baithak

Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwaur LafzouN Ka

Poessay: Rosary 24 - Monologue

Poessay: Rosary 25 - Pink flamingos, yellow roses, dark clouds

Poesssay: Rosar 26 - Trancing segues

which is which

2010-12-31T02:16:00.000-05:00

happiness tinged with sadness

or sadness tinged with happiness

hope

2010-12-30T19:15:00.004-05:00

children playing

in garbage dump

with makeshift toys

oblivious of chatterati doom

and cyber thunder

waving their pesky fingers

at schisms and fissures

wiping runny noses

with rags

cackling and laughing

hope is one tough cookie

alive and well

hope

2010-12-30T01:38:00.003-05:00

amidst the rubble

children playing

with makeshift toys

cackling and laughing

oblivious of chatterati doom

waving fingers

at schisms and fissures

hope is one tough cookie

alive and well

dispensable

2010-12-29T01:00:00.000-05:00

who is not?

tangibles are

intangibles aren't

man is

ideas aren't

exit sign

2010-12-28T01:00:00.000-05:00

which red exit sign

the soul exits from?

pagal ho jo rooh ko

qaid kerna chahtay ho

the soul stays here

moving from body

to body, sometimes

leaving people soul less

bhari hay yeh duniya

bay-rooh, bay-zameer

zinda laashouN say

now heart

yeh ik aur qissa hay

a bundle of muscles

rendered useless

unless transplanted

matam / mourners

2010-12-27T01:00:00.000-05:00

soucha aap nay hum kyuN

matam kernay walouN maiN haiN?

mausam, mehangai, halaat

(jo khud humnay paida kiyay

laikin woh a'lug sitam zareefi hay)

bichRa yaar ho ya dost

hussain ho ya koi ibn e waq't

apni masroof zindagi say

kuch lamhaiN nikal kar

hungama e matam maiN

shirkut lazmi samajhtay haiN

zindagi ki is dOR maiN

aagay kum aur peechay ziyadah

yeh humara shaiwah kaisa?

***

why do we mourn so much?

weather, inflation, living conditions

(to which we contributed

actively and passively)

long lost friend, lover

a hussain or some leader

we pause from our busy lives

to mourn their passing

and the next day

resuming live

this driving ahead

and looking obsessively

into the rear view mirror

is intriguing

banality

2010-12-26T01:00:00.003-05:00

no matter how one cuts the cake/pie/crust/life

it is inescapable

the divide always ends as us and them

[ignore rumi's I]

erudition teaches us to be more circumspect

erudition? religious affiliation, class, pedigree, english or vernacular schools attended etc.

this divide is more universal than we'd like to think

if this is right than banality should be the greatest common denominator

but it is not.

our I is in the thousand pieces of mirror

all over the terrain

writing and translating

2010-12-25T13:12:00.002-05:00

infinite wisdom is outside of the norm...just as infinite patience...or infinite anything.

You can’t write about Pakistan and get to Pakistanis – it has to be the other way around. Pakistan must be approached as Pakistanis, through Pakistanis, through singular experiences, through the stories we tell ourselves. We need these stories, even if they are never written down and exist only in words over coffee or just in our heads. Hasan Altaf

in this day harking back to dastaangoi? ...perhaps he meant as a last resort...the enduring test would be in the medium...the medium has to convey the message with all its blemishes

***

translating from another language is an arduous and hit and miss affair at best as those who have attempted it know well...

Pritchett says in her outstanding paper, “The Sky, the Road, the Glass of Wine: On Translating Faiz” (available at http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/15/07pritchett.pdf): “(the translator should not be) interested in making technically accurate translations that sound awful in English and/or do no real justice to the original. Nor (should they) produce free “transcreations” that use the Urdu originals merely as jumping-off points for new English poems”. Dr Ali Madeeh Hashmi

aaa jo dil se nikalti hay...has to rebound....otherwise it would melt into the other countless sighs over the centuries resulting in nought

full turn

2010-12-25T02:29:00.003-05:00

on the highway of heroes

a final march past

for a son/husband/father

with misty eyes and salutes

killed on duty in far off lands

killed by enemy fire

an enemy who felt

violated in his abode

the soldier and his comrades

descended uninvited

and killed unarmed civilians

filed under collateral deaths

brothers, sons and daughters

of the deceased in desperation

took up arms and waited

for an opportunity

to spread the shroud of death

dormancy

2010-12-24T15:58:00.001-05:00

things to do

disappear

dissipate

fade away

with or without

making effort

Poessay: Noon Meem Rashid and the White Cliffs of Dover

2010-12-23T01:00:00.002-05:00

dear dear:

the tower...big ben...white cliffs of dover...when i was there Sap took me to see the sites...sensing my boredom he asked me if am ok...am fine, i said...it is deja vu...different from noon meem rashid's take...not his gumaan ka mukin or sulaiman ser b'zanoo or hasan kooza ger...but the one where he makes passionate and violent love to a white women and thinks he is single-prickly taking revenge on the goras and their rajfestation over hindustan...that my dear is an abuse...as ismat chugtaitold me....'arey bhai oos nay yeh kyuN nahiN soucha kay woh gori bhee enjoy ker rahi hogi?"... (why did he not think that she would have enjoyed him too?)... i understood the import...much later...

nahiN, am unafraid, dust to dust, ashes to ashes i understand, hum nahiN zindagi se darnay walay....those are a different cowardly breed

ae meri hum raqs mujh ko thaam le...zindagi se bhaag ker aaya hooN maiN...maybe so...am having second thoughts...but am an admirer not a blind follower...i would do no harm nor force myself upon another human being...in my book it is not done...born under the arch of dichotomy...duck gandhi and jinnah...where walls rise up with times...where the poor walk with envious hate and the rich in borrowed american accents splash gonna and wanna...sounds that i escaped from...but not really...because yaar log have recreated indian bazaars in the gorascape here...and with words as well as deeds they reincarnate desh in pardesh...and am left to wonder about the white cliffs of dover...what would i do? i never escaped from normandy...was not even born then...i had no clue about the sun that never set....for my land...once sunny is clouded...clouded not cloudy...and living here...paying taxes due every cruel april...and taking out the garbage every tuesday...and yank the weeds in the summer and clean the snow from the driveway in the summer...and do the dishes and sit down for quality times dutifully...beside lit fireplace in winters read ghalib and rashid and faiz and aktar ul imaan...why should i visit and enjoy stratford...you are one confused puppy i say to me self...saving the breath...you should be strait jacketed...and then i laugh at the suggestion...harmless me...them...they should be incarcerated, castrated, strait jacketed...my thoughts, words, deeds have not killed a fly...their greed and lust has all but undone the fury of the bhagats and azads...why should i witness the rise of the cliffs of dover?...haiN aur bhee ghum zamanay maiN muhabbat ke siwa

kal jo achanak
phir oon se takraeeN nighahaiN
wahimyay aa'aye ho ker oojager
oon guzray rishton ka bojh magar
ab kaun ootha'aye kaisay ootha'aye

[yesterday's chance encounter
richocheted once commpromised doubts
these time ravaged shoulders
cannot bear that weight today)

Poessay: Honesty and Trust

2010-12-22T01:00:00.001-05:00

San's favourite phrase once used to be 'to be honest...' I would wince and say under the breadth "wohi tau" in the acerbic tone of the actor in the sit-com'office office'.

Why must honesty precede with vocal reaffirmations? Are we less honest without such declarations?

Or are such 'warnings' part of some nefarious truth in advertising or packaging guideline revelations?

Truth has a way of penetrating armour. It does not need a preamble nor a warning. We can feel its piercing pain if it is unpleasant (which it mostly is).

Have you noticed when things do not affect us directly we can afford to be brutally truthful? I call it the BSS - Bitch-Slut Syndrome. (according to the narrator one who sleeps around is a bitch, but if she does not sleep with the narrator then she turns into a slut.)

And when there is a remote chance of it affecting us or a person dear to us than we embellish it with sugar coats. Like David Frum in that essay in the Newsweek where he wanted to bash Rush Limbaugh and blast him into space: but being Barbara's son he stepped around that ardent wish. Oh, he may be a drug addict, philanderer, has several failed marriages, jets in a private plane, is obnoxious, irrational, overweight, but he has a voice and we must respect it as one of the several voices in the republican fold.

We mention rationality, justification, weather, conditions, considerations doing the amazing tap dance on needle head to reveal the truth while trying not to upset ourselves or another person.

***

janay kaun dekhay ga
muskurati aankhion
kay chalakhtay aansoo

(who'd witness
the downpour
of smiling eyes)

Drop by drop, they fall, and morph into layers of disregard...mingling, partying, disappearing, re appearing, fading in euphemisms of memories labeled as past...distant or near...

I wrote reappearing...as in mujh se pehli si mohabbat m'ray mehboob na maang

Is the lover demanding it? Or is it the flutter of heartbeats ignited at a chance encounter with the past lover? A flicker of flame that was once a fire?

But as Faiz continues:

aur bhee dukh haiN zamaanay meiN muhabbat ke sivaa
raahateN aur bhi vas'l ki raahat ke sivaa
mujh se pehli si mohabbat meray mehbub na maaNg

There are heartaches aplenty (in the world) other than those of love
There is peace and joy aplenty other than the ecstacy of love
Don't ask me to rekindle that love, O Love

To be honest, agar maaNg bhee lay tou bura kiya hay. Dil ko achcha lagay ga. [tr: to be honest, even if the lover is reminiscing about lost love it has a nice feel about it.]

Trust me!

Poessay: Rosary 25 - pink flamingos, yellow roses, dark clouds

2010-12-21T01:00:00.005-05:00

yeh din bhee achcha din hay

aankh khhuli tou dekha oosko

woh jaan leva muskurahat

labouN per khil ga’aee

gulabi jaRa, pink winter nahin

indian summer ka din

her din say mukhtalif

her sheh, pyar maiN ghar’q

***

in the once lush vale, the clouds

carry hate to the desert

of expectations

cowering children play

with expectant dogs and cats

it is a world of animals and

runny-nosed children, their parents

breathing, but long since dead/departed

in search of made to order gods

that can fight their demons

***

chandni chalakhty hay

m’gar in badliouN main

thandak nahiN, aag hay

ik ameer des maiN bani

aag, teesri duniya kay

baasiouN kay liyaye

(moonlight cascades

through the fiery clouds

the benevolent fury

made in the first world

for the third)

***

over morning brew

she brought with that smile

we read about pink flamingos

and undies

political ploys and plays

and move to sports

while listening

for the traffic report

Earlier:

Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwaur LafzouN Ka

Poessay: Rosary 24 - Monologue

Poessay: Rosary 25 - pink flamingos, yellow roses, dark clouds

does it matter

2010-12-20T01:00:00.002-05:00

does it matter?
will it matter?
if the legs are crossed
or left bare
swift's eggs broken from which end?
wrapped in traditional garb?
it does matter, perhaps
for legs that hold high office
and think with knee-caps?

pondering such
is the nadir
of thinking
(with the lower half)

and speaking of halves
we are not the other half
of halves lost in celestial orbits
though admittedly we are not whole

forgive me dear
last night...
forgive me last night
when in heat
yes, yes that happens
i said things
not meant to be aired

and while deliberating, we ponder
and muse unlike desani's hatter from
above the navel
which is where the sages think from

most deeds
resulting from the foresaken thinking
emanates not from above neck
nor from the heart below

and
drawing from our collective past
so many innocent sweet ones
have reminded us (all)
not to think from below (the waist)

which brings us to global warming
abusing resources of the dharti mata
non renewable ...
runaway population no one talks about
deficit in comprehension
worse than trade deficit
tolerance and un-valentinish love

worse than...
don't dare go there t
this is not the week nor the season
ha!
is there a season for madness?
who'd answer this?
desani? modi? kahane? goebbels? the son of son of ...?
and why not the daughter of daughter of ...?
(binte-binte for the un-initiated)

how could i mention desani
with the exalted ones?
does it matter?
will it matter?
when the abuses
emanate from above
and below

A Different World Part III : Statesmen or Pygmies

2010-12-19T11:43:00.002-05:00

(Continued from A Different World Part I : A Travelogue of Sorts)
and A Different World Part II: Zina ul Haq's Debauchery)

On March 23, 1940 at the Minto Park (now Iqbal Park) the Pakistan Resolution was presented before the annual session of All India Muslim League. (The emphasis added are mine).

No constitutional plan would be workable or acceptable to the Muslims unless geographical contiguous units are demarcated into regions which should be so constituted with such territorial readjustments as may be necessary. That the areas in which the Muslims are numerically in majority as in the North-Western and Eastern zones of India should be grouped to constitute independent states in which the constituent units shall be autonomous and sovereign. That adequate, effective and mandatory safeguards shall be specifically provided in the constitution for minorities in the units and in the regions for the protection of their religious, cultural, economic, political, administrative and other rights of the minorities, with their consultation. Arrangements thus should be made for the security of Muslims where they were in a minority. I H Qureshi, (1992), A Short History of Pakistan. University of Karachi, Reprint of 1967 edition. ISBN 969-404-008-6

The Working Committee of the Muslim League in Lahore (1940)

This was a clear call for confederation or union. As a declaration of intent it was sufficiently clear and yet vague enough for the political leadership to negotiate with the Raj. After the failure of the Cabinet Mission, Lord Louis Mountbatten was sent to preside over the dissolution of the Raj. He was given enough time but Atlee also dangled the carrot of the First Lord of Admiralty. (The vacancy was to be created upon the retirement of the naval chief - but that is another story.)

In his haste to return, aided by Congress leadership's retreat from a stance of no division to an acceptance of division (first Sardar Vallabbhai Patel, next Jawahar Lal Nehru and finally Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi succumbed) Mountbatten called in the bluff and offered Jinnah a truncated Pakistan.

credit: Shahid Siddiqui

The sprawling Quaid e Azam Masoleum Complex in Karachi also houses a small museum. Inside there are his suits, sherwanis, shoes, cars , furniture, monocle and various other items displayed. One realises the larger than life figure was rather diminutive. In a display case we saw a personal diary. In the open pages one can read in Jinnah's handwriting notes he made on a certain day in 1940. This entry as I recall named a chowkidar who was going "home" on vacation. It mentioned the date he was hired and the vacations days due him. He wrote in a clear flowing writing the number of days his leave was "paid leave" and the extra weeks of "time off without pay".

A meticulous and organised barrister whose brilliance was admitted by his detractors also, could not have been so disorganised about Pakistan. You can read more about this in Ayesha Jalal's books and papers. Jinnah wanted to max the guarantees offered to his constituents in a confederated Indian Union. The "independence" was the calculated bluff called in by Mountbatten when he had Congress behind him.

Mountbatten saw another equal in aristocratic Jinnah. He knew how hard it would be for Jinnah to agree to a truncated Pakistan. He told Jinnah, "Tomorrow morning, with the Congress leaders present I will say that you have agreed to the partition, and I expect you to nod."

Movietone newsreels showed a grim Jinnah barely nod the next morning. Intrigue, intransigence, ego and miscalculation carried the day. Jinnah had his truncated Pakistan, Congress had its divided India, hoping the nascent state would soon fold, and Mountbatten had a fixed retreat to return and lobby for the Admiralship.

Nobody gave a thought to the looming holocaust in which 2 million would die, millions would be uprooted and millions upon millions would grow up on both sides of the divide in hate, distrust and intolerance.

On August 11, 1947, Mohammed Ali Jinnah, with permission from the Speaker off the Constituent Assembly, Shri Mandal said:

You are free; you are free to go to your temples, you are free to go to your mosques or to any other place of worship in this State of Pakistan. You may belong to any religion or caste or creed - that has nothing to do with the business of the State.

Zina had the temerity to have this expunged from all official transcripts. He tried to steer Pakistan towards an abyss from which it would be difficult to turn back.

Part I was written in 2002. The civilian government that took over after the February 18, 2008 elections is feebly trying to undo the damage inflicted on the country by the occupying army. There are too many hurdles in way of this nascent democracy. It does not have strong leaders. The dominant parties - PPP, Muslim League (Z), MQM are led by autocratic leaders the former two by billionaires with vast foreign assets.

Wily Asif Zardari has outwitted the veteran Nawaz Sharif a few times already. If ever there was a time to strengthen democratic roots in Pakistan it is fast disappearing. The Army under Gen. Ashfaq Pervez Kayani is stretched and bogged down fighting the Pakistani Talebans and participating in the US proxy wars. This rare opportunity is being squandered away.

The army's role in politics cannot be counted out for long. The militants have become a power to reckon with. Generations have been brainwashed not to question. Generations are being raised on intolerance and hatred, not compassion and understanding. Each group hates the others - the totem pole includes Deobandis, Barelvis, Ahle Hadith, Sipah e Sahaba, Lashkar Jhangvi, Sunnis, Shias, Ahmedis, Christians, Hindus. The one group that flies below the radar is the influential and powerful Ismailis.

Like India, the electronic media in Pakistan is mostly passing through teething troubles. It is enamored of its own power. The sane voices there seldom rise above the cacophony of mediocrity and blandness.

If there were statesmen in Pakistan (and not wily politicians) in the aftermath of Mumbai Mayhem, they should have said to Manmohan Singh, "Let's join forces to fight this plague." Instead, media fed bellicosity and belligerency from both countries widened the gulf.

Media likes drama and there is no better developing story than war. They salivate at the thought of surgical strikes. It can only happen when the receiver is impotent...Gaza, West Bank, Iraq...or with the receiver's consent...as in the case of FATA and Nato/US drones.

The other Pervez...Ashfaq Pervez Kayani is the wild card here should Manmohan Singh succumbs to the war cry and order surgical strikes.

GoI has shown restraint and political acumen. Can Zardari be trusted to reciprocate it? The choice is stark - survival or conflagration and instability.

Instability will breed further instability in the region.

Poessay: Rosary 24 - Monologue

2010-12-18T01:00:00.001-05:00

Go for it yaar temporal. You bloody self effacing, self effusive, evasive temporal. Go jump in one h two o. You wanted to experience death. Go ahead. What is stopping you?

Nothing is stopping me. Even if I am reluctant to meet it, face I will - the inevitability. I will die like I have died many times before. You, me, him, her, believer, unbeliever, undecided all will hear that music. Six under or six over. So why not embrace it?

Embrace it? Death wish? Resignation? Wait. I am not in doubt. Youare. I do not care if a eighteen wheeler splashes my brain all over the tarmac. You do. You wonder how you would greet Death. What will it be like. Will there be a vision when you are flat lined. How soon the blood in the vein will coagulate. Soul - if there is one - how will it escape. Will you feel it. Does it float? Is it indomitable? Is it a part of a whole? Is it a prisoner?

Stop there. Do not overwhelm me with your rhetoric. It is I who poses queries - unresolved and raging within. You, you are just the shadow. With me every living moment. Deserting me when I die. I can and will question that phase. You cannot. I will, if I chose to, deny - deny life, death or soul. That is my sole prerogative.

Earlier:

Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwaur LafzouN Ka

Poessay: Rosary 24 - Monologue

different suns

2010-12-17T01:00:00.001-05:00

The 2009 massacre in Gaza will be for
international solidarity with Palestine what
the Sharpeville massacre was for the
international solidarity against apartheid
in South Africa. (Wissam Nassar/MaanImages)

here is a familiar routine
after an honest day's efforts
you head home in your car/train/bus
once home you follow the rituals
wash-change-drink-tv-dinner
retrieve messages-surf-help children
if any - with homework
prepare for the next day
will it rain or snow?
brush, change again, go to bed
turn off the light, read or
make love
or toss and turn
tomorrow is another sunrise away
for you

not for the families of gaza
their sun has not set for 60 years

poessay: the one time...

2010-12-16T01:00:00.001-05:00

the one time she should have resisted the temptation to wave back...Benazir
the one time horses and donkeys should have resisted...mules? editor

the one time pedestrian legends in their minds get off their horses...defies logic-editor
the one time Gore should have challenged the Senile Court...O la la
the one time Bush could utter a simple sentence...bush talking? Ask Moses
the one time Palestinians could roll over and play dead...unlike Hussain of Karbela not Tikrit)
the one time Israelis could resist cleansing and Bantustising...Nazi heirs not victims
the one time Nelson Mandela could lay it on Mugabe...but he is retired!

the one time she should have resisted my advances...OK it is conjectural...and Editor agrees

the one time riders run and horses ride...dream on
the one time the bulldozer had stopped dead...instead of Rachel Corrie
the one time a bullet could be recalled...Arch Duke Ferdinand...runners-up JFK, MLK, Gandhi, LAK...

the one time commonsense should have held his peace...OK disregard one time
the one time smallsquirrel should have bitten her lips...hmmmm...not likely...sub your lips?
the one time i should have held my peace...one time?
the one time the driver was not drunk...Diana
the one time the snake should have refrained...that would be the clincher

Poessay: Rosary 23: Musings

2010-12-15T01:00:00.002-05:00

Edge of precipice. Cliff?
Diving board. Looking down into water.
Water?

Of hope.
What hope? Mirage. Shimmer. Illusion. Belief in the unseen. Acceptance.
Acceptance? With conviction.
Conviction of what? Faith or reasoning?

Of reason.
Rationality. Two plus...Cause and...Things not...
Self-existential illusions. Illusions or hoaxes? Certifiable?

Of faith.
Belief of unfathomed power. Recognizant of the unrecognised.
Unresolved nothingness. Ensconced nothingness. Transference.

Back to hope, reason, faith. Nothing.
What if nothing is the vacuum cementing life to death.

Oh death? The final dot. -30- Kaput. Kapitsh. End.

End, another beginning. Movement towards another dot. To other
unresolved queries. To other needs and desires. To know or to give
in.

Again.

Earlier:

Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwaur LafzouN Ka

january 1, 2009

2010-12-14T01:00:00.001-05:00

georgiou emptied the bins - coffee cups,
crushed cans, mickeys, wrappers, paper tissues
and sweeeping the Nathan Phillips Square
gathered frozen kisses, melting sighs,
discarded resolutions and shouted greetings
that had ushered in the first day of an uncertain year
as he went about methodically he knew he'd survive
- as would most in the west, relatively unscathed

the future is full of long shadows
for those in occupied Gaza, Somalia,
Darfur, FATA, Afghanistan, Iraq...
the world has shuttered the window
blinds drawn

wish you and those around you
health and peace for the coming months

having put in his hours in the chill
georgiou smiled pensively, took off work gloves
changed and went home

Poessay: I'm Not Dev Das and You're Not Anarkali

2010-12-13T01:00:00.001-05:00

Permanence is a Utopian illusion. It is nurtured by groups that ferment a vested interest - popes, padres, rabbis, maulvis, pundits, financiers - purveyors of permanence.

Insomniac Dream Sellers of
Truth, Beauty, Wisdom, Courage, Love, Anger, Hatred

Sea
and Mountain
Enslaved and encircled with smile.

Then the smile melted
His?
Her's?
His smile melted her? Her smile melted him?
0r like the shivering polar ice
Melting under the rape of environment
Euphemism for global warming

Sea - the mother of transmogrification
-clouds, snow, rain, lakes, rivers
And completing the circle - sea

The circular reverberation
Womb - grave - womb
Is the tale of drops
spermatozoa
"Read, read in the names of thy Lord..."

***

for believers it is Him
for others some grand design
that would finally still
the drop
the last meltdown
when neither love
nor hate
will deter, defer, persuade or play
when the smile
will last for ever sans flesh

we, who indulge in super hate
we, who miss not an opportunity
to throw barbs, grenades
and uranium tipped mines and bombs
we, who excel at malevolence
- when will love conquer us?

yaadOn ka guldasta thamay*
sar-saratay sukoon maiN ghar'q
jub saa'yay hum aa ghosh hotay haiN
tou mudhoshi ki devi bhee
khud hee muskurati hogi
hosh apnay kho bethti hogi

ab tou yaad ki baiRiyouN maiN qaid
dabay qadmON t'ra tasawwur
youN chala aata hay kay
khood faraibi ka shaiba
bhee choo ker nahiN guzarta
choti ki is joostujoo maiN
khaai maiN girnay ka ehsaas kisay

said the bluebird to the bulbul
the simpleton is unaware
and the curmudgeon unconcerned
love has been cremated
in hiroshima

Man shorn of humanity is hurting and hurtling down the precipice, brakes worn, singling gaily, oblivious of the rushing winds of time, aware but not cognizant of the abyss.

_________________________________________________
* translation:

clutching the bouquet of memories
and drowned in the whispering quiet
as the shadows embrace
the goddess of intoxication
would smile at herself
while letting go of sobriety

bounded in memory-chains
your thoughts tiptoe
swirling and cascading
around whims and doubts

in the strive to conquer the peak
who thinks of a fall into the abyss

A Different World Part II: Zina ul Haq's Debauchery

2010-12-12T01:00:00.003-05:00

(Continued from A Different World Part I : A Travelogue of Sorts)

The irony is this: people on both side of the frontiers were predominantly Punjabis. Only fifty plus years back they spoke the same language, looked the same, shared similar culture and passions, but today they are different...not physically different...but in their mindset and attitude.

Zina-ul-Haq (Zina means rape: Haq is Truth – my coinage for the erstwhile dictator) induced religious stupor had flamed the latent fundamentalism and created such a wide gulf of intolerance and divide that most Pakistanis today accept segregation as the norm. Some even elevate it with piety. He unleashed his version of Islam that has polarized Pakistanis, increased the chasm not only between Sunnis and Shias but also between Sunnis themselves as well as fanning parochial differences between residents of all provinces.

The denial of one's roots and ersatz emphasis on a culture that was and is almost alien led to an influx of mental and sexual depravity. The orthodox misinterpreters of religion (read Islam) twist and bend the religious injunctions to satisfy their limited understanding and fetishes. This increase in provincialism, parochialism and ethnic diversity played well in the hands of manipulative politicians and the occupying army. Divide and Rule!

And it has also led to the killing of Pakistanis by other Pakistanis in the name of the same Allah.

Today's West Punjab and indeed Pakistan is set on a different course. Not the one envisioned by any of her founders or detractors in their wildest hallucination.

Off the intersection of Aram Bagh Road and Bunder Road, now M. A Jinnah Road, the Pakistani equivalent of Indian cities' Gandhi Margs, there is a side street. To the south is Dow Medical College and to the north is Pakistan Chowk. At the end of this side street there is a gurdwara, I was told. I had dragged M through the traffic, dirt and pollution but all we could see was the walls. The side street was a furniture market and unless you knew there was a gurdwaraonce there you would miss it.

In Mata: Meem, Alif, Tay, Alif I had written about visiting some of the mandirs in Karachi:

Karachi has lots of mandirs. And there are a few functioning ones too that I visited. There is one in Clifton, one across from the KMC building on M A Jinnah Road, one near the old Native Jetty Bridge, two in Soldier Bazaar and one in Amil Colony # 2 near the Islamia College. And there is a crumbling one on the beach in Manora that ravages of time has turned into a crumbling structure.
The Lakshmi Narayan Mandir across from KMC building on M. A. Jinnah road is in a compound. When we visited it one afternoon, the mandir was closed and some boys were playing cricket nearby. One twelve year old asked us if we were Hindus. M smiled and said she is aninsaan. The kid nodded wisely.
Tu Hindu banayga na Musalmaan banayga
Insaan ki aulad hay insaan banayga

Neither a Hindu nor Muslim will you be
A human you are, a human you shall be
Another day we visited one in Soldier Bazaar. One thing is imprinted on my mind from that visit. Inside the sanctum sanctorium on the far wall Mata was spelled in glittering Urdu lettering, about two feet high - meem-alif-tay-alif. Mata was written in multicolored glitter ribbons, the kind used in garlands and for decorating the bridal car. Mata: Meem, Alif, Tay, Alif

Karachi is perhaps in the top twenty cities of the world by population. It citizens are always on the go and unaware of its history and heritage. Less than one in twenty Karachite is aware of a fort in Karachi. It is a city of affluence and poverty - of palaces and mansions with high walls, private zoos, monitoring cameras and Kalshnikov carrying guards and jhuggis and huts. In a nation where prohibition is the law, more alcohol is consumed than can ever be imagined to the loss of the exchequer. The private bars of individuals would shame the sommelier of a seven star establishment.

In one evening friends spend more at the BarBQ Hut or Coppper Kettle than the average monthly salaries of their drivers and servants. The poor can be seen lining outside modest hotels in the evening, where the affluent drive by and pay up for the meals for 20 or 30 people.

The middle class wants to shrivel and disappear. It is despondent and despairing.

Lawlessness is rampant and its acceptance is annoying for the casual visitor. Almost everyone you meet has had their cellphones snatched or robbed at gun point at least once. Every acquaintance you meet has a home robbery tale for you.

My notes for the trip - names, places, times and photos stored on the Palm Treo were lost to a gun totting polite robber. "Uncle, please give me your cell phone." With the gun inches away from the stomach, there were few options available. The phone was replaced the next day but it took me a long time to get over the loss of those notes.

Israel & Palestine: Force Is Never the Solution

2010-12-11T01:00:00.002-05:00

First published here December 29, 2008.

Taking advantage of the lame duck Presidency of Bush, the deliberate distancing of President Elect there-is-only-one-president Obama, the holidays in the West and the attending low emphasis of politicians, Israeli Air Force launched a devastating attack on Gaza.

Israel is the non NPT signatory Occupier in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank, Golan and East Jerusalem, aided (up to 5 billion a year) and abetted by the West.

President of the Palestinian Authority Mahmood Abbas is perceived as an Palestinian Uncle Tom and he was soundly beaten in the elections by Hamas.

The infamous US dichotomy re: democracy sprung into action and immediately cut off all aid to Hamas in the Gaza Strip. It also twisted its allies and lackeys' arms (including Canada's) to do the same. This US amnesiac approach is well documented and understood globally. Do as I say, not as I do.

Hamas leadership did not go to the same school.

This latest foray into the Gaza Strip would wane away sooner or later. But the violence and "terrorism" it would spawn would perpetuate the cycle for long.

Can anything be done to avoid the unnecessary spiralling of violence? I have written about the solution before here: Peace With Dignity: Another Gift For Israel

Criticizing Zionism is NOT anti-Semitism. States do not exist without an “official” map. Israel has to exist. Its citizens have a right to live in peace and harmony within its defined borders. They forget that to ensure this its neighbors should also have the same rights.
Both Israel and Palestinians have to demonstrate more effectively that they want to live in peace and do not want to kill, maim, expel from their land. It is for them to deliberate and decide if this should come under One State of Two State solution.

The world should help them reach this decision but should not refrain to remind Israel that it should curb its policies of occupation, subjugation, ethnic cleansing, and terrorising.

We should encourage initiatives that will let all Israelis and Palestinians to live in peace, with dignity, justice and guaranteed fundamental human rights in secure borders, as enshrined in the various UN resolutions.
To remove misgivings, doubts and suspicions, international bodies including the UN, the European Union, OIC should be enlisted to provide guarantees. Peace in the region is not to be equated with death for the state of Israel.

Israel portrays itself as the David but acts as the Goliath in the region. Here are the (boxing preliminary) statistics of Israel and the Palestinians of the occupied Gaza Strip.

The Occupier Goliaths

High quality tanks 970
Medium and low quality tanks 1830
APCs, IFVs, ARVs, LCVs 6930
Self-propelled artillery 1204
Combat warplanes 875
Transport warplanes 84
Training warplanes 171
Military helicopters 286
Heavy SAM batteries 25
Warships 13
Submarines 3
Patrol boats 50 50
nuclear bombs over 300-500

The Occupied Davids

Five major militant factions operate in Gaza. These are the Islamic groups Hamas and Islamic Jihad; the Al Aqsa Martyrs' Brigade, which is loosely tied to Abbas' Fatah faction; the Popular Resistance Committees, a shadowy umbrella group; and the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. The size of the groups is unclear, but they are equipped with assault rifles, mortars, anti-tank missiles, homemade rockets and other explosives.

****

The point neoconzix in Israel and the West refuse to fathom: force is never the solution.

Poessay: Rosary 22 - A Simple Poem

2010-12-10T01:00:00.004-05:00

love me or let me go

the crooner sang
as i channel surfed,
ate, walked, read,
intermittently gazed
at this ball point
wrote, paused and
pondered over the feel
of all the pens have possessed
ball points with fine points
blue, black, red, even green
old fashioned ink filled pens
ah the old parker
the zee nibs, the ink pots
stained hands and clothes
the set of unused calligraphy pens
pens with cushy holders
handcrafted tops
folding pens for travel
thin pens, modulated pens
and reminisced
the feel of my favourite pen
a pen warm and flowing
comfortably imprisoning wayward words

laikin kalam qal`m ka marhoon e minnat kahaaN?
aamud hoti hay kalam ki
phir woh sadiON seena ba seena
musafat tay karta hu`aye
safha e zaati say safha e qartaas per
kabhi youN muntakil hota hay
kay paRhnay wala baisakhta bOl oothay
`wallah! kya baat paida ki hay dost
yehi baat tO m`ray dil maiN thee
yehi baat tO maiN kehna chahta thaa...`

words
ensconced in dictionaries
listless and trembling
only a writer's pen
can furnish them a soul

through the centuries, bosom to bosom
brain to brain, to impulses, to fingers
to pen, to ink, to paper
the journey enigmatic, intricate and involved

flawlessly the moving finger infuses
words - simple, loaded
burnished in the heart
and when reader reads
s/he simply nods in agreement
at the palpitations shared

i get up
fetch some water
return, read, surf
write and rewrite
as the crooner sings
…or love me forever…

Earlier:

Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwaur LafzouN Ka

A Different World Part I : A Travelogue of Sorts

2010-12-09T01:00:00.001-05:00

'Sirji will you take our picture?' a college student asked me. And when I nodded he handed me his camera. There were seven of them. They wanted a picture with the Golden Temple in the background. It was an early December morning and the sun was struggling to break through the clouds and the Punjab morning fog.

I took off my back-pack and the heavy camera bag and rearranged that group while checking them out through the view-finder for a good angle. This took a few minutes of adjusting, cajoling and coaxing then. When I was ready I snapped three pictures with their cameras.

Then I asked one of them to take our picture. The young man took his time and took our photograph. That picture turned out to be one of the better ones of both of us from that trip. We have it enlarged and framed over the fireplace in the real baithak.

We were then at the tail end of our Indian tour, having arrived at Amritsar early that morning from New Delhi. We checked in our bags at the cloak room and then ordered breakfast in the station restaurant. All other passengers had left the platform by then. There we met Henrik and Jacob. Had crossed paths with them thrice in the past few weeks in Jaisalmer, Delhi and Ratnagiri.

I asked them where they were heading this time.
'Dharamsala, and you?'
'We are crossing Attari to Wagah this morning.'
'You are going to Pakistan?' There was just a hint of incredulity in their tone.
'Afghanistan,' I jokingly replied.
'Good, we will see your pictures in the newspapers.'

Touring all over India in the aftermath of September 11 we had met many foreign tourists. And Indian tourists too, a testimony to the burgeoning middle class in India. Though both the tour operators as well as State Tourism Agency officials bemoaned of the diminishing number of foreign tourists.

As we walked around the Darbar Sahib a kindly and elderly Sikh became our guide, pointing out the highlights. Loudspeakers broadcast the Gurbani Kirtans sung in the upper floor of theHarmandir Sahib, the inner sanctum sanctorum. Peace and tranquility mixed with the morning fog and floated soothingly over the water.

(digression: one of the things I look forward to doing in a new city or country is to visit the oldest house of worship there. I find the peace and calm in those mosques, temples, synagogues, mandirs, gurdwaras very invigorating, calming and overwhelming. Sometimes, the visits produced interesting insights - like the mandir in Port of Spain with pews and the church in Goa or Cochin where we had to take off our shoes. )

After the Golden Temple we stepped back into the bazaar and walked the short distance to Jallianwala Bagh. Paused and paid our respects at the eternal flame in memory of the unarmed civilian Indians who were butchered by General Dyer. There were many families visiting the garden and from their conversation snippets it became apparent they were from Gujarat, Bengal and Tamil Nadu among other places.

It was still early in the morning but we felt hungry after all that walking around. So we searched around for a restaurant and ordered the traditional sarsooN ka saag and makkai ki roti. Then we walked through one of the main bazaars to a central chowk.

It was a typical Indian bazaar scene. Narrow streets, filled with people and cars and scooters and trucks and buses. Crowded, dusty and dirty. Throngs milled about.

I suggested M to look around and absorb the scene very carefully. In a couple of hours we would be crossing over to the other side. (I had experienced this difference before but this was M's first foray into the country).

In the crowded Amritsar bazaar, in addition to men there were old and young women and children. M would soon find this for herself. What set this crowd apart was that the young and old women were driving cars, riding scooters and bicycles and even motorbikes navigating expertly through the crazy Indian traffic. (Forgive me, sometimes I inadvertently judge desi scenes from a non-desi perspective. Attribute it in part to living in the west for so long.)

Women owned stalls and kiosks and thelas. School and College girls also rode bicycles through the traffic.

At the square I bought two copies of the daily newspapers, the Hindustan Times, Times of India, the Hindu, Indian Express and some local papers and magazines. (the second copy was for Lahore friend Feroz.) The Newspaper stall was managed by a retired journalist named Narang. When he saw the newspaper purchase he inquired if we were heading across the divide. And was kind enough to arrange our transportation to the border. While we were waiting for the car to arrive he ordered tea and we had interesting conversation with him. He talked of Bhindrawale days. How he was an outspoken journalist then and his life was under threat. How Indira Gandhi gave him police protection. Our ride arrived and we had to cut short his tales.

We were the only travelers to cross over that day. It was closed to local traffic. This was in the aftermath of the attack on the Parliament in Delhi, and the military deployment was notched up all along the border and LoC. As we entered the customs hall the coolie asked us to wait. Finally a Custom Officer emerged, took our passports and disappeared across the road, Half an hour later, he returned and examined our luggage. Picking out a box of Cuban cigars (again for Feroz) he wanted to levy duty on it.

I asked to see the Superintendent. A petite South Indian Lady with an ear to ear smile came in and was introduced to us as the Asst. Collector. She listened to the Custom Officer and turning to me said I would have to pay the duty. I pointed out the fallacy, this time slightly more forcefully. The Esplendidos were rolled in Cuba, and I had brought them into India and was now taking them out of India, therefore there was no logic in paying any duty or 'export' levies. She understood, smiled and let us go. Simple as that!

We walked through the no-man's land into the Islamic Republic. The Rangers and the Custom Officers were sunning themselves in the foggy afternoon sun. After the passport check they wanted to examine our luggage.

The Custom Officers, two of them, blatantly asked for chai money. M and I exchanged glances. We were now officially in the Islamic Republic. Later as we left the check post there was a lone taxi cab. He would charge us Rs. 1500 for the short ride into Lahore. Knowing the distance I balked at the highway robbery. I told him, "Think once more before you quote me the fare- I will not negotiate." He would not budge. I looked up and saw a local bus. I walked over and asked the driver if he would take us and our bags. Sure if you pay for them. So we made it into Lahore in a public bus.

The Conductor told M 'Aap oodhar baithaiN,' pointing to the caged partition separating the driver and the front section from the rest of the bus. 'Woh tO pinjra hay, hum yaheeN baithaiNgay.' M had spoken. The conductor shook his head and relented.

For the first thirty minutes of the ride into the Islamic Republic, we saw a lot of people and traffic. But, no women. Even in the center of the town across from the ever busy Lahore Railway Station, at what must have been rush hour, there were few women to be seen. There were no women driving scooters, cars or riding bicycles. Later on we did see women driving cars. Maybe we were in the wrong part of the town. No woman behind any stall or thela.

And within two hours of crossing the border M confessed, 'Look at the way these men are staring...as if they are trying to...'

Poessay: Rosary 21: KhamOshi - Wordless

2010-12-08T01:00:00.003-05:00

(photo by Brian Mayeux)

khamOshi
sukoot
qayam rakhtay hu`aye
oos nay raaz e dil a`yaaN kya
jaanay kis haal maiN hoga woh aaj
lafzON ka yeh ehtraam
jo oos nay sikhaya
qaim hay

wordlessly
inaudibly
she conveyed her
dreams, doubts, aches
don't know where she is now
this respect for speech
she inculcated
lingers

Earlier:

Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwaur LafzouN Ka

Poessay: Rosary 20 - Thanksgiving I

2010-12-07T01:00:00.002-05:00

these fleeting moments
when urges tell
nay dictate, we bow
to our copy-righted gods

zindagi kay yeh guzartay lamhay
rooh ki gehraiyON say oothti khaahishaiN
kehtee haiN
hukum daitee haiN sajda karo
apnay munn maiN basay khudaouN ko

in that foggy mist
(was it a cavern or tavern?)
came the revelation
our lives are but a passage
between two smiles
come, walk with me
through the misty bazaar
fragmented with contaminates
of noise, air(s)
of thought, thinking
pollutants
induced, inherited
mental, physical
you must walk with me

aao m'ray saath
bazaar-e-zindagi ho aa'aiN zara
ghubar kay aqsaam haiN jahaN dast-yaab
ghubaar
raah ka, shOr ka, sOch ka
wirasat ka, takhleeq ka
chalo meray saath chalo

two smiles -

first smile plays
on the newborn's lips
no discernment there
matters not if desert winds
or slum`s arrested smell
envelope the infant`s mat
matters not if engineered air
surrounded the mattress,
in some whorehouse
with uniformed attendants
whirling as if ordained

second smile
emanates from a body
a still body
that has finally resolved
all arguments with the temporal

between these two smiles
are submerged a thousand dreams, desires
yours and mine
and infrequently when they come true
another smile breaks out
unique, furtive, fleeing

teri meri in mooskurahatON kay baiN
haiN madfun najanay kitnay khaab, khaahishaiN
maauj-e-hawadis gar bad'l day jo naseeb oonka
phir raqsaaN hoti hai ek munfarid mooskurahat

and those fleeting moments
chance encounters really
dictate how we bow
to our copy-righted gods

Earlier:

Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwaur LafzouN Ka

Poessay: Rosary 20 -Thanksgiving I

hatred and love

2010-12-06T01:00:00.001-05:00

we have to wait a second longer
for 2008 to end
those who exude hatred
would have more
time
to maim
to hate
to kill

i hate hatred
but understand the necessity
without hatred
love would have no place to flourish

if hatred was a sacrificial goat
it should be rescued and protected

despite the century of holocausts
armenians, gypsies, jews, hindus, muslims,
cambodians, rwandans, bosnians, chechenians...
despite the murders and mayhems
hate should be protected and mirrored

sorry t.s.e. april is not the cruelest month
november is...

each hateful act, each act of violence
enhances the resolve
to hate hatred
to love love
even if it be with moistened eyes

Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwur LafzouN Ka

2010-12-05T01:00:00.005-05:00

photo credit tanay behera

I

hunger: a mind numbing havoc
love: nihilism anti-dote
peace: presumption of innocence
hate: intolerance incarnate

aray kahaaN bhagtay ho
kahaaN layjatay hou dost
souch ki qaid maiN youN hum ko?

let's not die in vain again
mur ker jo na houN zindah
tou yeh kya baat hui?

fervors of a feverish faith.
lost forever in the desert
of the word's un-harnessed journeys
in search of some lost fisherman.

II

possess nothing personal
body, words--drained, bereft
emotions, gestures, letters

remnant of Time-ravages

let us harness the halo
of words, spectrum, aura
do not fear those angels, come
enliven the word-magic
succumb to their allure of
joy, hurt, mirth, indignation.
protecting the flanks
from imbecilic march

III

write, write and re-write those words
lost in River Time's flow
words nursing fervent desires
of folks blurred in Time Fog

write, you must! in that encryption
write, you must! in that emotion
write, you must! in that language
spoken sans comprehension
write!
of concerning, concerting thoughts
that melt down cobwebs of hatred
someone, somewhere, someday will read.

fervours of a feverish faith.
lost forever in the desert
of the word's un-harnessed journeys
in search of some lost fisherman.

Earlier:

Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwaur LafzouN Ka

Poessay: Rosary 18 - Burning blazing fire rages

2010-12-04T01:00:00.008-05:00

credit tanay behera

burning blazing fire rages
combusting, charring fire rages
kehti hay
jalo, jalao,
jalo aur jalao

fire bowing to clay, we're told
created conflagration
that continues to blaze in clay's belly
the satans of fire twirl their moustaches
and smile diabolically at the lost ones
(can the lost and wandering be misled?)

this is not the fire of old
nor the fluid fire
that left noah dry

beware for He is father
of all fires, fury and furor
merciful, compassionate, graceful

maloom hay humaiN
yeh aag nahiN bajooz oos aag kay
jo kisi aanay walay lumhay maiN
sub aalamouN ko chupa laigi
apnay shikanja e zeest maiN
(laikin maiN yeh bhee souchta hooN
kay ger tu paida kernay wala hay
tou hum tabah kernay walay kum nahiN
yeh da'wa nahiN khudai ka
taqaza hay t'ray ak's ka)
tum jalatay raho, thako mut
hum jaltay rahaiNgay bila thakawat

a glimpse of the promised inferno
an ending, another big bang
and yet another beginning
your rage is creative, consuming
and enraged we can only bow down
and continue the destructive forays

burning blazing fire rages
combusting, charring fire rages
kehti hay
jalo, jalao,
jalo aur jalao

Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices in the Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi
Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree
Poessay: Rosary 18 - Burning blazing fire rages

kodak minutes - 1:22-1:42

2010-12-03T01:00:00.000-05:00

the bus windows are foggy
it has been raining
correction - light drizzle
falling leaves that drift
are now stuck to the pavement
in a primordial flaming carpet
cars line up by the drive-in window
a sign on the curb declares
upto 90% off
saturday 2-5
inside on desi tv
an earnest young man i knew once
now gray haired and assertive
is painting a scenario with words
while the host paces
and a lady MP
and another investigative journalist
whom i admire from a distance
and frequently quote on baithak
are waiting their turns
the young audience
scrubbed, full of idealism
and yet untouched
by the incessant slaps of realism
listen attentively

m tells me caringly
to go to sleep
i'll i'll i say unconvincingly
last night i got up
from slumber and could not sleep
and ended up
watching india and england
and later
palkistan and west indies
before going to work

the eyes were scanning the field
but the mind was wandering
over blatant injustices
and more blatant displays of intolerance
on this desi microcosm

people who have nothing to say
and say that every chance they get
on every board
others who repeat
the same thing over and over

when dust and ashes meet
what will they talk about?

Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree

2010-12-02T01:00:00.004-05:00

the hemashree whose hand
i held in palliative care
was not the one with golden body
and infectious laughter
though i could see the wrinkles
where smiles danced once
around her eyes and mouth

she was skeletal, taut skin
throaty almost shrill voice

everything is for sale babuji
some you buy with money
others you can barter
or purchase with promises
there is no person or object
that is without a price tag

ghungh'roo ho ya mangalsutra
sub kay sub hee bikao haiN ji*
said hemashree, unread, street-smart

* everyone has a price on their head

Earlier: