To The Blasphemous

If you still spit

at the Moon

you make your foul mouth

dirtier.

Ask the moon

how it split apart

in love

upon a glance

of the Beloved.

The damned no ones

of your clan

ever fail to besmirch

the countenance of Truth.

You too have tried

to sneak in wrong

into a page of history,

only to be stricken through

in time

as there is no truth to be read

between your lines.

The OBL Episode

The last couple of days have been eventfully immense. The guy who figured central in the security turnarounds in Afghanistan and Pakistan for the last 20 years or so, someone been dubbed as the most wanted person to the USA, the enigma called Osama Bin Laden is said to be killed and ‘taken out’ from a house in Abbottabad in a Sting operation conducted by the US Army. The US civilian and military leadership pronounced the news to be a great victory and ‘justice’ to the victims of the twin towers in New York. The US military took all the credit of the operation terming it their own and that they were in surveillance of the hideout for quite some time.

The details of the event as they poured in and swelled through the idiot boxes in Pakistan, made the masses bamboozled much like Osama did the world media and leadership at large. Our ‘democratic’ and military leadership were caught unawares leading the former, the PM of Pakistan to issue an abrupt statement much in the tone of Obama.

The military are still keeping mum as to what exactly transpired. The significance of the event is such that the Pakistan Army might find itself between a rock and hard place. If it confesses a role in the operation, it in effect invites the wrath of a wounded enemy; if it denies an involvement, serious questions arise over its ability to defend the national borders.

The operation itself looks dubious. The haste it involved, the city the location and the very presence of the person who suffered renal failures almost a decade ago. Somebody told this scribe that Osama had a dialysis session at the CMH Rawalpindi in the late nineties and that he was gifted a dialysis machine by the hospital administration. How on earth could an aged dialysis patient survive without constantly been treated, especially when no such equipment was found in the house that is said to have been constantly monitored and whose inhabitants are said to be aloof and isolated? Why such haste to dispose the body of the most wanted criminal on earth? And why the waters when he could be showcased to the world for the fate he met? The more one probes the matter the more deceitful the story appears. We haven’t yet forgotten Donald Rumsfeld’s confession of the false grounds Iraq was invaded on.

However twisted the story seems, the US of A delivered a decisive punch to floor an ‘ally’. The points it aimed to score are;

  • To send a message that it can strike anyone, anytime and anywhere
  • To salvage something of a war it is finding hard to win
  • To keep its ‘strategic partner’ under pressure to ‘do more’
  • To legitimize its claims of a ‘double-game’ the Pakistani spy agencies play
  • To further alienate the Pakistani masses from an erstwhile trusted Army
  • To legitimize drone insertions

These are tricky times for an energy short, ill governed Pakistan. The confidence of the people ever dwindles. The civil and military leadership need to come out firm and erase the layers of ambiguity around this whole OBL episode. We could always start afresh if the sincerity and will is there.

Another translation ..

The gifts of Globalization are many, so are its curses like colonization, wars and monopolies but since I’m sick of the wars and violence around, I deemed it appropriate to resort to poetry. Incidentally, the name of the below translated poem is also ‘Globalization’ which thankfully is having a different context.

In this modern age of Globalization

The distances have so shrunk

In a manner,

That these seem unreal

Like a dream,

Or like a mere figment

Of one’s imagination.

People in the world

Have become so close

As those living in a village

Or in a same little house.

But you and I,

The eternal unfortunates,

Are dwelling in the same city

For years,

Without a contact,

Without a relation.

We are so oblivious

Of the whereabouts of each other.

What sort of a cave,

Of the times bygone is that

Wherein we are resting?

Which kind of a season,

Or times we expect

And are waiting for?

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.

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.

A Generous World!

When the copters were

swarming the Gazans

and stinging the infants

and childs and women

and all who were living,

with the poisonous

bullets and rockets,

a Shiekh in Qatar,

(not very far)

was standing on

a carpet, red

(like blood of the innocents)

handing a trophy of gold,

(sculptured as an Eagle

like an Israeli drone)

to the winner of the

Qatar Open Tennis.

I, the sports enthusiast

couldn’t decide

which game to watch,

which one to ignore

for both were spectacles

of the same generosity;

of the Arab Shiekh,

and that of the world

giving the Israel

so much of space

to kill those

of a certain faith.