Milne ka ishtiyaq jaata raha,
Dil se mire nifaaq jaata raha,
Chund lamhon ka khel tha bus,
Wasal gaya, firaaq jaata raha.
March 26th, 2017
Milne ka ishtiyaq jaata raha,
Dil se mire nifaaq jaata raha,
Chund lamhon ka khel tha bus,
Wasal gaya, firaaq jaata raha.
Fasana-e-dard raqam karne baitha tha,
Nae zakham pe,
Marham rakhne baitha tha,
Kitni hee sa’aten beet gaeen,
Main jahan baitha tha,
Waheen baitha tha.
Pehrun qalam thamey haath main,
Korey kaaghaz pe nazren jamai baitha tha,
Lafz kai the’,
Jo nauk pe thartharatey rahey,
Kehalwane ko taRapte rahey,
Likhe jaaney ko kehelwatey rahey.
Magar ehsaas ke tarazoo main,
Aik bhi to poora nahin utarta tha.
Lafz kai the’,
Magar lafz puraney the’ sab,
Purane’ marhamun se bhi,
Kabhi ilaaj-e-zakhm-e-nau hota hai?
Jub chot nai lagti hai,
Ilaaj bhi az-sir-e-nau hota hai.
Tees nai uth’ta hai,
To ehsaas naya hota hai,
Har ehsaas ke saath,
Aansoo nae rawaan hotey hain,
Yunhi karb khel hota hai.
Yunhi karb khel hota tha,
Yunhi pehrun guzar jaatey the’,
Phir qalam hota tha,
Aur korey kaaghaz ke daaman main,
Kahin koi aansoo abadi neend sota tha!
There is something about writing that escapes me. It is not the something whose happening was the lament of an earlier post. It is the somehing that refuses to happen. In all probability it is the act of writing itself, but there is always the possibility of it being the subject matter, sentence construction, vocabulary, or plain and simple the very will to indulge in the act. At this point of time however, I am quite sure that this is not a post about my writing conundrum (Or conundri if you will – its a new word that I have learnt, and I am still in the process of getting to know the other members of the family well).
The unfotunate part is that I am not really sure what this post is to be about. I have time. I have the spanking new laptop. I do not have internet, and I do not have anything worthwhile to do. These are what you might call ideal conditions for writing up a post to be updated later. The thing with ideal conditions is that they are often imaginary, little more than wishful thinking by some overly intelligent people with over-active imaginations; on those rare occasions where ideal conditions are actual and real they are almost always impossible to exploit. A catch-22 situation if there were ever one.
If you find shortcomings in the above argument, you have little to congratulate yourself about. If you find the previous statment to be rude, you have little, if any, by way of consolation coming your way. Little, it seems, is big today, or is at least something we are big on today. Little is big, and big is little; just as long is a short word and short is one that is long – the underlying premise in the latter comparison being ofcourse that these are the two words we have set out to compare in terms of their length or lack thereof. If you figure that the latter half of the previous sentence was completely and utterly unnecessary, you have little to appreciate your figuring acumen for. Little, as I said, is big today; so you had better get used to it.
The problem with sitting by yourself doing nothing is that it brings back those little memories you thought you had consigned to the far corners of your brain. There isn’t an awful lot that is wrong with the little memories, its just that little memories feed on big ones, and big is little today so we are ignoring the big memories, and they being big and bossy refuse to be ignored. There is precious little, however, that they can do about being ignored, whether or not they consent to being ignored. Ignoring, by its very definition, is an act that seeks to undermine the opinion and the will of the ignored.
There is this little memory of the family in that blue Mazda 808 going for a trip to Oman. The Mazda 808 is another little memory – the family’s first car I can recollect from my childhood. Apparently Walid sahib had had a Datsun sports and some other cars before the 808, but I can only recall the 808. It was a nifty little thing, with a top speed of just 120kms/hr. Or maybe it was 120 miles/hr. Who knows? Its a little memory. A little memory of a little blue car from when I was little.
There’s this other little memory from those days, when I was able to make my way through the blanket-tunnels. You know what the blanket tunnels are, don’t you? Those are tunnels you crawl into and out of. They must have had very large blankets back then. I have tried crawling into blanket-tunnels of late, but I keep coming out of the walls of the tunnel – either that or the whole tunnel just collapses on me.
I asked JB if he had ever crawled in and out of a blanket tunnel, and he said he had. I asked him if he had tried doing it again, since he is someone who seldom refrains from trying anything that can even remotely be called an adventure. I have a doubt that he actually tries his hand at only those which can be only remotely called an adventure. I am quite sure he does not try those adventures because he has an adventerous spirit. Most of what he does try can only remotely be called an adventure. (Am I repeating myself? Not really, I am emphasizing.) Most of what JB does try can only be called madness.
If you are an eight year old, and you don the superman costume, and jump off of the second floor of your house with the intent of getting people to gasp: “Its a plane!”, “Its a something else”, “NO! Its super-JB!!!”; can you really be credited with having an adventerous spirit? Madness is a more apt adjective that springs to mind. There is JB-ness, but its a more refined madness, and hence more dangerous. JB developed JB-ness in his later years, as he got to spend more and more time with himself. Madness is little when compared with JB-ness.
I digress. So, I asked JB, if he had tried crawling into and out of a blanket tunnel of late, and he gave me a look. JB does not give looks. He just launches into verbal tirades when he is cornered into working with beings of lesser intellect – that “beings-of-lesser-intellect” is an all encompassing term is a little fact which is a given in JB-land. So, JB gave me a look, and I knew better than to push my luck pursuing the subject.
What goes around comes around. Its a little cliche. Its a hard little fact too though. I sent something around years ago, and then I sent something else around some years later, and as if that were not enough I sent something else on the way a few years later. Well, what do you know? The “something”, and the first and the second “something else” got together somewhere along the way; sort of ran into each other or something.
Maybe, the something was humming a tune to herself, minding her own business in a cafe’, and the first something esle happened to be sitting at the next table minding her own business, and she recognized the tune from her childhood, and so she turned around with tears in her eyes and started singing the tune along with something. Something was startled, and surprised, and taken aback; but she kept on humming her tune. They both got up form their tables, humming the same tune, all the while looking at each other and with tears welling up in their eyes. Then, they stood next to each other, and completed the tune. Silence. Tears. More tears. Instant hugs! Plenty of kissing.
The next thing one knew they had formed a duo, and were going about singing the tune in the whole wide world; which is where the second something else must have heard them, while he was toiling under the sun next to their hotel, or dropping a passenger off at their concert, or coming in to attend a high profile meeting in one of the hotels he owned – complete with white pointed shoes, and dark sunglasses in the night. He must have stood there, tears streaming down his tanned face (if he were toiling under the sun), or welling up in his bloodshot eyes (if he were a cabbie doing double shifts to buy medicine for his ailing foster mother), or sneaking from behind the sunglasses (if he were the hotel magnate who owned all the hotels on Earth and then some on Mars as well). More silnce. More tears. More instant hugs! More plenty of kissing!
Who cares how they got together. Its a minor detail. One of those littles, we will choose to ignore. They did get together, and they came back separately in a jeep, on a motorbike, and on a horse-back/helicopter (depending on whether the second something else were a labourer or a a hotel magnate), and crashed through the three glass-walls of my empire, beat up my over-enthusiastic to be beaten-up goons, and sent me around. Oh, and a chorus kept humming the darned tune all along. I think it were the servants doing it – the traitors!
I do not mind. Its my turn to go around, and then come around.
There’s just a little thing missing. A tune to keep humming.
Perhaps I should do an Anu Malik on them. Minor infringement on non-existant copyright. What say you?
Arsa beet gaya, magar achi tarah yaad hai keh aik waqt tha jab hum par har mazmoon hamari potohari lehje se muzayyan Urdu main naazil huwa karta tha. Ibtidai saalun main to hum isey man-o-unn bayan karne main koi qabahat bhi nahin samajhte the, magar jaise jaise shu’oor aata gaya hum par yeh haqeeqat ashkaraa hoti chali gayee keh aisey mazmoon ko salees urdu ka libada pehnaney se ahbaab main apni baat ko thathun main uRwai janey se bachaya jaa sakta hai. Zindagi apni rawish pe kuch aur aage aayi to hamare faraiz-e-mansabi (yeh mansab barr-e-sagheer najaad talib-e-ilm ka tha – aik aisa mansab jis main faraiz kee kathrat ne huqooq ke liye jagah choRi thee na waqt) main yeh izaafa huwa keh ab salees urdu ke libadey par aik salees-tar libada angrezi ka bhi chaRhana paRta tha; yeh is liye keh arbaab-e-ikhtiyaar ka israar tha keh mad’aa bayan karne ke liye faqat zubaan-e-farang ka sahara liya jaye. Yeh to ghaneemat jaaniye keh arbaab-e-ikhtiyaar ki aur hamari ijtimai la-ilmi ke sabab yeh haqeeqat raaz hee rahee keh zubaan-hai-farang ke zumre main angrezi ke ilawa bhi kai zubaanen shaamil hain, wagarna kia ba’eed tha keh har mazmoon aik alehda firangi zubaan main paRhaya aur na samjhaya jaata.
Qayaas ghalib hai keh is se salaana fail honey waley tulaba kee ta’daad main koi khater-khwah kami beshi waqea nahin hoti; azeezo jo mazmoon aik firangi zubaan main samajh nahin aata tha, woh kisi aur firangi zubaan main bhi utna hi na samajh aata. Albatta is se yeh faida zuroor hota keh hamare tulaba sirf angrezi pe sitam dhaane ke b’jaey, Europe kee tamam zubanun ko takhta-e-mashq-o-ma’aani banatey, aur jab woh farratey se ghalat faransisi, german, dutch, ya welsh bolte to hukoomat PTV ke zareeye 32 mumaalik main yeh naqqara bajwati phirti keh Pakistan ab sayyahat ke liye intihai mauzoon maqaam hai, aur yahan ke log bhaant bhaant kee boliyun kee ba-muhawra mashq se na-sirf yeh keh ziyada zaheen ho gaye hai, balkeh ziyada aetidaal pasand bhi ho gaye hain.
In buland-o-baang dawun ke thuboot ke taur par qaumi television “sayyahun” ke interview bhi nashar karta jin main safed-faam mehmaan naqaabil-e-fahm zubaan main fur-fur Pakistani qaum kee aetidaal pasandi aur lisaan-parwari ka aetiraaf karta, aur huma shuma ke liye PTV is naqaabil-e-faham zubaan main kahee gayee baat ka nasirf Urdu charba nashar karta, balkeh is main haqeeqat ka rung bharne kee gharz se yeh tarjuma ghalat talaffuz ke saath nashar kiya jaata – keh haqeeqi duniya main log talaffuz ko malhooz-e-khater rakhne ke rawadaar nahin rahey.
Hotey hotey mazmoon-e-nazila main se potohari lehje kee amezish jaati rahee. Humen Darwinian qawaid kabhi samajh nahin aye. Agar…
- zarrafe kee gardun patton tak phonchne ke liye lambi hoti chali gaye thee,
- agar bandur irtiqaa ke manazil tai karte karte insaan aa bana tha,
- aur agar hamara appendix qillat-e-istemaal ke sabab sukaR gaya tha
… to is haqeer bunda-e-pur-taqseer ka zahn-e-na-rasaa yeh uqdahjaat kholne se qaasir hai keh …
- zarrafe kee lambi gardun se apne patton ko bachane ke liye darakht mazkoor ne koi aisa hee laiha-e-amal tarteb kiyun na dia…agar zarrafe kee gurdun lambi ho sakti hai to darakht ke tane` ke mazeed baRhne main kiya awaamil mane’a hain?
- Akhir bundar ko yeh kaise pata chal gaya ke irtiqaa kee manazil insaan tak pohonch kar dum toR deti hain? Falsafa-e-fitrat (Nature) ke baaniyun se koi yeh pooche keh agar nature apni parwarish aap karti hai, aur irtiqaa kee manazil hasb-e-zuroorat mutayyin karti hai to akhir us ke sar main kiya sauda samaya tha jo us ne bandarun ke insaanun main tabdeel ho janey main koi muslihat daikhi thee. Tareekh gawah hai keh nature ko jin masail se insaan ne dochaar kiya hai, duniya ke tamam bundar ta-abad bhi jute rehte to nature ke awamil main aisee be-rabtagi aisee tabahi machaney main aisa kamal paida na kar paate. Agar “Survival of the fittest” ko aik haqeeqat maan liya jaye, to yeh bhi man’na paRey ga keh nature bazaat-e-khud kuch itni fit nahin hai.
- Aur teesre yeh, keh agar qillat-e-istimaal ke sabab appendix chota ho sakta tha, to itna arsa ghair mustamil rehne ke bawajood us ke kal-adam na honey main kia surgeon hazraat kee koi saazish karfarma hai? Agar awamil ka ghatna ya baRhna, hona ya na hona taqaza-hai-fitrat ke sabab hai, aur fitrat umoor ko sahal banane pe mamoor hai, to akhir appendicitis main ma-siwai surgeon hazraat ke au kis ke liye sohoolat ke anaaser kar-farma hain?
Baat phir kahin kee kahin nikal gayee, arz yeh thee keh hum darwinian tarz-e-fikr se kuch aise mar’oob nahin hain, magar mazameen ke nuzool main humen darwinian qawaid kar-farma nazr aatey hain. Aik mazmoon ka pehle potohari-Urdu main naazil hona, phir salees Urdu main is ka tarjuma hona, aur phir salees-tar tarjuma angrezi main hona na-sirf yeh keh aik ghair-fitri hudd tak mushkil amal tha, balkeh waqt ke ziya ke lihaz se aik aisee infiradiyat ka haamil jis kee mutahammil kathrat-e-kaar kee maari hamari zindagi hargiz nahin ho sakti thee; so waqt kee qillat ke paish-e-nazar aur Darwinian qawaid ke ain mutabiq mazameen ne pehle to potohari-Urdu ko mahjoor kiya, aur phir khud hee ko majboor kiya keh woh nuzool hee zubaan-e-farang main farmain.
Sahibo, apne hee alfaaz kabhi kaise kaise zakhm hare` kar detey hain, tareekh gawah hai keh ‘nuzool’ aur ‘farang’ jab bhi aik jumle main ikathe warid huwe hain, kahin na kahin, kisi na kisi ko apne tashakhkhus kee jung laRna paRi hai, so hamare mazameen ke saath bhi yahee huwa – is saari Darwinian geha gahmee main hamare mazameen ne jaise taise naazil honey ka amal to jari rakha magar khud tashakhkhus ke makhmase ka shikaar ho gaye. Tispar almiyah yeh keh kawwe aur hans aur har do kee chaal kee babat mithal ke misdaaq mazameen ko zubaan-e-farang main kama haqqahu zuhoor-pazeer hona to aya nahin, aur Urdu kee pagdandi qillat-e-amad-o-raft ke sabab khudro ghaans phoons ke neechey kahin chup gayee.
Aaj barson ba’ad jo madri zubaan main apne jazbaat-o-khayalaat ko lafzi jaama pehnanae baithey to ehsaas huwa keh teen bohat peechey reh gaya hai, aur tairah hunooz aaya nahin….:(
Catch-22 is one of my all time favorite books. One could be the pain in the wrong place one almost always is and argue that it is convenient, yet immaterial, quite probably hence immaterial, to have an all time favorite book when one has read as few books as one has; but who is listening to one. One is a fool. The point here is that Catch-22 is one of my all time favorite books. There are those in blogistan who have levelled the absurd allegation that it was their all time favorite book first and that I have stolen the idea from them in making it my all time favorite book.
The allegation and its propounder HPN ( One wonders if there is a word like propounder? If there is, can it be employed in the context of an allegation rather than an idea or a theory? One is a fool for wondering.) look all the more absurd when you factor in the fact that quite probably I had read the book before HPN had, and even if I had not, I was born before him, went to school before him, finished school before him, got married before him, became a father before him, have twice the number of kids he has, and half the girth; hence my word carries more weight. If you do not see the logic in this argument, you ought to go read Catch-22.
Catch-22 was Joseph Heller’s first book. It is also widely acknowledged as his very best. His subsequent works include “Closing Time”, which was a sequel to Catch-22 and another one called “Something Happened”. While none of his other works matches Catch-22 in brilliance, “Something Happened” stands out as the one book he could have done without too. It was too boring to finish, and too boring to remember exactly what it was about, but from what I remember it was about this increasingly disfunctional family that was once not so disfunctional, and about how the four members of the family were once model family members and then because “something happened” they started changing for the worse. I am not sure if they figured out what it was that had happened to bring about that unwelcome change, or if the disfunctional family had in fact found a happy ending. I never really did get that far. It was a depressing book.
Something happened, and I think I might just know what it is. One wonders if that changes anything. One is a fool. That changes everything.
I am quite the clown. Or the comedian. I stake this claim despite the earlier post where I was wondering if I were humorous-funny anymore, or if I had turned into funny-funny already. A little more introspection, and examining of available data has led me to a new finding, which is that it is possible to be humorous-funny and funny-funny at the same time. One could argue that I could arrive at newer findings stating that the heart is in fact a knee-cap, more often the right knee-cap than not, and it is actually the air passing through a vacuum in our chests that makes that beating noise often attributed to the untiring laboring of the heart, and it would amount to little – my arriving at the newer finding that is. One can continue to argue, and I could not be bothered less. One is a fool. One ought to know that arguing is a negative trait and often an impediment to new learnings. Who is this one anyway, one wonders. And who is this second one? Oh well…
The thing is our world is cliched. The clowns and the comedians have almost always revealed a tragic side of theirs to the world. Pick up any clown’s interview or an article on one; and somewhere in there, he will gravely tell you how, deep inside, he is a very sad and sensitive person, hurt easily and often, and how making people laugh is the most difficult thing in the world, and how he does so despite his own weeping heart everyday. I am not alleging that the clowns and comedians of our world subject us to this cliche for the sheer honor of saluting this cliche, I do not think they reveal the sad side to their funny because it is what they think a comedian is expected to do. I know comedians are intelligent people. I know there is a difference between people in the comedy business and those walking the beauty pageant ramps.
Some not so funny comedians quite possibly do toe the line, but mostly they are honest people lettting the world know that laughing, as spontaneous as it might look, is a concious act at some level in the maze that is our brain; that the world cannot wait for all to be hunky dory before it begins to laugh, because it never will be hunky dory in totality until it is called heaven, and hence they laugh despite the sadness that plagues them, and so must we. But I still think this routine has become quite the cliche, and I also think that the comedians also need to understand that joy and sorrow are a part and parcel of life, of pretty much everybody’s life. Where am I headed with it all?
Pendulums, or Penduli if that is the correct plural, are interesting. Tides are interesting too. The wall on which the pendulum hangs is perhaps boring, as is the sand the tides invade and withdraw from. Funny thing is, sometimes boring is not all bad. Roller coaster rides are bad. Perhaps they are not bad, but I do not have the stomach for them. Maybe that is because I have too much stomach. Easy to get hurt in a roller-coaster ride when you have too much stomach.
Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah. I am a Muslim. I am a Muslim. I am a Muslim. Alhamdulillah too for Wifey, and Alhamdulillah for TQ and AQ. Alhamdulillah for the most wonderful friends, and Alhamdulillah for their love, patience and wisdom. I live a blessed existence. I have nothing to complain about, and yet I am guilty of nashukri – thanklessness to Allah – through words spoken, and acts committed. May Allah forgive me, may He forgive my innumerable sins, and may He make me His obedient servant.
I love my father deeply. He is the most honest, most principled, and the most straight forward human being I know. He is also the simplest man I know. Diplomacy was never his forte, and it cost him a few relationships and quite a few friends, but it also earned him the respect of one and all, and the fierce loyalty of those friends who survived his straight-talking. All his life, he has been devoted to his family. Not once did I see him get into heated arguments/disussions with anyone over anything. He believed in Allah, and he believed he had a duty – to look after his family.
Life and its challenges were black or white. There were no shades of grey. There were matters which Allah would take care of Himself, and matters he was supposed to attend to. He had his dos an don’ts quite well defined, it used to frustrate all our efforts to drag him into something he did not think he could make a difference in. Politics was one such arena. Perhaps he thought the politics of the world as well as the country would take care of itself in line with Allah’s plan, because he continued to focus on how to ensure we grew up to be good human beings. For three decades he worked tirelessly in this country, and for almost a decade now he has been running his own little set-up back home – just so his children live a most cushioned life.
It is likely that his devotion and love for his family have something to do with the fact that he grew up himself without a father. My grandfather had passed away, when my father was four years old. He grew up making his own choices, and becoming in the process a determined and no-nonsense man. Many a times, life has dealt him a raw hand, as it is wont to do; but he has seldom allowed a set-back to set him back. It was perhaps because of this reason that in an interview when I was asked who my ideal was, I had not hesitated a moment to say: “My father”.
My ideal refused to talk to me today, and told me never to call back.
I need prayers.