March 26th, 2017

Kinds of Funny.7

It is an old joke already, if at all it can be called a joke. Everytime someone asks me if starting a business from scratch gives me the cold feet, I tell them I have frost-bite. I found it quite amusing the first time I said it, and I still see the humor in it. I have yet to get laughs on it though. I used to be funny once. Not the funny most people think me now, but funny as in humorous funny. You do not think yourself funny, when you are funny funny; but when you are humorous funny, you know you are humorous funny. People laugh at most of the stuff you say expecting them to laugh at, and that I think is the yardstick safest to use. When people start laughing at stuff not meant to be laughed at, you know you are funny funny, and not humorous funny anymore.

Funny business, this silent transformation. The irony is you stop being funny when you start thinking you are funny. It is what you might call a rule of thumb, and I know from experience it applies to humorous funny; I am hoping it applies to funny-funny also. Is there a point to where this is headed, you ask me. How do I know? I am funny-funny.

The weather is lovely today. The sun is taking a day off, and the apparently laden clouds have come out to play. Less often than not, they try and avoid being dull boys, and take time out from play to do some work too. I love it when they do. Rain makes me sad also though, and today being Eid, I would rather not be sad. Let the clouds not get it wrong though, they must do some work while they are at it. I will maintain my cheery disposition. I love Eid and I love rain. If I can have them both at the same time, and need to call upon my reserve tank of humor to make the most of it, so be it.

Its a tad selfish of me though. No holiday is complete in our part of the world without a barbecue, and with hundreds of families gathered around their grills in parks, gardens, deserts, and balconies, praying for rain feels… well… just wrong.

Eid Mubarak to you and yours. May Allah (SWT) accept your offerings, and may He reward you all manifold. On this day of happiness, share your joy with those you love, those who love you, those who are near you, and those who are far, those who are less fortunate than you, and those who are more; for joy increases as it is shared.

My Tissot.2

Bravery is a tradition. One I failed to uphold recently. It is not something I am proud of; but the last time I updated about something I was not proud of, everybody thought me a hero. So, yes, this is me being a hero again. When required to be brave, I was not. There! I said it. Let the deafening applause drown my shame.

We learn new things everyday; about ourselves and about those around us, about life and those who live it. The moment of truth comes and goes, often leaving in its wake both glory and debris. In the debris of one lies the glory of another. Wars are strange. They promise glory, and bring debris. Civil wars are all the more tragic; these are wars which ought to leave both sides wondering how someone who was a part of who they were collectively can bring himself to inflict such pain and misery on the other, and vice verca. Were one to ask this question of any of the warring factions in a civil war, chances are either would speak with the conviction that is borne out of the knowledge that one is doing the right thing. How, one wonders, can doing the right thing mean causing so much pain?

One is unwise. The first martyr in any war is reason. Often indeed it is the death of reason that heralds a war. It is in the absence of reason that all becomes fair.

Quite evidently, I still do not have anything worthwhile to blog about. Or so it would seem to an untrained eye. The trained eye will of course surmise immediately that I am trying to grapple with the most unbearable pain; that I am trying to put off talking of a subject that needs me to address it, yet finds me at a loss for words. Here goes:

I lost my beloved Tissot a couple of days ago. Time has not stood still since, but it should have. I spent some of my most beautiful days with that Tissot on my hand. It seems unfair for time to continue with its journey when I do not have my Tissot to hold my hand; to reassure me and remind me that seconds, minutes and hours are all beautiful. Time sans Tissot presents a horrifying possibility. My watch was not an ornament. It was my twenty four Tissot hours in a day. It was my companion and confidant. In misery, it ploughed through time with the help of its seconds-hand, waving every now and then at me with the minutes-hand to let me know that the duration of misery would be short-lived; that before long happy hours would be around once again. Once the happy hours did arrive, it deployed the short and sturdy hours-hand at the gate to hold the tides of time back. It was lovely like that.

Two days ago, it decided to desert me. Either that or I forgot it somewhere. I curse myself for being so careless with it. There are watches aplenty, but where am I going to find me my Tissot again?

What if it did indeed decide to desert me? It was a most painful thought. Treachery and betrayal were the first thoughts that sprang to mind. The mind was outraged. It lashed out at time itself and tried to subvert its course – perhaps to try and convince it to go back to when we had Tissot to comfort us, but then time, being the wise sage that it is, sat the mind down and explained to it. It made it understand that my twenty four Tissot hours could not have deserted me willingly. It made me see too that my twenty four Tissot hours would always remain mine; that no-one could steal those from me. Most of all, it made me understand that if a companion that beloved did indeed desert me, it quite possibly had to desert me, and for that it might have had some very good reasons. For once, perhaps, my Tissot needs me to understand, and be its companion of its twenty four knicq hours. Who knows, perhaps, unbeknown to me, time has indeed stopped on the Tissot.

Wherever you are, my dear little master-peice in silver and blue, may you find a most caring wrist to wrap yourself around. May the hours, minutes and seconds continue to be made beautiful through your hands.

Is that a Rolex you have on?

My Tissot was better!

Rant.0

I had updated yesterday. Fortunately for me, I had the good sense to delete that post. It has been like that for some time. I refrain from putting up a post here not because I have not the matter to make into posts, but because I am afraid of what I might end up bringing out. Afraid for myself most of all, and afraid for others who matter. Everyone matters, one way or the other, doesn’t he/she? That, perhaps, is the tragedy we call life.

It is a good thing I do not have work to go to these days. To have to balance such darkness with the dreary challenges of a mundane job might just have proven too much even for the-larger-than-life-me that the resident narcissist sometimes has me believe actually exists. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allah is the greatest, and I am nothing. Pride is the dominion of Allah alone. Too often we forget that, and sometimes it leads us into humbling expriences.

Wifey is often amused by the-smaller-than-life (STL) me. I am not. The STL me is affected too easily by my experiences. The STL me is reduced to tears too often for it to be good for my image. Felicity was once witness to the STL me. Years later, VGA was pleasantly surprised when she caught a glimpse of him, when we were listening to eP’s “Aghosh” and I was telling her what the video was about. She was pleasantly suprised, because she shares Jalali Baba’s deep contempt for yours truly, and discovering the STL me not only augmented and nurtured it, but also provided a portal to spread that contempt. I had some dough on VGA, and I would knead it well in all public gatherings. One day, she decided to return the favor and relished every bit of relating to a packed house how I carried with me an STL me. Not pleasant. Not nice. Very JBiic. Very VGAiic.

Asad Ali Khan has an album called Maestro’s choice. It has two tracks. Raag Asavari and Raag Malkauns. They are spell-binding; Asavari is the perfect recipe to bring out the STL me. Anytime of the day, anyday. I do not know what Asavari means, but it must mean something close to suicidal. It is that beautiful. Here’s a little Yawariyat, if you have the stomach.


Har baat hasb-e-mansha bhi nahin hoti,

Shikayat tark-e-wafa bhi nahin hoti,

Jisey hona ho, ho ke rehta hai,

Rukawat khud rasta bhi nahin hoti.

Hum nafas tu mehwar nahin duniya ka,

Bin terey dhung hai wohi duniya ka,

Tu hi apni rawish badal le to acha hai,

Tira qadam, qadam nahin duniya ka.

Rahbarun se gila rakhna bhi acha hai,

Dil kee baat barmala likhna bhi acha hai,

Ihtijaj, Juloos, ToR phoR, HaRtaal,

Yeh sub bura hai, bhala hai, apni jagah,

Ghar kee baat magar chupaa rakhna bhi acha hai.

Walwalun ka Rung.3

…from Yawar archives.

Kab tak bhage ga tu,

Kahan tak jayega?

Kis kis se chuRaye ga daman?

Kitni baar giRgiRaye ga?

Apne haal pe nazar kar…!

Terey qadmon main beRi,

Teri soch pe qadghan,

Teri faslon pe khiraj,

Terey daryaon pe bund.

Tu gar bhage…

To teri beRi terey khoon se,

Terey ghasibon ke naam payaam chodey.

Tu soch ka diya jalaye,

To sooraj ko roshni dikhaye.

Tu khaye,

To apna daana khud maang ke khaye.

Teri tishnagi cheekhey,

To sookhey daryaaon main doob jaye.

“Jhapatna, palatna, palat ke jhapatna”

Ye tareeq tha tera!

La Ilaaha Ill Allah kalima tha,

Yahee rafeeq tha tera!

Tera watan koi nahin tha,

Teri zubaan kuch nahin,

Millat ka fard tha tu,

Millat ke baghair kuch nahin.

Uth!

Phir khaRa ho…

BeRiyun ko toR de,

Soch ke dareechey khol

Ghasib ka haath choR de,

Apne himaley pe khud chaRh,

Apne daryaaon ka rukh moR de,

Apna niwala khud bana,

Kandhe se kandha joR de,

Irtiqa ka alam sarnigon kar,

Ruj’at kee bahas choR de,

Haath utha…

Dua maang…

Woh tera rasta khol de!

Haan! Apne haal pe nazar kar,

Jo guzar gaye,

Un dinon ko bhool ja,

Ummeed ka pakaR daman,

Nae dinon main,

Walwalun ka rung ghol de!

March, 2004

Rain.13

Its been raining the whole day. Its beautiful. There’s a chill in the wind rare in these parts of the world, and it is all so lovely, I am having trouble finding words for it. Somehow, this beautiful weather makes me melancholy. Its not that I miss the sun, it would take little less than madness for me to even think of the sun in this weather. I know there are parts of the wordl where they love the sun, and crib about pouring skies. I envy and pity those people at the same time. My love for the rain knows no bounds, and while I have nothing against the sun, I think I have had a lifetime of it in my years in the desertlands.

But, while the sun just makes me uncomfortable, very unconfortable, the rain makes me melancholy.

It ranks right on top of my most-beautiful-things-in-the-world list, but it makes me sad too…somehow…

I am sad like that.

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