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.
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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.