Loss

I lost my sanity

Swirling

In the iritic vortex

Of your eyes

Nothingness/Weirdness

I feel pity on this blog for the way it suffers the brunt of inactivity thanks to the rainless seasons in the barren lands of my mind. I started this to grow green pastures of optimism amid the infertility all around me, but alas!

So, the current is a rather lame effort to keep it alive for I have nothing significant to write. What about sharing with you a rather ‘funny’ incident that happened to me a couple of days back? Hmm .. let me recall it;

On the scorching last Sunday afternoon, I went out to the market to have some groceries. As I walked back towards my flat I felt as if somebody on a motorbike was chasing me. I sensed it right when he stopped right beside me and asked,

‘hello, do you live in this hostel?’, he pointed towards the nearby boys hostel.

‘no’ I replied rather politely. ‘why? is it alright?’

‘I actually have seen you somewhere. Do you go to the City gym?’ he took his helmet off, ran his fingers in those sweaty, shiny locks of his and I nodded to his query. As though in a hurry he asked my cell phone number which I couldn’t refuse. (my mannerism got the better of me, to my shock and bewilderment later). I offered him a cup of tea or cold drink which he smilingly promised for some other time later.

Later when I pondered the whole encounter, I couldn’t stop scolding myself for giving personal information to strangers out there. The thing became tricky when I received this sms like;

‘hey, it was nice to meet you yaar!’ to which I replied, ‘but I’m curious as to why you stopped and asked me those questions; tell me about yourself’.

The series of his replies incensed, shocked and amused me when he introduced himself to be an internee in a bank and showed his willingness to have with me ‘a relationship of romance’ I curbed my intention of bashing him for good and shut him up with a reply which thankfully he understood.

A friend of mine took his number and introduced himself to be somebody with an ‘open mind unlike Aadil’s conservatism’ to play a prank on the eccentric being but the ploy couldn’t work courtesy my friend’s mentioned age of 40

On a serious note, the whole episode reminded me of how moralities evaporate and how values overlap in the age of so called globalization.

P.S: Some of the details have consciously been skipped to avoid indecency. I apologize if it still is.

P.P.S: It was Farhan who prompted me to post this encounter since I mentioned it on my twitter account

A momentary lapse

You whispered the incantation
in the domes of my cobwebbed ears
and I woke in the earthen bed
as though from an afternoon nap.

Death was but a soothing escape
from the bane of your indifference–
the momentary lapse you had
in strumming the strings of my soul.

Forgive me, mother!

I wish it were only a bad dream, not a strangling reality. But since I’m typing this fully awake, having consumed my stock of your lullabies, mother, let me confess you my failures. Let me show you my broken wings that cannot take me to the stars you wanted me to touch. Let me show you my hands, bereft. My heart is no longer the one, big, where your dreams would rest; it shriveled in the autumn ever since I wowed to bring you flowers.

It sure kills me to resign to the fact. To resign to the fact that your dreams will remain vain. That I’m the culprit of betraying your hopes. But mother, I have my reasons to excuse; there’s still this giant being of fate blocking my way to reach to you, to find myself.

I’m writing this because you cannot read it. Another deceit on my part but I cannot help it. I cannot tell you the truth, mour. Neither could I keep it to myself anymore. Forgive me for being a false source of your expectations! Forgive me mother!

A Red Streak ..

A poem is coming;
oozing through a tiny opening
of the block –

a bullet hole
from left to the right hemisphere
in the skull of this waziristan child.

A poem is coming
wrapped in a blood-stained sheet
upheld in a charpoy
over the shoulders of the bereaved
of a drone strike;

is coming
with a vengeance,
stabbing my heart,
spilling blood,
tainting the blank pages
of our conscience.

Boredom

It has never been a case with me — such protraction of a phase of boredom. The current one has really stretched from days to weeks to months and I don’t know where it intends to go from here dragging me along. When I retrospect, I find some missing links, the fading glimpse of a galaxy I used to enkindle my being from. The realization is, that I lost my inspiration and I badly need some to turn this tide of nothingness.

I wish to reconnect with the people whose presence meant colors when things became dull like they are.

An evening to remember

It has been quite some time since I last attended a function of sorts at the Pakistan Academy Of Letters, so when I received this sms of invitation from Khurram Khiraam Siddiqui, the PAL editor of English I had to go there for one doesn’t always come across a person of the stature of Zulfikar Ghose, the US based poet, novelist and essayist, whom the gathering was arranged for.

I was fortunate to arrive earlier at the Editor’s office, meet the honorable Ghose sahib and exchange some pleasantries with him. Thats where I got my hands literally on a copy of the biannual anthology of the Pakistani writers, ‘The Pakistani Literature’ where translations from a variety of Pakistani languages as well as original English works of the prominent Pakistani literati are published. I flipped through pages and was pleasantly surprised to see the publication of four of my translated poems from Pushto. I conveyd my gratitude to Mr. Khiraam who enhanced my delight by showing me a heavier anthology which included pieces of translations as well as a selection of the original Pakistani English literature from 1947 to 2010, that again included a translation of mine. I requested for the contributor’s copies which the Editor generously handed me with compliments.

The function itself was a wonderful experience. Ghose sahib recited poems from his latest collection called ’50 Poems’ published by the Oxford University Press. In between the recitals of his inspiring poetry Ghose sahib delighted us with interesting anecdotes pertaining mostly to his experiences in life. There was a question-answer session in the end which again was full of information as we came to know how writers born in the third world are assigned labels in the West and how it limits the scope of a writer.

The modertator Khurram Khiraam Siddiqui (left) with Zulfikar Ghose (right)

It was an evening to remember and one would like to be a part of such enlightening gatherings more often.

Random Babble

Its been a long night. Not that I no longer love the dark companion in pain — it has its shades written all over on me — I just want to have a peek at a ray of light to distract myself to life, if there is some, that is.

But wishes wont do it I guess; I’ll have to find a bit of kerosene and a burning matchstick to flame this round mass of flesh that keeps writhing inside the cage of my ribs.

It wont be easy to bring glow to a charred existence; I’ll have to keep stoking me within to do some life.

conundrum

ہمیں بھی عرض تمنا کا ڈھب نہیں آتا

مزاج یار بھی سادہ ہے کیا کیا جائے۔۔۔

Me, my boss and my desired promotion

Faiz

تنہائی میں کیا کیا نہ تجھے یاد کیا ہے

کیا کیا نہ دل زار نے ڈھونڈھی ہیں پناہیں

آنکھوں سے لگایا ہے کبھی دست صبا کو

ڈالی ہیں کبھی گردن مہتاب میں بانہیں