Fish

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Why کیوں

ای خدا تونی انسان کیوں بنایا ؟
میں تم سی عاجزی سی پوچھتا ہون
کیا تو اس فقیرےشہر کو روزے ثواب کے دں سب گناہ معاف کری گا ؟
کیا تو اسی پل بھر کے لیے خدا بنائے گا ؟
اور خود انسان بنی گا ؟
مجھی معاف کرنا گر میں غفلت میں ہوں
مجھ تیری خدائی کا کجھہ پتا نہی
توں کون ہی ؟ یہ اب تک معمہ کیوں ہے ؟
میں نہیں جانتا اس فقیری کا ڈھونگ -ہر ایک لمحہ عذاب ہی
کیا تیری گھر کو بھی کوئی دروازہ ہی؟
میں کہاں تیری رازوں کے چاپی تلاش کروں
ہر ایک راستہ بند ہی
نگاہ دھندلا کی رہ گئی ہی




اے خدا کیا تیرا بھی کوئی خدا ہی ؟
تو کیسی خود بخود ہوگیا ؟
میں تجھ سا کیوں نہیں بنا؟
کیا تو کوئی اور ہی اور میں کوئی اور ہوں ؟
کیا یہ سب کجھ تونی بنایا ہے چھہ دنوں میں ؟
وہ آدم کون ہی ؟
کہیں توں بھیس بدل کر ہم سب کو پاگل تو نہیں کر رہا ہی ؟

The Way of the Soul


For a long time, I lived as a nomad. I was sick of the “civilized” ways of life. I wanted to run away, deep into the land of nowhere. I ended up living in a very small village, far from my home.
I met Chacha at the Shrine of Qalandar Laal Shahbaz in Sehwan. He came to visit the shrine to pay homage to the saint. Food was free at the shrine, and I slept wherever I could find a place in the shrine complex. Chacha saw me there many days, and I also observed him. He came to me one day and asked me who I was and what I was doing there. I told him I couldn’t answer his questions, but I simply wanted to see life through its own realities. He said, “If you have to see life, then you should not sit here, but go and see the world. The world will not come to you--you have to go to the world.”
Chacha offered me an invitation to go and visit his place (the very small village I mentioned earlier), and I accepted. Since I had come to this place, I lived like they lived. They called me Lalo. I became friends with Chacha’s son, Ali Dano. Soon Chacha also referred to me as his son and I lived there as if I were really son. I collected wood from the mountains, I watched the sheep, goats, cows, and camels graze, and I brought water from the nearby ponds. This village was very small. Only teen families lived there. This was not a permanent village. They lived here in winter, and in summer they moved to Khirthar Mountain.
I thought that whoever I had been before, I would not tell anyone about it in the future. Those were such wonderful days that I never thought about my original identity. I thought, “I am Lalo.” At one time, I seriously believed that I would never leave this place, and that I would forget about my other identity. I thought, “I will buy my own goats, sheep, and camels--build a mud and stone house in the mountains, where no one will ever come to identify me.” I thought I would marry a nomad girl from the other side of the mountains, and one day, I would die somewhere in the mountains as an unknown person. But things changed one day. That event later pushed me to go back to the place where I belonged.
It was a sunny day, and I was with Chacha. We had gone to a far-flung area in the mountains towards Baluchistan, because someone had told us that people there wanted to sell a camel. After a day’s journey by foot, we had reached our destination late at night. Village folks told us we should sleep now; they would do the kachari (discussing the details of the visit) tomorrow. In the morning, they offered us milk tea with sugar and breakfast. Chacha mentioned the camel and that he was interested in trading for it. They agreed to give us the young female camel; she was brown in color and just a kid--not very big in size. In exchange, we promised to give them seven goats.
When we came back home, everything was fine. On the second night, though, we found that our new camel was missing. We thought that someone may have stolen it. I went with Ali Dano to find it. Soon, I saw the camel’s hoof-prints on the soil. I called to everyone. Chacha told us to follow him. We went on further, following the hoof-prints. I realized it was the same route we had taken when we purchased the camel.
Suddenly, Chacha spoke in a high, panicked voice, “Everyone should go back.” People were surprised. Everyone left except for Ali Dano and me.
We were silent for a while, but then I asked, “What is the story, Chacha?”
Chacha said, “She went back.”
I asked, “But why?”
He looked at me, and I felt as if his eyes had magnetic forces—magnetic forces that made me look toward him. He was staring continuously into my eyes. Then he said, “Son… everything eventually goes back from where it came. Like this camel…like you…like me…like all those people who are sleeping now in their graves.”
On my second-to-last day in this village, Ali Dano woke me up from the rooftop where I slept every night. Sleeping on the rooftop was one of the most pleasant experiences I had there. Each night we made different objects by making connections between different stars. The nomads’ herds were leaving the village in the early morning. It was still dark, but the nomads’ day had started. Ali Dano offered me milk tea with sugar, Dal Masoor (Red Split lentils) and white rice from the night before. We were sitting around the cholha (cooking place) with Chacha and Chachi.
Chacha said to me, “Bring more wood today, Lalo.”
I asked, “Why, Chacha?”
He said, “Son, you will leave soon, and I don’t know when you will be back. You know Ali Dano is not working well. I am an old man, and I can’t bring wood from the mountains.”
I was silent for a while. I felt the pain of separation, because it seemed like the decision had already been made for me. I knew then that I was going to return to my other life sooner than I had expected.”
“I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all”.
Alfred Lord Tennyson's (1809-1892) poem
In Memoriam: 27, 1850

مسیحا مر گیا ہی

مسیحا مر گیا ہی - عیسا مر گیا ہی
میں نی خواب دیکھنا چھوڑ دئیں ہیں -انسان مر گیا ہی
تماشے نُفس ہوس کے سرکس میں کر کر کے میرا ضمیر مر گیا ہی
فرشتی آسمانوں پر کھو گیں ہیں -شہر سارا خوف میں سو گیا ہی
کوئی نہیں جانتا وو کون ہی ؟ وجود بھیڑ میں کوگیا ہی
ایک کفر نے کہا خدا مر گیا ہی
میں سوچ رہا ہوں اس کا مقبرہ کہاں ہی ؟

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

At the hill

He stood at hill. He saw the way he came from. He looked ahead. ]  He was tired. He never been so tired. He decided that  to be silent is best cure and to forget is the best liberation.. He looked at idols. One by one. He put them there. No idol. Verily existence is best idol.

He wrote on the wall. " Those who are silent--their hearts will never die--and their soul will never suffer".  

Their come one. He asked for help. He gave him his food. He said no. I don't need food. He gave him money. He said no i don't need money. He gave him his books. He said no i don't need books. Have became  naked and at last gave him his clothes. He said no i don't need clothes. 

He got irritated. What else i can give you!  Please guide me to be rich, happy, and be a man of high class.

What makes you feel to ask me such things Oh the men of flesh and bone. Thou not see--i have not desired these ever.

I have silence if you need. The men left and said you are mad man.

He left the hill and again in search of silence--utter silence. But before he left. He wrote on wall...


" If you don't need silence--never bother me again on the hill--never distrub me to be silent"

Monday, April 15, 2013

Opa Toto

It was our last meeting. He was laying on his bead without any movement. I was talking with Dani. When Linda ran to bring doctor. They said he has cancer attack. When doctor went inside they said he is dead. for next three days we been busy in funeral of Opa Toto and last night was Duo Rosario at his home.

He was retired school teacher. Had two daughters and one son. His first wife died fifteen years ago and he married second time with Oma Neena. For two days i went to Rumah Abadi to have his last rites of passages. Friends, family members, and many of his students were there. Mitra liked to eat Bakpao and he eat five. Later i brought him two more.There were two halls where we were sitting. In one we had prayers and in other one people were sitting and had conversation with each other.

Father Peter initiated rituals at Rumah Abadi and second day father Vatican did funeral rites. On the second day they saw him last time and then they locked the coffin-box with nails and put cross made of roes on the top of it. Before that every one took one small perfume and put drops around the Opa Toto and i did so also. 

 I was not able to attend his cremation due to going  Tangerang, Banten for environment meeting with community members with the help of sister Lia.  They cremated him close to the beach at Dadap.

Last night was prayer for him at his home. His two daughter and one son was there. We prayed there for one and half hours. His daughter, Fanny brought cappuccino and strawberry cake from Medan.

Derian was scared after attending prayers and he stayed with us last night. It was raining with roaring in loud noise.

I meet with Opa Toto after five minutes of his death-though we never meet when he was alive- but i am glad that i was with him in his last journey as friend.  

Sunday, January 13, 2013

And i am Intoxicated

you are drunk
and i'm intoxicated
no one is around
showing us the way home
again and again
i told you
drink less
a cup or two
i know in this city
no one is sober
one is worse than the other
one is frenzied and
the other gone mad
come on my friend
step into the tavern of ruins
taste the sweetness of life
in the company of another friend
here you'll see
at every corner
someone intoxicated
and the cup-bearer
makes her rounds
i went out of my house
a drunkard came to me
someone whose glance
uncovered a hundred
houses in paradise
rocking and rolling
he was a sail
with no anchor but
he was the envy of all those sober ones
remaining on the shore
where are you from i asked
he smiled in mockery and said
one half from the east
one half from the west
one half made of water and earth
one half made of heart and soul
one half staying at the shores and
one half nesting in a pearl
i begged
take me as your friend
i am your next of kin
he said i recognize no kin
among strangers
i left my belongings and
entered this tavern
i only have a chest
full of words
but can't utter
a single one

A peom by Rumi