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!

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The Dual Challenge — A Repost

Below here is the repost of a poem I wrote sometimes back. It has become quite a norm when we celebrate the independence of Pakistan amid the perils to the very unity of our dear homeland courtesy a plethora of internal and external threats. Yet our hopes remain intact to see the vibes of passion and love oozing out of a common Pakistani for his/her country, every year on the 14 of August. This year too is no different; while we’ve largely succeeded in flushing out the nuisance of Talibanisation, we are yet to bring to the fold the fringe elements in Baluchistan. If cured with sincerity the ailments to our unity can be treated with the remedy of ‘the just distribution of revenue as per the sources of production in a Federating unit’. Though it would be naive to look at the scenario in total black and white, yet our history is replete with instances of troubles emerging out of the poor distribution of wealth. Its the cry of the time not to repeat the blunders we’ve made in the past, for they become history who don’t learn a thing from the history itself.

مرے خدا مجھے اتنا تو معتبر کردے

میں جس مکان میں رہتاہوں اس کو گھر کردے

Happy Independence Day To The Nation Pakistan! 🙂

A Dual Challenge:

The honest toilers; our ancestors,
collected the stones thrown at them,
and the mud slung at them, to build a house.
They mixed the ingredients with their
sweat and their blood; the color of love
To make it a home.

A few seeds of mistrust evolved into trees of
contempt in the hearts of the second generation.
And with the help of neighbors
they themselves erected a wall of separation.

The nameplate of my home which used to
read, ‘unity’ is rusted and withered since long.
Suspicion crept into our yard and settled
in every corner of the square as if
measuring a division.

I can hear the footsteps of aliens fast
approaching our home, and I’m faced
with a dual challenge; of repairing the
storm lashed doors and of wiping all
the germs of contempt.

I’ll keep the forces of ‘division’ at bay
‘Its a negative process’ said a mathematician.

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.

Mother Of A Missing Son

The post 9/11 Musharraf era in Pakistan saw an unprecedented rise in hand overs of Pakistani citizens to US investigative agencies by our own government on the pretext of cooperating with the world against terrorism, which to many, in fact, was a move to earn monitory gains on part of the government at the expense of the poor citizens keeping in view the procedure the government adopted for the purpose. Most the missing persons were abducted and handed over by the secret agencies without being trialled in any of the country’s courts. Their near and dear ones were kept completely ignorant about their faults or their whereabouts, for that matter. There still are hundreds of families trying to locate their missing ones but the chances of their success look very bleak especially in the current scenario when an illegitimate judiciary is a the helm. The deposed Chief Justice Iftikhar Chaudhry surely was a whiff of fresh air for the troubled families, who initiated sue moto actions to investigate the cases of illegal hand overs; an action which most probably led to his sacking by the all powerful Musharraf.

The poem below is a description of an old woman who lost her son in the above-mentioned circumstances.

Her eyes, ever-awake in wait,
to reflect a certain image,
lost its sheen
and turned into stones
which sprout tears
that never cease to
roll down her wrinkled cheeks.

Her arms tremble with the
burden of age, remain stretched
to embrace the missing part
of her existence.

Her heart ails with the fear
that she will be sent
on the journey of eternity
without someone to console
through goodbye whispers.

How long will she catch
the glimpses of a mirage
but her dear son?
How long an empty bosom
will mock her futile hopes?

Hope, the shine of her eyes
will rise like a new dawn
to soothe her weary self
right till she breathes her last.
Hope, she will never depart
with a heavy heart.