The Dark Lord's Journal

Clairvoyant...

2005-12-30T19:47:00.000+05:00

She had liked using big words. He had thought it cute when she would use a word whose meaning she did not know. He would laugh, and she would blush and withdraw into herself, always swearing, "you're evil!" His knees would wobble and he would want her to stay frozen in that moment forever.
In their intimate moments together, he would place his head in her lap, and she would run her hand through his hair, slowly, staring into space, and he would raise his head and ask her what she was thinking. She would simply shrug her head and lower it near to his, and whisper, "ashmaaaaar." She had always pronounced the "s" in his name as "sh" and lengthened the "a" when they were alone. He would rub his cheek against her shalwar, and would close his eyes again, the touch of her finger in his hair sending him to strange lands, where he rode dark horses, and rescued beautiful ladies from evil ogres.
The first time they had made love was in his home,when his family had been out of the city for a few hours. For a year before that, they had only had a platonic relationship, never once straying as much to kiss each other. They had talked to each other throughout each night, had spent countless hours together all over the city, but never once tried to touch each other. That day too she had just come to spend the day with him, and they had just sat and talked for hours. When she had got up to cook tea for him, he had sat in the lounge and stared at her back as she prepared the tea for him in the adjacent kitchen. When she had brought the tea for him, he had held her hand for the first time. They had not cared for the tea after that, quietly undressing each other, and falling into each other's arms. He was very careful not to hurt her, and she had held onto him very tight, her arms wrapped around his back. He had placed his lips on his breast and the had slipped into another world.
From then onwards, they had discovered somethign new, every rendezvous (another word she had love using) had included love-making. A lot was said through the simple things they had done to each other.
It had been in one of their intimate moments when he had his head in her lap and he had asked what she was thinking that she had used another big word. "I'm clairvoyant," she had said. He had laughed and tried making fun of her, but the melancholy look in her eyes had stayed as she said, "I don't see you and I. I don't see us. I don't see anything ever happening."
Six months later, her parents married her off to a wealthy friend's only son. Asmaar had been rejected because he still had no clear future. His ideas had been vague, and her parents had felt he did not hold enough promise. They had met one last time, and had not made love, but had sat together, and cried for an hour before she left.
She really had been clairvoyant.

It's Time...

2005-11-09T20:24:00.000+05:00

It's time to revisit you, my dear...
It's time to let the hurt subside...
It's time to tell you all that's been...
It's time to let the words express the feeling...
It's time to forgive, my dear, not forget...
Conversing with you...

Wandering...

2005-10-29T02:29:00.000+05:00

There's something about unplanned trips to places that are essential parts of your memory. They have been there in my mind for so long, and when I walked through them this evening, I was amazed at how long it had taken me to come back to them, when all along, they have been so near.For two evenings now, a friend and I have, on the pretext of hanging out, driven around town, without any plans, and have ended up enjoying ourselves in that strangely sweet way that unexpected events have of influencing us.This friend of mine was my class-fellow in 4 and 5, but never a friend. Now, after almost 11 years, we have rediscovered each other in this strange place where we don't essentially belong, and it's like meeting a really old friend unexpectedly.Khair, on Thursday, we ended up exploring Fortress (not the exhibition, though) for shalwar kameez for Eid. We went there twice in the same evening. Imagine! We also walked through Liberty and dupatta galli on the same night.Tonight, it was much more fun. We ended up on the Mall for no other reason than that we had NO plan whatsoever of where we wanted to go. He said Chaman, and just driving down Mall, I said Lawrence. So, we ended up taking a walk in Lawrence Gardens.Night-time and Lawrence brings back happy memories. This evening, the slight chill in the air made the walk special. We didn't talk, because we were overawed by the silence, the serenity.From Lawrence, we drove to Chaman, and all along the way, the Mall was lit up as I have always remembered it near Eid. From Chaman, we drove down Beadon Road, onto the Mall, and then Avari because my friend decided he could not relieve himself in public.From Avari, I realised home was near, and the beckoning was too strong to resist. Drove into Bibi Pak Daman, and parked right opposite my old home. From there, we walked to the graveyard. From there, we walked into the mazaar. Offered fatehas and then walked through a bazaar that I had visited so many times for so long. Just rang a bell, and caught up with old neighbours, and gossip. Felt like home after a long, long time.Once out of there, I decided to take a look at Garhi Shahu, and drove through the main road. The bazaars were not empty, but not crowded either, which was shocking. Taking the Infantry Road, we drove into Cantt, then ended up on airport road, and I decided to test the limits of my CNG Mehran. Turns out, it touches 100 on good roads. From there, we ended up going to Gulberg and F1-Traxx. Although we ran into a few unwanted people, the night was spent talking with friends, cigarrettes, sheesha, sundaes, and shakes on the table.I don't want to plan anything, but one night along the canal, and through the posh areas, and then a couple of nights in the REAL Lahore, should complete the experience.Yeah, old, familiar places are calling to me.

The Ghost of Ramadan Past...

2005-10-26T16:36:00.000+05:00

When you were able to have concrete thoughts of your own, and understand things for the first time, one fine day, your grandmother would tell you that something called “rozay” was approaching. You were not told the fine details of whatever that entailed. The only information you could glean was that you were going to have Rooh Afza, milk, “aloo ki bhujiaa,” and “parathay,” for something called “Sehri.” Also, that in the evening, everyone would get together for something called “Aftari” where again you would get to eat lots and lots of food, the attractions being “samosay,” “pakoray,” “chaat,” and more “rooh afza.”
So, you learnt to expect some culinary delights. You heard strange voices from the mosque loudspeakers all day. The early morning siren woke you up and you wondered if India had attacked again. Then those alien words would come from the mosque that you learnt were Arabic and religious. You got up, and saw your elders have what looked like a mini-feast. Sometimes, you saw them have heavy food like “nihaari,” “hareesa,” “paye,” and at others, simple leftover food from the previous night would add accompany greased “paraathay.” You would want to join at that strange hour that you had not known even existed. You would eat with them, and then watch in fascination as they performed strange exercises on prayer-mats. You learnt that that was called “namaaz” and when you were a little older you would also learn to offer it. Since the hour was unfamiliar to you as a child, you would gape in wonder from the “sahun” at the early morning sky. You would wonder why there were stars and daylight.Much before the siren, a man with a drum would pass through the streets, beating the drum loudly, and asking you to wake up. For some reason, he always said the words so fast that you never caught the exact sentence.At school, you were asked if you were fasting. You would say yes, and then you were asked what you had for sehri, and then weird discussions would follow on what the fast entailed. You learnt to your amazement that you were not supposed to eat or drink all day. Children’s minds would work heard to understand the “masaail” of religion.When you went out with your mother to the bazaar, you would shout and wonder aloud why you were not being allowed to eat ‘dahi-bhallay’ from Nila Gunbad, or drink juice in even your own car.The evening would come and you would see another feast laid out, this time much more elaborate, a mix of colours and tastes. You would jump with joy, and almost always overeat. You would sleep early as your elders spent their evening and night in religious rituals. The same routine would follow for a month.As you grew older, you learnt from your calss-fellows that whosoever was not fasting was “kaafir,” and will burn in hell. You learnt the finer details of the fast. You learnt that there were idiots out there whose religious bigotry had them pronounce judgments about your beliefs and your adherence to ritual. You learnt that whereas it was better to stay quiet about your fast, there were people who would just not stop boring you till you gave them an answer. And so, later on, you learnt to react in various ways.You read heart-moving stories, and listened to “qawaaliaan” where stories were told of the poor little boys who fasted for the first time, and before opening the fast, passed away for thirst. You read that as their mothers would cry, a beggar would knock at the door, ask for iftari and if obliged, would touch the child’s forehead, and lo and behold, the child would come alive again.The month of Ramzan, to me, symbolizes a spiritual journey. The whole month used to have a distinct smell, a distinct taste, and a distinct feeling. The whole month had a certain euphoria, whose culmination was the Eid.Ramzan in Bibi Pak Daman and all such places still is a festival, a celebration. In Cantt, in three days, I have not felt like Ramzan. These big houses, these rich people do not know the spirit of this month. I repeat, this does not feel like Ramzan!Here’s a fun incident I heard from a friend about his first Ramzan. He somehow formed the idea, that since you could not take any food IN, you could not pass it OUT either. Half an hour before Iftari, then, he quietly tells his mother, “I need to go to bathroom, but there’s still half an hour left!” I can imagine his mother’s surprise.Childhood innocence does make Ramzan extremely special.

The City Moves On...

2005-10-24T20:59:00.000+05:00

For three weeks now, I haven’t slept at night. I haven’t left home at night. I have been afraid. Tonight, as if, in the aftermath of the storm, the silence helped settled.
I walked out tonight. The road was quiet. Occasionally, a car would race past. The wind was still. The leaves were not rustling. Nobody was around. The silence, the serenity, everything added to the beauty of the night.
Strange, I’ve noticed the night after a long, long time. It’s still beautiful.
The night breeze carries the slightest hint of the approaching weather.
The city moves on...

Helicopter Loss

2005-10-16T18:20:00.000+05:00

Apparently people are no longer glued to their tv sets.
A MI-17 HELICOPTER CARRYING RELIEF GOODS CRASHED TODAY. THERE HAS BEEN RAIN AND HAILSTORMS IN THE AFFECTED AREAS. UNFORTUNATELY, THE SITE OF THE DISASTER COULDN'T BE REACHED TODAY.
This is a problem that will now surface time and again, as weather worsens in those areas and efforts are made to reach far-off places, where helicopters cannot normally travel.

The Lost Generation...

2005-10-15T00:07:00.000+05:00

600 BODIES HAVE BEEN RECOVERED FROM THE DEBRIS OF A GIRLS' SCHOOL IN GARHI HABEEBULLAH

An Ode To Irony...

2005-10-11T01:03:00.000+05:00

I should have died
And not you, my people

I should have died
Because I was sleeping
Even as everything did change
And you woke up to your last morning ever
Even as you saw your last daylight
Even as you kept your last fast
Even as you got dressed for the last time
I was sleeping
I should have died

I should have died
And not you, my beautiful children

I should have died
Because I was sleeping
Even as you attended school
Even as you recited the tables for the last time
"Ik dunni do, do dunni chaar"
I was sleeping
I should have died

I should have died
And not you, my sisters
And not you, my mothers

I should have died
Because I was sleeping
Even as you got ready for your morning rituals
Even as you washed the plates from sehri
Even as you swept the floor for that one last time
Even as you got ready to go out and buy vegetables just once more
Even as you said the final goodbye to your children and your men
I was sleeping
I should have died

I should have died
I was sleeping

The other side of the story...

2005-10-11T00:22:00.000+05:00

I was watching Geo, and they reported the safe recovery of a 3 year old boy.
Then I changed to Aaj, and they were showing footage from NWFP. The people there were desperate because so far NO HELP has come to those poor villages that have vanished.
Then Fakhr-E-Alam was on Aaj, and he told of the brilliant work that has been done by Karachiites, to which no words of thanks can do justice.
Then he told the other stories.
The stories of shop-keepers who have increased the prices of Kafan (shroud) from Rs. 125 to Rs. 250. Are they not going to die one day? What about the many shop-keepers who have decided to make a killing out of this opportunity? They make me sick.
The stories of people stranded in villages cut off from any highway. Everything in those villages has been levelled to the ground. No buildings are left standing. People are homeless, and what's more, there is no way except by air that any help could get to them. Just 16 kilometres away from Muzaffarabad, where tremendous relief work is being undertaken, lie 500 corpses on the roads. Almost 5,000 people are homeless.
I think of all the villages that have been levelled, and have vanished. We don't even know how much damage is done in how many places.
The pain is so excrutiating that they have to take their own lives.
Time is critical. The rehabilitation work also has to be looked at. The Northern Areas, where everyone is homeless, snow will start falling in another 15 days.
PLEASE
PLEASE
PLEASE
PRAY FOR US

LUMS Disaster Relief Fund starts its work...

2005-10-10T17:09:00.000+05:00

The Lahore University of Management Sciences has taken the initiative to help those people affected by the terrible earthquake.
In accordance with this, a LUMS Disaster Relief Fund has been established.
The following is an email they have sent to the students and faculty of LUMS:

Dear All,

These are the bank account details for people wanting to transfer funds. We have a USD account for anyone wanting to transfer money from abroad.

The following details are required for transferring funds to LUMS CitiGold Bank US Dollars Account through wire

Name of the Beneficiary Lahore University of Management Sciences

Bank Account # 9011105014

Routing # 10991207

Swift Code CITIPKKXLAH

Bank Name & Address CitiBank, N.A.

Alfalah Building

Shahrah – e- Quaid –e-Azam

Lahore Pakistan

Telephone # +92-42-6303479-82

Fax # +92-42-6367874

The following details are required for transferring funds to LUMS CitiGold Bank Rupees Account through wire

Name of the Beneficiary Lahore University of Management Sciences

Bank Account # 6001104983

Bank Name & Address CitiBank, N.A.

Alfalah Building

Shahrah–e- Quaid –e-Azam

Lahore, Pakistan

Telephone # +92-42-6303479-82

Fax # +92-42-6367874
Those who wish to pay through Bank Draft /Personal Cheque are requested to issue a Bank Draft or Personal Cheque in favour of Lahore University of Management Sciences

LUMS Disaster Relief Fund

For all those who wish to donate via channels other than government, please consider donating generously here. Every penny will be accounted for, and put to good use.

To Karachi...

2005-10-10T00:56:00.000+05:00

The Karachi Metblog had posted about some collection at PAF Museum. I just saw on Geo how much stuff has been collected. Fakhr-e-Alam said that they had targetted to fill only one plane, but now there's enough stuff to fill 25 C-130's.
Here's the story from Hafsa.
I know I have no right to say this on behalf of anyone, but Thank You Karachi.

For those that died...

2005-10-09T20:59:00.000+05:00

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!

Mary Frye (1932)

LUMS' Initiative...

2005-10-09T20:44:00.000+05:00

Relief Work Initiation at LUMS

Pakistan has suffered from its worst ever natural disaster. With thousands dead, an unprecedented number homeless and injured, it is time to play our part in helping the victims. LUMS provides its students body a rather unique platform for organizing efforts of this sort. Collectively, the LUMS student body and alumni can be considered very fortunate and resourceful people of this country. At times like these, if we don't give to the nation, no one ever will.

The preliminary agenda is to devise viable strategies for working towards funds collection. After considering the responses from instructors and several students, the immediate focus should be on monetary support for relief operations. We will definitely move on to commodity-based relief which will include essential medical supplies, food, cloth items etc. Also, we're already in contact with the major relief organizations like EDHI, Islamic Relief and Red Cross International which provide very reliable and effective channels for disbursement of our funds.

InshAllah, we will be reaching out to the general population of Lahore - and to make this drive effective we are foreseeing considerable issues of protocol in order to make sure that the operation is viewed as genuine and concrete by those who are willing to step forward.
Lastly, we'd like invite all sorts of ideas and suggestions from people who are willing to play their part in this noble cause and more importantly, we'd like to encourage everyone to tap into their network of resources to augment any support to this operation.
The LUMS Volunteer Society

THE ABOVE IS AN EMAIL FROM THE LVS. SINCE WE PLAN TO EXPAND OUTSIDE LUMS, COME UP WITH SUGGESTIONS ON THE REPLY SCREEN TO THIS POST. ALSO, CAN ANYONE HELP WITH THE PROTOCOL SO THAT WE CAN GET AUTHENTICATION WHEN WE GO OUTSIDE LUMS?

How to donate (2)...

2005-10-09T16:10:00.000+05:00

I'm not sure if I'm allowed to advertise here on the behalf of the MKR foundation, so I'm posting the link
visit and find out how you can make donations
these people did phenomenal work for tsunami affectees

How to donate...

2005-10-09T15:57:00.000+05:00

If you wish to donate to the President's relief Fund, just deposit your donations in any National Bank branch all over Pakistan.
For further information, call the Prime Minister's Relief Cell at
051-9213891 or 051-9222999
The President Of Azad Kashmir's Cell can be contacted on 051-9209650

The Latest Figures...

2005-10-09T14:05:00.000+05:00

Just in case, you're not glued to your tv screens.
Major General Shaukat Sultan, spokesman for the Government, has said that in the provinces of Punjab, NWFP, and Pakistan-Held Kashmir, over 18,000 have died, and over 41,000 have been injured. He says the death-toll may rise to as much as 25,000.
Of course, the major damage has been caused in Kashmir, where over 17,000 have died. Most of the injured are also in Kashmir.

God's Warning...

2005-10-09T00:20:00.000+05:00

You wake up at 9ish to realize that your bed is shaking wildly. Still heavily asleep, you walk out, announce, "there's an earthquake!" You are told that your family is already aware of it, and you are instructed to sit down. Still asleep, you just walk back into the room, get back on your bed, and fleetingly think where your father is. Planning to ask your mother whether he would be on a road or would have reached work, you drift off to sleep, while the bed still rocks, and the windows rattle.
You wake up an hour later because your cell-phone is ringing. You see two missed calls, and you pick the phone to hear a frantic voice ask if you're okay. You say, "yeah!" They tell you that they were watching tv and saw how much destruction had taken place in Pakistan. That's when you realise the call is from the other side of the border. You mutter that everything is fine. You are told to wake up, and look after yourself. You are asked about other Pakistani friends, and you mumble that they're okay. You don't bother to ask how India is, how your friends there are.
You sleep some more, and then you wake up to switch Geo on. That's the first time you realise the magnitude of the destruction. Islamabad comes on the screen, and you quickly ask you sister if your "phuppo" lives in Margala Towers. She says no, and you guiltily feel okay about the whole disaster.
In America and England, your sisters are glued to tv, worried about you and family. You're all so far, and all anyone can do is pray.
Reports come in. Thousands are feared dead. School-children are among those unaccounted for. People walk across the cameras, as you watch live transmission. They're crying, shouting, looking for their loved ones.
You call your friend in Amritsar, and ask them details about what's happened there. They insist that the damage is little, and they're more worried about you. You ask them about your other friends,and they tell you all are fine. They keep insisting for you to take good care of yourself. You're touched. You wonder why a call to a city just half-an-hour away costs Rs. 21 a minute, when you can call America and England for a lot less. You would have loved to call every single friend from across the border, but you have no credit.
In the evening, you go to LUMS, and you ask people about their day. You tell them you had a call from Amritsar. They're as amazed as you are. In the midst of this, a casual acquaintance chances to remark that his parents were in a building near Margala Towers, and had to vacate their flat for fear. He tells you he has no contact with them for the time being. All you can say is, "May Allah have mercy on us all!"
Night comes. You're about to go home, when the phone rings again. The number is again Indian. Another friend worried about you, your family, your friends. This time you remember to ask how they are.
At the end of the day, you're sad. But, you're also happy that you had people from the other side of the border worried about you. You're happy that a natural disaster has given peace, friendship, love, and humanity a chance to show their powers.
Tsunami. Katrina. Rita. And now this. You wonder how many people realise this is a message from God.

License to kill...

2005-10-05T20:52:00.000+05:00

The Driving License Computer Centre is located inside the SSP's office near GCU, and the office of the Post Master General. The room where they take your picture and issue you your licence is opposite a small, old room, that houses the graves of two saints. The small mausoleum is now part of the SSP office. The rooms of the traffic officials are old, and colonial in structure. The whole setting is a fine contrast. The front where the SSP's office is, is a well-furnished, modern building. The back with the mazaar and the minor offices is old and ill-equipped.
The efficiency of the officials is commendable, (and, please, no stupid, political comments), as it takes only fifteen minutes from picture to the laminated license.
I went there today, along the old Mall Road, past familiar places about all of which I plan to write some day. Finally, I have the license to drive as I wish, when I wish, where I wish.

'Honey' Bridge

2005-10-03T01:03:00.000+05:00

The Cavalry Ground bridge that connects Cantt with Gulberg is officially called "Jinnah Flyover." We as a people like to hide behind the names of our forefathers whenever we commit misdemeanours. Not surprising then that what is known as the "Jinnah Flyover" is known to the general public as "Honey" Bridge.
Lahori legend has it that the then Chief Minister of the Punjab had a secret marriage with a lady whose nickname is "Honey." He used to come from his residence in Model Town to Defence to visit her. The particular stretch of road where the flyover now stands was then just a broken road, cause of many traffic jams. Since this meant considerable delay in reaching Defence, the erstwhile CM decided to build a flyover.
It may be called "Jinnah Flyover" but we Lahoris have our own way of remembering such monuments. Thus, you will hear Lahoris refer to it lovingly as "Honey Bridge."

Alhamra's Musical Extravaganza 3

2005-10-02T00:54:00.000+05:00

The Sangat Bulleh Shah hosted a Bulleh Shah Sangeet Mela in the Alhamra grounds. The night unfolded as trained Sufi singers gave Bulleh Shah’s verse musical form. The profound poetry, the sublime music, and the powerful voices all combined to have the audience hanging on to each and every word.

Alhamra's Musical Extravaganza 2

2005-10-02T00:52:00.000+05:00

The Alhamra grounds also hosted an amateur competition for young and upcoming singers from all across Punjab. Students from NCA, Lahore, and singers from Gunjranwala and Pakpattan came to perform to an audience that was allowed free entry. It may have been an amateur competition, but the efforts of the young singers are commendable. As the compere kept asserting, some of this lot may make history. The Governor Punjab was there with minimum security, and encouraged the performers.

Alhamra's Musical Extravaganza 1

2005-10-02T00:50:00.000+05:00

The All Pakistan Music Conference held its monthly musical evening at Alhamra Hall 3. Unlike the annual show, this one is indoors and the timeslot is restricted to two items per performer. Dr. Ghazala Irfan, daughter of the late Hayat Ahmad Khan is now the force behind the APMC.
The evening started with Anita Tariq, an amateur classical artist singing some raags. This was followed by a soulful rendition of the clarinet by Jaffar Hussain, who had the audience swaying to the slightest change of tune. He was aided on the tabla by Haroon Samuel and the taanpura by George Iqbal. The performance was brilliant and prepared the select audience of 60 or 70 people for the finale.
Ustad Fateh Ali Khan of the Gawaliar gharaana sang for an hour which passed without anyone even moving from their seats. His control over his voice was amazing, and even to the untrained ear, he could easily convey the message that he is arguably the greatest living singer of the country.

Aroras shake Lahore...

2005-09-17T00:53:00.000+05:00

This is an uncharacteristic post.
I have just returned from the Royal Palm where a waleema was held. And guess who the stars of the musical show were? Malaika and Amrita Arora. Since it was a family function, the discipline was brilliant.
But, this is the first time I've been in such close proximity of Indian superstars, and that too Malaika and Amrita.
OH MY GOD!

Who's your daddy?

2005-08-22T15:32:00.000+05:00

The first Lahore Metblogs Photo Meetup was yesterday. Among other things was the fact that we were not allowed to shoot the outside of the theatre, or go inside the National Cricket Academy to take pictures there. This makes me write on a somewhat related subject which has bothered me for long.
In school, the first question that the teachers asked on the first day of a new class was, "what does your father do?"!
It was strange how the students were generally given a preferance according to their fathers' professions. The same is true of us as a nation, or maybe it's just peculiar to Punjab. The one necessary question in all conversations is always about what your family does and from whom you descend, and the father's job is a particular interest.

Those old women who used to do the match-making in the inner city used to cite the father's profession as a qualification whenever they would extend the proposal from one family to another.
"Munda kam kum tey kuch nae karda. Onhoon lorh hee kee jay? Peo Mashallah thaneydaar jay!"
(The boy doesn't work. He doesn't need to. His father is a police inspector).
Or,
"Kurhi ik akh ton paingee jay. Par jhaiz wawa labhay ga. Kurhi da peo dubai hunda jay."
(The girl has a deformity in one eye. But, you'll get plenty of dowry. Her father is in dubai).

This goes on in every single aspect of our social lives. The father's job helps you attain not just your social status. Jobs, contacts, friends, all follow those whose fathers are in important places in life.

This gave rise to a whole phenomenon in the 70's and 80's, when middle and lower class family heads moved out to either Dubai or Riyadh for jobs as labourers, but they sent home money, and there was a whole "Dubai-chalo" movement. Any sons and daughters of such people were preffered for marriage, because the Dubai connection seemed to overcome all other deformities.

This daddy-fascination is also the reason why able young lads with a father who may have been a petty thief never get ahead in life. They are always haunted by their fathers' misdoings. In Amitabh Bachchan films, they would carve it on the hero's arm, but in real life, the unfortunate young man has to go around brandishing his connection to his past, ala Amitabh Bachchan: "Maira baap chor hai!"

I am sure that if I had told those people that my father is a bureaucrat, or if I had had my father get me permission to photograph, they would have forgotten all the silly rules that they cited to prevent us.

Why do we want to be haunted by our demons? Why can't we bury our dead? Why must we strive so hard to dig into the past in search of dead identities? Why can't we let our elders' bones rest in peace?

Who, exactly, is YOUR daddy?

The city of the dead souls...

2005-08-17T18:48:00.000+05:00

Since I cannot come up with anything prose about Lahore right now, I have decided to post a little poem. I won't translate it because that'll take away any meaning that it may have. Also, I will appreciate if this is not stolen, and published in some cheap school/college magazine in someone's name.

Mehngaaion kay shehr mein
Sasti bohot hai zindagi

Yeh shor-o-ghul, yeh hamaahammi
Yeh sub hai kitna banaawati

Jaah-o-hasham kay saye mein
Awaam hai tarhap rahi

Mehlon kay sayeon mein
Ghareeb ki hai jhonprhi

Ik taraf hai ikhtayar
Aur ik taraf hai bey-bussi

Rat-jagon kay shehr mein
Taweel neend hai batt rahi

Anjaani gharhi kay khauff say
Aaabaadian hain jaagti

Ik taraf hain qehqahay
Ik taraf siskiaan dabbi

Zinda-dilon kay shehr mein
Hai kis qadar murda-dilli

Aik kahaani...

2005-08-14T07:44:00.000+05:00

The Muftis of Mohalla Muftian of Batala had once been associated with the courts of the Muslim emperors of India. They had been important and rich. They also had mystic alliances with sufi orders. In Batala, they had havelis in a whole secluded mohalla.
At partition, they were initially reluctant to leave their homes. The Hindus who had been friends and neighbours for centuries had been peaceful till partition itself. Then, they started treating the Muslims with contempt. That was when Mufti Muhammad Hussain finally decided to migrate to Pakistan. His eldest son, Mumtaz Hussain (to readers of Urdu literature, Mumtaz Mufti) was already in Lahore. He rented a truck and drove all the way from Lahore to Batala. On the way to Pakistan, with the truck full of people, the Muftis rightly feared that Hindus might ambush them. Their plan for such a situation was to throw the two youngest children out in case of an attack so the attackers would be distracted and they would speed away. They were, however, stopped only once. On that occasion, an Indian army jawaan stopped them, and signalled to people hiding in a bush to come out and attack. The Muftis’ mystic alliances came to their help, as a “surkh roomi topi wala baba” appeared out of nowhere and waved his hand for the truck to continue on its path. That baba’s “mazaar” is somewhere in Rawalpindi.
That was how the Muftis crossed the border into Lahore and settled into Krishan Nagar. Eventually, they all branched out and reached places in life.
One of Mufti Muhammad Hussain’s daughters was my naani.
As I used to lie beside my naani to listen to stories, there were always two kinds of stories only. The first, happier kind centred on the very rich Indo-Islamic culture that had evolved after centuries of living together. These were often those that started with “aik tha badshah, humara tumhara khuda badshah.” The other stories were about partition. They were stories about how Muslims and Hindus had lived together in harmony, and how all that had dramatically changed as August 1947 had drawn near. Those stories were painful. They told of the trains full of mutilated corpses that crossed the border. They spoke of the experiences of Walton Refugee Camp. They spoke of blood.
So, I was a little apprehensive when I crossed the Wahga border in August 2004 to visit Amritsar with a group of fellow LUMS students (Mina Malik being one of them). As we waited for clearance on our side of the border, I wondered what all those people on foot and bullock-carts must have felt when they had crossed that particular stretch of land. I wondered about the amount of blood that must have been shed around what is now Wahga border, the ‘river of blood’ that Fikr Taunsvi had called Punjab’s “Chhatta darya”—the sixth river. I was apprehensive. The Sikhs of Amritsar had cut Muslim refugee trains and then sent bangles to the residents of Lahore with the obvious insult that no Punjabi can ever take. The Lahoris had responded by cutting Hindu special trains.
This was the same Amritsar.
When we crossed the border, we were garlanded and welcomed. These actions were then repeated the next day on our visits to two marvellous colleges. When we crossed the border, we also had our first introductions with two amazing gentlemen, Professor Harish Sharma and Professor Sukhwinder Singh of the Guru Nanak Dev University. Throughout the next forty-eight hours, they were our guides to a beautiful city and its beautiful people.
That’s when I realized the scars may never heal and the memories will always remain painful, but the past can be forgiven. It must be forgiven. New beginnings must be made. 58 years have passed. We cannot hurt each other any longer. We cannot forget all the sacrifices and the pain, but peace must be given a chance.
Partition is a reality. And it’s good that it happened. But, now, we must learn to co-exist, separately.
This is to Amritsar.
To Professor Sharma and Aunty Radha.
To Poonam and Harpareet Kaur.
To Hall Bazaar and Haathi Darwaaza.
To Darbaar Sahab and Jallianwala Bagh.
To GND and DAV.
To friendship and love.
To humanity.

It's that time of the year again...

2005-08-13T19:03:00.000+05:00

It is that time of the year again when trumpets will bellow as flags are unfurled from rooftops. Parades will take place that the nation will only watch on television. National honours will be handed out to people who have been of service to the country, albeit a lot of them will be unknown to the Pakistani population at large. Dignitaries will say prayers at the mausoleum of Allama Iqbal in Lahore, lay wreaths, and then forget all about the great man till the next national holiday.
It is that time of the year again when PTV will produce plays about national identity and patriotic flair (read severe India-bashing). All day long, funnily-dressed 'celebrities' will reveal their love for the country in pseudo-intellectual outbursts of incoherent Urdu. Special "azaadi" concerts will see music stars with long untidy hair dance and celebrate the fact that they were born in a free country. Transmission will be interrupted time and again so that some soap company or the other could wish its fellow citizens the "jashn-e-azaadi."
It is that time of the year again when in some parts of the city, old men with flowing white beards will lecture their grandchildren about the sacrifices that went into establishing a free country. Special prayers will be said in mosques for the safety of the country's borders.
It is that time of the year again when the city will be coloured with misguided displays of patriotism. Big green 'national' flags with the 'atom bomb' and Doctor Qadeer printed on them will hoist from houses in the city. Other variations of the 'national' flag will include pictures of Quaid-e-Azam and President Musharraf. Children will dress in green and white, and shout "Azaadi Mubarak" with no idea of the implications of freedom.
It is that time of the year again when the Mall Road will boast the Traffic Jam of the Year. Young lads in all sorts of tight clothing, specially green t-shirts bought from Anarkali with white "chaand sitaara," will pillion-ride on silencer-less motorcycles, tease girls who are trapped in the traffic jam, perform acrobatic stunts that will do Sultan Golden proud, and break a few arms and legs.
It is that time of the year again when it will start raining around mid-afternoon. The flags will be forgotten in the rain, without realization of the "bey-adabi." The beautiful and imaginative displays of "jhandian" will fall in the puddles of water that will accumulate in the city, and the same children who worked so hard to put them up will trample them under their feet.
It is that time of the year when alongside all the patriotic songs, Faiz Sahab will also come to mind:
"Yah daagh daagh ujaala, yah shab-gazeeda sahar;
Woh intezaar tha jiss ka, yah woh sahar to nahi."
(This blotted illumination, this night-infested dawn;
This is not the dawn that we awaited).
It is that time of the year again when promises will be made. And forgotten.Happy Independence Day, Lahore.

Barsaat...

2005-08-08T16:19:00.000+05:00

I don't understand when people say they hate rain.
I don't understand when people say they hate the "habs" that's there after the rain.
Yes, there are huge "chappars" on the roads of Lahore whenever it rains. The inner city gets literally dissolved even when it rains for an hour. People trip in the many broken patches that are hidden under the water. The gutters overflow with slime which then mixes with the rain-water to make a really yucky mixture which you have to walk through to get anywhere. The water flows into the houses. If the rain is even slightly heavy, the water tends to stay for two or three days, and when it all dries out, there is "keecharh" which WASA doesn't want to clean up. As soon as the rain starts pouring, WAPDA switches off the lights. If there is a storm, then the sand blows into peoples' houses. A lot of accidents take place during the rainy season.
Generally, "barsaat" or "saawan" becomes a real bother in the low-lying areas of Lahore.
Still, how could anyone not like rain?
I remember sitting in the window-sill as a child in the August when my father was posted outside Lahore. It would rain all day. Heavy, chilly rain. And I would sit in the window-sill of our home in Bibi Pak Daman, from early morning till the evening when abbu would return home. The street would fill up with rain-water, my "naani" would be sitting nearby, reading the Qura'n or doing some "wazifa," and hours would pass just looking out onto the scene and seeing so many wonderful things.
There was an old woman named Nawab Bibi. She had many grandchildren. Always reminded me of the old woman who lived in a shoe. Her house wasn't too far away from ours. Her grandchildren would all slip into their little "jangias" as soon as the rain started, and they played around in the water as it accumulated in the "galli." They didn't care about skin ailments. They didn't care about falling ill. They didn't know where their next meal would come from. But, the expressions on all those faces as those children splashed around in the water have stayed with me. No matter how ugly the streets get due to the rain or how dirty they become, those children who played in that water--carefree and happy--will always offer a welcome ray of hope, and dare I say, something beautiful.
Another feature of barsaat was the men who rode their bicycles wearing a "shalwar" and "banyaan," one hand on the handle, the other clutching a mango. They pedalled, and ate, and talked to each other.
When you were seventeen, you wanted to fall in love. The rain would stop, and you would stare out into the street, and be infatuated with random girls, and dream about a perfect life. All houses inside the walled city are inter-dependent, so you looked from your "kotha" into the neighbours' "sehan" and saw young girls dancing in the rain. It used to be a beautiful feeling. There would be "pakoras," "gulgulay," "jalaibian," "chaye." Everyone climbed onto the roofs and enjoyed the quiet after-rain wind, the bluer sky, the greener leaves.
Way back, in the early nienties, Ali Haider was popular. And when it rained, FM100, or Radio Pakistan, or even PTV would play
"Baarish ka hai mausam Chalay thandi hawa
Konay pay galli kay koi hai kharha."
Girls would take "jhoolay" in the gardens, and sing the ever popular "Jhoola kinnay daaro rey umariaan," and "Amaan mairay baawa ko bhaijo ree kay saawan aya."
Even Nazia Hassan's "Taali dey thalay bay kay aa kariye pyaar diyan galaan," came to be associated with rain.
After the rain, there would be kite-flying competitions, mango parties, and house-cleaning. The work was always done in good spirits, because people enjoyed the beautiful sensation that rain brought.
At night, you took the beds out into the open air, and there was no need for air-conditioners. Fans would do. If it rained during the night, and the light went off, and there were younger siblings or cousins in the room, and the wind would knock against the window, you could just raise your head a little, and say, "that's the spirits from the graveyard nextdoor." You laughed into your pillow while they'd shiver and shriek till someone elder got up, and scolded them and you.
I love how things change colour when the rain stops. The grass is greener, wetter, softer, and more beautiful. The leaves also become shinier, little drops trickling off their edges. Everything has such a nice, washed-up look. When I was little, we used to say, "Allah Mian nay duniya ko dho diya hai."Yeah, I just CANNOT understand when people say they don't like the rain.

Of lanes and houses...

2005-07-22T02:05:00.000+05:00

I emerged from one narrow galli into another. Then another. And another. And so it happened no matter where I turned. The narrow lanes were intertwined to present an unfathomable maze to a seven year old riding his bicycle for the first time, all alone. Somehow, all those lanes looked so identical with a gutter in the middle of the road, cover removed, houses built as if hurriedly, some new, others very old. They piled on each other, those houses. The smell in all those lanes was also the same. The smell of onions cooking with garlic, ginger and tomatoes in oil entered my nose as I cycled through the middle of a lane I had seemed to pass for the hundredth time. I was about to cry when, finally, I managed to enter a lane that I could not possibly mistake for another. Sure enough, my father stood outside the house, worry on his face. I rushed to him, proud at having reached home all on my own.
Strangely, all over Lahore, a lot of children learn to find their way around the complex network of lanes that is the inner city of Lahore, at a much younger age than seven.
That’s what Lahore was. That’s what Bibi Pak Daman means to me. That’s what Lahore means to me. Endless gallian. Similar brick and mortar structures. Onions, garlic, ginger, tomatoes, and oil. Children cycling around, or walking. Some in their full clothes, others in underwear. Getting lost because the whole city looks like home. And yet, always, always, finding home.
Bibi Pak Daman is open, just like Lahore. There are poor people living alongside the middle-class and some fairly rich ones too. At one time, three extremely powerful bureaucrats lived in that mohalla, side by side with all those factory workers or construction mazdoors, and the shopkeepers. That’s what Lahore really is. It does not discriminate. It has its arms open for whosoever wants to come and stay. Punjabi, Karachiite, Afghan, all have found this city like a mother, helping them assimilate, and find an identity in a blur of faces. Lahore is crowded, yes. In fact, crowded enough for people to lose themselves if they want to. At the same time, it gives you an identity quite distinct. Everyone’s someone in Lahore. Even if someone’s really poor, they have a certain pride. That’s typical of a city that is of course the city of the zinda-dilaan. Lahoris love to live. Simple.
Where houses are concerned, those old Hindu houses that were still around while I was growing up have vanished over the last few years. Those old structures, with the protruding chaubaras from which the lady of the house would hang out a basket for the vegetable-monger to fill with the daily supply of fresh vegetables, and the wooden doors that were open all day long, and the windows that opened onto the streets, and the connected roofs that people climbed to visit each other. They’re gone. The houses are still connected to each other to give the mohalla feeling, but the distances are now larger than ever. Young girls do not sneak in hot summer afternoons across their roofs to hide in the kothay wali kothrhi and talk of things that young girls talk of. Women do not look across the roof into each others’ verandahs to gossip about the scandals that used to fill up these women’s afternoons. The baithak that used to open into the galli no longer has an open door from where you could glimpse the old man of the house sprawling on his charpai while inhaling on a hooka and talking to other old men like him.
Someday, I’ll write about all those lanes and what happened in them, the people that passed through them, the sounds that one heard everyday without realizing that one day they’ll become history.
Ah, Lahore, will you ever be the same again?

Beginnings...

2005-07-19T17:34:00.000+05:00

Legend has it that after Karbala, when the family of the Imam scattered, some of the ladies rode their camel to Hindustan. They finally arrived in the city of Lahore. One of these ladies was Ruqaiya, the sister of Imam Hussain, daughter of Ali and Fatima, and granddaughter of Muhammad (Sallalah O Alaihe Wasalam).
Once here, they were afraid that the Hindu Raja may pollute them, and so they prayed to Allah that the earth may tear apart to absorb them. It did. The five ladies of the household of Muhammad (Sallalah O Alaihe Wasalam) were buried inside the earth with their camel.
In a small locale in the heart of Lahore, a mausoleum is witness today to one of the most devoted and fierce followings of the Shia’ sect of Islam as well as Sunni Syeds. The small mohalla called Bibian Pak Damanan or Bibian Sahib lies in the vicinity of the Lahore Railway Station, Garhi Shahu, and Davis Road.
Inside the mausoleum, there is a large tree resembling a camel.
It was in this environment that I was born twenty-one years ago. I have come to love the area as a symbol of Lahore. Now that I no longer live there, I haunt my ‘home’ in my nostalgia.It is through this Bibian Sahib that I plan to introduce Lahore as I know it.

Of the thirteenth...

2005-07-17T18:47:00.000+05:00

Wednesday, the 13th of July, 2005 was the darkest, most fucked up day in history.
God, I no longer believe...

Of broken dreams...

2005-07-13T06:34:00.000+05:00

Aik sapna kho gaya tha
Koe apna kisse aur ka ho gaya tha
Maanta...Nae dil yah maanta
Kay jo chorh kur gaya woh maira na tha...

Ub kya karoo, baharo ka kya karoo
Kay khilna tha phool jo wohe na khila...

Ub kya gilaa...Kisse say bhe kya gilaa
Kay jeewan mein aik baar woh aya to tha

Junaid Jamshed,"Aik Sapna"

Kayee baar aisa laga jaisay kise nay pukaara
Abhe koe aas jaage Abhe bujha dil humara

Kisse nay kiya zikr unn ka
Barh gaya jaisay dard dil ka
Chhin gaya yaadon say phir kinaara

Kayee baar aisa laga jaisay kisse nay pukaara
Abhhe koe aas jaage Abhe bujha dil humara

Kho gaye kyu mil kay
Humsafar mairay dil kay
Kya milay raasta
Na rahe koe manzil
Na safar na sitara

Kayee baar aisa laga jaisay kisse nay pukaara
Abhhe koe aas jaage Abhe bujha dil humara

Junaid Jamshed, "Kayee baar"

A prayer...

2005-07-08T21:44:00.000+05:00

Allah Mian
Aap ko pataa ha na main bohot burra hoo
Aap ko yah bhe pataa ha main uss say kitna pyaar karta hoo
Aap ko unn ka waasta jinn say aap ko pyaar ha
Please jiss say mujhay pyaar ha ussay mujh say kabhe duur na karna
Jiss say mujhay pyaar ha ussay mujhay dey dain PLEASE
Allah Mian aap ko hur uss cheez ka waasta jo aap nay banaye ha aur jo aap ko pyaare ha
Aaap ko Nabi Pak Sallalah O Alaihewasalam ka waasta
Please ussay duur na karna aur mujhay dey dain
Please

Ya Rasool Allah
Aap ko Bibi Khudaija aur Bibi Fatima aur Bibi Amna ka waasta
Aap ko Abu Bakr aur Umer aur Usman aur Ali ka waasta
Aap ko Hasan aur Husain ka waasta
Aap ko apne ummat ka waasta
Aap ko aap kay mazhab ka waasta
Aap ko aap kay Allah ka waasta
Aap Allah say maire safarish kur dain
Unhain kahain mujh say ussay duur na karain
Unhain kahain woh mujhay ussay dey dain

Kahain gai na?

Because some posts just can't have titles...

2005-07-03T02:32:00.000+05:00

Because I'm a fool
And I make mistakes
And you are beautiful

Because I love you
And you love me
And I love you more
And you love me more

Because I understand everything
Even when you don't say it
And I will always always be by your side
No matter what, when, or where

Because we are meant this way
And no matter what happens between us
Our love is strong enough to pull us through

Because
I love you

I know everything hurts but look at the joy that we bring to each other in that very little while that we talk...
And love has to hurt of course...honay dey dard

AS LONG AS I LIVE, AND BEYOND THAT TOO, I WILL KEEP TAKING YOUR HURT AWAY...

Trust me when I say this...I am with you always...

Pagal

Somehow, this too shall pass...

2005-06-29T02:32:00.000+05:00

You don't believe me, na? Actually, you don't want to believe me. Khair ha. Aa jaye ga yaqeen bhe.

Aitebaar bhe aa he jaye ga
Chalo to sahe raasta koe mil he jaye ga
Dhoop mein khara jul raha hoo main
Saaya do mujhay
Yah maira junoon yah maire jalan ha maire sazaa
Maire yah chubhan kah rahe ha kya
Suno to sahe
Pyaar wyaar bhe ho he jaye ga

I know words don't mean anything to you. I might as well be barking. Twice have I had to tell you things which I should never ever had to say. And on both occasions, I felt you understood. But you did not.

Yad ha?
Nae ho ga.
Main karaata hoo...
Sometime at the beginning when you used to claim that you could never love me and that I didn't love you, I had said that one day you'll have to accept that the sky is blue and that water does not stay put but keeps flowing (funny thing to say, really!) and you'd said, "pataa ha!" and when I'd said "I love you," you'd said "no!" and I'd said, "aik din tu maanay ge kay aasmaan neela ha aur paani behta ha aur i love you!"
And of course you do now say "pataa ha" whenever I say "I love you"!
Abhe nae maante to kya hua...One day you'll know that I am killing myself for you.
Slowly...
Painfully...

You always say sorry but you never really mean it. You don't feel . Doesn't matter. As Jenny told Oliver Barret IV, "Love means not ever having to say you're sorry!"
But you don't really consider me to be human, do you?

For some very weird reason, Dil to Pagal ha comes to mind yet again.

naam to yaad rahay ga?!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Know something? I am used to waiting for people who mean nothing to mean and who I know will never ever return. You...you are my life, my heart, my soul, my Everything. I will always wait for you to become normal, to love me again.
Even after death.
Yet another cheesy dialogue, but "tujhay waapis aana ho ga because I'm waiting...And iss kay liye tu maire saare zindage ley ley."

You have taken everything from me. Even my best friend. Last time you called was on 21 June at 1:11 pm from home. Last time you called from cell was on 9 June at 1:04 am. Last missed call you gave me was on 8 Jun at 10:39 pm. The last message you sent was on 13 June at 4 am.
Do you even realise what I am trying to say?
Khair keep doubting and doing this to me. Soon, it will probably be too late to regret.

You spit on me and push me away.
Always.
And yet I love you!
Why you want to hurt me and break me to pieces like this, I will never know. But I'm helping you do this by wilfully hurting myself.

I know this has been a fairytale romance. Unlikely people. Unlikely circumstances. All that true as it is, it simply proves what I've always told you...
THIS IS MEANT TO BE...
And I know God is with me on this one.

WE WILL COME THROUGH THIS, STILL...

You know why?
Because...

I LOVE YOU!

The dance of death...

2005-06-25T02:02:00.000+05:00

Why do you like to do this to me?
Why do you like seeing me in pain? Must I always have to tell you that this death that you give me (by wanting to end this) is far worse than the slow painful physical death I am giving myself?
Why don't you understand that I am actually hurting myself?
I can bear all of life's shit if you're with me. Without you I know I will simply end up burning all these people up. Without you I will die.
Not just words. These come from the heart.

Here begins the slow dance of death
Arm in arm we move to the exit
Ever so slow
Ever so painful
Ever so sure

If ever I could get one wish it would be that I could have everything back, and if that is too much to ask for, then I don't want to be sent to a mansion in heaven.
I just want that God gives me just a little space under some tree in heaven and that you and I could spend the rest of eternity under that tree.

Of disappointments...

2005-06-24T01:34:00.000+05:00

You break all your rules and finally like someone. You don't care for ANYONE. Family. Friends. The whole world. God. No one matters. And then you break all rules for someone. Someone who becomes the only person in your life that matters. The only one who is significant. Then you realise that to them you are simply insignificant.
Like teenage poetry. You don't know what love is. You have never had any experience. And yet you write such wonderful poems about loss and hurt.
Agonising. Painful. Excrutiating.
Only in real life, when you finally experience it, it's far more painful than the stupid meaningless poems you wrote.
You feel, you hope that you're important to them. That they care. That your words matter.
Then all of a sudden you realise that you are insignificant. Wasted words hurt more than untold emotions.
Kutta lagta ha apna aap.

Jub woh naraaz hote ha...

2005-06-23T01:39:00.000+05:00

Jub woh naraaz hote ha to mujhay lagta ha kay shayd saans ruk gaye ha
Shayd Khuda duniya walon say naraaz ho chukaa ha
Everything stops moving
Time stops in its tracks
The beautiful things turn ugly
I seem to lose sight
I wonder if my dream is about to be over and if I'm about to be rudely woken up to the reality of my loneliness

And then...
The slightest nudge in the right direction...
The smallest reason to be hopeful...
And I start dreaming again...

Hope is funny and painful
LOVE IS FUNNY AND PAINFUL!

The angst of lost words...

2005-06-23T01:29:00.000+05:00

It hurts to know my words mean absolutely nothing to you. I supposed your silence to mean you understood. All it really means is you don't care. I am left stranded here, having poured out my heart, whereas all that shouldn't need have been said. And I was foolish enough to believe that you cared, you understood, you meant when you said this time the sorry was from your heart and shit it wasn't!
And still I can't help loving you more with every passing moment of my life.

On why it is not necessary to have to say everything in as many words...

2005-06-21T03:22:00.000+05:00

Why does it become so necessary to say things which need not be said? Why do we suppose that so many things that we leave unsaid will be understood?

Maybe I didn’t treat you quite as good as I should have
Maybe I didn’t love you quite as often as I could have
Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time
You were always on my mind

Elvis Presley

And what if they ARE at all times on your mind? What if you live, breathe, and think of them for every single moment, asleep or awake? What if you did at least TRY to treat them quite as good as you should have? What if you TRIED to love quite as often as you could have? Agreed that that expression of love as elaborate as it is will always be found wanting, no matter how much you try. If you feel satisfied with expressing it, then how can it be love? Can you ever really love enough?
The answer may not be so simple. Maybe the need for having to say everything over and over again rises from the fact that you didn't love enough. Maybe there was some deficiency in your ability to love.

Why should I have to tell that I am with you no matter what? Why should I have to expressly state that no matter what, in life or in death, I am with you?
Waiting for you to give me life...Yet again.
Why do I have to say so much? Can't some things simply be left unsaid?
Every morning I wake up and tell myself the lie that you'll realise. I don't lie to you but I have to lie to myself. I have to tell myself that you'll call today and say that you're sorry and that you realise how much you've hurt me and how useless it all was and that it's all right now. That you'll never ever try to put any distance. I lie to myself. I know you won't feel sorry.
Of all the things that happen in life, the most painful is when you are in love with someone and they are in love with you and you want to be with them forever and they want to be with you forever and there's absolutely no point in anything else and some shit must happen to ruin the perfect life that you had built so tediously. The hurt comes not from the great world of the impossible and the realism of the other person, but really from the fact that you have a certain level of expectation from them and they're not fulfilling those expectations.
Do you ever need to tell me things? Do I not understand without your saying? Aren't some feelings, some expressions, some thoughts so precious and so true that even without having to say them, you should be able to understand? Do YOU ever need to have to tell me everything in detail?

Tumharay appa ko apna appa samajhnay wala yeh pagal ladka
Kayee hazaar sadion say tanha kharha tumhara rasta daikh raha tha
Murh kay jo daikha ha aaj main nay to phir say ehsaas hua ha
Azal say abad tak main tanha kharha tha

But no matter how much all this hurts, and no matter what I keep telling you repeatedly and you never understand...I LOVE YOU

Just remember one thing.
BETWEEN YOU AND ME...THERE WILL NEVER EVER BE A LAST TIME!

Anonymously yours...

2005-06-21T03:05:00.000+05:00

Somehow, these stupid, cheesy Indian films and the music industry all over the world manage to describe love so beautifully and so eloquently. Shahrukh’s soliloquy in DIL TO PAGAL HA for Madhuri is so beautiful that I HAVE to borrow from it. I can’t use her real name or ANY name. I’ll just call her ‘her.’ After all, “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Naam mein kya rakha ha.

"Main tumhain kaisay bataoon who kya ha
Shayd main to yah bhe nae bataa paooon ga kay woh kaun ha
Woh hanste ha to mujhay lagta ha kay kahen Khuda khush hua ha aur uss nay duniya kay tamaam fitri awamil ko hukm diya ha kay who aik saath apnay husn ko duniya ko bakhsh dein
Chunaanchay aasmaan pay sitaaray aik aik kur kay chamaktay hain aur daikhtay he daikhtay andhairay mein aik thande see roshne ho jaate ha
Phir unn taaron kay beech chaand chamakta ha…Thande chandne aur sitaron kay kafilay dharte kay baaseeon ko nayee duniyaon ka waada daitay hain
Kahen paharhon kay sarsabz daamanon say aik jharna bahta nikalta ha aur kayee haseen nashaib o faraaz say guzarta hua aakhir pyaase dharte ke banjar kokh ko sairaab karta ha aur dharte ko maamta daita ha…Isse maamta say konplain phootte hain aur phir banjar bey abaad zameen sehn-e-chaman bante ha aur rangha rang kay phool yak rung dharte ke uktaahat ko rung ha rung ka husn ataa kartay hain…Mitee kee sondhe khushboo mein phoolon ke mukhtalif-ul-nau khushbooat shaamil hote hain…
Aik phool pay bulbul aa baithtee ha…Phool uss lams kay ehsaas say sharmaata ha aur phir uss lams ke quwat say khil uthta ha…Ashjaar pay tayur kayee rung aur kayee awazain bakhairtay hain…
Kahnay ko to kitna kuch kah sakta hoon magar woh hanse kabhe alfaaz mein nae samaee jaa sakte…
Uss ke kis kis baat ke tareef karoon? Alfaaz saath chorhtay hain…Uss ke hur baat hur adaa iss qadar azeez ha kay bayaan karnay ke himmat nae rahe…
Magar sub baton mein say eham baat yah ha kay who sirf maire ha.”

How do I tell you what she is
I probably can’t even tell who she is
When she laughs I feel as if God has ordered all the elements of Nature to conspire in showering infinite beauty and blessings on the dwellers of Earth
The stars come out one by one and cover the sky, taking away the darkness that engulfed the earth
And in their midst shines the moon, its sweet and mild light adding cool and serenity to the scene
Through the winding turns of a mountain’s green paths flows a stream, into the barren earth, blessing it with the joys of motherhood
A whole new world springs from under the soil, as flowers add varied hues and smells to the dull monotony of the earth’s colour and smell
Birds flock to this lush garden and add myriad voices and colours to the entire scene
As one small bird lands on a flower, the flower shivers at the sensation and seems to wither into itself before it blooms again with the strength that touch grants him
I can go on and on and yet mere words can never do justice to that laughter of hers
How much praise shall I shower upon her? Frankly, she’s too precious for me to say anything…
Of all that exists in this world, the most important is the fact that she’s only mine.

Obviously the translation is not half the expression as the original.