The Lemonade Blog Award ..

‘Lemonade; Its cool as long as you sip it but the joy vanishes just when you finish it’, a friend would say ๐Ÿ™‚
And I’m glad to receive the lemonade in shape of an award from my friend cavaliere. I’m sure the taste of this award drink will remain with me as long this blog floats ๐Ÿ™‚

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I was conditioned to be grateful for the award lest I might lose this, so I’d like to thank cavaliere a tons, for the conditional favor that he bestowed upon me ๐Ÿ˜‰

Now I’d like to forward the coolness to blog friends like Ayesha, MZ, goonga, shivya and bmk who I know will thank me out of sheer niceties; no threats for the award to be taken back ๐Ÿ˜‰

Friends like Kashkin, Arzoo, Nayni, Nadia and others have already received the award so won’t fed them up with excessive lemonade for excess of everything is bad ๐Ÿ˜‰

Protest For Marriage

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He’s the eldest among his siblings(who all are married) ; he’s on job as a watch-keeper at a girls’ hostel in Peshawar; his father is a wealthy person, yet he’s unmarried. Being aware of his democratic right to protest, he doesn’t hold back to raise his concern. We are with him in his rightful demand to be married off! ๐Ÿ˜›

Beware parents! Don’t be oblivious to the ordeals your bachelor offsprings pass through! Get married them off, lest you won’t stand before the flooding long marchers lead by the visionary Hashmat Ali Khan (Above in the picture)! ๐Ÿ™‚

P.S (Photo courtesy: http://www.pakistaniat.com)

Asma Jee came up with a poem on the same subject theme as she dedicated it to this blogger and I’m putting it here with some hesitation coz I don’t wanna make my single-hood public courtesy the fear that I might be flooded with lots of proposals ๐Ÿ˜›

Alaika houn aur behud bechaara houn
Afsos – Mein to ik be-bus saa Kanwaara houn

Aap ki bhaabi ghar mein gar hoti
khaanay peenay ka kuchh maza hota
choodhian khanaktein ghar ke konon mein
Shab-o-roz khwaab yeh sanwaara houn

Afsos – Mein to ik be-bus saa Kanwaara houn

Bhateeja aap ka goad mein le kar
mein bhi ronaq badhhaata mehfil ki
baithta aap ke woh pehlu mein
kehta mein aap ka shehbaala houn

Afsos – Mein to ik be-bus saa kanwaara hounโ€ฆ

Thanks For Not Loving Me …

Not getting
the reciprocal love
could also be
a blessing;

I can’t thank you much,
for, how would I’ve resisted
the pull of your quagmired
affection, had you shown some?
And I’d have lost
to you, all my worth;
the concern I owe
to a world dying
below the poverty line
of love.

Though its hard to tame
a fretful heart
craving to taste
what it gave.

Yet, the pain of
your separation
doesn’t kill, as such,
hence ..
I can’t thank you much …

Via search ..

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I’ve often come across weired search terms that bring people to this blog but this one called ‘goonga palace’ is funny enough to be mentioned ๐Ÿ˜› I guess thats the name of the palace, our friend goonga might be living in; I thought its only our politicians who buy and live in palaces, though, ๐Ÿ˜‰

‘Mother of an idea.com’ is another search which makes one wonder how sort of a mother that will be! Never heard of it ๐Ÿ˜•

Internally Displaced In The War On Terror

Our house, the mixture of
mud and stones,
was feeble, yet it homed
our aspirations
in all the moods of life;
when the sun smiled,
or the clouds roared,
or the sky wept
or the winds howled.

It didn’t crumbled
with natural blows
but the man-made woes,
in the shape of shells
of metal and mortar
that over it fell
it could shield us no more

Survival took us by the hand
to a refugee camp and we
were stamped as I.D.P’s.

Our dreams, inhumed in
our rubbled home, scream
to call us back; they cry
when we beg for the bits of life.

We cannot wait to redeem
ourselves by helping our home
to stand on its feet.
We pray for the beast of
violence to retreat.

The wounds of our soul
could only be healed
with the cure of peace
in our bruised Swat.

An excerpt From Arundati Roy’s ‘The God Of Small Things’

I haven’t finished it yet. I’m in the midst of the novel and I’m totally awestruck by the sheer class of Arundati’s writing style; the structure of her sentences, the diction, the punctuation and the similies– Ah! the magnets!.

I couldn’t resist to share with you an excerpt where the writer details the procedure of the electric incineration of Ammu; the mother of Rahel, 7 and Estha, 11. Look at the melancholy oozing out of the paras.

The steel door of the incinerator went up and the muted hum of eternal fire became a red roaring. The heat lunged out at them like a famished beast. The Rahel’s Ammu was fed to it. Her hair, her skin, her smile. Her voice. The way she used Kipling to love her children before putting them to bed: We be of one blood, ye and I.Her good night kiss. The way she held her faces steady with one hand (squashed-cheeked, fish-mouthed) while she parted and combed their hair with the other. The way she held knickers out for Rahel to climb into. Left leg, right leg. All this was fed to the beast, and it was satisfied.

She was their Ammu and their Baba and she had loved them Double.

The door of the furnace clanged shut. There were no tears. The crematorium ‘In-charge’ had gone down the road for a cup of tea and didn’t come back for twenty minutes. That’s how long Chacko and Rahel had to wait for the pink receipt that would entitle them to collect Ammu’s remains. Her ashes. The grit of her bones. The teeth from her smile. The whole of her crammed into a little clay pot. Receipt No. Q498673.

Writing In Urdu

Below here are my rather amateurish efforts to write an Urdu ghazal and a poem. The prompt actually was ‘the mushaira page’ in Asma’s blog which is an interesting place for us friends to try and flex our poetic muscles ๐Ÿ˜›

The Ghazal (to be completed)

Mujhay is qaid say aazad karna, phir chalay jana,
Koi aisa hunar eejad karna, phir chalay jana

Mujhay tau dard ki saughat hi bas chahiye tum say,
Bhalay khud ko hi kitna shad karna, phir chalay jana

Mohabbat amr hay apni, jadayee wehm hay tera!
yehi tum nay kaha tha, yaad karna, phir chalay jana

Meri yeh sarzameeโ€™n bay barg hay, bay baar hay, is par
Koi tau gulsitaโ€™n aabad karna, phir chalay jana
..

The Poem: ‘Kaanch Kay Khaawb’

Kaanch ka panchi
udnay ko beytaab.

Hawa kay hathoโ€™n may
pathar hain, naya shikaar
giranay ki hay aas.

Dil daman may jaga nahi hay
har soo paday hain
kirchi kirchi khaawb.

Zid ki aag may jalta punchi
bharnay laga udan,
aik hi pathar kar gya isko
tukdo may taqseen.

Meray man may dher huay hain
is kay sabhi nishan,
dil hay lahu luhaanโ€ฆ