tourists - clean and unkempt
incense - of the burning kind
the cacophony of vendors competing
with shouts, stern looks and horns
all living creatures jostling for space

'call home cheap' says the cafe sign
'rs. 15 an hour for internet'
open sewers to the side, debris
garbage and excrement on the road
hotel rooms from 500 to 5000
roof top cafes with menus
in hebrew, german, french, itlaian
and waiters and managers who sip
drinks hidden from customers

ajmeri gate

a few feet from the other entrance
to the new delhi station
past the squatting passengers,
families, cops and coolies
an entrance to the underground
a cocoon to a different world
the walls are paan-spit and graffiti free
posters are framed, signs are lit
security is polite and pervasive
announcements in hindi and english
trains clean, air-conditioned, on time
and trash cans are used
coexistence? split personalities?

smoke signals

we have come
a long way since
smoke signals
pigeon couriers
riding messengers
teletype ticker
internet and
wireless cellular

and forget the feel
of a nib, the taste
of licking a stamp


as communication
becomes easier
we come closer
and move farther
and farther apart

image credit photbucket

Rs.1 billion should be used for living victims of the floods - not for a dead Monument

Rs.1 billion should be used for living victims of the floods - not for a dead Monument To all Pakistanis who care - please take 2 minutes out of your time and sign this petition against the use of Rs.1 billion of state funds for the building of a monument to Benazir - demand that funds be used for helping our 21.6 million countrymen who are suffering the worst conditions. We need that money to help buildPakistan, and we need signatures - please circulate to all Pakistanis that you know! Please Sign this Petition:- Click this link: http://www.PetitionOnline.com/flood786/petition.html

(thanks SR for this)

where do you go to my lovely

I know where you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
I know the thoughts that surround you
'Cause I can look inside your head

____________________________________________________________
i fell for her so long ago
today only her smiling face
peers out through a sepia haze
when did we meet, where did we meet
punch-cool, college or gymkhana?
these gray cells fail to connect
she must be tall, slim---has to be
short and barreled were not in vogue
then or now, if i may confess
she must have been articulate
even in those days i was
allergic to beauty sans brains
and she must have been charming too
and no am not conjecturing
phir kahaaN chali gaee woh
aur gar itni achchi thii tou
hum nay aaj say pehlay oos ko
kabhi miss kyuN nahin kya
what happened then, where did she she go
why did i not remember her
till i read of paan and naswaar
was it because she ate them paans?
acknowledgments: peter sarstedt and sahar rizvi

sepia dreams - yeh hota hay

dreamweaver - by moin


yeh hota hay

squirrels look
nuts fall
leaves carpet


yeh hota hay

summer tip toes
fall indecisive
winter lost
in spring's caress


yeh bhee hota hay

she smiles at him
but walks with him

mushroom
clouds float
carcinogens
rule the world


aur yeh bhee hota hai

an injured bird
disrupts routine

a sad tale
rains grief
is forgotten
in days

the smile once
infatuating
is discovered
in sepia colors

pretentious
tear rivers
quench not thirst