Random Thoughts

Floods: They have wrecked the body structure of Pakistan. Starting from the mountains in the north in KPK and protracting through the plains of southern Punjab to Sind and Baluchistan. The waters were never so high and never so wide to sweep along high buildings, bridges, houses, crops, cattle and most of all precious human lives. The dent to the infrastructure is immense. The misery of millions of our folks is heart-wrenching. People are starved of food, bereft of shelter and exposed to water rife in epidemics. What they need now is the support of us all spared by the calamity. The magnitude of the disaster makes it our obligation to try and restore the lives, pride and dignity of our people in troubled waters.

Altaf bhai: As if we were short of the disasters, bhai saab wants us to be hit by another. In his recent signature telephonic sermon the moron politician invited ‘the patriots’ in military to come forth and take over the reins of this ill-governed state (of the government he himself is a part). He acts crocodile when says he is moved by the cause of the flood-stricken – advocating the cause in his cozy London flate where he’s glued from eternity come hell or high water. And more so, his proposed military takeover to him is neither a martial law nor something unconstitutional – a marriage of both amid the larger national tragedy. He wants chaos, utter chaos!

Spot-Fixing: Let us not bash them left right and center. Let us not propose punishments. It is pre-mature. The allegations are still to be proved. Till whatever comes this latest scandal of spot-fixing by some of the Pakistan cricketers is damaging with a potential to taint the very image of Pakistan and its cricket beyond redemption. Controversies of one or the other kind has been a regular feature on the Pakistan English tours throughout history. The English media is always on a lookout to malign the gifted players from our part of the world. This is not to say our cricketers are innocent. There is a possibility of black sheep everywhere. But they ought not to be considered guilty until proved so. I feel for Aamir. He is too young, too talented to lose his reputation and career in the nasty business of match or spot-fixing. I wish he’s not the culprit!

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Nowshera Resolves

The river Kabul caressed me
through centuries of our intimacy;
our love was always young
like spring blooms in the new city.

I would sail on its back
or fish in the serenity of its heart
before the watershed–

drunken high on torrential rain,
almost insane,
the river rose to claim
the lives of my folk;
gobble my children,
plunder my crop.

But I shall not let the flood
moisten my eyes;
I’m the one
who divinity wanted to possess
with the rage of love.

Progression Of An Elegy

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

a bullet hole
from the 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,
screaming to be heard,
staggering under crimson curlicues,
intruding onto the blank peace,
of your apathy.

Life

Of all the great definitions of life brought up by many a great mind, the one that truly manifests it is short like the life itself which says, ‘it ends’. However, the enormity of trials and tribulations one suffers makes one wonder as to how come they fit into the tiniest of times an average human is allowed to spend here.

Domestic worker Shazia lived a small chunk of an average human life but the marks on her tortured body revealed an agony well beyond her 13 years.

We are largely a race of myopic merry makers, blissful in our escapism, tut-tutting phrases like, ‘life is an ice-cream; enjoy it before it melts’

The IDP’s Of Swat And Buner

Ignominy pulled the chaddars
of the heads of their womenfolk
and indignity handed begging bowls
to the men once very esteemed.
Their children flash on our tv screens
like stars but they are meteors of irony.

The protection of their homes
sulked into illusion for no fault of theirs
as they stumble upon mirage after mirage
getting hurt in the process.

The piercing holes of bullets in their souls
are beyond the therapeutic agents
but their bodies could surely be saved
from the sharpened jaws of the apocalypse.

Let they not be consumed by strife,
chasing the humans like a beast on pursuit
for we may well be the next
if it fancied the human blood.

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 …

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.