Going back to Aziziyah, Jeddah

It has this same old cage like living.
Same old fear of being caught doing nothing.
Same old boredom in the city of lights.
How I lived there 17 years of my life I don't know.
It's changed. Like everything else.
It's changed. But it's changed for worse.
I could never go back there to live.
But there are broken glimpses.
Five images per second.
Too slow for a movie, too fast for a slideshow.
My brain is messing with me.
Showing me pictures hidden in the back.

I am with my mom.
My brother and sister are in school.
My dad is at work.
She takes me with her to buy vegetables from this bengali with a cart.
It's too sunny.
We're both wearing flip flops.
Some Saudi guy pulls up in a car and says something.
She crushes her teeth, throws her flip flop at the car and curses.
He runs off in his car.
I'm scared so I cling to my mom.

Another day.
I want to go to the Bakala.
I think to buy batteries for my remote control car.
Usually she watches me from the balcony.
But I know if I ask my mom she will say no.
So I just leave quietly while she is taking a shower.
Some time after that I am playing with my remote control car.
She asks me where I got the batteries from.
I tell her I went to the Bakala and got them.
She's mad.
But I feel big.
I feel like I've grown a little.

Another day.
My brother comes home all shaken up.
He says he was riding around Minara Market.
And this Shurta stole his bike.
We all get in a car and go looking for the Shurta.
We don't find him.
We don't find the bike either.
My father promises him a new bike.
My mother is cursing the Shurta.
I feel bad for my brother.
I wish I was big and strong and could beat up the Shurta for stealing my brother's bike.
When I know in reality I would have just ran too.

Another day.
We go to Ikea.
I'm looking forward to playing in the room filled with colored balls.
I'm also looking forward to the ice cream and the waffle cone.

Another day.
It's my birthday.
We'll go to Toyland today.
And I'll get to pick my birthday present.
I buy this cars and tracks set.
With remote controls and magnet strips that keep the cars on the track.
Once the magnet strips get old they look like bad hair.
The batteries run out too fast.
And I always break the set by my next birthday.
But that's what I always buy again.

I could never go back there to live.
But it's just another chapter in the same old story of my life.
Stuck in moments.
Not belonging where I am, and not being where I belong.
Stuck in transit.
Living on the fringes.
Always running.
Never happy with the present.
Always regretting the past.
Trying to figure out the future.
It's just me.
It's just who I am.

Kanye West and John Mayer - Funny

John Mayer - Neon - Live

Phir Se Huns

phir se huns
seekh phir se kisi tarha
aur aaj tu
phir se huns

khol ke parde
aane de suraj ko andar
aaj tau bus
phir se huns

dil khol ke
jab dhol baje
sach bol ke tu
phir se huns

No More Signs

I don't need any more signs.
The question is, do I have the courage to heed?

Hari Siyaahi (Green Ink) - 14th August 2009

Kholo aaj,
ik nayi kitaab,
ik nayaa warq.

Likho aaj,
sufaid kaghaz pe,
hari siyaahi se.

Ism-e-markaz-e-yaqin.
Naam-e-manzil-e-muraad.

Rakho aaj,
phir az-sare-naw,
umeed-e-shan-e-istiqbaal.

Parho aaj,
dobara lafz-e-awal,
talab-e-pakistan.

Open today,
a new book,
a new page.

Write today,
on a white paper,
with green ink.

Name of this
center of our faith,
destiny of our wishes.

Have again,
anew,
hope of a glorious tomorrow.

Read today,
those first words again
upon which we demanded this land.

[Asad Khan]

Violinist David Garrett

11:11

I've denied it for the longest time as superstition. But this is too much. I can't deny it anymore.

It started happening to me a couple of years ago. I started seeing 11:11 everywhere. Mostly clocks around the house. The DVD player, the laptop, the clock in my car, everywhere I'd see 11:11 more than just a mere coincidence. I'd say about more than half the time I looked up the time and see 11:11 staring back at me. It would always be followed by a fight, an argument. Always!

After I moved to Ottawa I started seeing it less. I'd still see it, always followed by a fight or an argument.

Things had been good for a while. I hadn't seen 11:11 in months now. But today, I was just having an argument over the phone. I didn't hang up, the other person did. It was 2:41pm. But my cell phone showed me the call time elapsed. We had spoken for 11 minutes and 11 seconds.

I googled it. There are others who see it. But it doesn't seem to be a bad omen for anyone else like it is for me. I can't discount it as coincidence anymore. It's not a coincidence.

This is not a joke. I am not insane. It's like this thing is following me. I can't get rid of it. I don't know what to do. I need it to go away. Is it a sign?

Anwar Khurshid - Rag Desh - Delhi

RedBall Project by Kurt Perschke in Toronto

http://redballproject.com/toronto

Obama's Speech to the Muslim World in Cairo, Egypt

Probably his best speech after taking the white house.

Support my brother's Ride for Heart Campaign

My brother's running in Becel's Ride for Heart. You can donate any amount of money on his page here and all the money goes to the foundation ... here just read his email, it's explains it all quite well:

Dear family and friends:

I am writing to let you know of my support for a worthy cause that is very close to my heart. I am participating in the Becel Heart&Stroke Ride for Heart on Sunday, June 7, 2009 and I am trying to raise funds to support breakthrough medical advances, social change and health education.

Did you know that heart disease and stroke is responsible for 1 in 3 Canadian deaths each year? It is a staggering statistic. With your help the Heart and Stroke Foundation can continue to lead the way in protecting the health of millions of Canadians at risk of heart disease and stroke - today, and for generations to come.

Follow this link to visit my personal web page and for more details on the Heart and Stroke Foundation of Ontario.

Sincerely,

Azhar Khan
PS: I plan to extend my 6th streak to 100km this year!

Can we live without the Internet for a day, a week, a month?

Here's a thought. If the whole world's internet structure was shut off for a week, what would be the impact? A total chaos of course in most cases; think aviation: e-tickets, self check-in; think commerce: amazon, ebay, e-trading, salesforce; think healthcare: teleradiology, online patient records, etc.

But I wonder what would be the human impact. How would we emotionally react to being offline? Would we throw our hands up in the air, go out in the park for a picnic, spend more time with our families, read a book? Or would we stress every minute of the week trying to connect ourselves back in any way possible to the world wide web.

It's an addiction. Isn't it?

Things I learnt from My trip to Saudi Arabia & Dubai

I was thinking about writing a detailed, emotive piece upon my return, but seeing that I don't have any time (I am being forced to fly to Minnesotta on Monday ... what!?) I will resort to bullet point form:

- Emirates Airlines is the worst possible airline ever. Maybe it was good some years back. Maybe it will be good again. But I will never fly Emirates again.

- Dubai is overrated. The only thing I see good in it for me, is its proximity to Pakistan.

- Saudis are still the laziest bunch of ... saudis. No other word can describe them.

- My dad can still go miles with his Arabic skills, and he totally saved the day on numerous occassions including at the airport. Without him it would have taken us 4 hours to get out of the airport. With him, it took us 3 and a half.

- Emirates Airlines has the worst customer service ever. At one point an old passenger asked one of the hostesses when they will be serving food (it had been 5 hours), and the response was exactly this: "We don't know sir! We are not robots!"

- Apparently I got some good friends that I hadn't met in 12 years or kept in touch with. My friend Iftikhar came not only to pick us up, but on the way back to Jeddah we practically lived at his place. He majorly skipped work to be with us, and was helpful in every way. Arsalan was another friend I hadn't met in a long time and was totally there for us the whole time. Like he said, "No matter after how many years you meet your old friends. You pick up where you left off".

- The food in Saudi Arabia has totally gone south. I was totally looking forward to the food and man it was horrible. Yes, people, even Al-Baik! I had it once, and I didn't want to have it again. Seriously. Very disappointed. Very sad. Imagine this. Near Haram in Makkah, the only "Shawarma" you can find is made with dry chicken and cabbage only. Cabbage!? Seriously!?

- Emirates Airlines has the worst customer service ever. One of the hosts dropped dirty stacked food trays on my mother while walking by her (she was sitting in the isle seat), stopped, apologized, said he'd be back with napkins, and never came back.

- I like living in Canada. And being away from Canada to a country other than Pakistan, made me realize: if not Pakistan, then Canada. If not Canada, then Pakistan. Nothing else.

- Emirates Airlines is just fucked up bad. They gave my dad's No Sodium meal to some other passenger by mistake.

Guitar Idol - Vote for Faraz Anwar

Here is an email I got today. I've already voted. Make sure you do as well.

*Guitar idol* is an online talent search for unknown guitarist
throughout the world, the guitarists compete through 3 online heats
and one online knock-out round, for a chance to fill 12 places to play
at the London International Music Show

*Faraz Anwar* is the only *Pakistani* to enter into the Online
Knock-Out Round. His Instrumental “Autumn Madness” was highly
appreciated which was uploaded on March 16th and received *720 votes*
in a short span of two weeks claiming *2nd place* to enter into the
Online Knock-Out Round.

/*Vote here

*/http://www.guitaridol.tv/online_final/entry/autumn_madness

I am for Art - Claes Oldenburg

I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum.

I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given the chance of having a staring point of zero.

I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap & still comes out on top.

I am for an art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary.

I am for an art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself.


I am for an artist who vanishes, turning up in a white cap painting signs or hallways.


I am for an art that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in the sky.

I am for an art that spills out of an old man's purse when he is bounced off a passing fender.

I am for the art out of a doggy's mouth, falling five stories from the roof.

I am for the art that a kid licks, after peeling away the wrapper.

I am for an art that joggles like everyones knees, when the bus traverses an excavation.

I am for art that is smoked, like a cigarette, smells, like a pair of shoes.

I am for art that flaps like a flag or helps blow noses, like a handkerchief.

I am for art that is put on and taken off, like pants, which develops holes, like socks, which is eaten, like a piece of pie, or abandoned with great contempt, like a piece of shit.


I am for art covered with bandages, I am for art that limps and rolls and runs and jumps. I am for art comes in a can or washes up on the shore.

I am for art that coils and grunts like a wrestler. I am for art that sheds hair.

I am for art you can sit on. I am for art you can pick your nose with or stub your toes on.

I am for art from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the edge of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on the wrist.

I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches.


I am for the art of conversation between the sidewalk and a blind mans metal stick.

I am for the art that grows in a pot, that comes down out of the skies at night, like lightning, that hides in the clouds and growls. I am for art that is flipped on and off with a switch.

I am for art that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your sweetys arm, or kiss, like a pet dog. Which expands and squeaks, like an accordion, which you can spill your dinner on, like an old tablecloth.

I am for an art that you can hammer with, stitch with, sew with, paste with, file with.

I am for an art that tells you the time of day, or where such and such a street is.

I am for an art that helps old ladies across the street.

I am for the art of the washing machine. I am for the art of a government check. I am for the art of last wars raincoat.

I am for the art that comes up in fogs from sewer-holes in winter. I am for the art that splits when you step on a frozen puddle. I am for the worms art inside the apple. I am for the art of sweat that develops between crossed legs.

I am for the art of neck-hair and caked tea-cups, for the art between the tines of restaurant forks, for odor of boiling dishwater.

I am for the art of sailing on Sunday, and the art of red and white gasoline pumps.

I am for the art of bright blue factory columns and blinking biscuit signs.

I am for the art of cheap plaster and enamel. I am for the art of worn marble and smashed slate. I am for the art of rolling cobblestones and sliding sand. I am for the art of slag and black coal. I am for the art of dead birds.

I am for the art of scratchings in the asphalt, daubing at the walls. I am for the art of bending and kicking metal and breaking glass, and pulling at things to make them fall down.


I am for the art of punching and skinned knees and sat-on bananas. I am for the art of kids' smells. I am for the art of mama-babble.

I am for the art of bar-babble, tooth-picking, beerdrinking, egg-salting, in-sulting. I am for the art of falling off a bartstool.


I am for the art of underwear and the art of taxicabs. I am for the art of ice-cream cones dropped on concrete. I am for the majestic art of dog-turds, rising like cathedrals.

I am for the blinking arts, lighting up the night. I am for art falling, splashing, wiggling, jumping, going on and off.

I am for the art of fat truck-tires and black eyes.

I am for Kool-art, 7-UP art, Pepsi-art, Sunshine art, 39 cents art, 15 cents art, Vatronol Art, Dro-bomb art, Vam art, Menthol art, L & M art Ex-lax art, Venida art, Heaven Hill art, Pamryl art, San-o-med art, Rx art, 9.99 art, Now art, New ar, How art, Fire sale art, Last Chance art, Only art, Diamond art, Tomorrow art, Franks art, Ducks art, Meat-o-rama art.

I am for the art of bread wet by rain. I am for the rat's dance between floors. I am for the art of flies walking on a slick pear in the electric light. I am for the art of soggy onions and firm green shoots. I am for the art of clicking among the nuts when the roaches come and go. I am for the brown sad art of rotting apples.

I am for the art of meowls and clatter of cats and for the art of their dumb electric eyes.

I am for the white art of refigerators and their muscular openings and closing.

I am for the art of rust and mold. I am for the art of hearts, funeral hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat. I am for the art of worn meathooks and singing barrels of red, white, blue and yellow meat.

I am for the art of things lost or thrown away, coming home from school. I am for the art of cock-and-ball trees and flying cows and the noise of rectangles and squares. I am for for the art of crayons and weak grey pencil-lead, and grainy wash and sticky oil paint, and the art of windshield wipers and the art of the finger on a cold window, on dusty steel or in the bubbles on the sides of a bathtub.

I am for the art of teddy-bears and guns and decapitated rabbits, explodes umbrellas, raped beds, chairs with their brown bones broken, burning trees, firecracker ends, chicken bones, pigeon bones, and boxes with men sleeping in them.


I am for the art of slightly rotten funeral flowers, hung bloody rabbits and wrinkly yellow chickens, bass drums & tambourines, and plastic phonographs.

I am for the art of abandoned boxes, tied like pharohs. I am for an art of watertanks and speeding clouds and flapping shades.

I am for U.S. Government Inspected Art, Grade A art, Regular Price art, Yellow Ripe art, Extra Fancy art, Ready-to-eat art, Best-for-less art, Ready-to-cook art, Fully cleaned art, Spend Less art, Eat Better art, Ham art, Pork art, chicken art, tomato art, bana art, apple art, turkey art, cake art, cookie art.


add:

I am for an art that is combed down, that is hung from each ear, that is laid on the lips and under the eyes, that is shaved from the legs, that is burshed on the teeth, that is fixed on the thighs, that is slipped on the foot.


square which becomes blobby



May 1961

Great Home Recording Blog

I found this great (but seemingly now dead; last post was May of 2008) blog on Home Recording. It has some great articles to refresh one's memory before one starts recording again. One could be me.

http://www.hometracked.com/

Global Financial Meltdown - Made Easy Lahori Style

I usually delete email forwards right from the Inbox without opening, but my brother sent me this one (who otherwise never does), and it's definitely a very good read on how good old greed got the whole world into the current economic shithole.

Pajja is the proprietor of a Siri-Paya and Nehari Shop in Lahore. Sales are low
and, in order to increase them, he comes up with a plan to allow his customers
to eat now and pay later. He keeps track of the meals consumed on a ledger.

Word gets around and as a result increasing numbers of customers flock
to Pajja’s shop. Pajja’s suppliers are delighted and are very willing to sell
more and more raw materials for the meals he prepares. Pajja shows them his
ledger of receivables and they extend him credit.

A young and dynamic customer service consultant at the local bank recognizes these customer debts as valuable future assets and gives Pajja a credit line and then increases Pajja’s borrowing limit.

Taking advantage of his customers' freedom from immediate payment constraints, Pajja jacks up the prices of his Nehari and Siri-Paye. Customers dont mind as they are not required to pay on the spot. Sales volume increases massively; Banks and suppliers lend more; Pajja opens more outlets. He sees no reason for undue concern since he has the debts of the customers as collateral.

At the bank's corporate headquarters, expert bankers recognize Pajja's customer loans as assets and transform these customer assets into BONDS. These negotiable instruments are given exotic names such as SIRIBOND, PAYABOND, MAGHAZBOND AND BONGBOND. These securities are then listed on the Stock Exchange and traded on markets worldwide. No one really understands what the names mean and how the securities are guaranteed but, nevertheless, as their prices continuously climb, the securities become top-selling items.

One day, although the prices are still climbing, a credit risk manager of the bank decides that the time has come to demand payment of one of the debts incurred by Pajja. Pajja in turn asks his clients to pay up. One by one they refuse; the clients cannot pay back the debts. Pajja refuses to serve them any more. The clients stop coming.

Pajja is really screwed now. He cannot fulfill his loan obligations and therefore claims bankruptcy.All Bonds drop in price by between 80 to 95%.

The suppliers of Pajja, having granted generous payment due dates and having invested in the securities are faced with similar problems. The meat supplier defaults on payment to the sheep and cattle supplier and claims bankruptcy. The atta supplier is taken over by a competitor; Pajja lays off the cook and staff. Bankruptcies soar, unemployment mushrooms.

The bank that lent the money in the first place is set to collapse. It is saved by the Government following dramatic round-the-clock consultations by leaders from the governing political parties with Pajja commuting back and forth in his Executive jet and Mercedes 500SEL, brokering the deal.

The funds required to save the economic collapse are obtained by a tax levied on the
citizens, most of whom do not eat Nehari or Siri-paye.

Daniyal Mueenuddin's "In Other Rooms, Other Wonders"

Finished reading Daniyal Mueenuddin's "In Other Rooms, Other Wonders". It's a great read and beautifully written. It's a collection of short stories, all surrounding a central character of K. K. Harouni, a landlord and a businessman. Almost all the short stories offer different shades of life, mostly in the skin of a woman. And these shades, when put together, certainly offer a complete palette of emotions and characteristics a human being can possibly exhibit, again focusing mostly on women in a contemporary Pakistan. His stories also reveal many purposes and reasons for love. Love for conformity, love for survival, love for passion, love for lack of other excitement, love for an abundance of unwanted solitude, love for desire to rise above one's status. All perfectly valid reasons for love, though hardly admitted in favour of romanticism.

If anyone else has read this book, I would like to hear what they thought. Also, I couldn't figure out how the story Lily was associated to K. K. Harouni. It seems a bit odd that only this one story won't have any mention of what otherwise seems like a joining character. Anyone?

And what the hell is that on the cover? It's a human figure obviously, but what exactly is it? The picture within resembles a mughal character, but the outline seems like ... someone mid-air with a basketball!?

Little Appreciation

Despite my efforts, I keep getting side swiped and am unable to get back into music. It is unbelievable how much music was a part of me, and how much it is not anymore. Since moving to Ottawa, I've slowly brought all my music equipment here and I was planning on putting it altogether today. I woke up to find this email titled "Little Appreciation" from Jawad Raza sitting in my Inbox. I don't know Jawad but his email definitely did give me a little push to actually get up and setup my "studio".

Dear

This e mail is little token of appreciation specially Two songs are very
well composed and impression is good. ( atleast i like these two most )

1: Is Lamhe ( this song from A to z is your effort ) i like it most
2:Ridaa

this e mail is very late i know but atleast i have album NOW, actually i
stop listening to most local bands bcoz they are more commercial unlike
before.

thanks again for these beautiful songs.

Regards
Jawad RazaLahore ( Pakistan )

Why Pakistan Lost Ankhur

I found a great article on Rediff regarding Operation Grand Slam prior to the 1965 war. You can read more about it here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Grand_Slam

and read the original article by Brigadier Shaukat Qadir here:

http://in.rediff.com/news/2005/sep/09war1.htm

23rd March

Facebook Readers: Go to asadkhanonline.blogspot.com to see the full entry.

Birthday = Canon 40D, Books, Malaysian Food & Good Math

It was my birthday two days ago. I have always been a bit of a math and number freak. I like to add numbers on car plates and make interesting patterns with alphabets, etc. I also like to count my foot steps, or try to even them out if the pavement is done up in blocks. The other day I figured that you can always add the first two and the last two digits of the current year and you will have my age! 2009 means 20 + 09 = 29!

Some would call this obsessive compulsive disorder. I just think its good math.

BTW, Meem got me a Canon 40D (oh my God where have you been all my life my love! 40D not Meem).

And my friend Amna took us out to this Malaysian restaurant called Chayaya Malaysia. It was the first time I had Malaysian food, and it was awesome!

Faiz - Nisaar Me Teri Galiyon Ke Ae Watan

The despairing history of our 60 some years of confusion has less for us to boast about. But this despair has led to some of this land's brightest stars to shine everso brightly. Faiz saahib's piece Nisar Me Teri Galiyon rings true today ever more than it did when it was originally written, and tomorrow, maybe even moreso.

Here is a youtube of Zia Mohyeddin reciting this piece by Faiz (though I'm not too fond of the display pictures used). I have added below the original piece with translation for those interested.



Nisaar main teri galiyon peh ai watan, keh jahan
Chali hai rasm keh koi na sar utha keh chale
Jo koi chahane wala tawaaf ko nikale
Nazar chura keh chale, jism-o-jan bacha keh chale

Hai ahel-e-dil ke liye ab yeh nazm-e-bast-o-kushaad
Keh sang-o-khisht muqayyad hain aur sag aazad

Bahut hain zulm keh dast-e-bahana-ju keh liye
Jo chund ahel-e-junoon tere naam leva hain
Baney hain ahel-e-hawas muddai bhi, munsif bhi
Kise wakil karen, kis-se munsifi chahen

Magar Guzaarane walon ke din guzarate hain
Tere firaq mein yun subah-o-shaam karate hain

Bujha jo raozan-e-zindan to dil yeh samajha hai
Keh teri maang sitaron se bhar gai hogi
Chamak uthe hain salasil to humne jaana hai
Keh ab sahar tere rukh par bikhar gai hogi

Gharaz tasavur-e-shaam-o-sahar mein jeete hai
Giraft-e-saaya-e-diwaar-o-dar mein jeete hain

Yuhin hamesha ulajhati rahi hai zulm se khalq
Na unki rasm nai hai, na apni reet nai
Yuhin hamesha khilaye hain humne aag mein phool
Na unki haar nai hai na apni jeet nai

Isi sabab se falak ka gilaa nahin karate
Tere firaq mein hum dil bura nahin karate

Gar aaj tujhse juda hain to kal baham hongey
Yeh raat bhar ki judai to koi baat nahin
Gar aaj auj peh hai taal-e-raqib to kya
Yeh chaar din ki khudai to koi baat nahin

Jo tujhse ahad-o-wafa ustuvaar rakhate hain
Ilaaj-e-gardishe lailo-nihaar rakhate hain.

--

I give my life to your alleys, o nation, where
custom now dictates that one walk with head bowed,
when a lover leaves on a pilgrimage to love,
he must guard his eye, his body, his life.

Here, then, is the new order of freedom, O heart
Stones and bricks are in captivity and dogs run free.

Many are the pretenses for the oppressor’s hand
for the few who, in madness, take your name
the ones crazed by lust are both the accusers and the judges
who can we get to make our case? from whom can we seek justice?

Yet the days go by for those who can,
in your separation, turn dusk to dawn.

Now that the prison’s window has turned off
we know that stars must have decorated your hair.
Now that these chains are sparkling
we know that the day must have illuminated your face.

And so we live, imagining dawns and dusks
And so we live, gripped by the shadow of these prison walls

Such has always been, this struggle between oppressor and oppressed
Neither are their customs new, nor our paths new
Such has always been, that we grew flowers amid fire
Neither is their defeat new, nor is our triumph new.

Which is why, we don’t offer complains to the sky
Which is why, we don’t mourn being away from you

If today we are apart, tomorrow we will be together
this separation for a night is nothing,
If today the rival’s sun is high, so what?
this god for four days is nothing.

Those who maintain their oath of fidelity to you
they possess the cure for the circulation of night and day.

Presence of democratic person at presidency proved (Oxymoron)

The dashing Zardari only restored the handsome, drop dead gorgeous ex CJ because he was cornered and had no option left but to save his face.

Let's not fool ourselves ...

http://www.thenews.com.pk/updates.asp?id=71744

I need a Canon 5D Mark II

It's not a want. It's not a like to have. It's not a desire. It's a need my people!

I need a Canon 5D Mark II.

Reason for this need (there are plenty, but at the moment): the fucking HD videos this beast can capture.

This is what will turn me into the superhero that will save the world! Now where's my cape!



Anth cheez hai yaar! Anth!

Sherry Rehman: "Jaao Me Nahi Khelti!"

The gallant, the valient, the martyr in the name of democracy and justice, Sherry Rehman has resigned from her post as Information Minister to protest media restrictions. She handed her resignation to Gillani. Interestingly, she will not have to answer for government's crackdown on Geo anymore.

Now, I am taking bets on how long before Gillani overturns her resignation and begs her to continue her devotional and selfless services for the welfare and betterment of Pakistan.

Bets anyone?

In a related news item, it seems Zardari is losing his friends quickly. Sherry and Gillani already seem upset with him, and he seems to be playing hard ball with not only Kayani but also US and British diplomats. This, in Pakistan at least, is usually a fine combination for someone getting ready to go down hill (which makes me partially happy). Though, appearance of Kayani in political corridoors once again is a little unsettling.

http://www.thenews.com.pk/top_story_detail.asp?Id=20902

The soap opera continues.

[Update - March 16, 2009]
PM wants Sherry back in cabinet
http://www.thenews.com.pk/top_story_detail.asp?Id=20946

SaudiWoman's Blog

I left Saudi Arabia in 1997 and I haven't been back since. Before coming to Canada, I lived in KSA for about 16 years! I am going next month with my parents and wife for Umrah. Though I haven't missed KSA much since I left, this is going to be an interesting and possibly nostalgic trip. I was planning on taking my shorts (that are, I must add, below knee length), but my parents and wife quickly reminded me that I won't be able to, not in KSA at least. Despite having lived there for so long, I had forgotten such important but minor details, and I tried remembering if I had ever worn shorts during those 16 years. I realized that I probably had when I was little, but not after I was even 8 or 9.

Anyways, here is an interesting blog I found: http://saudiwoman.wordpress.com/. In her own words, she is:

My name is Eman Al Nafjan and I’m a mother of three or at least I try to
be. I also have a full time job as an English lecturer at a health sciences
university in Riyadh. So many non Arabs and non Saudis out there giving “expert”
opinions on life and culture here, hence my blog. Get it straight from the
source: Saudi, genetically wahabi and a woman.

Aligarh Tarana

My father is an Aligarian. He did his schooling, and B. Sc. in Electrical Engineering from Aligarh Muslim University. I found this very interesting piece of history on the anthem of Aligarh from aligarhnama.blogspot.com:

Aligarh Tarana is to Aligarh Muslim University(AMU) what any college song is to a college. When Pandit Jawahar Lal Nehru visited Aligarh Muslim University, he enquired the students and authorities about their college song or something like it. Having got no concrete answer, he expressed his surprise by saying, "It is very strange that a prestigious university as AMU doesn't have its own college song. " These remarks put a student to unrest and he spent a restless night on this idea. The very next morning, he was ready with a masterpiece which went on to be reckoned as AMU Tarana after being sung at the Strachey Hall for the first time. What a tribute from a disciple to his Alma Mater !!! What a face saving act !!! That great student was Majaz Lakhnawi - the poet.

Majaz Lakhnawi is a very famous Urdu poet of India. His sister Safia Akhtar, was a teacher and writer herself. She married Jan Nisar Akhtar, another Urdu poet from India, and gave birth to Javed Akhtar, the Indian lyricist and script writer.

There are some good audio versions of the anthem, but the only ones I could find on youtube were these mortified Indian movie choirs that totally kill the original version I remember hearing from my childhood. Abbu had this tape of AMU with the original version.

Here is the roman script of the Aligarh Tarana:

ye meraa chaman hai meraa chaman, maiN apne chaman kaa bulbul huuN
sarshaar-e-nigaah-e-nargis huuN, paa-bastaa-e-gesuu-sumbul huuN

(chaman : garden; bulbul : nightingale; sarshaar : overflowing, soaked; nigaah : sight; nargis :flower, Narcissus; paa-bastaa : embedded; gesuu : tresses; sumbul : a plant of sweet odor)

har aan yahaaN sehbaa-e-kuhan ek saaGhar-e-nau meN dhaltii hai
kalioN se husn tapaktaa hai, phuuloN se javaanii ubaltii hai

(sehbaa-e-kuhan : old wine; saaGhar-e-nau : new goblet)

jo taaq-e-haram meN roshan hai, vo shamaa yahaaN bhii jaltii hai
is dasht ke goshe-goshe se, ek juu-e-hayaat ubaltii hai

(taaq-e-haram : vault in the sacred territory of Mecca; roshan : glowing; shamaa : flame; dasht : wilderness, desert; goshaa : corner; juu-e-hayaat : stream of life)

Islam ke is but-Khaane meN asnaam bhii haiN aur Aazaar bhii
tahziib ke is mai-Khaane meN shamshiir bhii hai aur saaGhar bhii

(but-Khaanaa : temple; asnaam : idols; Aazaar : Abraham’s father, an idol-worshipper; tahziib : culture; shamshiir : sword; saaGhar : wine goblet)

yaaN husn kii barq chamaktii hai, yaaN nuur kii baarish hotii hai
har aah yahaaN ek naGhmaa hai, har ashk yahaaN ek motii hai

(barq : lightening; nuur : light)

har shaam hai shaam-e-Misr yahaaN, har shab hai shab-e-Sheeraz yahaaN
hai saare jahaaN kaa soz yahaaN aur saare jahaaN kaa saaz yahaaN

(shaam-e-Misr : evenings of Egpyt; shab-e-Sheeraz : nights of Sheeraz, a famous city of Iran; soz : pain)

ye dasht-e-junuuN diivaanoN kaa, ye bazm-e-vafaa parvaanoN kii
ye shahr-e-tarab ruumaanoN kaa, ye Khuld-e-bariiN armaanoN kii

(dasht : desert, wilderness; junuuN : frenzy; bazm : gathering; vafaa : faithfulness; shahr-e-tarab : city of mirth; Khuld-e-bariiN : sublime paradise; armaan : hope)

fitrat ne sikhaii hai ham ko, uftaad yahaaN parvaaz yahaaN
gaaye haiN vafaa ke giit yahaaN, chheRaa hai junuuN kaa saaz yahaaN

(fitrat : nature; uftaad : beginning of life; parvaaz : flight; saaz : song on an instrument)

is farsh se hamne uR uR kar aflaak ke taare toRe haiN
nahiid se kii hai sargoshi, parviin se rishte joRe hain

(farsh : base; aflaak : heavens; nahiid : Venus; parviin : Pleiades)

is bazm meN teGheN khenchiiN haiN, is bazm meN saGhar toRe haiN
is bazm meN aanKh bichaa’ii hai, is bazm meN dil tak joRe haiN

(teGh : swords; saGhar : goblet)

is bazm meN neze khenche haiN, is bazm meN Khanjar chuume haiN
is bazm meN gir-gir taRpe haiN, is bazm meN pii kar jhuume haiN

(neze : spears; Khanjar : dagger; bazm : gathering)

aa aa kar hazaaroN baar yahaaN Khud aag bhii hamne lagaayii hai
phir saare jahaaN ne dekhaa hai ye aag hamiin ne bujha’ii hai

yahaaN ham ne kamandeN daalii haiN, yahaaN hamne shab-Khuun maare haiN
yahaaN ham ne qabaayeN nochii haiN, yahaaN hamne taaj utaare haiN

(kamand : a noose; shab-KhuuN : night raids; qabaayeN : flight)
har aah hai Khud taasiir yahaaN, har Khvaab hai Khud taabiir yahaaN
tadbiir ke paa-e-sangiiN per jhuk jaati hai taqdiir yahaaN

(aah : sigh; taasiir : effect; taabiir : interpretation; tadbiir : forethought; paa-e-sangiiN : firm footing; taqdiir : destiny)

zarraat kaa bosaa lene ko, sau baar jhukaa aakaash yahaaN
Khud aankh se ham ne dekhii hai, baatil kii shikast-e-faash yahaaN

(zarraat : dust; bosaa : kiss; baatil : evil; shikast-e-faash: clear defeat)

is gul-kadah paariinaa meN phir aag bhaRakne vaali hai
phir abr garajne vaale haiN, phir barq kaRakne vaali hai

(gul-kadah : garden; pariinaa : ancient; abr : cloud; barq : lightening)
jo abr yahaaN se uThThega, vo saare jahaaN par barsegaa
har juu-e-ravaan par barsegaa, har koh-e-garaaN par barsegaa

(abr : cloud; juu-e-ravaan : flowing streams; koh-e-garaaN : big mountains)

har sard-o-saman par barsegaa, har dasht-o-daman par barsegaa
Khud apne chaman par barsegaa, GhairoN ke chaman par barsegaa

(sard-o-saman : open and shelter; dasht-o-daman : wild and subdued; qasr-e-tarab : citadel of joy)

har shahr-e-tarab par garjegaa, har qasr-e-tarab par kaRkegaa
ye abr hameshaa barsaa hai, ye abr hameshaa barsegaa

(shahr-e-tarab : city of joy; qasr-e-tarab : citadel of joy)

Kia yeh me hoon?

Kia yeh me hoon?
Kia yeh tum ho?
Kia yeh waqt hai?
Kia yeh dil hai?
Mizaaj hai?
Kyoun har seedha rasta,
halkaa hai mere hee gird?
Kia yeh qismat hai?
Kia yeh khush hai?
Kia yeh bad hai?
Kia yeh lekha hai?
Kia nahi ho sakta abaad
Sivaaye tumhaari barbaadi ke?

Is it me?
Is it you?
Is it time?
Is it heart?
Is it mood?
Why each straight path
bends into a circle around me?
Is it kismet?
Is it well?
Is it unwell?
Is it luck?
Is it not possible that I may flourish
unless you decay?

My Favourite Music Right Now: Frou Frou

Everyone must listen to this duo from UK. They only released one album in 2002 titled "Details". My favourite line is from their song "Hear Me Out" (not listed here); it goes "I'm a slow motion accident, lost in coffee rings and fingerprints" ...

Why I hate My School

My sister sent me a link to my old school “Pakistan Embassy School Jeddah” or as it is called now “Pakistan International School Jeddah”. Looking through the pictures I decided to write the following piece.
--


If I were to believe that there is any level of sensibility or intelligence in me today, and if I were to trace that sensibility back to my forming years, I will end up with the picture of a young, scared, schoolboy standing in front of a mammoth white colored building with black minaret shaped windows covered with slanted sills that intercepted glances both in and outwards. As the years would go by, this schoolboy will become an awkward, under confident teen who believed very less in much anything including himself. This was my school. The first, and for a majority of my learning years, the only place I had known to call by that name. There are so many memories in those hallways, very few of which leave me with a smile on my face.


I am, I suppose, by most definitions what you would consider a modestly successful individual today. And yet I refuse to give credit for any of what little I have achieved to the school I went to or the teachers I met from when I was five years old, through my preteen years, till I finished high school and finally left for Canada when I was seventeen. Am I ungrateful? I know some of my friends from the same school will say I am. I’ve become a Gora! I’ve forgotten where I’ve come from. Well, forgotten, my dear friends, I haven’t. Let me remember.


I am in grade 4 or maybe 5. There are about sixty or seventy kids stuffed in my classroom. Our scheduled class is for Urdu or Islamiat, I can’t remember, and the teacher hasn’t shown up yet. What do you get when you leave that many kids unattended in a classroom? Noise! We weren’t breaking things, climbing off the fans, or beating the crap out of each other. We were simply talking. That many hyper ten year olds and things can get a little loud. About fifteen minutes into the unattended class, in walks a random teacher. I can’t remember who it was anymore, but I think he was the Vice Principal at the time. I don’t remember his name, but I do remember he wore a clean white Shalwar Kameez and had a neatly trimmed beard. He walks in and the whole class goes silent almost instantly. He asks for the class monitor. A chubby kid with a lisp we found funny named Mubarak Ali stands up and walks over to where the teacher is standing next to the teachers’ desk. He asks the rest of us to go and stand at the back of the class and raise our arms in the air. I get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. The teacher spends the next fifteen minutes meticulously beating the crap out of Mubarak as if he is a grown man his own age. He slaps him, punches him, kicks him when he falls to the floor, picks him up and throws him about on chairs and desks. We all stand at the back of the class, horrified, not sympathizing with Mubarak but rather hoping that it won’t come to us after he is through with Mubarak. After he has had enough, he leaves Mubarak where he lies and sits on the teachers’ chair. He remains motionless for the rest of the class staring blankly at us with no expression on his face whatsoever. The class bell rings, the next scheduled teacher comes to the class, he leaves, Mubarak crawls back to his chair in the front row, the rest of us retrieve to wherever we were sitting and start taking down notes as the next teacher starts to scribble on the board.


I am in grade 6. Arabic is one of the compulsory subjects in grade 6, 7 and 8. Sir Baaqi, who teaches us Arabic, is one of my favourite teachers. He is quite methodical in his ways. Every day he gives us homework, the next day he takes our copies, checks our work and then returns it the following day. The day we don’t have our copies we have an oral quiz. Today he is returning our work. He always has a gentle smile on his face and has an intelligent sense of humour. He walks in with a pile of copies in his hands reaching up to his nose. He places them on the desk, settles down on the chair, takes off his white namaz cap and places it besides the pile of copies. Most of the copies have some folded pages. He picks up the first copy, reads out the name of the student the copy belongs to, flips open the folded pages, and reads out loud the mistakes on the folded page. The student whose name he just announced starts walking towards the desk. As he reaches out to grab his copy, before he can take it, he extends his arm out. Sir Baaqi takes a wooden ruler he keeps in the drawer and slaps him on his open palm. Each folded page earns one slap. The sound of the wooden ruler hitting the flat open palm resonates in an otherwise silent room. The student then takes his copy and walks back to his chair. Sir Baaqi picks up the next copy and reads out my name. I get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.


I am in grade 7 or 8. The school has ended but I am hanging out with two of my classmates in the corridors. They are talking about this other classmate and our English teacher Sir Khush Haal Khan Khatak, who pronounces "that" as "date". I don’t understand what they are saying but there seems to be an underlying sense of adventure, so I tag along. They go into different classrooms and I follow but they are all empty. I ask them who or what they are looking for and they say Chaudhry. I don’t like him. He is this whiny little kid with delicate features. I think he is selfish because he won’t share and let me copy his schoolwork for the days I stay home pretending to be sick. Regardless, I don’t feel like going home yet so I keep following them. Finally we enter this one classroom and we find Chaudhry. Sir Khatak is also there who upon seeing us jumps a little and then hides behind his desk. I get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. He is holding on to Chaudhry who now has a scared and embarrassed look on his face. Sir Khatak lets go of Chaudhry and fumbles up a sentence about his good work. There is nothing written on the board and there is no book or copy anywhere. Chaudhry’s schoolbag is lying at the entrance door. Chaudhry quickly walks past us, grabs his schoolbag and runs out. Sir Khatak looks at us angrily and we run out into the corridor too. As I am running behind my two classmates, I hear one of them smirk and exclaim to the other, "Me ne kahaa thaa naa Sir Khatak londay baaz hain!" I don’t want to hang out with them anymore. I lose them and head home.


I am in grade 8. I had been begging a friend of mine to give me his copy of the new Vital Signs cassette. I promise him I will make a copy at home and return it to him the next day. He finally caves in and gives it to me. I have it in my bag and I can’t wait to go home, and listen to it while making a copy in my parents’ Kenwood "deck". The last class of the day is Urdu and I can barely wait for it to be over. The teacher walks in and he has a walkman, a video tape and some firecrackers in his hand. He slaps them on the desk and gives us a lecture about bringing prohibited things on the school premise. He then starts checking our schoolbags randomly. I pray to God he doesn’t check mine. He walks in the isles looking for his next random victim. He is looking at everyone’s face trying to read who’s hiding something. He pounces on this one student’s bag, unzips it and starts fondling the contents. He takes out his half eaten lunch wrapped in foil, smells it jokingly and tosses it back in. Everyone laughs cautiously. He has his arms folded at his back and walks slowly isle to isle finally reaching the one that I am sitting in. I don’t look him in the eye but keep looking straight. He walks past me, then comes back and suddenly pounces on my purple and black JanSport backpack. I get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. He opens it up and starts his investigation. I am still hoping he misses the cassette. His hand finally comes out and I am broken to see his short stubby fingers around my friend’s cassette. He gives me a look of disgust and enquiry. I look at him for the first time and say, "Sir! It’s only music!" I quickly add, "Sir it’s the same band that sang Dil Dil Pakistan" trying to legitimize my obviously illegal possession. He pauses for a second, then drops the cassette and crushes it with the heel of his shoe.


There is more; too much to remember, too much to write. There is much more.

Pictures Live Forever - Kodak Add

Pretty cool add.

Music in Small Spaces

So ever since I released my album in 2007 I have been on a complete hiatus when it comes to music. There have been on and off sparse flings here and there with alternate tunings and clouded lyrics, but nothing substantial to show for any of it. Then I moved to Ottawa and for the longest time I was unable to find a space in my new home for my musical belongings. Guitars, keyboard, mixers, pedals, recording machines, etc. This weekend I had an idea and with Meem's help (who btw was going to buy me a $1000 sitar for my birthday because she thinks I blame myself everyday for not being able to do music) I was able to push the bed in the second bedroom in my downtown Ottawa condo up against the wall which freed up about just enough space to place my music desk that had been resting for the final verdict in the storage.

I like the way the room looks now. It looks like the space I can create music in once again. My "studios" have been nothing more than a space of 8x10 rooms thus far, but lack of space never stopped me from creating. Thread by thread, line by line, one word at a time, slowly, painfully, I create. After all, Lafz Taraash was recorded in a similar space beginning to end.

Let's see what the coming days hold. I'll try and post some pictures soon.

Obama in Ottawa

I and Meem really wanted to go see Obama on his trip to Ottawa, but every bit of news was that he will not make any public appearance and people will not be able to see him. Turns out he ended up going to Byward Market, met and greeted people. He also bought a scarf for his wife and maple leaf shaped cookies for his daughters. Apparently he also was given the Ottawa's classic pastery "Beaver's Tail" that he took back home to try in the evening. He is reportedly to have said that Ottawa reminds him of Chicago; they also have stuff back home that will thicken the arteries.

I live literally 5 minutes from the Parliament and Byward Market. But this was such an unplanned event that I guess the chances were no better than getting hit by lightning. I envy people who got to see him in person. It would have been nice to have exchanged a few words with him. I know Meem really wanted to meet with him too. Anyways, some other time.

BTW, my favourite song some time back was by Will.I.Am (of Black Eyed Peas fame) called Yes We Can. Here is a youtube video of it.

Words are so useless

There is so much potential for so much good, for so much love and I think it's just all getting lost in misunderstandings and confusion.

Nothing. Forget everything.

Words are so useless hai naa.

Critical Mass Lahore - Cyclists take Lahore Back

Cyclists gather at Zakir Tikka this Sunday at 10 am to be a part of Critical Mass. For more details see www.critical-mass.info or http://lahorenama.wordpress.com/2009/02/18/critical-mass-lahore-february-2009

I find it very nostalgic that the event starts from Zakir Tikka. It used to be my favourite joint and I've performed the "Vanishing of the Chicken Karahi" act quite a few times there with my father in 2004.

Daniyal Mueenuddin's 'In Other Rooms, Other Wonders'

I got me a fresh copy of Daniyal Mueenuddin's "In Other Rooms, Other Wonders". I am very excited about it and looking forward to reading it. I actually stood outside Chapters waiting for the damn place to open (they open at 9:30 instead of 9:00 ... weirdos). I was almost late for my 10 o' clock meeting, but then I worked late last night so I figured it was ok. When I got in to work today, the meeting was cancelled :D

Now I just have to find time to read it. If I was taking the bus to work, it would have been the perfect companion. But now that I drive, I will have to locate some other moments of solitude.

Giddy up!

10 Myths about Pakistan - Mohammed Hanif

Mohammed Hanif (author of Exploding Mangoes) pens 10 myths about Pakistan in an op-ed piece that appeared in Times of India.

1. Pakistan controls the jihadis: Or Pakistan’s government controls the jihadis. Or Pakistan Army controls the jihadis. Or ISI controls the jihadis. Or some rogue elements from the ISI control the Jihadis. Nobody knows the whole truth but increasingly it’s the tail that wags the dog. We must remember that the ISI-Jihadi alliance was a marriage of convenience, which has broken down irrevocably. Pakistan army has lost more soldiers at the hands of these jihadis than it ever did fighting India.

2. Musharraf was in control, Zardari is not: Let’s not forget that General Musharraf seized power after he was fired from his job as the army chief by an elected prime minister. Musharraf first appeased jihadis, then bombed them, and then appeased them again. The country he left behind has become a very dangerous place, above all for its own citizens. There is a latent hankering in sections of the Indian middle class for a strongman. Give Manmohan Singh a military uniform, put all the armed forces under his direct command, make his word the law of the land, and he too will go around thumping his chest saying that it’s his destiny to save India from Indians. Zardari will never have the kind of control that Musharraf had. But Pakistanis do not want another Musharraf.

3. Pakistan, which Pakistan? For a small country, Pakistan is very diverse, not only ethnically but politically as well. General Musharraf’s government bombed Pashtuns in the north for being Islamists and close to the Taliban and at the same time it bombed Balochs in the South for NOT being Islamists and for subscribing to some kind of retro-socialist, anti Taliban ethos. You have probably heard the joke about other countries having armies but Pakistan’s army having a country. Nobody in Pakistan finds it funny.

4. Pakistan and its loose nukes: Pakistan’s nuclear programme is under a sophisticated command and control system, no more under threat than India or Israel’s nuclear assets are threatened by Hindu or Jewish extremists. For a long time Pakistan’s security establishment’s other strategic asset was jihadi organisations, which in the last couple of years have become its biggest liability.

5. Pakistan is a failed state: If it is, then Pakistanis have not noticed. Or they have lived in it for such a long time that they have become used to its dysfunctional aspects. Trains are late but they turn up, there are more VJs, DJs, theatre festivals, melas, and fashion models than a failed state can accommodate. To borrow a phrase from President Zardari, there are lots of non-state actors like Abdul Sattar Edhi who provide emergency health services, orphanages and shelters for sick animals.

6. It is a deeply religious country: Every half-decent election in this country has proved otherwise. Religious parties have never won more than a fraction of popular vote. Last year Pakistan witnessed the largest civil rights movements in the history of this region. It was spontaneous, secular and entirely peaceful. But since people weren’t raising anti-India or anti-America slogans, nobody outside Pakistan took much notice.

7. All Pakistanis hate India: Three out of four provinces in Pakistan - Sindh, Baluchistan, NWFP - have never had any popular anti-India sentiment ever. Punjabis who did impose India as enemy-in-chief on Pakistan are now more interested in selling potatoes to India than destroying it. There is a new breed of al-Qaida inspired jihadis who hate a woman walking on the streets of Karachi as much as they hate a woman driving a car on the streets of Delhi. In fact there is not much that they do not hate: they hate America, Denmark, China CDs, barbers, DVDs , television, even football. Imran Khan recently said that these jihadis will never attack a cricket match but nobody takes him seriously.

8. Training camps: There are militant sanctuaries in the tribal areas of Pakistan but definitely not in Muzaffarabad or Muridke, two favourite targets for Indian journalists, probably because those are the cities they have ever been allowed to visit. After all how much training do you need if you are going to shoot at random civilians or blow yourself up in a crowded bazaar? So if anyone thinks a few missiles targeted at Muzaffarabad will teach anyone a lesson, they should switch off their TV and try to locate it on the map.

9. RAW would never do what ISI does: Both the agencies have had a brilliant record of creating mayhem in the neighbouring countries. Both have a dismal record when it comes to protecting their own people. There is a simple reason that ISI is a bigger, more notorious brand name: It was CIA’s franchise during the jihad against the Soviets. And now it’s busy doing jihad against those very jihadis.

10. Pakistan is poor, India is rich: Pakistanis visiting India till the mid-eighties came back very smug. They told us about India’s slums, and that there was nothing to buy except handicrafts and saris. Then Pakistanis could say with justifiable pride that nobody slept hungry in their country. But now, not only do people sleep hungry in both the countries, they also commit suicide because they see nothing but a lifetime of hunger ahead. A debt-ridden farmer contemplating suicide in Maharashtra and a mother who abandons her children in Karachi because she can’t feed them: this is what we have achieved in our mutual desire to teach each other a lesson.

A Tale of Two Migrations by Muslim Rizvi

A must read:

http://pakistaniat.com/2009/02/06/a-tale-of-two-migrations

I am traveling through a tunnel towards a source of white light. I have no control over anything. I just keep going faster and faster and then there is a dazzling flash and an explosion of blinding light. I close my eyes.

I am in the courtyard of our old house in Gulberg, Karachi. I see my grandfather in his white kurta and those wide wide pajamas, stepping off his namaz kee chowki (a wooden stand for prayers). He calls my name and I run to him to help him slip on his chappals (slippers). I am probably 7-8 years old. I look at him and ask “Baba, you promised me that you will tell me a story”. Baba smiles and pulls his huqqa (hookah).
He takes a kush (inhales) and says:
“First go get me some water, but not from the fridge”.
Baba never liked the water from the fridge. I run towards the clay garha (earthen pot) and pour some water out in the silver katora (bowl). I would run all errands happily for Baba just to hear one of his stories. His stories were about three things: the one were stories about Hazrat Ali, the super hero of Islam, the second were about Agra, his home town in India and third were about migration to Pakistan. I didn’t like the stories of migration. They were too sad and the whole thing never made sense to me. These stories haunted me.
Today’s story was about Agra. I was fascinated by his tales of India. He worked as a forest officer and loved animals, He still had one dog, despite being meticulous about being pak (clean) for his prayers. The dog was named Jimmy (I learnt later that he was named after Jimmy Carter). Baba goes on and on about Agra, how wonderful it was and how Hindus and Muslims lived peacefully before the partition. I stop him:
“but baba, Hindus are kafirs (infidels), how could we live with them?”
The expressions on Baba’s face changes and he replies:
“Na beta (no my son) you don’t call anyone kafir, it is a bad word. Only Allah decides who is kafir or not. A person who prays five times but cheats and lies is not a Muslim too”.
I look at him puzzled thinking but that’s not what the ‘maulvi sahab’ said. I don’t want the story to stop though so I don’t argue. Baba goes on with his story and I keep listening to him, walking the streets, smelling the air and seeing the wonders of Agra through his eyes.
There is reverence

Another dazzling flash of light

I see myself in the school bus. The bus is packed and I mean packed like a tin full of sardines. You have to wiggle your feet through a sea of dusty brown school shoes to find a place to stand. It is late afternoon and we are off to go home. I am terribly excited and I am so anxious to get home. The journey from Maulvi Tamizuddinn Khan Road to Gulberg is a long one. The bus keeps driving through the city, dropping off children at their homes. All the standing children are waiting for the seats to get empty so that they can pounce on them. Sometimes fights breakout but getting a seat is as simple as the principle of ’survival of the fittest’. On a regular day I would be one of the stalkers as well but today I couldn’t care less. Finally my stop comes and I get off hurriedly. The bus drops me off at the corner of our ‘gali’ (street). My mom just stands outside our gate and waits for me. I see my mom and unlike a regular day I run towards her and as soon as I get close, I scream:
“Amii, mein class mein first aaya hoon”. (Mom. I’ve stood first in my class).
My mom kisses me on my cheek. I felt the warmth of her lips on my cheeks for years.
There is love

Another dazzling flash of light

I see myself outside of my house in Nazimabad number 2. It is almost midnight and everybody is outside. The men, the women, the kids, everyone is busy doing their own bit. The whole gali (street) has been blocked and there are eight or ten huge degs (big pots) on makeshift stone stoves. It is our mohallah’s haleem cooking night. It is the night of 7th Moharram. Khaala (auntie) the elderly lady who lives next to our house, is the chief chef for the night. From the beginning of Moharram, the boys have been planning this event and have collected money from every house in the gali (street) to cook the haleem. It is our annual ritual and everybody in the mohallah (neighbourhood) is involved. We live in a Sunni majority area and we are one of the only two Shia families in our gali (street) but no one cares. There is no shia sunni issue ever.
There is peace

Another dazzling flash of light

I see myself outside on my bike racing away to the library through the intricate network of streets in Nazimabad. All I can think of are the thrilling adventures of Inspector Jamshed with Mahmoud, Farooq and Farzana. I reach the library. It is actually a small bookstore with a makeshift library that rents out Ishtiaq Ahmed novels. I have to get a hold of the new Khas number (special edition) today. I have been coming everyday but they never have it. Mamoo (uncle), the library’s owner has promised me that he will have it for me today. As soon as Mamoo (uncle) sees me, he smiles and says that if I hadn’t come for another fifteen minutes, he would have given it away. I thank God and as he writes my name in the register, I wait anxiously for the novel. He hands out a four or five hundred page novel to me. I hurriedly grab it, hop on my bike and am on my way home.
There is joy

Another dazzling flash of light

I see myself in a train. We are in the 3rd class compartment and it is full of my friends. We are going on a college tour to the northern areas of Pakistan. It is almost 2:00 a.m. Most of the people are asleep. The train stops at some small station and about ten men with white shalwar kameez, white and black pagrees (turbans) and guns (and I mean big AK-47 type guns) come aboard. Most of them sit together in the front of the compartment but one of them couldn’t find a place so he comes and sits next to me. Being the fool I am, I start chit chatting with him.
“Nice gun?”, I say and he replies:
“Yes, and it kills shias too”
I am a little taken aback and being a Shia myself, am intrigued by his comment. I ask him who is the elderly gentleman with them and he replies:
“He is Maulana Akbar Butt, our region in-charge for KTDSP. He has 27 murder cases on him but three of them are bogus”
“Ah so you are from KTDSP” I murmured.
One my friends, who knew the dilemma I was in, jumped in and asked him:
“So where are you going?”
“We are on a mission!. Allah Tabarak O’ Talla has assigned us the task of cleaning up our land from those Kafirs. They disrespect our khalifas (caliphs) and sahabas and think that we will let them live. We plan to wipe out each and every one of them”
He is going on and on with his sermon of hate and I am sitting there listening to him. I had never sensed so much hatred in somebody’s voice before. What if he finds out that I am a Shia? He might let me go or he might throw me off the train or might just shoot me. They get off at the next station.
There is fear…

Another dazzling flash of light

I see myself in a classroom in my university. I am sitting in the second row and the teacher is explaining some silly logic for integration and differentiation. A bunch of guys from a political party’s student wing storm into the classroom and one of them says:
“Where is Muslim Rizvi?”
I raise my hand and he says:
“bahar aao” (come outside).
I look at the teacher and ask him:
“Sir, can I go? ”
and he replies sheepishly: “Go, go!”
I step out side the class and one of the guys pushes me to the wall, puts his hand on my chest and says:
“Do not show up for the award ceremony tomorrow”
I am dumbfounded. He repeats:
“Do not show up for the award ceremony. Do you get it?”
I meekly ask him: “But why?”
and he thunders “Don’t ask questions?” and walks away.
A few of my friends from the same political party come out of the class and I ask them:
“What the hell was this about?” and they told me:
“Muslim, you have Benazir’s book ‘Daughter of the East’ in your bedroom. You secretly support her and our party does not want a traitor to go and take the runners up trophy for our team’s efforts. It should be a party guy that takes it and you know the captain of the team that won is a Jamatee.
There is frustration…

Another dazzling flash of light

I see myself sitting on stage, dressed up in a sherwani and all. The hall is full of my family, relatives and friends. There is a loud buzz in the air. Everyone is busy talking. Suddenly the music starts playing. Everyone gets quiet. I hear somebody saying:
“dulhan aa rahee hae”(Bride is approaching).
My heart starts beating faster. I see her dressed as a dulhan (bride) walking towards me. It takes my breath away. She looks beautiful. She keeps walking towards me, surrounded by her family. She has not seen me yet. She is just looking down for some odd reason. She comes closer and when she is finally about to sit next to me, our eyes meet. Her eyes smile and I feel like the whole universe is smiling at me. She sits down next to me and her hand brushes my hand and my heart skips a beat.
There is magic…

Another dazzling flash of light

I see myself in the living room of our Gulshan-e-Iqbal home. I have been married for one week. My whole family and some extended family are locked away in one room. I am sitting on my knees and three strangers standing around me with their guns pointing at my head. One of them starts searching me, takes out my wallet, takes the cash and throws away the wallet. They have already taken all the cash and jewelry from my mother. They command me to stand up and then they lock me with my family and leave. Now the police are here. The police wallah is asking me the details, so I go through the whole story and he asks if they had any guns and I tell him that yes all three of them had guns. He asks again:
“Asli theen?” (Were they real?).
I look at him in disbelief and don’t know how to respond to this question. He said:
“Kher (ok) but they were only three. You had more than ten people in the house, why didn’t you grab them?”
I am furious now and I speak with a shaking voice:
“Are you saying that I should have risked the lives of my family and fought with three men with guns?”
and he mumbled:
“Ok ok aik tu yeah Karachi wallay baRay buzdil hotay hai”.
He left. I am sitting here wondering what happened and what was worse, the whole experience of going through an armed robbery or dealing with the police.

There is disgust…

Another dazzling flash of light
I see myself sitting in an airplane. I am leaving Pakistan for good, never to return. I am not going to raise my children feeling the same disgust, the same frustration and the same fear. The plane is about to take off. I feel the warmth of my tears rolling down on my cheeks. It is not like the migration that my parents and grandparents did. It is a different kind of migration but still I can`t seem to stop the tears.
There is pain…
Another dazzling flash of light
I see myself on the streets of Toronto. I have been in Canada for two days. I just walked out of a bookstore and I am little lost in my thoughts. I did not see the car coming as I stepped on the road to cross it. The car stopped and I stopped as well. I was expecting the driver to shout:
“abay andhay¦teray baap kee road hae kia?” (O blind one. Is this your father’s road)
That did not happen. The driver politely waved me to cross first. I had heard this about people from Lucknow but never about Canadians. I am impressed.
There is admiration
Another dazzling flash of light
I see myself walking down the Clifton hill road with my son towards Niagara Falls. This is the first time he will see Niagara Falls since he has started understanding and admiring things. He looks at me and asks:
“How far are we daddy?” and I reply:
“We are almost there, beta (son)”.
I can feel his grip on my hands tightening as we get closer and hear the sound of the waterfall. He is in awe as he gets his first glimpse of the falls. He wants to take a closer look so we move right to the edge. I could feel his grip tightening on my hand. I ask him:
“What is wrong? Are you scared?”
and he innocently looks at me and says:
“I am not scared for myself daddy. I am just scared that you don’t fall in there”.

There is love again…

Another dazzling flash of light
I see myself in my home, just outside of Toronto. My son comes running in. He is about eight years old. He is very excited. He comes to me and says:
“Daddy, the new neighbors have moved in. They are also Urdu like us”
I smile at him and say:
“Beta (son) they are not Urdu, they are Pakistanis like us”.
He asks me:
“Daddy, how is Pakistan?”
I reply:
“Beta (son), Pakistan is beautiful”.
He pops another question:
“Daddy, can we go to Pakistan in the summer”.
I pause for a moment and then reply:
“We will beta (son), but not this summer, the situation is very unstable right now. It is a dangerous place for you to be. We will go there when things get better”.
He walks away and I wish that he could understand.
There is disappointment
Another dazzling flash of light
I see myself sitting on stage, next to my son. He is dressed up in a sherwani and all. The hall is full of our family, relatives and friends. There is a loud buzz in the air. Everyone is busy talking. Suddenly the music starts playing. Everyone gets quiet. I hear somebody saying:
“dulhan aa rahee hae” (bride is approaching).
My heart starts beating faster. I see her dressed as a dulhan (bride) walking towards us. It takes my breath away. She looks beautiful. She keeps walking towards us, surrounded by her family. She has not seen us yet. She is just looking down for some odd reason. She comes closer and I get up and give my seat her, right next to my son. She smiles at me I feel the whole universe is smiling at me.

There is magic again

Another dazzling flash of light
I see myself in bed, old and haggard. My wife, my son and my daughter- in- law are close to me. My wife is holding my one hand and my son holding my other hand. I look at my son and say:
“Beta (son) I am sorry, I took Pakistan away from you”.
There is sorrow…

Another dazzling flash of light and then nothing!

About the Author: Muslim Rizvi is working as a Solutions Manager for an IT service company. He is based just outside of Toronto, Canada . Muslim is a writer, a poet, a painter, a playwright, an actor and a director and has been associated with theatre for over a decade. These days however, he is playing the role of a full time father and in his own words: the artist in me died when a father in me was born.

Credits: This article was also posted at chowk.com with the title ‘From Agra to Niagara’.

Zehmat-e-Mehr-e-Darakhshaan

Larzata hai mera dil zehmat-e-mehr-e-darakhshaan par
Mein hoon vo qatra-e-shabnam ke ho khaar-e-biyabaan par

I am like a drop of dew that rests on a thorn in the wild;
my heart trembles at the thought of the sun that will (soon) rise

Basant remains a controversy - Lahore

First read the article here:

http://lahorenama.wordpress.com/2009/02/16/basant-remains-a-controversy

then read my comments:

"There is nothing unislamic about flying kites. Hindus also use salt in their food and drink water. Should we give that up as well?

This part of the article amazes me: “PUNJAB Governor Salman Taseer has said that we still have not come to the conclusion that what kind of Pakistan we want”.

It makes me sad and angry that we are such a confused and lost bunch of morons that we are still trying to figure out who we are and what we want. It doesn’t even matter anymore. Just shut the fuck up and do something. Put your heart and soul into it and do something! Anything! Just know your rights and wrongs, wherever you happen to draw the line, and just do something to make your life, the lives of your children and if you have time and interest the lives of your fellowmen better.

You know what, I have been very very scared for a while now that Afghanistan’s present is Pakistan’s future and with every passing day that fear is becoming a reality. These freaks will take over the rest of Pakistan while the rest of us will keep holding press conferences trying to figure out what kind of Pakistan we want.

Jinnah is dead! So is Bhutto, Taseer and anyone else you deem important enough to mention. Stop talking about their ideals and being remorseful for your own lack of action."

And then you may want to go to this site: http://shababemilli.com/

Apparently there goal is the riddance of injustice from society ... by ridding everyone from the evils of Kite Flying first.

When it Rains in Lahore

It's been raining constantly here in Ottawa.
Rain water melting down snow mountains.
Washing down black salt.
It's not the same.
Even the rain here lacks emotion.
I miss the rains in Lahore.
The sweet scent of mitti that rises up from ground when it rains.
When it rains in Lahore.

I heard a black crow coming to work yesterday.
I looked up and there it sat on the corner of the top of my office building.
It looked equally confused and out of place.
That nostalgic cry of the black crow when it rains.
When it rains in Lahore.