Nomad

Thus Spoke Zarathustra

2012-01-30T02:30:00.000-08:00

وہ ایک رات ایک رات نہ تھے

ہ ہزاروں برسوں کی بیتی ہوۓ کہانی تھے

ا ور اس کہانی کی بھی ایک کہانی تھے

وہ کہانی جو اپنی لکھنی والی راوی کی منتظر

اس بچی کی طرح جو روز صبح کو

سورج کی جاگنی کا منتظرہوتا ہی ---

سورج جو خدا ہی انسان کے اس تقدیر کے طرح جو ہونی کو ممکن کرنی پہ مصروف عمل ہو --

سورج جو خدا کا بوڑھا دوست ہی---

سورج جو خدا کا ازل سی پجاری ہی ---

زردشت کی طرح ، موسیٰ اوور فروں کی طرح ---

ہاں مگر میں یہ سچ کس کو بتاؤں؟

سبھی نی اپنی آنکھوں میں پتھر سجا رکھی ہیں ---

اور سب مجھی شیطان نہیں --مردود کہتی ہیں --

ہاں مگر خزر جو موت کا دوست ؤو یہ جانتا ہی کی میں کیا نہیں جانتا ----

First Strike

2012-01-09T17:23:00.000-08:00

32 Matches

Strike On Box Matches

تیری ماچس کی ڈبیا میں
وہ بتیس تیلیاں -- کیا اس شریرکی سرد خانی کو حدت دے سگی گی ؟
وہ کالی روڈ پہ دھنسا ہوا سنہری تالا-- اس کی چابی وہ گم ہونی والی گلی میں تلاش کرتی رہی--
ہاں مگر یہ کیسے ممکن ہی کہ وجود کی دروازے کی چابیاں یونہی سڑکوں پہ بکھری سی ملیں-----
ہاں مگر جیسی نہ تم ہم سی ملے
ہاں مگر جیسی نہ ہم تم سی ملے--
کیا یہ سچ نہیں کہ محبت سورج کی طرح سب کی لیے ہی ؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟
ہاں مگر کون سمجتا ہی یہ چھوٹی سی باتیں اس بڑی سی سنسار میں !!!
ہم تو پاگل ہیں -- مگر -ہوش والو زرا یہ تو بتاو یا الہی یہ ماجرا کیا ہی ---

کیا ہونا وجود کی اکیلی سمندر میں اک بٹکتی سی کشتی کا نام ہی ؟؟؟؟
کیا اب کی بار ہم مل کی نہیں بچھڑیگیں --؟
بس اک یہی سوال ہی -----------

-کہ بکھرتی وقت میں جانی کیا کچھ بکھرتی والا ہی !!!!!
بس یہی اک یہی ڈر ہی ورنہ سب خیر ہی !!!!!!

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Caution : Close box Before Striking
(:= :) :( =:)(:= :) :( =:)(:= :) :( =:)(:= :) :( =:)

Even not in the dreams

2012-01-09T07:30:00.000-08:00

کبھی جلتی ہوئی رات میں اندھیروں کی شہر سی کہنااب کی بچھڑی تو شاید خوابوں میں بھی نہیں ملینگی-----
Could you ever say in the fire of night to darkened city that if we apart this time we will be not able to meet even ever in the dreams..................

کبھی بھجھتی صبح سی پوچھنا کہ زمین اوراسماں کہ بیچ میں اتنا خلا کیوں ہیں ?

could you ever say to retreating morning that why there is gulf between the earth and sky?

گر جدائی ہے مقدر ہی تو یہ ملنا کیوں ہی؟

If to be apart is the fate ......then why do we meet?
یہ رات................... دن کہ درد کہاں چپاتی؟ اور یے دن اندھری میں اتنا تنہا کیوں ہی ؟

where do the night hide the pain of the day. ??

and why day is so lonely in the darkness?
)))irur\jur-2\hj\-j \ewFJUR\3RFY2R3UR\32W-J]PVMVNW

Even not in the dreams

2012-01-07T06:56:00.001-08:00

کبھی جلتی ہوئی رات میں اندھیروں کی شہر سی کہنااب کی بچھڑی تو شاید خوابوں میں بھی نہیں ملینگی-----

Return to innocence

2012-01-02T11:00:00.000-08:00

Lets return to innocence

lets be kids

No fear

No worry

No sense of cleverness

Lets go back to wild dreams

Lets play hide and seek

Lets fight with each other in a movement and be friend in next

Lets be innocent like kids because they don't hate each other

They Just play,

Cry

Laugh..

And see dreams to be hero......Superman........

Austin, Texas, June 2008.

All great Truth began as Blasphemies……

2011-12-31T16:42:00.000-08:00

There were hundreds of thousands of piles of burden everywhere. It was prohibited to share burden with anyone else. Each and every one was supposed to take his own burden but it was so heavy that anyone who tried to load the heap of piles on his or her shoulders failed miserably. Rule demanded that failures will be asked to take extra burden each time they fail. It was very difficult situation. No one was able to take burden and each time they failed their burden increased. Rule persisted and custom of failure became ritual of the new order. This order was based on the insanity of negation of” the truth of the day”. They said in new order days will be renamed as nights and nights will be renamed as days. They said “warm” is “cold” now according to new philosophy. Order said anything which begins with “T” capital is blasphemy of order of the idiot-logy. Order said “sejarah”...i.e. history is either ugly wall of present or epic of past which no one belongs to. Order said if someone will do transgression he or she will be send to Buru Quartet. The fear of Buru Quarter silenced minds and hearts-wills and wishes…

Prohibited T capitals where “Truth”, “Tarrant”, “Torture”, “Tolerance”, “Tell” and “Telling”. In all kitabs tartib of kamus was altered. They arrested those who talked about ghost stories--- as order was not able to control hantu (ghost) but only human beings. So when they were humans they were able to be controlled by the new order through ordinance of” the prohibited T capitals of 1965 clause“ ------ while when the light of life was off they become hantu and they began to transgression and haunt the order -------that was only choice they had. Everywhere the National Monuments became site of pilgrimage to affirm the idiot-logy of the new order. Then May came and new order was exiled. New order later on lived like Dutch hantu lives only in the archives and in cemeteries!

Reformasi…….

This is what they said “the new order of new order”. Order was like Randang Asli----- everyone cooked it through its own way as democracy was the experimental lunch of existence for the subjects of the orders—and everyone put its own salt in it as to make it tasty. People were confused. They wanted to test is but it was bitter again. They said those who eat salty lunch of existence will regret it and those who will refuse they will also regret it. As Order was just the order of the regret and people were born to redeem everyday as they were just like “toys of the orders”.

Then come big Tsunami. It washed not just everything on earth but loved once also. But on the top of this loss and grief waves upon waves of Tsunami halted the advances of the order. Tsunami came and new and old order was gone. Big birds came to recuse sons, and daughters of the Bhumi. Birds transported them to for off places…. to the other world ……they heard in fairy tells……located on the land after the seven seas. Sons and daughters stayed there to learn how to retreat this new order of the order. Daughters and sons were confused that why these orders order them to be ordered in ordered way which in fact is totally disordered and misordered way. They realized that though old order is gone but still they don’t let them be what they want to be. But no one knew what to do. They were silent. New books said Jangan lupakan sejarah is wrong now it will read as…Lupakan sejarah”[1].

Daughter resented the order she said “the crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born; in this interregnum a great variety of morbid symptoms are appearing”[2]. They accused her of blasphemy of “the prohibited T capitals of 1965 clause” and “1998 Bukti Bukti act”. She was aggravated. Daughter said aren’t we all were fighting for democracy, liberty, and to be what we want to be? Haven’t that fateful May been called “The new Age of Reason”?

Why I can’t be what I want to be? Who we were fighting against? Enemy is gone. Why don’t you………… all my brothers and sister look into yourself? Why you negate my freedom? Was I am not part of this war for the liberty of the soul and body? Why you don’t understand that I am with you all in this blind folded world of the stupid orders which are not made for us? And why you all are behaving to me like “the new order”? Why you are today against my freedom? Did you forget that yesterday we all were accused together as traitors and today you all are accusing me as traitor? Is it because I am daughter…… it is because I am woman…. It is because you don’t trust yourself?

Why don’t you all grow-up? Why don’t we let everyone to choose his own path for his own destiny and let not stop anyone like “the new order” stopped all of us for more than thirsty years!

Why you want to stop me for another fifty years to gain my freedom. Just remember all great Truth began as Blasphemies……today it’s me… and tomorrow it will be you…. But today you accused me but my brothers and sisters I will fight along with you against enemy tomorrow even though today you all are fighting against me…

I just want to say... I love you……………………….

[1] Imaculata Kurniasanti (2009) Ghost Stories: Public Memories of the 1998 Riots in Indonesia. MA Thesis. Austin: The University of Texas at Austin.

[2] Gramsci Selections from the Prison Notebooks (1971)

From The Nomad’s Diary

2011-12-28T10:32:00.000-08:00

Home….!

Why you are going there?

Well why not? That’s my home. That’s where I belong to.

She said but aren’t their suicide bombers? Tears were raining on her cheeks like flood came last year in Sindh.

I understood now why she was worried about me. But before I respond to her…. she said… you know I love you and I don’t want you to die by any crazy Taliban………..who will write songs of nomads…the fish…boats…..?????? Who????????

I said it is not just about aesthetically woven poems in hyper bole of emotions and nostalgia ……… it is also about hungry bellies and that’s why I am going there so that I can write poems of hungry bellies….. …………………you know poems have no meanings……. people have meaning. I am like them and I lived way they live for all of my life accept last five years ….. I am same ….. I can’t be what I can’t be—I am what I am…I can’t deny the truth of Sun’s warm touches in Thar Desert and unprecedented monsoon of 2007....... when he showed crocodiles in far-away waters to me.............

I said to her that you know my country has 16 million people and do you think I am more important than them? And how I will write poems about them if I am not there? I said prophet Youssef was selled in few dollars and you are asking about my worth….. I am nothing of nothing……. You know in our country even Prime Minsters die and "no one knows" who killed them…. my poems….my worth…......!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You know I am small garbage heap in this huge ocean of leftovers …..But you know …..Nothingness is everything for all nomads…….and that’s what it is…And that’s what it is…….

I said to her you know what ……..the moment Sindhi is born mothers recite in our right ear Shah Latif’s poem …………………………

جي پويون ٿِئي پَساهُ، ته نِجانءِ مَڙهُ مَلِيرَ ڏي.

When I die, bury my body to the land where I belong to”. (Shah Latif)

It is about roots……. It’s not about life or death ….you have no idea my friend what it means to have a place to be buried…in the cemetery of your village.....? You will only know when you will read Michael Taussig’s “Walter Benjamin’s grave” or The Graves of Tarim by Engseng Ho.

I love you.
I love your country but i am sorry my friend i have to go home...... you know what it means to have home........?????

Home ..........................home................................where you go all times back no matter what Island of gold you have found....... like Marvi we all want to go back to home.......

Tell my bard friend i am coming to listen the tells of my home....

“Ozgur Gundem is banned today” (Free Agenda)

2011-12-25T12:41:00.000-08:00

The Gregorian Christian Church of Karmir kiraki was silent on the Christmas day in a cold December. It was early morning. They were announcing on municipal loudspeakers that “Ozgur Gundem is banned today”. These speakers were like radios for people of town. Loudspeakers were located in each and every corner of the city and they broadcast each time “terror is coming to haunt you”. It was like old childhood stories that grandmother used to tell to Armenian harp player. She said in olden days there was a monster that lived in the mountain. Monster on the dark nights came to town to eat humans. People of town through siren warned each other to hide to safe places so that monster can’t eat them.

Shop keepers began to close their business. Suddenly a wave of panic and fear began to roam in the city. They ordered each person to lockdown his tongue, put blindfold on eyes, and ear plugs in ears. Order said truth is “a wild dog of Qandil Mountain” and people of town must lockdown to protect themselves and others as not to get infected of epidemics of plague. Announcement said it is dangerously contiguous.

But it was already too late. Symptoms began to appear in town. A minstrel from Lake Van came to town on horseback and began to sing a ballad loudly in old Kormanji of Zagros……….

“Let the Koçgiri live long”,

“And let Ali Hariri’s grammar rain the words on our tongues”

“And let’s rewrite the epic drama of Meme Alân o Zini Botan”

While bard was singing tune of eternity he was shot dead by a huge bullet fired of Leopard 2A4 by Kara Kuvvetleri.

After bard died of gun shoot the old Armenian poet named Hrant who sell Agos newspaper brought with him his only inheritance. It was 4^th century old Armenian harp. When he reach to the middle of the town he saw everything was locked. He heard that newspapers are banned that day. He was not surprised. He thought that if there is no newspaper today then he will sit in the center of the town and play on his Armenian harp melody of Karmir kiraki. The lunatic of city came to him. Lunatic told him that he is afraid that they may also kill him or take him to the prison. He said that may be God has become poor and he doesn't have stick to stop terror and injustice. He said lunatics of city are collecting money to buy “the Stick of God” ….sopa. Armenian harp player said he is poor men and he will be not able to sell today newspapers so he don’t have anything to offer to him but he can donate his Armenian harp and lunatic can sell that in the market and buy out of that sopa for God. Armenian harp player said till that time he will be playing harp in the center of city and will wait for lunatic come back to take Armenian harp. Lunatic left to ask for money from people of the town to buy stick for god so that He can stop with HIS stick killing of people in the city. Hrant played classical tune of death……………………………

They entered the school and caught the school-mistress,
Ah, alas!
They opened her mouth and cut her tongue,
Ah, alas!

The last Armenian harp player was killed by MSG 90, a semi-automatic sniper rifle of 7.62 mm caliber made with the help of friendly country the Federal Republic of Germany. Built came as soon as he finished alas……he murmured in his mouth ……Dinner…..breakfast….dinner……breakfast… Then he remembered the day he was born… his mother was dying and he never forgot her last words even it was his first day in this world ……but he remembered his mother’s last words when built made hole in his head…..Dinner….. Breakfast............... He was lying on the ground and built crossed from his front side of the head and went neatly out of skill as built wanted to just take shower in his hot head blood jocose. His left shoe sole had hole beneath toe like his head had a hole after built crossed through it. He was lying dead on floor and his right hand was still on the harp and last notes were still producing echo……………………. Ah, alas!

Lunatics changed name of place where last Armenian harp player died-they called it now Hayat square and lunatics made a statue of "301". Lunatics changed their ideas to buy wooden stick for god and they decided instead to make huge murals of words….."colored lens"….."50% discount"….. "24/7"……

They kept announcing through the loudspeakers of the city ….. don’t come outside ….it is contiguous…… you will be killed if seen on the streets…….newspapers are banned today……………………………………………… no Ozgur Gundem ………violators will be killed on spot like bard and Armenian harp player…… ………………………...who sold in market Agos newspaper……….

“For Warrior from lpiau-Bahia"

2011-12-18T16:43:00.001-08:00

It was big colossal building. Walls reached to the seventh heaven. There were secret doors and windows but no one knew why all “keys are lost”? There was only one door to enter and exit. Colossal was like the steep rock wall of Monte Roraima. The Monte Roraima on the boarders of Venezuela, Brazil and Guyana was lonely since last three hundred years, twenty five days, three hours and nine seconds when warrior escaped assassination attempt after he was accused of telling about the death. He went to live in the Poco Encantado. There one night he saw a dream about Chapada. Chapada was Dona Maria’s son. He wrote poems. He wrote three poems one day- Pico das Almas, Itabira Peak, and Barbados Peak. He wrote these three poems for the Cachoeira da Fumaca just two days before he died in São Paulo on the third step of patriarc square reciting his poem killed by the unknown built of AK-47.

Why it took them four hundred years to reach the Lençoís?

How come you smoked all of us but you can’t see the smoke of anger of the Cachoeira da Fumaca?

Why Justice is like glass of smoke?

Outside the Church of Novo Dia on the banks of the Contas River 42,437 people were singing……..altoghetehr since twenty two days.

A Estória da História… the story of history

da História……oh História……oh history …oh history

Por que os arquivos da vida estão em branco? Why the archvies of life are blank?

Oh Estória da História… oh story of history

quem escreveu isso? Who wrote this?

From last twenty seven days in all Favela of São Paulo Dona Maria through the spirit of her dead son invoked tears in the eyes of twenty million people. In Bamburral on each stair of Favela Gustavo wrote on the festival of Cidade das Crianças…

Nidade Familia E Deus E Tudo ….Family, community and God is everything.

Chapada’s sprit told warrior that go back to patriarc square and baptizes it with his blood. Warrior asked Chapada “but they will kill me”? The way the killed you”. Warrior said I am not scared of death but I don’t want to die in the hands to those who don’t deserve to be my killers” – “I refused to die”.

Chapada said do you think I am dead”. Warrior said it’s not about me. They all say you are dead. Chapada said “but do you know that my mother Dona Maria doesn’t believe that? Warrior said that yes but……aren’t you dead? Chapada asked from warrior are they able to kill the Cachoeira da Fumaca?

Warrior said that is impossible. It is huge. They can’t kill the Cachoeira da Fumaca? Chapada laughed and said until the Cachoeira da Fumaca lives no one will die by death. Those who don’t accept this live in illusion of death till they die and remember we live this life of death through poems we write about the Cachoeira da Fumaca.

Chapada give him three poems. He said him to go to Colossal. On the way to your journey you will meet two friends. The exiled Kurdish musician played archaic Armenian harp- which hallucinate people into the unity of the being. Last time he played ….

Time is timed before the time……

And pain is born before the birth of God in Zagros Mountain

He said Dina will dance the samba of Perdoe rápido in the colossal and then exiled Kurdish musician will play Armenian notes from banned archaic epic [1] “The Color of Pomegranates. Chapada said my mother Dona Maria will be at patriarc square but don’t ask for my body but she only needs my soul and sprit not the flash and bones.

Warrior went to the Colossal. 1902000, 0099308288899 million come to see the trial. No one in the history has seen ever this spectacular mass of people in the city. One judge in jury was also accused in his youth for invoking death of the nudity but then he went to the prison of lust and greed and after his release he was never same. He denied death.

Warrior recited one poem of Chapada titled “embora mesmo”….

Body…… corpo

And soul…. e alma

are friends…… são amigos

but…….. mas

Death is to live for the Cachoeira da Fumaca… A morte é viver para a Cachoeira da Fumaça.

The Colossoal began tto shake as soon warrior uttered “A morte é viver para a Cachoeira da Fumaça”.

Kurdish exiled musican touched arhac Armenain harp and Dina bgan to dance on the thrid peomof Chapada titled “Contradição da noite”

You say "dead" can't live?/ Você diz "morto" não pode viver?

I see life is death/ Eu vejo a vida é a morte

And suddendly Colossoal statretd to crumble when Dona Maria come with Chapado. Chapado comleped last line of “Contradição da noite”

and you can kill me but can’t resurrect me”

You are still not a God and al lof us know this”

Warrior throgh one stone to the miror clossosal and as soon as miror broked Colossosal begn to disappear like yellow small fishes in the São Francisco river. Warrior from lpiau-Bahia was unchained.

Chapada said I will be back when Dina will write the epic of Sertão Região Nordeste.

Dina began to dance and sing again...

“Oh........ the last feval of hope”

“Where is safe river to hide the my kids from the sounds of builts”

“ear pluges” i can’t put in my ears.....

Noise is too high.....

And kids of my mother can’t sleep since you make my Fevela into the Vita.

But i my warrior brother will fight

But Kurdish exlied musican will play Amrmenain Harp

And Chapada will write last peom titled “"Love, life and peace at patriarc square”

And Dona Maria will resurrect her son which you all can’t ever do

Till then let’s sing..... and dance… and kiss the Cachoeira da Fumaca...

Till her cheeks get read because of shyness …

[1] By Sergei Parajanov

Blessings of Ignorance on Thousand Plateaus

2011-12-13T21:39:00.000-08:00

They can appear from anywhere and at any time. They will be around you. They will know whatever you do. They are blind. They can’t hear or see or smell or feel. They eat stone and steel. When they are with humans they appear to be as humans. When humans believe them as humans they become predators. They have sharp knives in teeth’s. Their tongues are twisted. They say something and they do something else and they want you to believe another thing. They don’t know that tongue is to test the sweets of humility. They cut being of others with the tongue like threshers cut the wheat at the farms. They wear dark cloths at night and white at the day. They only stab you from back. You don’t need to find them. They are around you. Remember last time when you meet them? In the dark nights of the winter when they told you to make snow man? And you did it-even though you knew it will melt in the morning. But they said you have to. That is how it needs to be. But when it melted in the afternoon heat they accused you of betrayal. They said you are alibi of Sun.

Remember when they told you to find a needle in the sea. You couldn’t believe at first. They put posters on the walls of the city. They send preachers to remind you of your faith. They stooped wind. They ostracized the bird’s voices. They said gerunds can‘t act as the subject or object of a main verb of existence. They send dogs to bark on you in ceremonial manners of the absurdity. They played trumpet of darkness in your path to scare you so that you can redeem.

Remember false gods of mockery of Macbeth. Joker’s and hunches became fathers of the fate in the Zibiel[1] of lords of illusion.

Remembered when they drowned you and said Moses will help you keep the faith intact- otherwise blasphemers are be burned in the hell of the hell. When drowned they told you "idiot". As faith was just a fantasy and truth merely a comedy and life just another pile shit of diarrhea of plague.

Remember when they passed ordinance that no one can “see them, hear them”-“piety demands ignorance, to utter “I don’t know anything” and one and only (I testify) God of Macbeth knows secrets of the world and after him only his angels know better. And Angles don’t know anything for sure that’s how all books say and that’s why they are angels-“Ignorance is blessings” wise men always said.

[1] Unholy holy book of God of Macbeth of mockery.

Tower of Tortuer

2011-12-09T11:23:00.000-08:00

Tower was tickling. One ....two....three ....four....1 .2.3.4. The sound of bells wake birds from sleep. They open their wings to fly. It was Friday evening. There was no one around. It was empty. only me, ganetor and squirrels were there. I like it like this when there was no one there.

2011-11-25T23:25:00.000-08:00

Oh my little Princess

When your shadows drop to recall you

When in the cold winter you need warm words to feel the heat of intimacy

When on the road of alienation and apathy you reach to the dead end

When the castle of beauty crumble in the blizzard of harsh heat

When the beams of wisdom shine nothing but darkness

When the ship of last hope leave the Island of faith

When dust pour fog to hide the utterance of visibility

When the waves upon waves smash the shoreline of loneness

When the dragons of stinks inhale even the last breadth of your life

Than remember the old tarnished drifter –

One who begs nothing but non-worldliness for the eulogy of banality of being-?

Remember ….lost winds never return

Remember “Time and tide wait for none”

Neither….. Do vagabonds

Remember…..

Remember ……..

Remember ……………….

Before ……you forget yourself…… in the mist of illusions…..

Bahram Baizai, Iranian Cinema, feminism, art cinema

2011-11-15T15:59:00.001-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vltw9rYhlRg

Najmeh Khalili Mahani, najma@bic.mni.mcgill.ca
January 31, 2003

Bahram Baizai, born to a literary family in Tehran, in 1937, is one of the most enigmatic figures of the contemporary Iranian cultural scene. He is a leading expert in Iranian dramatic arts and his outstanding command of the Persian language and narration ranks him high on the list of Iranian script writers. In spite of this, his work, especially in the world of cinema, has faced much governmental resistance in the form of lack of production support, delayed screenings or total censorship of his scripts or even finished films, both before and after the revolution of 1979. Excluding his extensive work in theater, literature and academia, this article aims to introduce Baizai’s cinema by presenting the salient themes and features that establish him as an author-director.

Bahram Baizai

Bahram Baizai is one of the pioneers of the Iranian art cinema of the 80s, even though his reputation beyond the borders of Iran remains far behind those who are known as the pillars of the new wave of Iranian neo-realism. While the works of many of the famous Iranian directors are easily branded as `intellectual’ and are funneled into the stream of a certain audience in Iran, or towards international festivals, Baizai’s work, multi-faceted and complex, leaves many confused as how to fit his work into any genre. Baizai insists that he makes simple films; that he writes simple stories and stresses that the complexity of his topics is not crafted ideologies that he inserts in a pretentious attempt at intellectualism! He maintains that intricacy is inherent to the nature of life; and that life, even if lived simplistically, is not independent from the convoluted paths of history and culture, which themselves are byproducts of nature: geography and psychology. [1]
Baizai complains of certain critics who strive to complicate his films beyond what they are. Such critics insist that Baizai’s films are inaccessible to those who do not have a profound knowledge of Persian history and culture. With a scholarly understanding of Iranian and Asian theater, mythology and history, Baizai does not deny the underlying social and philosophical themes of his films. Yet, he speaks the visual language of cinema, defying the dyslexia of the technology available to him in Iran. In making a film, he aims at an aesthetic perfection that communicates his vision to the audience, albeit on different levels, depending on the cultural background of the viewer. In response to the question of the importance of cultural and historical readings to his films, Baizai says:

... there is always a risk that dwelling too much on deciphering such meanings blocks the way of direct communication of the film with the audience. This dimension (reference to the history and national identity) in our film (Maybe Some Other Time) is transparent and speaking about it magnifies it beyond proportion and burdens the understanding of the film. There are some film makers who think film, on it’s own, is insufficient. They strive to surmount the film with meanings and messages that grant the film a social respectability. This mentality existed in our traditional theater as well, where the actors preached morals and ethics to prove that theater was a respectable profession. I do not suffer such guilt or inadequacy (about the insufficiency of the cinema) and I think that the on-screen subject precedes the importance of any other underlying concept, which might be credited.[2]

In spite of this, Baizai’s cinema does not succumb to hypocritical popularism. His devotion, in making a film, is not to box office success; neither to the official governmental guidelines nor to the propaganda expectations of any political parties.[3]

I have always said that the viewers do understand, if I make my work understandable. On the other hand, if the spectator’s comprehension is not elevated enough, it is because she has not been exposed to more elated films. This is neither his fault nor his destiny. This is neither my fault nor a determining factor of my form and style. We should all try to improve this level. And I don’t know why instead of helping me, the intellectuals, the critics, the producers and the government have stood in my way. ... During Downpour (Baizai’s first feature film), the equations of commercial and intellectual films were the same. The common morality of the action/drama films of the commercial cinema had a tone of political ideology and social activism. The intellectual films were praised for communicating with the mass culture. In that sense, I don’t want to be popular. Many of these (popular) moralities, in my opinion, are wrong and we are all victims of them. So, I have betrayed my people if I endorse them. I have deviated from the morals of the political parties, hence they have labeled me (inaccessible), not the people. ... At the heart of my harsh expression, there is a love and respect, for the people, that does not exist in superficial appraisals of the masses. ... my audiences are those who strive to go one step further, not those who are the guardians of the old equations nor those who dread self examination and self reflexivity. [4]

The most controversial theme in Baizai’s films, which has frequently led to official banning of his films, is the iconic representation of women. Women’s issues are frequently addressed in the context of Iranian social cinema. Landmarks such as Bani Etemad’s Narges (1992), S. Makhmalbaf’s Apple (1998), and Panahi’s Circle (2000) invariably appear on every ``women-in-Iran’’ list. Baizai’s depiction of women on screen, however, dates back to the early 70’s and deviates from the typical contemporary realism, which draws attention to the cultural, religious and social webs in which the average women of Iran are supposedly caught. Baizai’s women, although challenged by unjust realities, transcend the boundaries that surround them, by the virtue of their natural superiority. The women of Baizai’s film are just as entangled in the ropes of the patriarchal society as are, for instance, Mehrjuy’s Sara (1993), Leila (1996), and Banoo (1992, released 2001).[5] Yet, they are not victims to it. They challenge the norm; they reject the stale tradition and they are empowered by their independence, power of will and their invincible love, as mothers, lovers, sisters and wives.
These women, however, signify more than their traditional roles. Their pivotal function in the majority of Baizai’s films is as a political signifier of the subtle strings that tie down the spirit of life and imprison the soul of a nation.[6] In Maybe, Some Other Time, for example, a woman’s quest for her identity points to a national concern. In Bashu, the fear of the unknown and the narrow mindedness lead to the isolation of a woman who is independent and brave. A woman’s struggle in the rotten world of men in Rabid Killing speaks also of the directors personal struggle in a society where corruption is becoming a social epidemic. Baizai comments that it is only in a macho-manist society that a critic says ``Baizai made another film with a woman lead’’.

It is in a patriarchal society that the lack of presence of a man in the leading role invokes critical attention ... the greatest disaster of patriarchy, where grownups decide for children and men for women and the government for the real people and the intellectual for the imaginary ones, is that it is the women and children who suffer the consequences of the men’s decisions. The victims of patriarchal self-centeredness are not only the women and children, but also many a man. These people are my subjects. Against a masculine tyranny, the children build up a hatred that will make them the martyrs or the tyrants of the future. The women, on the other hand, have their internal defense mechanism and a subtle wisdom that balances them against the violence of the world. [7]

In fact, most of his films are strongly centered around this female wisdom. In Stranger and Fog, Ra’na, whose first husband is presumed dead in the sea, becomes the soul fighter whose dagger is capable of killing the cloaked men who have come from the sea to take her second husband back. In Bashu, Na’i stands alone, against the mistrust of the community; her motherly instincts shelter Bashu in the rain; she tends to his fever although the doctor refuses help; she saves him from drowning by a fisher’s net. In Travelers, it is a woman who is the carrier of the mirror and it is the grandmother whose faith brings the mirror and light back to the crowd of mourners. They question the sanity of the old woman who, in spite of all the evidence of the death, insists on proceeding with the wedding. Even the most cynical woman of them all, Hamdam, possesses a psychic sense of something that has gone wrong. The lightheartedness of Mastan and her cheerful wit contrast the rationalism of her professor husband. In Ballad of Tara, only she can be the guardian of the historic sword. Indifferent to the significance of the sword, Tara hands it in to one of her male neighbors. But, he runs back to Tara and returns it in fury and cries that the sword has invited haunting ghosts to his house; that his rest and sleep has perished. It is only Tara who uses the sword to harvest, to defend her children from a mad dog. It is Tara, a young single mother who dares to face the ghosts and at last dares to fight the almighty waves of the sea to claim her historic lover, the ghost warrior, back. Even in his darkest film, Rabid Killing, Golrokh, a writer, risks her life and dignity to face the most menacing of men, in order to bail her husband out of his jail sentence. Yet at last, with broken heart and broken body, when she realizes that she has been but the agent of her husband’s corruption, her humanity survives and surpasses the impulse of revenge as she walks away and back into her intellectual world of writing.

The Travellers

In addition to the on-screen roles of the characters, Baizai makes a rhetorical use of women -e.g. in Ballad of Tara, Maybe Some Other Time, Travelers and Rabid Killing - to speak of the present realities of the Iranian society. Besides women, children represent his hopes and fears for the future of, not only Iranians, but also humanity. For example, in Maybe Some Other Time, Kian’s odyssey of self discovery is triggered by her concern for her unborn child. The survival of Bashu and his acceptance by other children, and his acceptance by Na’I’s husband who symbolically calls Bashu his right hand (his right arm is amputated) are evidence of Baizai’s faith in a new generation who will walk past the horrors of war, the barriers of race and ethnicity and will compensate for the handicap of the older generations. In Rabid Killing Golrokh’s ethical compromise to buy her husband’s freedom back, represents the current struggle of intellectuals -embodied in the character of Golrokh- who are trying to fool corruption, decadence, lust, hypocrisy, illiteracy and ignorance out of existence. Golrokh’s husband, represents her hope for rebuilding their broken family; metaphorically a troubled society, which deserves a second chance. He also uses male protagonists, symbolically, in films such as Downpour and Stranger and Fog, to address social and political issues that an individual faces in a dictatorship state, namely the mistrust and paranoia that plague one’s freedoms of action and ideology.
Although subtle, the adamant political stances of his films have cost Baizai his tenure at the faculty of art in Tehran University. They have also led to tighter than usual restrictions of his film-making activities [8]. Ironically, the subjects of his criticism, are not only the tyrants but also the victims. Baizai challenges them to understand and to acknowledge their responsibility for having fallen prey to authoritarian exploitation.
National identity is the core of the political concerns of Baizai. He believes that an anthropology of the folk and pop culture of a people is the basis of understanding their society. He deplores the negligent attitude of the Iranian intellectuals about the origins of their culture and society. He blames the lack of national and historical self-appreciation to be the cause of the present cultural cacophony in Iran. Baizai saturates his films with references to old culture or rural folklore. Such presentations -fruits of many years of Baizai’s research on the origins of Persian plays and rituals- contribute not only to the formal aesthetics of the film, but also ring bells to awaken the national conscience.
In Ballad of Tara, Baizai explicitly speaks of a nation, embodied in Tara, who inherits a relic of its history, the sword of the grandfather. As Tara comes face to face with the wounded soldier of the ancient wars and learns of the tale of his bravery, she falls in love with her history. Tara represents a nation who realizes the glory of its past, falls in love with it, attempts to reclaim it from the infinite ocean of the past, and yet accepts the reality that what is lost to the waves of time is lost forever and submits to a pragmatic but noble union with a man of earth, of present, of productivity.
In Maybe Some Other Time, Susan Taslimi, who played the lead role of Tara, functions iconographically in three roles: Kian who doubts her identity; Vida, the twin sister, who is a self assured artist, and their mother who gives up her child to the fear of poverty and deprives the other child from affection because she obsessively regrets the loss of the child whom she has abandoned. Kian embodies a society which cannot fit together the pieces of its present realities and suffers nightmares of dangling in darkness, without roots, a handle to hang from nor a ground to stand on. Kian, whose concern for the future of her unborn child - an allegory of the future generation - leads her into the path of self examination, discovers a twin sister, Vida, an artist who is fully aware of her origins and the circumstances that had led their mother to abandon one of the two.[9] Transparent to the on-screen story, the quest of Kian and a comparison of two sisters speaks loudly of the fears and instability of not only a person, but also a society which is oblivious to its past, to the creativity and strongheadedness of the one which is aware of its history, even if it is dark and bitter. [10]

Maybe Some Other Time

In Travelers, Baizai speaks of the power of a people who are capable of defying the oppressive reality of death and darkness with an invincible trust and defiant hope in light and life. Here, he criticizes a pessimistic national attitude that easily leans on a cushion of regret and mourning and challenges Iranians to reject the notion of the death of hope and to bring back the historical mirror of the union and the joy that has belonged to them for generations.
Baizai’s enigmatic persona emerges from his independent approach to the subject matter, beyond a narrow band of cultural restrictions, and far removed from the preachingly moralist or pretentiously mystical narration, which are at the core of the prolific Iranian cinema industry. Textual interpretation is the norm of analyzing Iranian art in general. Baizai’s films are rich enough in theme and superfluous enough in texture to grant interpretation. However, a factor in Baizai’s art of social criticism that distinguishes it from those of his more famous contemporaries, is his lavish use of cinematic tools at the disposal of his expressionist form. Looking at individual components of his mise-en-scene, camera movement, and montage may tempt one to brand his style as derivative. The intense lighting, the dramatic acting, the symbolic set designs might look as artificial and cliched attempts at saturating the film with melodramatic effects. However, insisting on a full use of cinema language, carefully designed and aimed to increase the depth of the on-screen story, both in the visual and the textual sense, constitutes the essence of Baizai’s authorship.[11]
It is a popular critical belief that enjoying Baizai requires a solid footing in Persian language. In a culture where poetry and the written word occupy a wide band of the artistic spectrum, Baizai’s narratives are not told as much verbally as they are pictorially. A masterful playwright, almost every single dialogue line in his films has a purposeful function and meaning. Baizai minimizes the amount of casual conversation in order to make time for communicating other ideas. In fact, screen time economy in a conventional sense is not the subject of Baizai’s devotion. The casual conversations of on-screen people are conveyed not as much in words, rather in facial expressions, in the looks in their eyes, in the complexity of their dreams and hallucinations, in the colors of their environment or clothes. Many of the spoken words of his films can be edited out without disrupting the continuity of the plot. However, these wordy inserts are often informative, serve as a platform for the theatrical performances of the actors and provide a backdrop that enriches the texture of the film.
In fact, a common critique of Baizai’s style is the abundance of unrealistic or excessive stylistic patterns in those of his films that have a realistic story, such as in Rabid Killing, which is considered as a social critique, or in Travelers or Maybe Some Other Time, which can be branded as family dramas. However, the over expressive act of Golrokh in Rabid Killing, as she addresses characters representing different stereotypes of corruption, is a tribute to a folk theater tradition, "pardeh-khani", where the narrator addresses the spectators, often ranting about morals. The repetitive and circular movement of camera, which is one of the signatures of Baizai’s cinema, is a tribute to the round arena of ta’zieh. Baizai has shown, by contrasting the realistic act of Bashu with the dramatic performance of Na’i (Susan Taslimi), that he is capable of directing in both worlds of neo-realism and expressionism. Many of the verbal and pictorial inserts, which seem to disrupt the classical continuity of Baizai’s films, can be considered as avant garde cinematic exercises within an otherwise conventional narrative film.
In Maybe Some Other Time, there are documentary-style voices of a reporter speaking of the problem of pollution and over population of Tehran, while the images of traffic, flashing lights and confused people are edited in an experimental form, reminiscent of Koyaanisqatsi. In the same film, there is a sequence of the antique dealer's voice giving a relatively long explanation of the history of those heritage objects in his shop. This provides the director an Eisenteinian-montage device to provide the viewers photographic tableaus of some of the most treasured relics of their history. The sequence of the mother dragged behind the carriage, more than being a Soviet-style attempt at extracting emotions, is a homage to the silent-film era, which gives the director a chance to eternalize scenes of the old Tehran, which are being rapidly replaced by high-rises.
The camera movement and the framing and reframing of the choreographed movement of characters in Travelers reminds one of Fellini. The editing style, the costume design and the tracking speed of the camera in Stranger and Fog, according to Baizai’s own admission is his tribute to Kurosawa. Bashu’s amateur casting and location shooting is a neo-realist experience for Baizai but he doesn’t shy away from employing non-classical montage or expressionist compositions, such as the ghost of the burnt mother, to display the fears and feelings of Bashu. The army, emerging from the waves of the sea in Ballad of Tara, or the fight scene in Stranger and Fog, where Ayat bleeds from where he wounds the stranger who has come to take him back are lyrical and surealistic depictions of epics. Baizai’s facial close-ups and playful use of color that enhance the atmosphere in Travelers and in Maybe Some Other Time are reminiscent of Bergman's style.

Bashu

erhaps in any other part of the world, where cinema did not have to justify itself on the grounds of other forms of art, Baizai would have been given due credit for his courageous experimentation with such diverse cinematic styles. Although phantoms of Kurosawa, Bergman, Fellini, Hitchcock and Welles dance in his films, his technical, financial and even ideological freedom do not come even close to theirs. He speaks of such a lack:

... How can you conceal the spatial discontinuity of the actual locations which are patched disharmoniously into a distasteful mixture of modern and old? How can you conceal the discontinuity of time, the passage of the seasons after every open-ended shut down of the production? In a film, which is planned only in your head and you have half of the production weight on your shoulder- until the producer disappears and you have the full weight! -, such sporadic disorganization increases the shooting time, tires you and the crew and even then, you have to conceal this fatigue from the screen! In the American lair of Hollywood, or in Italy’s cineland of Cinecitta, locations are often entirely created by set designers. There are institutions for recruiting and training the extras. I haven’t gone and I haven’t seen, but I have heard from those who have. They speak of planning, a "foreign" concept to us, which belongs to a system of foresight and order. ... here we are making films in an "unpredictable" environment; we don’t know which neighbor or shopkeeper will object to our shooting, which uniformed or non-uniformed police will pop in our way, which ideological patron of the neighborhood thinks cinema is a source of immorality ... these are some of the issues that I have alluded to in Downpour ... [12]

Although he acknowledges the impressionability of an artistic subconsious, he denies any attempt to copy any style or form of art. He hints to a prominent but poorly researched cultural link, which historically existed between Asia and Persia of ancient times, and hence explains the reminiscence between his costume designs and dramatic styles with those of Asian plays and Japanese cinema:

Many filmmakers have been my teachers; many of the good ones and many of the bad ones. From the latter group I have learned what not to do. From the former group, my affinity with Bergman and Kurosawa is of the same nature as it is with Griffith, Eisenstein, Lang, Hitchcock, Welles, Ford, Rossellini, etc. I try to learn and to understand, it doesn’t mean I like all of them equally, or that I don’t criticize them. If you are more focused on (similarity of my work to) Bergman and Kurosawa, ... it is perhaps because incidentally, our resources are more or less the same. I have seriously worked on the Japanese theater, which is Kurosawa’s source as well. I have also worked on the western play, which is Bergman's source. I know that the Persian miniatures of seven centuries ago are more Japanese than the Japanese paintings of seven centuries ago! ... The sickle of death [which Baizai has used in Stranger and Fog] is not adapted from the Seventh Seal, It has been symbolized in Ferdowsi’s poetry and in Naser-Khosrow’s as well. ... yes the symbols are the same.[13] Only, they (e.g. Kurosawa and Bergman) have images and we are denied to have imagery for centuries ... they have the tradition of visual communication of the meaning , and we don’t. They have freedom of expression and we don’t. ... Their style is not forced out of necessity. In our situation, I doubt if they could take even one shot![14]

Baizai feels flattered that his Maybe Some Other Time and the Rabid Killing remind viewers of Hitchcock. He speaks of Hitchcock’s influence, which initially drew him into the film-making business. However, he calls imitating Hitchcock mere foolishness:

I think anyone in anywhere in the world, who makes a suspense movie, will inevitably remind you of Hitchcock ...(but Hitchcock) lived in a first hand society and hence, his topics were first hand. We live in a scattered and discontinuous second hand society where the urban life in a few big cities is an incomplete adaptation of the life in Hitchcock’s first hand society. Therefore, any movie that addresses the city dwellers, appears as an adaptation of a western work. None withstanding the chaos and the tastelessness of this ad hoc system of life, and ignoring the olive skins of the population, what is national in this amalgamation (big cities in Iran)? ... All I do in my films is to avoid picturing this chaos; otherwise, the narrative will be drowned. Consequently, my work is labeled foreigner and a copy of western or eastern cinema![15]

While neither the technical nor the financial support for Baizai’s films come close to any of those masters, luckily their stylistic signatures are at the disposal of his baroque creativity. He amalgamates and adapts them freely as tools of structuring his narratives. He finds imitation a futile attempt at creativity, and is often on an intellectual guard to defend any comparison drawn between his work and those of the oriental or occidental masters, with a long list of references to the old Persian literature and history, which predate not only the history of cinema, but also -often- the texts from which those cinematic landmarks are adapted. It is from Baizai’s original and personal vision that, over three decades, some of the most intriguing films of the Iranian art cinema have emerged.
FILMOGRAPHY:

Amoo Sibiloo - 1970
Ragbar (Downpour) - 1972
Safar (Journey) - 1972
Gharibe va Meh (Stranger and the Fog) - 1974
Kalaagh (The Crow) - 1978
Cherikeye Tara (Ballad of Tara) -1980
Marge Yazdgerd (Death of Yazdgerd) - 1981
Khate Ghermez (Red Line) Writer - 1981
Davandeh (Runner) Editor - 1985
Bashu (Bashu, the little stranger) - 1987
Maybe Some Other Time - 1988
Mosaferan (Travelers) - 1999
Goftegoo Ba Baad (Kish Stories) – 1999

CINEMATIC CONTRIBUTIONS:

Screenplay of Rooze Vaghe’e (Day of Incident) dir. Shahram Assadi, 1995
Editing Borje Minoo (Minoo Tower) dir. Ebrahim Hatami kia, 1996
Screenplay of Fasle Panjom (Fifth Season) dir. Rafi Pitts, 1996

REFERENCES

Ghokassian, Zavon. Conversation with Bahram Baizai, 1992, Agah Publications
Gozaresh-e Film (Film Report) 12:185
Mahname Cinema’i-e Film (Film monthly Magazine), 19:279
Mottahedeh, Negar. "Bahram Baizai’s Maybe Some Other Time: The un-Present-able Iran," Camera Obscura 15.1 (2000): 162-191
Mottahedeh, Negar. "Bahram Bayza`i: Filmography" in Life and Art: the New Iranian Cinema ed. R. Issa and S. Whitaker (London: BFI 1999)
Interview with Jahanbakhsh Nouraei, "Iranianfilm.com"

Endnotes

Conversation with Bahram Baizai, Zavon Ghokassian, 1992, translations by Najmeh Khalili. Further references as , from now on, this book is referenced as Conversation.
Conversation, p. 287
Gozareshe Film (Film Report) 12:185, p. 79
Conversation, p. 54
Mehrjuy is one of the leading Iranian directors who has dealt extensively with the social issues of the Iranian bourgeoisie, especially with role of woman in sustaining the patriarchal culture, as well as the emotional and psychological effects of it on the women.
The word "nation" in this paper refers to any people who are united by a common geopolitical history; whose bases of moral and culture overlap and whose tradition and language stem from the same root. In this sense, the text of Baizai’s film is not bound within an Iranian nationalist compound and can be easily generalized to any resembling society, namely those with a totalitarian dictatorship or a colonial government, where a wide gap exists between the will of the people and the disposition of the state.
Conversation, p. 43
Negar Mottahedeh, "Bahram Baizai’s Maybe Some Other Time: The un-Present-able Iran," Camera Obscura 15.1 (2000): 162-191
Negar Mottahedeh, "Bahram Bayza`i: Filmography" in Life and Art: the New Iranian Cinema ed. R. Issa and S. Whitaker (London: BFI 1999), 74-82
Baizai, himself, insists on the transparency of the subtextual meaning of his films (Conversation, p 288): "Yes one can symbolize the separation of the sisters, to historical separation of two people of the same race, or not; one can generalize the loss of identity to the whole society; or not. One can say that the meanings of the characters’ names refer to the differences in their psychology; or not ... such readings into my films deprive me of producers who fear box-office failure in case my representation of the mother becomes mythical. They also give an excuse to the censorship officers who need to find an excuse to stop me ... I salute the critics who called Maybe Some Other Time an Indian movie!, Viva Indian Movies! Don’t magnify my films, let me live!
Interview with Jahanbakhsh Nouraei
Conversation, p. 50
Ferdowsi is a legendary Iranian poet, whose Shahnameh, or the Epic of Kings, written in 1010 AC, is one of the landmarks of the Persian literature. Hakim NaserKhosrow is a poet and writer from 1015-1102 AC. His book of poetry includes about 12000 verses of elegy and fragments. His outstanding works are: Zada al-Mosaferin, Khane Akhavan, Vajhe Din, SafarNameh, and RoshanaeeNameh.
Conversation, p. 100
Conversation, p. 269

http://www.horschamp.qc.ca/new_offscreen/baizai.html

Paradox of "Truth"

2011-11-09T18:51:00.001-08:00

Paradox best seems to explain paradoxity. The death of fantasy is not merely the evaporation of "the truth" but it is also failure of fetish and opening of a path towards the demystification of "the truth" into being "a mere lame truthification of false truth". I wanted to write eulogy of death of fantasy but then question struck in my mind: is it death of my fantasy or fantasies are born to die through miserable death-without having funerals and graves? Or this kind of animal is always tamed in this illusion of fantasy-as to create at first impression that we are supermen. So that second can happen- which is to fall-down in first flight of supermenity into the abyss of reality? I was reading Michel Foucault's book " The Courage of Truth" and Giorgio Agamben's book " What is an Apparatus?". Interestingly i see that both tell us that this urge of knowing is implicated to implicate someone from one implication to other one-i.e. from one state of desire to the other state of desire. Or Like someone thinks he/she is trapped somewhere and he/she need to get freedom from this chain of imprisonment as to be liberated. This urge of fantasy is described by Michel Foucault as " the Socratic principle of " Know yourself" (pp-4). He calls this principle parrhesia, which in french means a modality of truth-telling. He says the act of truth making is manifested through this truth-telling realism -which he says is located in this modality. My Italian friend Giorgio Agamben says to similar kind of thing "apparatus". He says "by the term "apparatus" i mean a kind of formation, to speak, that at a given historical moment has as its major function the response to an urgency. The apparatus therefore has dominant strategic function".

So where is liberation? what about agency? what about comradeship of knowledge? isn't we been told that this knowledge shall give us light to find way when we are lost in the dark nights?

My friends might be angry with me. They might think i am leading them to dead-end without any reason-and i merely take two points and get crazy with this my so called Newtonian moment to vomit.

So dose my monologue-which is my own whisperefication of truth making/truth-telling modality through a apparatus is also also implicated in above paradox?

So i am might fall in my own fallacy?-yes my friend-that is my point-me, i, you and we all can fall in our own fallacies of truth making -in search of truth and after death of our fantasies -become nostalgic for fantasy-till we find another fantasy.

Paradox

2011-10-25T01:23:00.000-07:00

Everybodyknows

Littlebit

Butonly

LittleBIT

PeopleKnow

That

Weknow little bit.

Mostpeople

don’tknow

That

Theydon’t know

That

They know

ONLY

Littlebit

Discorvy Of The Beauty

2011-09-29T09:53:00.001-07:00

By Abdul Aziz Chang

Knowing All The Evils,
And Knowing All The Truths,

Felling All The Sounds,
And Searching All The Hints,

Going Deep In the Dark,
Hoping for The Light,
Beating All The Lies,
Rolling Divine On The Earth,

The Beautiful earth, My Earth!

I know There is Devil.
Devil is in Me.
I am The Devil, And I am Facing Me,
Then Where is GOD?
And Who is in Me.

But I am The Justice Of My Self,
I cant Choose YOU & YOU

So I am Going Back to The Earth
Coz I Got That Who I am I

I am The Man, Man on The Earth
Here I am Back To the Earth.

UN pledges aid for Pakistan flood victims - Central & South Asia - Al Jazeera English

2011-09-12T08:42:00.000-07:00

UN pledges aid for Pakistan flood victims - Central & South Asia - Al Jazeera English

پاڻيءَ ۾ ٻڏل لاڙ جا سڏڪا ۽ ٿر جي سر سبزي!

2011-09-11T06:17:00.000-07:00

This article is written in Lari and Thari Sindh. It is idiomatically written in rural -colloquial Sindhi. This is also one of the beautiful way of written Sindhi prose.

خالد ڪنڀار

اڳي ٿر ڏڪارن ۾ ڏتڙجي سٺي لاءِ اچي مهراڻي واري ڪس ۾ ساهي پٽيندوهو پر جڏهن کان هاڪڙي وارو وهڪرو ماضيءَ جو قصو ٿيو ته ٿر ڏتڙجي ڪس وسائڻ کي وساري ٿر جي هڪڙي پاسي کاهوڙ ۽ ڍٽ مان اڀرا ڍور ڪوسي ريت تي هڪليندو وڃي هاڪڙي جي منڍ وارن علائقن سانگهڙ، نوابشاهـ، خيرپور ۽ ويندي سکر جا بئراجي پٽ جهليا ته ٻئي پاسي پارڪر، وٽ، سامروٽي ۽ مهراڻي واري ٿريئي وڃي لاڙ جي ڪلراٺن پوٺن بدين، ٺٽو ۽ سجاول واري سامونڊي پٽي ۾ مال کي ساهي پٽائي ۽ اتي ئي لڏا لاهي ايندڙ وسڪاري تائين اڀ جي انتظار ۾ موليٰ کي ٻاڏائيندو رهيو. هوڏانهن ٽي چار سال رکي ٿر ڏڪارن ۾ ڏتڙندو رهيو، ته وري لاڙ وسڪاري جي مند ۾ پهرين ئي ڀرپور مينهن جي سٽ نه سهندي ايل بي اوڊي جي سم نالن جي بي رحم وهڪرن ۾ لڙهندو وڃي ڪئمپون وسايون. پر جي لاڙ برسات جي بوندن کي پاڻ ۾ سمائڻ ۾ ڪامياب ويندو هو ته لاڙي ڀاڳيا وسڪاري جا چار مهينا لاڙ ۾ ڪٽڻ بدران پنهنجي مال کي مهاند ۾ ڪري اچي مهراڻي جي ڪس ۾ وانڍون ٺاهي ويهندا هئا ۽ گهڻا تڻا ته ٿرين جي اوتارن تي ٽڪيل هوندا هئا. وسڪاري وارن چئن مهينن ۾ اهو مشڪل هوندو هو ته مهراڻي ۾ ڪو اوتارو، لاڙي ڀاڳئي جو وٿاڻ نه ٿيندو هجي. ٿر جي وسيع ۽ کليل سيمن ۾ لاڙين جو مال جلا پيو چرندو هو. انهن ڏينهن ۾ ٿر روڊ رستي ۽ ٻي جديد سهولتن کان محروم هو ته لاڙين جو گهڻو تڻو مال رڳو ڪس ۾ هوندو هو، باقي ٿر ۾ مال پهچائڻ ئي وڏي ڏکي ڳالهه هئي. پر ٿريو ته ان ڪري وسڪاري ۾ پنهنجي پنهنجي وٿاڻ تي وقتائتو پهچندو هو، جو ٿريو کنوڻ جي چمڪي تي مال ڪاهي روانو ٿيندو هو.

پر جيئن تـ گذريل ڏهاڪو سالن ۾ ٿر ۾ اها ڳالهـ مڃڻي پوندي ته هر وانڍ وٿاڻ تائين روڊ جي رسائي ٿي، ٿر ۾ روڊن جو وڏو نيٽ ورڪ وڇائجي ويو، روڊن جي انهيءَ نيٽ ورڪ وڇائڻ سان حال سارو ٿر بئراجي علائقن سان پهرين کان وڌيڪ مضبوطيءَ سان سلهاڙجي ويو، ڇڪڙن ۾ ٻن ٽن ڏينهن ۾ طئي ٿيندڙ سفر ڪلاڪن ۾ طئي ٿيو ۽ انهيءَ ئي روڊن جي نيٽ ورڪ جي ڪري اڳي جيڪي ٿريا پيادا بئراج پهچندا هئا، اهي پنهنجو مال ۽ لڏو ٽرڪن ۾ کڻائي سگها بئراج پهتا ته ٻئي پاسي جيڪا کيڙي اڳي اٺن ۽ گڏهن تي ٿيندي هئي، انهيءَ جڳهـ تي اها ٽريڪٽر تي ٿيڻ لڳي، ماڻهن ٽريڪٽر سان جلدي کيڙي ٿيڻ تي ٻنين جا مهاڳا ۽ گائوچر به پوکيا ته ٿر جي فطرت سان هٿ چراند وڌي. هوڏانهن جيڪو لاڙ جو مال مهراڻي واري سيم تائين محدود هو، اهو روڊ رستن جي ڪري پارڪر تائين پهتو ۽ ڪولهي ويري ۾ لاڙي ڀاڳيا وانڍون ڪري ويٺا ۽ سيمون چاريائون. پر ٿر سدائين لاڙي ڀاڳين لاءِ پنهنجي سيم رک ڪري روڪي چارڻ کان منع ڪونه ڪئي ۽ پوري ٿر ۾ الائي ڪٿان ڪٿان اچي وسڪاري ۾ مال ۽ ٽريڪٽر نڪتا. چار مهينا سيم چاري وري انهيءَ پيرين واپس ٿيا. لاڙين جو اهو پوري ٿر ۾ وانڍون ٺاهي ويهڻ واري عمل کي به هاڻ لڳ ڀڳ نه تڏهن به ڏهاڪو سال ٿيا هوندا، ۽ انهيءَ ڏهاڪو سالن ۾ بئراج ۽ ٿر جي وچ ۾ پئدا ٿيل ٿريئي سنڌي وارو لڳ ڀڳ خيال ختم ٿي چڪو آهي، پر هر سال لاڙين ۽ بئراجين جي ٿر اچڻ واري انداز ۽ هيل ٿر اچڻ واري انداز ۾ ڏينهن رات جو فوق آهي. هيل ته لاڙي ۽ بئراجن جي ڳوڙهن ۽ سڏڪن ۾ ٿرين جا ٽهڪ ۽ خوشبون ئي گم ٿي ويا آهن. هيل ته لاڙي ٻچا وات ۾ ڪري ٿر جي ڀٽن تي ڀونگيون ٺاهي ويٺا آهن، جيئن ٿريا ڏڪارن ۾ وڏيرن وٽ ويهندا آهن. هيل ته ٿرين کي ڏڪار ۾ ڏتڙجي دربدر ٿيڻ وارو پنهجو درد ئي وسري ويو آهي ۽ انهن جو درد انهيءَ ڪري وڌيڪ ايذائيندڙ آهي، جو هي سکين ستابن ماڻهن جو دربدر ٿيڻ آهي. انهيءَ ڪري ٿريا پنهنجي درد کي وڌيڪ سمجهن ٿا. ٿريا انهيءَ درد کي وڌيڪ محسوس ڪن ٿا. هيل ٿرين کي ڪرڻ ايئن گهرجي، جو انهن بنا اولي ۽ اجهي جي ڀٽن تي ڀونگيون ٺاهي ويٺل بئراجي ڀاڳين کي پنهنجي اڱڻ ۽ اوتارن ۾ ويهارين ۽ هنن جي درد کي وڌيڪ محسوس ڪري انهن ڏتڙيل لاڙين جو اولو ۽ اجهو ٿين. هيلوڪو وسڪارو پاڇاتو ضرور ٿيو آهي، پر برساتون ڀرپور آهن. ٿرين کي اهو ئي ڀرپور موقعو آهي، جو اهو قرض لاهين، جيڪو صدين ۽ پيڙهين کان بئراجي علائقي جي ماڻهن جو ٿر تي آهي. گهڻي مال اچڻ تي ارها نه ٿين، باقي ٿر ۾ جن ٻوڏ جي ڳالهه وارو ٻارڻ ٻاريو آهي، اها اجائي پروپگندا آهي، ٿر ۾ ٻوڏ واري ڳالهه ڪرڻ وائڙي آهي، ٿر ۾ ڪيترا به مينهن پون، پر ٻوڏ نه ايندي ۽ نه ئي چئونرو ڊهي ڪو جاني نقصان ڪندو، باقي جي ويهندا ئي تراين ۾ پلاٽن تي قبضا ڪري ته ٻڏندا نه ته ٻيو ڇا ٿيندو؟ باقي ٻوڏ ٿر ۾ ٻوڏ واري ڳالهه اهو رڳو سياسي پٽيلن، ڪامورن ۽ غير سرڪاري تنظيمن جي حڪمت عملي آهي. جيئن ڪئمپن کي ڪيش ڪرائي ٻوڏ جو پٽڻو پٽي ڪو پروجيڪيٽ وٺجي، ڪا امداد اچي وڃي ته اربن جو نقصان ڳڻائي پروجيڪٽ وٺي ڪروڙن جا ڪوڙا وائوچر ٺاهي رڳو پنهنجي ڪک سائي ڪجي. اهو تـ رڳو ڪمائڻ جو فن آهي، باقي ٻيو ڪجهـ ڪونهي. هر سال ٻئي سال لاڙ کي هلڪي سلڪي برسات ئي ٻوڙي وڃي ٿي، سم نالن ۽ ايل بي او ڊي ۾ پيل گهارن سان، نه ته لاڙ ته سمنڊ کي ويجهو آهي، پاڻي جو بهتر نيڪال هجي ته زوران زور برسات جي به لاڙ کي پرواهه نه هجي. پر هر دور جي حڪومت ڪرسي کي قابو ڪرڻ لاءِ عوام بدران اتحادين ۽ ٻين ڏي هٿ جوڙ ڪندي آهي، عوام ننڌڻڪو ٿي پيو دربدر ٿيندو آهي.

هيلوڪي برسات به جهڏي کي جيڪڏهن ٻوڙيو آهي ته پراڻ جي پراڻي وهڪري ۾ پيل گهارن جي ڪري ٻوڙيو آهي. نئون ڪوٽ ۾ به واهه ۾ گهارو پيو آهي، ۽ ايئن لاڙ ۾ به سم نالن ۽ ايل بي اوڊي کي گهارا پيا آهن. برسات جي ڦڙين ته ٻوڙيو ڪونهي، جو قدرت جي ميار ڏجي. هيءَ تـ هٿ سان آيل ٻوڏ آهي ۽ سرڪار هن ٻوڏ ۾ جيڪي بيان ڏيندي، سي رڳو بيان هوندا، پر انهن وٽ ٻوڏ کان بچڻ لاءِ ڪا مستقل حڪمت عملي نه هوندي، وري ايندڙ سال يا اڳئين سال اهي ئي حال هوندا ۽ اهي ئي اوسارا هوندا، اهو ئي ڪولر ۽ٻـ ڪلو اٽو ڪنهن کي مليو، ڪنهن کي نـ مليو ۽ پروجيڪٽ ويو پروجيڪٽ ٺاهيندڙ جي پيٽ ۾...ٻوڏ متاثرين وري بکيا اڃيا سڀ ڪجهه وڃائي پاڻي سڪڻ کانپوءِ پنهنجي پوٺا ٿيل ڳوٺ ڏانهن ورندا. چوڻ وارا ته سينو تاڻي اهو به چوندا آهن ته ٻوڏ قدرتي آفت آهي ۽ هي ماڻهو ويهن ئي پاڻيءَ جي وهڪرن ۾ ٿا ته انهن کي چٽي ورندي اها ڏبي ته اها قدرتي طور ٻوڏ آهي ڪونه. قدرتي ٻوڏ اها چئبي، جيڪا وسندي مينهن ٻوڙيندي هجي، سم نالا، ايل بي او ڊي ٻوڙين ته اها قدرتي ٻوڏ آهي ڪو نه، باقي جيستائين ماڻهن جو واهن ۽ دريائن جي ڪنارن تي ويهڻ آهي ته انساني تاريخ ۽ تهذيب جي سموري ارتقا دريائن جي ڪنارن تي ٿي آهي ۽ ماڻهن پنهنجو پاڻ کي سدائين پاڻي جي ويجهو آباد ڪيو آهي. انهيءَ ڪري ماڻهو ويهندو ئي پاڻي جو ڀر جهلي، ڇو ته پاڻي هن جي جيئڻ جي بنيادي ضرورت آهي، باقي زيرِ زمين پاڻي ته پاڻ وٽ آهن ئي کارا.

هاڪڙي ۽ پراڻ مان آسرو لاهي واهه ۽ شاخون ڪمزور ٺاهيون ويون، انهن ئي ٻوڙيو. واهه ۽ شاخون اهو خيال رکي ٺاهيون ويون ته صرف آبادي لاءِ پاڻي حاصل ڪيو ويندو، پر جڏهن تـ انهيءَ ۾ هنگامي برساتي پاڻي جي نيڪال جو سسٽم نـ رکيو ويو. سو لاڙ جي هر ٻي سال واري ٻوڏ کي منهن ڏيڻ لاءِ آنا بهانا ڪرڻ بجاءِ ٿيڻ ته ائين گهرجي، جو پراڻي قدرتي وهڪرن هاڪڙي ڍوري ۽ پراڻ جي نئين سري سان کوٽائي ڪرائي انهن جا بند مضبوط ڪرڻ سان گڏو گڏ سم نالن، ايل بي او ڊي ۽ واهن ۽ شاخن کي اهڙي نموني سان ڊزائين ڪيو وڃي، جيئن نه رڳو آبادي لاءِ پاڻي وهائي سگهجي، پر برساتي پاڻي جي نيڪال وارو خيال به رکيو وڃي، باقي اڳتي نيڪال لاءِ لاڙ وٽ سمنڊ آهي.

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Presenting David Price’s Weaponizing Anthropology

2011-08-31T20:57:00.000-07:00

By jessica | August 4, 2011

We were very excited to see David Price’s Weaponizing Anthropology: Social Science in Service of the Militarized State arrive at our door here in Baltimore last week. Weaponizing Anthropology is the result of years of research into the militarization of the discipline of anthropology, and the ways in which the military and intelligence communities use (and misuse) the field of anthropology, and social sciences in general, to bolster their counterinsurgency efforts and imperialistic agendas.
“David Price once again proves that he is one of America’s most important engaged scholars and insightful public intellectuals. Weaponizing Anthropology is a brilliant analyses of not only how the social sciences are increasingly becoming an integral part of the warfare state but also how knowledge and culture are subject to new modes of militarization, organized in multiple new ways for the production of state violence. This may be one of the most important books written in the last few decades on the merging of the military and intelligence agencies with the academy. Beautifully written and rigorously argued, Weaponizing Anthropology is a must read for students, educators, and anyone else concerned about the fate of the academy, the corruption of anthropology, the militarization of politics, and the future of democracy.”–Henry Giroux, author of University in Chains: Confronting the Military-Industrial-Academic Complex
Read the introduction to Weaponizing Anthropology below, then pick up a copy of the book at 25% off list price here!

Anthropology’s Military Shadow

By David H. Price
Just as it was becoming passe to remark on anthropology’s status as colonialism’s wanton stepchild, George Bush’s Terror War rediscovered old militarized uses for culture, and invigorated new modernist dreams of harnessing anthropology and culture for the domination of others. Because I began in the early 1990s using the Freedom of Information Act, interviews, and archival research to document American anthropologists’ interactions with military and intelligence agencies, by the time the post-9/11 push by the Pentagon and CIA to again use anthropological knowledge as tools for intelligence, warfare and counterinsurgency, I had a decent head start on documenting and thinking about some of this history. By the time America got its terror war on, I had already documented the details of how this worked in the past, and had thought about the core of the ethical, political and theoretical fundamentals of a critical approach to questions relating to the weaponization of anthropology.
But beyond my work on the ways that McCarthyism limited critical political debates in the 1950s, this head start offered little preparation for the wave of American jingoistic support for all things military and CIA as the nation willfully forgot the CIA’s past involvement in torture, illegal arms deals, assassinations, undermining foreign democratic movements not to its liking, and embraced new forms of militarization as if this past had nothing to do with the rise of anti-American militarism around the globe.
Today’s weaponization of anthropology and other social sciences has been a long time coming, and post-9/11 America’s climate of fear coupled with reductions in traditional academic funding provided the conditions of a sort of perfect storm for the militarization of the discipline and the academy as a whole. While all societies have links between the production and use of knowledge and larger economic and political structures, in the United States, the structural desires and holes that anthropological knowledge are desired to fill have been apparent for at least the past century.
Anthropology has always been funded to ask certain types of questions, or to know certain types of things: sometimes this has meant that there were more funds available to study the languages and cultures of specific geographic regions, in other times this meant entire theoretical approaches were fundable (like the simplistic culture and personality studies of the post war period, used to study our enemies at a distance), while others (critical Marxism, ca. 1952), were not. But even while the directions taken by anthropologists were frequently steered in general directions by the selective availability of funds, this arrangement allowed for some great variations in approaches or areas of study. Bu the post-9/11 world brought new variations on these old themes where a new form of the National Security State now wanted to cherry-pick individuals early in their careers and secretly place them in departments even while they maintained secret relationships and contacts with the CIA and other agencies. As the chapters on Minerva and the Pat Roberts Intelligence Scholars Programs argue, these new initiatives are built out of a recognition that military and intelligence agencies are ill-prepared to confront the issues and problems raised first by Bush’s Terror Wars, and then Obama’s Counterinsurgency Wars. instead of freely funding social scientists to conduct research of their own choosing, the government now funds academics to think in increasingly narrow institutional ways–ways that are institutionally linked to the damaging narrow ways that the Pentagon, CIA and State already approach these problems.

As others have pointed out, while World War I was the Chemist’s War and World War II the Physicist’s War, the current wars with their heavy reliance on the cultural knowledge needed for counterinsurgency and occupation are envisioned by many Pentagon strategists as the Anthropologists Wars; yet many in Washington seemed truly surprised at the push-back from anthropologists upon news of the formation of Human Terrain Teams and other efforts to adapt anthropology for counterinsurgency and asymmetrical warfare.
As military campaigns shift away from wars between states, to wars of quick conquest and grueling endless occupations of regions identified with ethnic or “tribal” groups rather than national boundaries, the needs for anthropological knowledge and skill sets grow. The needs for on-the-ground cultural knowledge, linguistic competence, knowledge of local customs, traditional symbols and culture history loom large, but so far, the American military clearly misunderstands just how much difference cultural competence could make in hiding the nakedness of American mercenary ventures. But the military also misunderstand what elements of anthropology they can and can’t meaningfully use. Much of this confusion is exacerbated by the anthropologists who often misrepresent the discipline and its skill sets as they sell their wares to an eager military hungry for answers.
There is an inherent irony in the military’s recurrent desires to acquire and weaponize anthropology. The military does not understand that anthropology is not just a product; when practiced ethically, anthropology can be transformative. Anthropologists can come to have rich understandings not only of the people they live with but of the larger processes governing the warfare that desires to consume anthropological knowledge; and the intellectual, personal and professional loyalties of anthropologists engaged in such transformative processes therefore often tie them to the communities they study.
It is because of these inherent relationships that the military can’t easily have anthropology for counterinsurgency. I don’t mean “can’t” in some sort of defiant way–I mean that (despite a history of efforts to harness anthropology for such ends) the processes of using anthropology to subvert political movements is very unanthropological. While the military can hire people with anthropology degrees, read our work, steal it without attribution (as they did in their new COIN manual), republish our writings in classified forms, and use our methods…they can and have done all of these things: bu they are getting something less than anthropology. Given the inherent sympathies that emerge from anthropologists’ process of participant observation one of two things will happen: either these counterinsurgent-anthropologists will psychologically dissociate themselves from their betrayal of those they study for counterinsurgency–telling themselves that they are “protectors” not subvertors; or the process of ethnographic identification will lead them to redirect their own loyalties from those of their military masters to those they study. One outcome is something less than anthropology, the other something more than the military bargains for.
It’s not that we live in a universe were those who live with the “others” anthropologists study are transformed in ways that make it impossible for anthropologists to betray them or their interests (as if knowing such interests were somehow objectively clear); but it also isn’t that we live in a universe where something like this can’t happen.. Perhaps this explains why even under current conditions in which anthropology graduate students sometimes graduate with debt loads that used to be associated with Medical School, there still remains only a small handful of anthropologists who will overlook the obvious ethical and political problems of working for Human Terrain Teams. Today, out of the over four hundred Human Terrain System’s employees, less than eight have advanced anthropology degrees.
There are good logistical reasons why military commanders want the sort of cultural information that anthropologists possess about the cultures they study–but when faced with conflicting duties pitting the claimed needs of nation against professional standards of conduct, anthropologists must stand upon clearly thought-out ethical standards that clarify why the satisfaction of these needs lies beyond our disciplinary limits. These lessons were learned through anthropological experiences in past wars, but naive anthropologists striking avante-garde poses dismiss the past, acting as if their individual goodwill could overcome this history on the fly.
The chapters in this book make passing references to the history of anthropologists’ interactions with military and intelligence agencies, this is because my analysis of the contemporary expansion of military and intelligence agencies onto our campuses is deeply informed by my academic research and writings on the history of these interactions. I find extraordinary continuities of roles, status, and economic contingencies between the military and academy as many of the present efforts to use anthropology for conquest mirror specific failed efforts to use and abuse American anthropology during the Second World War and the Vietnam War with little realization of these continuities of failure. Beyond this historical background, I also draw upon my anthropological interest in studying relationships between cultural economic systems and cultural ideological systems of knowledge. Though it counters the predominant postmodern fashion of rejecting meta narrative explanations: the political economy of American academia needs to be critically examined as linked to teh dominant militarized economy that supports American society. These chapters chronicle a dramatic shift in the production of academic knowledge, as military and intelligence sectors are now impatient to receive the broad range of social science knowledge that has long served them as they now take active measures to more directly harness the production of knowledge to more exactly fit their intelligence and training needs.
This book is organized in three sections: the first section describes the ethical and political problems of anthropologists, and other social scientists’ engagements with military and intelligence agencies and accounts of recent innovations (programs like the Minerva Consortium, the Pat Roberts Intelligence Scholarship Program and the Intelligence Community Centers of Academic Excellence) designed to enmesh the military industrial state with anthropology and other social sciences. The second section critically examines a series of leaked and publicly available military documents; using these texts to understand how the new military and intelligence initiatives seek to harness social science for their own ends in current and future military missions. These leaked manuals demonstrate how the military dreams that culture can be (has been) conceived of as an identifiable and controllable commodity that can be used (to quote the 2004 Stryker Report Evaluating Iraqi Failures) as a “lever” to be used to move (enemy, occupied, resistant) populations by smart military or intelligence agencies. Missing from these manuals is any sort of understanding of the complexities of culture that fill anthropologists’ writings, these complexities are instead edited out, leaving uncomplicated heuristic narratives that create fictions more than they simplify. Finally, the third section considers a variety of contemporary uses of social science theory and data in support of counterinsurgency operations in the so called “war on terror,” including the training and policies of Human Terrain Teams for use in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Link
http://www.revolutionbythebook.akpress.org/presenting-david-prices-weaponizing-anthropology/

Wise words of Fatima Bhutto

2011-08-19T19:59:00.000-07:00

Fatima Bhutto: Pakistan's Nervous Breakdown

31 May 2011, 11:00

In the Opening Address at the 2011 Sydney Writers Festival, Fatima Bhutto, scion of the Pakistani political dynasty, addresses the current state of her country. Her talk focuses on Pakistan’s love/hate relationship with the United States and, in this way, reminds us of their parallel “nervous breakdowns”.

Pakistan is, at once, a country plagued by natural disasters, endemic political corruption, religious fundamentalism and is claimed by many to be the central headquarters of Islamist terrorism. Bhutto sees this condition Pakistan suffers as a plain result of crippling conspiracy-theorising and manifesting as paranoiac nuclear armament.
But Bhutto finds not all the fault lies at home. She speaks to the West’s hypocrisy with regards to its aggressive “freedom fighting”, including its ever-mounting use of Drone strikes under Obama’s presidency and the civilian casualties which are beyond measure.
Bhutto is an activist on many fronts, but has no desire to run for political office ... understandable perhaps when four of her close relatives were lost to political violence and assassination.

Fatima Bhutto is an Afghan-born Pakistani poet and writer. She studied at Columbia University and the School of Oriental and African Studies at the University of London. Bhutto is the granddaughter of former prime minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and niece of Benazir Bhutto. She graduated from Columbia University in 2004, majoring in Middle Eastern Languages and Cultures, and from the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) in 2005 with a Masters in South Asian Government and Politics. Her books include “Whispers of the Desert”, “8.50 am 8 October 2005” and, most recently, “Songs of Blood and Sword”. She is a regular contributor to the New Statesman, The Daily Beast and The Guardian.

http://fatimabhutto.com.pk/

When i can't write

2011-06-19T09:45:00.000-07:00

I tried hard since last two months to write...but i can't post what i have been writing.... been depressed, emotionally sad, feel lonely and cant share with anyone my feelings. I do admit all this knowledge, wisdom, and smartness which i was proud of-mocks at me- as i can't help my self. I feel i am living in empty box of emotions-where apathy, not understanding and ignorance are rule rather then exception. I feel hopeless and meaningless and i feel how can we change the whole world when we can't even make feel one person to admit us as a friend.

I am sorry friends. .....but bitterness comes from life not from heavens.

Je ne fume plus
Je ne r¨ºve plus
Je n'ai m¨ºme plus d'histoire
Je suis sale sans toi
Je suis laide sans toi
Comme une orpheline dans un dortoir
Je n'ai plus envie
De vivre ma vie
Ma vie cesse quand tu pars
Je n'ai plus de vie
Et m¨ºme mon lit
Se transforme en quai de gare
Quand tu t'en vas...

Je suis malade
Compl¨¨tement malade
Comme quand ma m¨¨re sortait le soir
Me laissant seul avec mon d¨¦sespoir
Je suis malade
Compl¨¨tement malade
J'arrive on ne sait jamais quand
Tu pars on ne sait jamais o¨´
Et ça va faire bientôt deux ans
Que tu t'en fous...

Comme ¨¤ un rocher
Comme ¨¤ un p¨¦ch¨¦
Je suis accroch¨¦ ¨¤ toi
Je suis fatigu¨¦e, je suis ¨¦puis¨¦e
De faire semblant d'¨ºtre heureuse
Quand ils sont l¨¤
Je bois toutes les nuits
Et tous les whiskys
Pour moi ont le m¨ºme goût
Et tous les bateaux
Portent ton drapeau
Je ne sais plus o¨´ aller tu es partout...

Je suis malade
Compl¨¨tement malade
Je verse mon sang dans ton corps
Et je suis comme un oiseau mort
Quand toi tu dors
Je suis malade
Parfaitement malade
Tu m'as priv¨¦e de tous mes chants
Tu m'as vid¨¦e de tous mes mots
Pourtant moi j'avais du talent
Avant ta peau...

Cet amour me tue
Si ça continue
Je cr¨¨verai seule avec moi
Pr¨¨s de ma radio
Comme un gosse idiot
Écoutant ma propre voix qui chantera...

Je suis malade
Compl¨¨tement malade
Comme quand ma m¨¨re sortait le soir
Et qu'elle me laissait seule avec mon d¨¦sespoir
Je suis malade
C'est ça... je suis malade
Tu m'as priv¨¦e de tous mes chants
Tu m'as vid¨¦e de tous mes mots
Et j'ai le coeur compl¨¨tement malade
Cern¨¦ de barricades
T'endends... Je suis malade...

translation:

I'm mad

I don't have a dream
I don't have a hit
I don't even have a name
In the lost and found
Like a broken child
I'm just a mess and I don't care
I don't wanna live
I don't wanna give
Why give when you're not there
I don't have a life
And even the skies
Suddenly are blue and grey
When you're away

I feel truly mad
Completely sick, really mad
Just like when mom was leaving me
Hopelessly crying in my bed all through the night
I feel truly mad
Completely sick, really mad
Nobody knows when you'll be home
And when you're home, I'm on my own
Why do you treat me the way you do
What did I do ?

Could it be a sin
Could it be I'm weak
What is it I feel for you
Every single day
I will play the game
And pretend I'm ok when they're around
I drink every night
And every wine
You know, they all taste the same
Everywhere I go
There you are my love
There's no hiding place, you're everywhere

I feel truly mad
Completely sick, truly mad
I am a bird under your sky
I'm burning like an inferno
Without a spark
I feel truly mad
Completely sick, really mad
Because of you I'm lost words
Because of you I'm without song
And yet I know I had it all
Before your touch

What more can I do ?
I feel like a fool
Here in the dark by the radio
Soon I will be down
Alone in the night
Singing over and over these crazy words

I feel truly mad
Completely sick, truly mad
Just like when mom was leaving me
Hopelessly crying in my bed all through the night
I feel truly mad
Completely sick, really mad
Because of you I'm lost words
Because of you I'm without song
And now my heart is going wild..wild
I swear I'm gonna fly
That's right... my heart is truly mad

Lines and ...deadlines: conversation on the grave of Friedrich Nietzsche

2011-04-08T21:37:00.000-07:00

He didn’t want to think about it. It seemed hard for him. He wanted to avoid it. He doesn’t want to remember it. He just imagined that it was not what it was. They kept reminding him. He just imagined that it is all false. He felt he is like wave of wind and drop of wild rain lost in midair not being able to unify its soul with thirsty deserts of wishes.

He craved for cure. Nothing worked. He went on journey. He found everything and he lost himself.

He remembered he is man of flesh and bone. He is least in lowest and deeply enslaved in abyss of material faketity. The slaps of time awakened him from the slumber of i-lity. Tit-for-tat smiled rascality of the gatekeepers of insanity.

They told him this is your last chance. He smiled. He wanted to be deported to the land of lost past. Thus man and an ugly man of manation aroused his desire for this world to overcome hunger of hungry bellies. He threw his garbage in blue dumpster, and he took papers of his fate to the butchers of bestiality. He crossed the crosses of cross.

Infidel …..Infidel….infidel echoed every breath even within. Demon laughed…it’s not me this time. He arrogantly told him in Victorian English “There is no cure for the beast you cultivated on your own meadows of serenity”. Behold verily there is no enemy outside even me cursed demon condemn you-you the phoenix of fatality. Burn in your own ashes-even though birth and re-birth are for those who are not yet born by birth.

What it means? He wrote a letter to God through Khuwaja Khuzir as Gabriel was just available to prophets only and he is not prophet this is what he knows till now!!!!!!!

A bus driver, a woman, and two little boys

2011-03-27T11:08:00.000-07:00

By Imaculata Kurniasanti

A woman with two little boys sat in a seat in the second row of a rusty minibus. She carried the young boy in her selendang and let this young boy feel the comfort of her breast and her arm. Her stinking sweat made the young boy able to identify his mother and it seemed nice fragrance for him. At the selendang, the young boy enjoyed playing with a plastic bag that was used to carry ice tea. He shaken it and dropped tea on the floor of the rusty minibus.
Knowing this, the woman shouted on him and grabbed the plastic bag from the young boy. She gave him an empty wallet in an exchange.

While the one year old boy was playing with a wallet, the 4 years old boy stood next to the mother. He was dirty and his skin seemed dark because of the sun burned it. None of passengers offered their place to accommodate this boy for his appearance and his attitude showed a characteristic of children living on the street.

No eyes put attention to the mother and two children. It was the time while the passengers of the rusty minibus played an everyday opera. Each person played their character based on the script they had without communicating with each other. All characters were orchestrated on the stage of rusty minibus with creepy noisy engine, which chanted soundtrack of banality of every day. In this opera, the existence of three creatures was inexistent.

The silent scene ended as the fat young driver entered in the rusty minibus. He seemed familiar to the woman and her two kids for they lived in the same neighborhood. The driver shared driving seat with the boy and drove the bus. When the boy started to touch the steering, the mother yelled on him and through a small stripe to hit him. The driver gave no comment but he smiled. He put a dirty red pillow beside his driving chair and let the boy sat on it. "Do you feel better now?" asked the driver to the boy. Boy nodded for answering that question.

The woman said thanks to the driver and started a conversation about their neighborhood. She talked about a prostitute in the neighborhood who acted like a princess and about a 14 years old girl who got married recently. Interestingly at the end of conversation she mentioned her young sister's name and said that her sister would be a good wife because she was a good cook and as she used to clean home. She promoted her sister just like a product that was ready to use and has money back guarantee.

The engine was earsplitting as the driver drove it faster. He was proud of his rusty minibus for he got money through it. He said that all documents of the bus are expired but he was no afraid to operate this old machine on the road. He said "as long as I drive it slowly and follow the traffic regulation, police will not check my documents". He mentioned that the minibus was his partner for it has been with him for years. He felt lucky partnering with the rusty minibus for it never stopped making money by having a lot of passengers’ every day.

The woman was listening to his story and agreed with him. She knew many drivers and their buses and she saw that this rusty minibus was different. She said that in future, her kids should be a bus driver because she said that bus driver has a lot of money. The bus driver smiled at her and said nothing to her.

It was a bitter smile.

Liberation

2011-03-23T13:39:00.000-07:00

Is it dream........? to be happy? and to live?
it is telltale of fate?
or fate’s steeled cartography is carved on my hands?
what if i lose my hands?
will i be not me?
or me will be not i?
or God will send masons of fate to re-draw maps of my life on my shoulders.
what if You just let me find my way ?
take your maps
and lamps
i can make my way in wilderness and dark
let me be with my self at lest to me: if i can’t be free with universe -
Let me find my own galaxies of eternal peace.
though i know who you are but i don’t know who am i?
Didn’t you promise to give us wisdom and love to find path of salvation even if it fails?
oh the eternal power who so ever you are or even if you are illusion -but i tried to find your truth-
it is not that i Deny you it is just i am denying my self
Can i be said heretic if i do blasphemy to my truth?

آج پھر ووجود چو ر اہی پا کھڑی ہوئے اس شخص کے طرح جو یہ فیصلہ نہ کر پہ رہا ہو کہ وو کون ہی ؟
ور یہ کہا کہ دستور شہر ہی
اسی قتل کرنا ہی جو سچ کہا سپاہی ہے
یے کونسی را ہہ ہ ہی حیات ہی کی الجنا سبق علم ہی ؟
غریب شہر کی بچی بوکھ کے ماری خواب م روٹی کی خواب دیکھ رہی ہیں -
روٹی جو سچ ہی سبھ خوابوں اور حققیقت کہ -

Today once again self is like a person who is not able to decide at intersection who he is?
what kind of constitution of city is this?
They kill the soldier of a truth
what kind of path of life is this where to be confused is lesson of school??
The daughter of poor of city -sleeps hungry, dreaming bread in dreams -
Bread- which is truth of all dreams and all realities. -

2011-03-20T13:49:00.000-07:00

INITIAL

By Rilke

Out of infinite longings rise
finite deeds like weak fountains,
falling back just in time and trembling.
And yet, what otherwise remains silent,
our happy energies—show themselves
in these dancing tears.

Silence

2011-03-14T13:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you don't want to write in legible form of writing. I feel that way these days. I feel that when you understand what you are writing and when you understand at one point that all writing is directed towards readers but than you find it meaningless. You find we write to liberate our souls from burden we carry everyday on our shoulders-to vomit inner demon outside.

But I feel that way is not way of salvation. Each piece of writing seems to me like a silent monologue. It seems to me like when we lose our speech we lose our writing too. When people don’t let us talk –it creates some anxiety and we want to write it. We write it and we release our tension-

This seems all silly. As sometimes things remain same whether you write ten times or ten thousand times. Nothing changes, inside or outside. You seem like a beggar. One who wants to sell his pain, ideas, misery, goodness or whatever shit you have.

However, public never cares about you or your writing or anything like that. You feel we live a life of hypocrisy. Where people forget their promise and you have to pretend that yes they don’t know anything and you don’t know anything too.

You have to behave like you are always good and brave and you never need anyone and you should never be angry to anyone and always pretend that you have smile for others and even for those who think you never exist for them. If you don’t do this acrobatics people will think you are mentally sick or you have problem as you been too much demanding or you asking for too much attention.

However when it comes to you- you feel it differently. Your world seems ruined. You seems not interested in anyone else-you just want to mourn your lose. You forget at that point that someone might be suffering because of your this attitude. But you become so much lost in your silent, secret, and mysterious world that you don’t have even a moment to think about others.

I love writing. I breathed in writing. People like your writing when you are published or when you have fame. I never care about this shit. My writing is like my world-where I live in peace and tranquility with my dreams and with the possibility of love and fearlessness.

But I do feel that people don’t understand whatever we write is not always result of beautiful aesthetics and rhetoric exercise to demonstrate your creative writing skills –but it all comes from you surroundings. For me writing is path of utterance of pain, anxiety, depression and silence- and I hide it from others. I use abstractions to not to hurt to those who hurt me. I feel all this wisdom, knowledge, cleverness, religiously, morality, ethics, sense of justice, and knowing burdens me each day not to write whatever I feel in true way. I feel knowing is not just to understand something. Knowing is name of doing in silent way as to do justice with everyone in calmness.

I feel at the same time this silence is increasing my burden each day where I am losing my existentialism. I feel it is hard to do justice with others and yourself at the same time. I feel that I need to wear gears of invisibility. I feel when writing and not writing end-up at the same state of mind-at that point you feel tired and want to hide yourself. You want to be silent-as words-which were your tools to help your handicapping- has lost all sanctity and you no more want to talk, listen, and write.

I miss unconditional, and undefined, moments of love, friendship and liberation of body and soul.

I am sorry I can’t write..

Japanese Tsunami footage aftermath with 8.9 earthquake (richter scale)

2011-03-13T12:53:00.000-07:00

Elegy I

2011-03-07T06:25:00.000-08:00

By Rainer Maria Rilke

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
Oh, to whom can we turn for help?
Not angels, not humans;
and even the knowing animals are aware that we feel
little secure and at home in our interpreted world.
There remains perhaps some tree on a hillside
daily for us to see; yesterday's street remains for us
stayed, moved in with us and showed no signs of leaving.
Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind
full of cosmic space invades our frightened faces.
Whom would it not remain for -that longed-after,
gently disenchanting night, painfully there for the
solitary heart to achieve? Is it easier for lovers?
Don't you know yet ? Fling out of your arms the
emptiness into the spaces we breath -perhaps the birds
will feel the expanded air in their more ferven flight.

Yes, the springtime were in need of you. Often a star
waited for you to espy it and sense its light.
A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,
or as you walked below an open window,
a violin gave itself to your hearing.
All this was trust. But could you manage it?
Were you not always distraught by expectation,
as if all this were announcing the arrival
of a beloved? (Where would you find a place
to hide her, with all your great strange thoughts
coming and going and often staying for the night.)
When longing overcomes you, sing of women in love;
for their famous passion is far from immortal enough.
Those whom you almost envy, the abandoned and
desolate ones, whom you found so much more loving
than those gratified. Begin ever new again
the praise you cannot attain; remember:
the hero lives on and survives; even his downfall
was for him only a pretext for achieving
his final birth. But nature, exhausted, takes lovers
back into itself, as if such creative forces could never be
achieved a second time.
Have you thought of Gaspara Stampa sufficiently:

that any girl abandoned by her lover may feel
from that far intenser example of loving:
"Ah, might I become like her!" Should not their oldest
sufferings finally become more fruitful for us?
Is it not time that lovingly we freed ourselves
from the beloved and, quivering, endured:
as the arrow endures the bow-string's tension,
and in this tense release becomes more than itself.
For staying is nowhere.

Voices, voices. Listen my heart, as only saints
have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them
clear off the ground. Yet they went on, impossibly,
kneeling, completely unawares: so intense was
their listening. Not that you could endure
the voice of God -far from it! But listen
to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message
that forms itself out of silence. They sweep
toward you now from those who died young.
Whenever they entered a church in Rome or Naples,
did not their fate quietly speak to you as recently
as the tablet did in Santa Maria Formosa?
What do they want of me? to quietly remove
the appearance of suffered injustice that,
at times, hinders a little their spirits from
freely proceeding onward.

Of course, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,
to no longer use skills on had barely time to acquire;
not to observe roses and other things that promised
so much in terms of a human future, no longer
to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands;
to even discard one's own name as easily as a child
abandons a broken toy.
Strange, not to desire to continue wishing one's wishes.
Strange to notice all that was related, fluttering
so loosely in space. And being dead is hard work
and full of retrieving before one can gradually feel a
trace of eternity. -Yes, but the liviing make
the mistake of drawing too sharp a distinction.
Angels (they say) are often unable to distinguish
between moving among the living or the dead.
The eternal torrent whirls all ages along with it,
through both realms forever, and their voices are lost in
its thunderous roar.

In the end the early departed have no longer
need of us. One is gently weaned from things
of this world as a child outgrows the need
of its mother's breast. But we who have need
of those great mysteries, we for whom grief is
so often the source of spiritual growth,
could we exist without them?
Is the legend vain that tells of music's beginning
in the midst of the mourning for Linos?
the daring first sounds of song piercing
the barren numbness, and how in that stunned space
an almost godlike youth suddenly left forever,
and the emptiness felt for the first time
those harmonious vibrations which now enrapture
and comfort and help us.

Shaikh Ayaz: A Poet of Emotions

2011-03-02T21:02:00.000-08:00

شيخ اياز جي 88 هين جنم ڏينهن جي نسبت سان

تنهنجي ياد جي وري آ وير

محمد ابراهيم جويو

اسين خوش نصيب آهيون، جو اسان جي قومي زندگيءَ جي مُکُ دائرن يعني سياست، مذهب ۽ تهذيب مان هر هڪ ۾ اسان جي ڪيترن ئي محسنن اسان لاءِ گهڻو ڪجهه پوئتي پئي ڇڏيو آهي، جنهن کي ياد ڪري، سمجهي، اُن سندن نقش قدم تي هلي، هُنن لاءِ هردم پنهنجي عقيدت جو اظهار ڪري ٿا سگهون، ۽ اِئين پنهنجي زندگيءَ جي راهه جو قدم قدم روشن به ڪري ٿا سگهون. قومي زندگيءَ جو ايڪو ۽ اُن جي ساڃاهه به ايئن جُڙندي ۽ مضبوط ٿيندي آهي.

شيخ ايازَ، صغير سنيءَ ۾، جڏهن هو چوڏهن سالن جو هو، پنهنجو پهريون شعر رچيو، اُهو سندس تاثراتي غزل نما شعر هو، ۽ 1938ع ۾ شڪارپور مان شايع ٿيل ٻارن جي رسالي ”سُدرشن“ ۾ ”مردِ خدا“ جي عنوان سان ڇپيو:

نه غم دنيا جو آ ان کي، نه دنيا کان ڪنارو آهه،

نه ڏيڻو آهه نه وٺڻو آهه، نه حيلو آهه نه چارو آهه

نه پنهنجن سان محبت آهه، نه نفرت غير سان اُن کي

سڀن ۾ ذات حق ڏسڻو، اهو اُن جو نظارو آهه

نه آهي شاهه شاهيءَ ۾، گدائيءَ ۾ نه غم اُن کي

جو آهي سو آهه بهتر، اِهو اُن جو نظارو آهه

ڪفر اسلام کان فارغ، نه ملت سان غَرضُ اُن کي،

نه هندو آهه نڪي مسلم، سڀن کان پنٿ نيارو آهه.

شيخ اياز، ڇهه سَت سال پوءِ، جڏهن هو شڪارپور ڇڏي ڪراچيءَ ۾ بي.اي پڙهڻ آيو، تڏهن هُن 1944ع-1945ع ڌاري ”او باغي، او راج دروهي، ڀارت ۾ بلوي جا باني!“ نظم رچيو. 1946ع جي سنڌ اسيمبليءَ لاءِ پهرين چونڊن ۾ شيخ اياز ۽ ٻيا دوست....آءٌ به ساڻن گڏ هوس، ٿر ۾ عمرڪوٽ، ساماري، کپري جي تڪ لاءِ هاري ورڪر ڪامريڊ عبدالغفور سرهنديءَ جي حمايت ۾ ڪم ڪرڻ لاءِ وياسين، تڏهن اياز جو ٻيو رچيل انقلابي نظم:

انقلاب! انقلاب! ڳاءِ انقلاب ڳاءِ!“

جئن زمين آسمان جي کُلي پئي زبان

شهر شهر چوڪ چوڪ جئن اٿي ڏئي جواب

ڌوڏ هن سماج کي لوڏ سامراج کي

ٺاهه ڪو نئون نظام جو چڱو چوي عوام

سڄيءَ چونڊ واري تڪ ۾ سڀ ڏينهن گڏجي ڳائيندا ئي رهياسين. 1947ع ۾ ڪراچيءَ جي ساٿين جي صلاح ۽ رٿا سان شڪارپور مان، شيخ اياز جي زير ادارت ۽ سندس اتان وارن ساٿين جي تعاون سان ترقي پسند رسالي ”اڳتي قدم“ جو اجراءُ عمل ۾ آيو. هن رسالي جا فقط ٽي پرچا ئي نڪتا. اُن گهڙيءَ سنڌي قوم ۽ سنڌي سماجُ پنهنجي تاريخ جي هڪ وڏي نازڪ مرحلي مان گذري رهيا هئا. هن رسالي پنهنجي اُن مختصر وقت ۾ وطن پاڪ سنڌ، اُن جي ٻوليءَ، ثقافتي ورثي جي دفاع ۽ مستقبل جي فروغ لاءِ جيڪو ڪردار ادا ڪيو، اُن بابت مون هڪ موقعي تي لکيو آهي ته اُن رسالي ”سنڌي ادب جي نڪ ۾ جا غلاميءَ جي ناڪيلي پيل هئي، سا لاهي ڦٽي ڪئي ۽ اُن کي اڳتي وڌڻ لاءِ پنهنجو مقصد، پنهنجي راهه ۽ پنهنجو ارادو عطا ڪيو.“

1955ع ۾ سنڌي ادبي بورڊ جي سماهي ادبي رسالي ”مهراڻ“ جو ڪراچيءَ مان اجراءُ ٿيو، جنهن ۾ شيخ اياز جون پهريون رچيل وايون، بيت ۽ دوها شايع ٿيا، ۽ ائين سنڌي ٻوليءَ ۾ اُن جي اصلوڪن شعري گهاڙيٽن سان گڏ اياز جا نت نرالا گيت، نظم، غزل وغيره سندس بيتاب باغي روح جون املهه رچنائون هر ڀيري ۽ سالن جا سال شايع ٿينديون رهيون.

پنهنجي پهرئين شعري مجموعي ”ڀؤنر ڀري آڪاس“، جو پيش لفظ پاڻ لکندي، شيخ اياز پنهنجي شعر بابت لکيو: ”مون سنڌي بيت کي تصوف ۽ رواياتي شعر جي ڍير مان ڪڍي، اڇو اجرو ڪري، نئين رنگ ۽ روپ ۾ پيش ڪرڻ جي ڪوشش ڪئي آهي....منهنجين ’وائين‘ جي هيئت ۽ موضوع ٻيئي جداگانه ۽ جديد آهن.....هر عظيم شاعر جي روح ۾ سندس پوري ماضيءَ ۽ اُن جي فني تخليقات، روايات ۽ فلسفهءِ حيات جون جَڙون آهن، جي هن جي شاعريءَ جي نشو و نما ڪري، اُن کي شگفته ڪَنوَلَ جو رنگ روپ ڏين ٿيون، ۽ هن جي فن ۽ فڪر جي انفراديت ڀؤنر جيئن ڀِرندي، آڪاش ۾ اُڏامندي ٿي رهي. جڏهن ’ٻنهي سندي ڳالهڙي‘ راس ٿي اچي، تڏهن هڪ فني شهپارو تخليق ٿئي ٿو...“

شيخ اياز جو نثر جو پهريون ڪتاب ”جي ڪاڪ ڪڪوريا ڪاپڙي“ نالي سان 1962ع ۾ شايع ٿيو. اُن ۾ سندس لکيل خط گڏ ٿيل هئا ۽ ”نوٽبڪ جا ورق“ عنوان هيٺ 25 صفحن تي ادب بابت سندس پنهنجا ۽ دنيا جي اديبن ۽ عالمن جا خيال پيش ٿيل هئا، جن مان هڪڙو اقتباس شيخ اياز جي پنهنجن لفظن ۾ هن موقعي تي گوش گذار ڪرڻ ضروري ٿو سمجهان:

”... هو اُهو ديوانو شاعر هو، جو هر پيشرؤ جو پيرو ڊاهي، منزل ڏانهن اڳتي وڌندو هو. مون هن کي هڪ دفعي ’غالب‘ جو هيٺيون شعر ٻڌايو:

’لازم نهين ڪه خضر ڪِي هم پيروي ڪرين،

مانا ڪه اِڪ بزرگ همين همسفر ملي.‘

”هن فوراً شدت سان چيو، ’غلط! غالب غلط آهي. هر عظيم شاعر پنهنجو خضر پاڻ آهي، هن کي نه رهبر جي طلب آهي، نه همسفر جي.‘

”سنڌ جي ڪلاسيڪي ادب متعلق گفتگو ڪندي، هڪ ٽهڪ ڏيئي هُن چيو: ’سنڌ جو ڪلاسيڪي شعر! آخر اِهو آهي ڇا؟ ڪنهن جهوني جُڳَ جون ڏند ڪٿائون. منصور جو سوريءَ تي چڙهڻ، زڪريا جو ڪرٽ سان چيرجڻ، حضرت يونس عه جو مڇيءَ جي پيٽ ۾ رهڻ! ڪجهه روحاني ڏاڪڻيون....شريعت، طريقت، حقيقت، معرفت- ناسوت، جبروت، ملڪوت، لاهوت!

مون هن ۾ هڪ منفرد اديب جي انانيت ۽ خود اعتمادي ڏٺي. هن جي روح ۾ اُها ڇولي هئي، جا ڪچ ڪوڏيءَ ۽ موتيءَ کي ساڳيءَ طرح ٿُڏي، چنڊ کي چُمڻ لاءِ اُڀرندي آهي. ظاهري طرح هو واقعي ديوانو ٿي لڳو، پر هر عظيم شاعر اُهو ديوانو آهي، جو جنون جي بي انتها جوش ۾ پٿر اڇلائي، عرش عظيم جا در دريون ۽ روشندان ڀڃي وجهندو آهي.

مون هُن جي ڪلهي تي هٿ رکي چيو، ’ڪنهن حد تائين مان توسان متفق آهيان، پر سنڌي ڪلاسيڪي شاعري فقط تصوف جو مُربو ته نه آهي، ۽ تصوف جو بنيادي نظريو به ته آفاقي آهي. انسان جِي انسان سان محبت، انسان جِي ڪنهن ازلي حقيقت جي جستجو-جي اِهي انسان مان ويا، ته باقي هن ۾ ڇا رهيو؟ اِهي شاعريءَ جا ابدي موضوع آهن. ائين برابر آهي ته تصوف جو نظريو نه فقط سنڌ ۾، پر ڪيتريءَ حد تائين هر هنڌ مضحڪه خيز آهي، پر اِن جي معنيٰ اها نه آهي ته شاهه جو ’مومل راڻو‘ ۽ ’سسئي پنهون‘ اِن ڪري بي معنيٰ آهن، ڇاڪاڻ جو شاهه جي شاعريءَ جو محرڪ تصوف جو ڪو نظريو هو. جيڪڏهن تون عينيت جو غلاف هٽائي ڏسندين، ته توکي شاهه جا ڪيترائي بيت مجاز جا مجسما نظر ايندا، جن ۾ خالص حسن آفريني ۽ فطرت نگاري پيئي بکي. شاهه ۾ فطرت سان ڪيتري نه محبت آهي!

’آگميو آهي، لڳهه پس، لطيف چئي!‘

”ڇا، توکي ان سِٽ ۾ اُها ڪيفيت محسوس نٿي ٿئي، جا ’بادليئر‘ جي نظم ۾ آهي؟ هر شاعر ۽ اديب جي تخليقات ۾ هُن جي ماحول جون روايتون ۽ توهمات پوشيده آهن، توڙي هو قديم شاعرن مان هجي يا جديد مان. هن جو روح اُهو تلاءُ آهي، جنهن جي ڇر هيٺان سَرَ ۽ چڪڻي مٽي آهي: تون اُن ڇَرَ کي چانڊوڪيءَ وانگر چمي ڏس، اُن جي سَرَن ۽ چڪڻي مٽيءَ کي ڇا ڪندين؟ تون ان ۾ هنج وانگر ٽُٻي ڏي ته توکي موتي ملن. فقط ڪنهن ڪانوَ جي ڪانگيري ۾ ويهي ڇو ٿو چيخ پڪار ڪرين؟ بهتر آهي ته ڪلاسيڪي شعر جي انهيءَ حصي کي نظر انداز ڪري ڇڏ، جنهن ۾ آفاقيت نه آهي، جنهن ۾ شاعر جي دور جا توهمات ۽ بي ڪيف تصورات آهن. (نه وسار ته) عين ممڪن آهي ته هڪ صديءَ کان پوءِ تنهنجي منهنجي ڪلام لاءِ به ڪئنچيءَ جي ضرورت پوي.“

”جي ڪاڪ ڪڪوريا ڪاپڙي“ ڪتاب مان هڪ ٻيو ٽڪرو به ڀانيان ٿو ته اوهان جي آڏو آڻي ڇڏيان. آگسٽ 1961ع جي ستينءَ تاريخ تي اياز مون ڏانهن خط لکيو، جيڪو انهيءَ ئي ڪتاب جي ص 64 کان 73 تائين آيل آهي. اُن خط ۾ هڪ هنڌ مون کي لکن ٿا:

”منهنجا ادا....منهنجو جدلياتي ماديت (Dialectical Materialism ۾ اعتبار نه آهي ۽ مان اديب ۽ فنڪار جي مڪمل آزاديءَ جو دلداده آهيان. مان چاهيان ٿو ته هر اديب ۽ فنڪار کي ايتري آزادي ڏني وڃي، جو هو پنهنجي برسر اقتدار طبقي، قوم ۽ وطن سان اختلاف راءِ جو اظهار ڪري سگهي، انهن جي فلسفهءِ حيات ۽ سياسي نصب العين خلاف آواز اُٿاري سگهي، ۽ جيڪي به هو سچ سمجهي، اُن کي سچائيءَ سان پيش ڪري سگهي. پر اِها آزادي هر مطلق العنان حڪومت ۾ ناممڪن آهي.“ ڊسمبر 1963ع ۾ اياز جو ٽيون ڪتاب ”ڪلهي پاتم ڪينرو“ شايع ٿيو ۽ اُهو سندس شعر جو ٻيو مجموعو هو. هن مجموعي ۾ دنيا جي چند عالمن ۽ اديبن جا قول ۽ پنهنجا به ان طرح جا مختصر قول درج ڪرايا آهن. اهي به کيس هڪ شاعر طور سمجهڻ لاءِ پڙهندڙ جا مددگار ٿي سگهن ٿا. سندس پنهنجا پيش ڪيل قول هن طرح آهن:

”جي سماج کان فرار ممڪن آهي ته اُهو انهيءَ زمين کان فرار آهي، جنهن مان آرٽ جي پرورش ٿئي ٿي. پال گوگي (مغربي مصور) ۽ مايا ڪوسڪي (روسي شاعر) جي فرار، يعني آپگهات جا ٻه مختلف طريقا آهن. ٽيون طريقو اهو آهي، جو مون چونڊيو آهي: پنهنجي ويساهه جي ڇنڊڇاڻ ڪري بنيادي ڳالهيون ڳولي لهان، هر عارضي ۽ مصلحت آميز ڳالهه کي ٿڏي ڇڏيان ۽ پنهنجيءَ جاءِ تي اٽل ٿي بيهان، ۽ ان لاءِ مون کي جيڪي به سهڻو پوي، اُهو سهان. هر عظيم فنڪار پنهنجي دور کان اڳ پيدا ٿيندو آهي. تون، ٺڪر جي ٿانوَ ۾ پاڻي پي رهيو آهين، مان توکي بلور جي صاف ڪوزي ۾ ئي آڇيان ٿو. تون منهنجي مَي کان ڇرڪين ٿو، ڇو ته تون انهيءَ بيٺل تلاءَ جي پاڻيءَ تي هري ويو آهين. توکي اِهو ٻاڙو پاڻي گهر ويٺي ملي ٿو، تنهنڪري تون اها تڪليف به نٿو وٺين ته تون اُهو شفاف جهرڻو ڳولي لهين، جنهن جي ڀر کان تنهنجا وڏا ڪجهه صديون اڳ لڏي آيا هئا. مون انهيءَ ساڳئي جهرڻي جي پاڻيءَ تي انگور جو وليون پوکي، انهن جي ميوي جي رس مان هيءَ مَي جوڙي آهي. تون انهيءَ مان چڪي چکي ڏس. شايد اِها توکي امر ڪري ڇڏي.“

اياز جا اهي ٽي ئي ڪتاب پاڪستان جي ون-يونٽي حڪومت ضبط ڪيا هئا. ”ڀونر ڀري آڪاس“ کي 1964ع ۾، جيڪو خود حڪومت پاڪستان جي پنهنجي قائم ڪيل ”پاڪستان رائٽرس گلڊ“ 1966ع ۾ پڌرو ڪيو هو، ۽ ”جي ڪاڪ ڪڪوريا ڪاپڙي“ ۽ ”ڪلهي پاتم ڪينرو“ جيڪي ٻئي ڊسمبر 1963ع ۾ شايع ٿيا هئا. تن کي به پنج سال پوءِ 1968ع ۾ پابندي هيٺ آندو ويو.

آئون پڇاڙيءَ ۾ شيخ اياز جو هڪ خط ڏيان ٿو، جنهن ۾ پاڻ ڄاڻايائون ته مالي توڻي ذهني طرح تمام گهڻا پريشان آهن. تنهن وقت ۾ پاڻ جيل مان نوان آزاد ٿي آيا هئا ۽ ”اڪ جون ڦلڙيون“ ڪتاب لکيو هئائون، جيڪو بروقت ڇپجي ته ويو هو، پر عام نه ڪيو ويو هو، ڇاڪاڻ ته اياز جا سڀ جا سڀ يعني ٽئي ڪتاب ضبط ڪيا ويا هئا، انهيءَ ڪري ڪجهه صبر کان ڪم ورتو ويو هو. سندن ڪيفيت ڪهڙي هئي، ان جو اندازو هيٺ ڏنل خط مان لڳائي سگهجي ٿو.

ادا ابراهيم،

مان اٽڪل ڏهه ڏينهن انفلوئنزيا سان بستري ۾ پيو هوس. اڄ ٺيڪ ٿيو آهيان ۽ تنهنجو خط پڙهي جواب ڏيئي رهيو آهيان. ڪتاب ”اڪ جون ڦلڙيون“ ترتيب ڏيئي، صفحا هڻي ربانيءَ هٿ موڪل. انهن نظمن ۾ هڪ ڇٽوپاَڌيا جي نظم جو ترجمو آهي، جنهن تي صفحو نه هڻڻو پوندو ۽ ان کي پهريون ڏيڻو پوندو.

اوهان جو پئمفليٽ ڇپائڻ چاهيو ٿا، ان لاءِ مون کي گهڻو ڏيڻو پوندو؟ دراصل جاءِ تي ايترو خرچ آيو آهي ۽ ڪاروبار ايترو گهٽ آهي جو مون جاءِ جو ٽيون حصو ڪم گهٽ ڪري ڇڏيو آهي. اڄ ڪلهه هٿ ڪجهه تنگ آهي ورنه ان پئيمفليٽ جو سمورو خرچ مان ڪيان ها. ان ڪري اهو پئمفليٽ ڪڍڻ ضروري ٿو نظر اچي.

ڪڏهن ڪڏهن ته ايمان لوڏي ۾ اچي ٿو وڃي. هيترين پريشانين جي باوجود رت ڏئي لکجي ٿو، سَوَن سوئرن ۽ ڪُتن جي نرغي سان منهن ٿو ڏجي، پر پوءِ به هن بي حس ملڪ ۾ ڪنهن ردِ عمل جي صورت نظر نٿي اچي، ڪيترو نه آزمائيندڙ آهي اهو ايندڙ صديءَ جي نسل لاءِ لکڻ! ڪيڏو نه ٿڪائيندڙ آهي اهو حقيقت جي مُنهن ۾ ٿُڪ هڻي ڪنهن خواب پٺيان ڊوڙڻ! اڪيلا رهي ته پهاڙ به اُٻاڻڪا ٿي پوندا هوندا!ڪير ڄاڻي ته جيڪو اسين چاهيون ٿا سو وجود ۾ ايندو به يا نه! اڄ روح ڏاڍو اُداس آهي.

تنهنجو پنهنجو اياز.

ibrahimjoyo@yahoo.com

2011-02-28T11:28:00.000-08:00

کوئی لمحہ تیری بن بھی ہوتا ای خدا؟
کبھی مجھی بھی اس ذات کی قید سی تنہائی ملتی -
ہر طرف ہر جگہ وہی منظر
کچھ تو بدلہ ہوتا -کجھ تو بدلہ ہوتا -
میں مانتا ہوں کی میں ہی اس شہر میں سب سی بڑا گنہگار
-مگر تو اپنی عبات کا بھی تو قدر کر -
الجھہ گیا ہوں جینی سی
-ایک مردارسا جسم ہی - دکھیلتا بھرتا ہوں -
ہر ایک صبح جینی کی تمنا لئے اپنی لاش کو تنہائی کی قید میں دفناتا ہوں -
تماشی نفس کی ڈورروز ناچواتی -
زندگی سرکس کی ہیچڑی کی طرح جو رونی کو بھی ہنستا ہی-
جس گاہ پی سکوت کا گمان ہوا -شور ہی شور تھا -
جینا بھی ایک مذاق ہی مگر اب تو خود بھی بی رونا اتا ہی-
جانی کیا ہوگیا ہی -
کوئی تو ایسا مکان ہو جو گھر لگی
کوئی تو انسان ہو جو انسان لگی ......!
ذات کا قید عذاب ہی -
میں کہاں جاؤں اس جسم کی جنازی کو لے کی -
کوئی جائ پناہ نہیں -
وقت کی زنجیر ہر رہ پی قید نفس کی داستان سناتی ہی -

Confession: On plateaus of introvert monologue

2011-02-18T06:21:00.000-08:00

Stranger...... stranger ......stranger........that's what your silence means?
Am i.......the beast of the beast.......?
Damon of wishes.....
God of sins...
what else...
says it...write it.... speak it.... even if it is whisper....
your silence is minefield of apathy.......each pour of body is shattered in water like drops of air.
Horizontal...vertical....centripetal ...centrifugal ....where should i go....?

I lost all maps… and I don’t know where is right and where is left? (Ask my friends).
Rain of pain had forested my desert ...
trees with trunks nesting birds of desire
bees stinging oh my face...
jungle of wilderness....
i am ghost there in lamb's womb ...
re-birth me oh the midwife of life.
Oh my mom....friends...and foes..... And my wild thorns you the one grown-up in/on my chest, throat, and face.....
Why not (you) let me moment of rhizomes and madness.....
"I wanted to correct you"..........that's what the last hope echoed....
......stingy lexicons...
where can i find verses of/for existentialism (existentiality) ...
Abode of livability ......invisible mirroring....
They can't hear my murmurs ....neither do i............

Did it …dig it….. Dig it deep... the archaeologist of schizophrenia…
Garlands of pity -garments of insanity …..

I am the infidel in the castle of piety,

Burn me….bury me…. send my grave to the blue moon [i]…

I will germinate………..i will germinate …

Let me germinate into the clouds

Let me breath it ……let me breathe you…..

Let it go…. Let it go………….

Let the prisoners of fear be free

Let the ghost of being haunt us

Let’s be wild in non-being-ality

Let’s burn all cartographies of known-ality

Let’s get lost inside I-ality, me-ality, and in mine-ality (so after that nowhere to go??????)

[i] One of the planets in the universe where some kind of life exist in different shape

2011-02-15T10:58:00.001-08:00

Friday, February 11, 2011

The Girl by Orchard Road

By Vidia Paramita

Valentine's day is just around the corner. While it is a celebrated day for many, for others it could be the most hated. Walking through Orchard Rd on this day, you will see flowers being sold at last minute, couples lining for movies and restaurants, and overly decorated stores that make you think a pink unicorn from Barbie world has eaten too much candy hearts and vomited all over it. For a single girl, it might feel that the day is especially invented to torture her; a physical reminder to what she easily ignores on all the other days: that she is in fact and after all, single.

We can't deny our human sexuality, romanticism, and of course love. One that leads us to in the end fulfill the great commandment of filling and subduing the Earth. It's an innate character that melts even the most stoned hearts. Love is the most natural thing that any creature do. It is the ONLY thing that we are supposed to do. A celebration of love, therefore, is always beautiful. The day is also a very good reminder to stop for a while, and literally smell the flowers, yes, those bought from 1-800-flowers.com. Without such occasions, we often forget to make our significant others feel special. In the midst of daily lives, we sometimes take our support system for granted, knowing that they will love us no matter what, or they would understand that although we are busy, we have them close at heart. The problem is, what's in your heart and mind, stays enclosed there, and without actions or words, they become arrows that fail to launch, sharp yet benign as ever. So, in a way, it's great that for those lost in the jungle of routines to rekindle the sparks on Valentine's day, to stop what you are doing, take a step back, and just be.

So if this celebration of love carries a significant importance, is supposed to be beautiful, and may safe marriages, what's wrong with our girl by the Orchard Rd? Is she just merely full of jealousy or insecurities? She could be. But, what girl would not when everyone walks in pairs making her feel like she has lost a limb, when she's actually perfectly fine. Maybe it is us as a society, that has made Valentine's all about you and me, about the gifts and impressing, chocolates and dinner dates, kisses, and for some this year, making sure they'd have a baby delivered on 11/11/11. Maybe sometimes, all we see is that one person, and how to make him or her as our only world, that we forget to look right and left to see that we should also celebrate love in singleness, and love in a bigger body of people. And that nobody should be left out in this celebration.

After all, stripped to its history, the day is actually celebrating St. Valentine's intense love for God that he got beheaded for his faith. A lost of self, for a bigger cause, an even bigger love than looking at our lover, and our lefts and rights. Before he died he left a message for the jailer's daughter to whom he fell in love and sign it with: from your Valentine. Three words that have left their marks for generations to come.

So maybe, we all should learn something from these words by Antoine de Saint-Exupery this Valentine's day. Words especially fitting in today's world, with all its unique revolutions, confusions, persecutions, and dilemmas, making the worries of choosing the right Valentine's surprise pale against other things that we should really worry about.

"Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction."

Happy early Valentine's day!

2011-02-08T17:29:00.001-08:00

عبرت آرٽيڪل

آشرم

الاءِ ڇو....!؟

ارشاد لغاري

هُجوم جي تنهائي ڪيئن ٿيندي آهي؟ هو اڄڪلهه ان ڪيفيت جي شديد احساس ۾ پنهنجن سمورن ناتن جي وچ ۾ هوندي به ڄڻ ڪنهن اوپري سياري تي هلندو هجي. اهڙي سفر ۾ وٽس هر لمحي عجيب اسرار عيان ٿي سامهون ايندا رهن ٿا، ۽ هو آهي سو بس مسلسل سُر ۽ سوز جي جهان ۾ اڳتي اڃا ٻه قدم اڳتي وڌندو ٿو وڃي. ڪالهه به هو اڪيلو لهندڙ سج ڏانهن وڃي رهيو هو ته رستي ۾ هڪ ديواني کان ڪجهه هي ڳالهيون ٻڌائين:

”اسين جيڪي بُتن سان پيار ڪندا آهيون، دراصل اهو اسين نقلِ پروردگار ڪندا آهيون. باقي هڪڙي ڳالهه سمجهه ۾ نٿي اچي جو هتي ماڻهن محبت کي به ڄڻ هڪ ڌنڌو بڻائي ڇڏيو آهي، جتي هر روز نئون پيار ڪن ٿا. جيتري قدر تنهنجي ۽ منهنجي تعلق جو سوال آهي ته تون گهٻراءِ نه ۽ نه ئي ايترا قسم کاءُ، وڃ اسين توتي اعتبار ڪريون ٿا. ۽ ها جيڪڏهن اچڻ چاهين ته اچ جو اسين اڄ به تنهنجو انتظار ڪريون ٿا. ۽ هونئن به دل سان هي دشمني ڪو غير ته نه ڪندا آهن. اها عنايت ته هميشه يارن کان ئي ٿيندي رهي آهي.“

هو ديواني جي ڳالهه ٻڌي اڻ ٻُڌي ڪري جيئن ئي اڳتي وڌڻ لڳو ته ديواني هن گيت سان ڌمال هڻڻ شروع ڪئي:

رقص ڪران، ني مئين ڦيريان پاوان

يار مناوان يار- يار مناوان يار

يار مئڏا لڄپال سئيان

جنهنڪون ڏٺي ٿئي ڪئي سال سئيان

ڪيوين جيوان مئين ڌار

يار مناوان يار

سيتا ٿيوان مئين ميران ٿيوان

رانجهڻ ٿي ول هيران ٿيوان

سسئي ٿيوان سئو وار

يار مناوان يار

لا، دي لالي، پا ورهه دي والي

ڌيان نگر وچ ٿيوان ڌمالي

جٿان هُودا سُر سينگار

يار مناوان يار

ديواني جي اهڙي گيت ۽ ڌمال هن جي خيال کي الائي ڪٿان جو ڪٿي وڃي ڇڏيو ته هيئن ڀڻڪيو:

”اي برها! تنهنجا به عجيب نت نوان نيارا ڀيد آهن، جن کي ڏسي سمورو جهان حيرت ۾ رهيو آهي آد جڳاد کان. تو لاصورت جي ديس مان اچي هتي ڪيئن نه هر صورت ۾ پنهنجو ديرو ڄمايو آهي!! هتي ٻن گلابي نيڻن واري روپ نگر ۾، پاڻ ئي پنهنجو شڪار ٿيندو ٿو رهين. ڪٿي لڪ لڪوٽيءَ ۾ ته ڪٿي سرِ ميدان نروار ٿيندو ٿو رهين. ڪٿي رام جي اولي ۾ هڪ وچن جي خاطر بنواس ٿو جهاڳين، ته ڪٿي اشوڪا جي روپ ۾ جُنگ- جنگوان ٿي ٿو اچين. ساڳي ريت ٻي پاسي سڀ رنگ حُسن ۽ محلات جا بسيرا ترڪ ڪري گوتم جو گيان ٿي پوين ٿو ۽ ڪٿي اسان فقيرن جي سيني ۾ عشق جي عدم آستان تان اٿي ان عرفان جون منزلون طئي ٿو ڪرين، جيڪي جيڪڏهن عام جي اڳيان سلجن ته هوند ٻيلي کي باهه لڳي وڃي. بس جڏهن سينو صدا بڻجي به وڃي ته فقط اها ئي ڪافي ان احساس جو آئينو ٿي سگهي ٿي ته:

صورتحال دا احوال خبران خيال ڪردا هي

ڪر پرواز، غمزي باز، ٿي شهباز ڦردا هي.

۽ اسين ان شهباز جي چنبي ۾ آهيون زماني کان... ايترو چئي هو پوءِ خبر ناهي ڪنهن سان هيئن ڳالهائڻ لڳو:

هڪ ڏينهن ايندو

جنهن جي رتي شام ۾

دلربائي جي دام ۾

سيوستان جي گهٽين ۾

توسان ملندس.

مان جيڪو هڪ خيال آهيان

لاحاصل ڪنهن عشق جي

ڌمال آهيان

لال آهيان تنهنجي ڳولها جي سفر ۾

هر نگر ۾

رقص منهنجي ۾ نمايان رنگ تنهنجا

ٿو وڄايان چنگ تنهنجا چاهه ۾

هر ساهه ۾ ۽ راهه ۾

بس تون ئي آهين

مان ته بس هڪ خيال آهيان

جو درازن ۾ ٻڌايو هو سچل

۽ کٽياڻن ۾ سڻايو ٿي کٽياڻ

”خيال ۾ گم ٿي- خيال ڪماءِ

خيال جو مطلب- خيال ۾ آهه.“

۽ پوءِ چوڻ لڳو:

”هي سموري جيوت عشق جو ڌڻ آهي. عشق جيڪو سنڀاليندڙ ڌنار به آهي ته شڪاري به. هي سمورو سنسار هن جي واڙ به آهي ته شڪار گاهه به. ان شڪار گاهه ۾ شوق جي ڪُميت تي جن به عشق جي سواري ڏسي ورتي سي پوءِ برهه جي ڀالي کان نٿا بچي سگهن. برهه جو اهو ڀالو جنهن جو آواز نه ايندو آهي.“

اها ڳالهه ڪري هو چُپ ٿي ويو... الاءِ ڇو؟

laghariirshad@yahoo.com

2011-02-04T11:01:00.001-08:00

آشرم

”ڀِنيءَ تون ڀيريج“

ارشاد لغاري

هر ابتدا جي ابتدا کان اول ۽ هر انتها جي انتها کان اڳتي هو پنهنجي وجود جا ٽٽل ڌاڳا جوڙي رهيو هو. سندس چؤڌاري هڪ طرفين لاحاصل محبتن جا ٽٽل فريم پکڙيل هئا. انهن سمورن فريمن ۾ ٻه فريم اهڙا هئا جيڪي سندس اکين ۾ اهڙو محفوظ ٿيا جو سڄي شهر اهي تحريرون پڙهي ورتيون جيڪي انهن ٻن لاحاصل محبتن جي فريمن جي ڪئپشن طور منجهن آويزان هيون. جنهن مان هڪ هئي ته “Who lost beloved he lost every thing” ۽ ٻي فريم تي لکيل هو “We will meet Insha-Allah”. اهي فريم ڏسي هن تاريخ جي انهن سمورن ديوانن کي ياد ڪري مُرڪي ڏنو، جيڪي واعدن جي اڏيءَ تي پنهنجو سر رکي اڳتي وڌيا. پوءِ هو پنهنجي اڄوڪي نسل تي نظر ڊوڙائي ڳولڻ لڳو ڪجهه اهڙيون صورتون جيڪي ٻيهر ان احساس کي جياري سگهن، جنهن ۾ ماڻهو ڪنهن جي آسري کي اجايو ٿيڻ نه ڏيندو آهي پر وقت جي تيزي ۾ اهڙيون صورتون هاڻ آهستي آهستي گم ٿيڻ لڳيون آهن يا ممڪن آهي کيس نظر نه اينديون هجن. جيئن به آهي پر هن هڪ ڀيرو ساڌوءَ کان جيڪا ڳالهه ٻڌي هئي سا کيس سندس نسل جي حوالي سان بهرحال هڪ وڏو سچ ٿي سامهون آئي آهي: ڳالهه جيڪا ڪجهه هيئن هئي ته:

”ڊگهو عرصو مياڻ ۾ رهجي ويل تلوار زنگجي ويندي آهي ۽ جيڪڏهن شهسوار گهڻو عرصو نرم ريشمي بسترن جا هيراڪ بڻجي وڃن ته پوءِ کانئن ڪِلي وير ڪٽڪ ۾ ڪُميت سنڀاليا نه ٿيندا آهن.“ اهڙي ريت سندس ديس ۾ ڪُميت ۽ ڪُند سنڀالڻ واري گهڙي ته ڪڏهوڪي آيل آهي پر اهي سوار ڪٿي آهن جن سان رڻ گجي پوندو آهي؟

هو پُور پچائيندو رهيو ۽ انهن ڪردارن جي باري ۾ کيس خيال آيو ته هڪ نئين تاريخ لکي جن مان هڪ ڪيهر ڪردار کاري پاڻي جي شهر ۾ لڙيءَ شام جو سموري وطن کي هڪلون ڪري اهو چوندي جاڳائڻ جي ڪوشش ڪئي هئي ته:

”اهو ڪٿان جو انصاف آهي ته شينهن جو شڪار گدڙن هٿان ڪيو وڃي.“ پر ديس صدين جي ننڊ مان نه جاڳي سگهيو ۽ شينهن گدڙن هٿان شڪار ٿي ويو. اهو شڪار اڄ ڏينهن تائين جاري آهي، هر طرف بس گدڙن جون اوناڙون آهن. هي دؤر جيڪو پوري دنيا ۾ ڄڻ ته بس گدڙن جي ئي ڳٺ جوڙ جو دؤر آهي. ٻي پاسي دل جي اجاڙ دنيا آهي، جنهن ۾ هن سوچيو آهي ته هاڻ تند کڻي ۽ ان کي ايترو وڄائي جو اها تلوار جو روپ ڌاري وٺي، جنهن لاءِ هن پنهنجي مُرشد جا سمورا آستان هڪ هڪ ڪري ووڙڻ جو سوچيو آهي ۽ ان ويراڳ ۾ ٻيهر جنم وٺڻ جو سوچيو اٿائين جنهن جي لاءِ هن پنهنجي ڳوٺ جي هڪ راڳي کان ان عام فهم راءِ جي صورت ۾ ٻڌو هو ته ”راڳ هندستان ۾ جنم ورتو، ملتان ۾ جوان ٿيو ۽ سنڌ ۾ ڪامل روپ ماڻيائين.“ اهو سنڌ وطن جنهن جي رهبر ڪامل لطيف راڳ جو اهو نئون بيمثال مڪتب جوڙيو جنهن جي هاڪ ٻڌي چون ٿا ته هندستان جا ٻه قديم راڳي اٽل ۽ چيچل مرشد کان وائي سکڻ ۽ طالب ٿيڻ لاءِ هتي ڪهي آيا هئا. هن سوچيو ته پنهنجي مرشد جا ڪوٽيسر ۽ نارائڻ سر وارا تڪيا به ڀيٽي ۽ هن ڀونءِ تي سندس سمورا نشان محفوظ ڪندي پنهنجي تهذيب جي دفاع ۽ ارتقا لاءِ لطيفي دستور ۾ پنهنجي حصي جي سيوا ڪري.

مرشد جا اهي تڪيا، جن لاءِ پاڻ فرمايائين ته:

گنگا ڀيٽج گومتي، پورج پورب ڏانهن

ڪاسي ۽ ڪروت جي، رمي پڇج راهه

دوارڪا جي در جي، نانگا رک نگاهه

ناني نارائڻ سرکي، سانڍ برابر ساهه

اوڏو آهه الله، ڪوٽيسر جي ڪُنڊ ۾.

ان سفر ۾ هاڻ کيس انهن جوڳين جي تلاش آهي جيڪي رتول جي لڄ رکي ڄاڻن، جيڪي اڄڪلهه ان دستور کان انڪاري آهن جنهن ۾ پاڻ کي پارسا چوندڙن جي سموري کيپ لٽيرن کان بخشش ۾ مليل ڳڀي تي جيئري آهي ۽ انهن سمورو ذرو پرزو پنهنجن ابائن ۾ لڪائي ڇڏيو آهي، جڏهن ته خلق خدا جي جهولين ۾ باهه جا گولا وڌا ويا آهن ۽ ڀڳوان جي بندن جو دامن شعلا شعلا آهي. هاڻ انهيءَ انياءُ جي آڳ کي فقط اهي ڪاپڙي ئي گُل ڪري سگهن ٿا جن لاءِ مرشد فرمايو ته:

پوري مڙهه مهيس، تيرٿ ويا تڪڙا

اُنهي ٿي اڳ ڪيا، پهه مٿي پرديس

جوڳي جُنبي هليا، ڪنهن ڏوراڻي ڏيس

اُن جا اَنديس، ساريان گهڻو سيد چوي.

هو جيڪو اڳ به جوڳين سان ملي چڪو آهي ۽ ڪي سال انهن جي سُنگ ۾ لمحي لمحي کي ماڻيو به اٿائين، جنهن سفر ۾ هڪ پڙاءُ دؤران ويراڳ ۾ ساڌو پنهنجي ساز تي کيس هي سبق به ڏنو هو ته:

ويراڳي وهيج، منجهئه هلج هن پار ڏي

چڱو چرکو پنهنجو، ويل مَ وساريج

اُٿيو آڌيءَ رات جو، ڀِني تون ڀيريج

سُٽ جو صرافن جو، ڪنبيو سو ڪتيج

اُنپر ٿي اچيج ته گُر کي گڏجين ڪاپڙي.

۽ ان سبق کانپوءِ رات سندس سامهون هڪ نئين انڪشاف سان عيان ٿي هئي، جنهن بعد نگر ۾ بکيا گهرندي هو ڳلي ڳليءَ ۾ اها صدا ڏيندو ٿي ويو ته ”رات کي سڄي خبر آهي“. جنهن تي شهر جي ماڻهن چيو هو ته ”چرين جي ڳالهين تي ڪهڙو اعتبار“. پر هيءُ هو سو پنهنجي ان ديوانگي جي ڌرم کي عام ڪندو ٿي ويو ته ”رات کي سڄي خبر آهي.“ ۽ هن آڌيءَ کي ڄڻ ته آلاپ جو روپ ڏيئي ڇڏيو هو. سو اڄ ٻيهر هڪ اهڙي ئي آلاپ سان اڳتي وڌي رهيو آهي، جنهن کي ٻڌي ظاهري دنيا ۾ دانائي جا دعويدار پنهنجن ڪنن تي هٿ ڏيئي رهيا آهن، جڏهن ته ديس جي ديوانن جي سيني ۾ نئون سنسار جنم وٺي رهيو آهي ۽ انهن پنهنجي اکين جا ڳوڙها اُگهي، ورهه جو وضو ڪري ڀِنيءَ جو اهو ڀيرڻ شروع ڪيو آهي ته ”رات کي سڄي خبر آهي.“ تڏهن ته ڏينهن جو پارسا ٿي هلندڙ ۽ رات جو رهزنيون ڪندڙن جا ڏند کڙڪڻ لڳا آهن. ائين جيئن سيءُ ۾ گدڙن جا ڏند کڙڪندا آهن ۽ هو به گدڙ ئي آهن ٻيو ڇاهن؟

laghariirshad@yahoo.dom

Fasting Silence

2011-01-28T11:32:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you feel homeless even if you have home. You don’t want to go home. It bites you. You see, hear and feel through your all senses spider webs of voicelessness.

Even the walls of your home laugh at you. You feel you are on the journey of fasting silence in the ship of speechlessness. You find wind is not blowing. You feel tongue is not whistling.

Life becomes old black & white movie-you see the images, and they talk through lips but you can’t hear through ears but through eyes.

In mist of muteness you sense whispers of the desires of beauty, love, and adventures in the cave of apathy bounded in alienation.

You gaze sound of narcissist.

You feel it.

Yet you also become mute and nub-“just let it go” song said

“I hold it true, whate'er befall” –I buried it that’s true-

–I buried it that’s true-

One martini and two rounds out of nowhere on the Sixth Street at mid night-

I walk home –with sound of my footsteps-

I sing a loud –I buried it that’s true-

I buried it that’s true-let us not be beast at least -

I buried it that’s true-let us not be beast at least-

Austin, Texas –January 28, 2011------

I

2011-01-14T14:47:00.000-08:00

صحرا میں سی صدا ائے
اب بازغشت کی گمازی غم کی راہیں اداسی کی دریا میں مغا رک ہیں -
علم کے چادر کا بھرم ٹوٹ چکا ہی
بس ایک چپ کا روزہ پہن کی رکھا ہی ہم جاہلوں نے عقل والوں کی بستی میں
بدھا تم کونسی رات کی شام تھے ؟
ہم تو حیات کی سوگ مے گمپزیدہ ہی
-یا کیا تھا
-کی کھو کوئی ہی اور وو ہے بھی نہیں
سر رات و شام دریدہ دل کا حلول ہی
یا جو رستا ہی تمام کا
وو جو کوئی نہیں جانتا
وو میں جانی کہا
کون کو اپنا خود گوان بیٹھا

اعتراف English title of this poem is Blasphemy

2010-12-28T14:50:00.000-08:00

مجھی معاف کیجیگا
گر میں اعتراف نفس کروں
اپ میں سی کوئی مجھ پی کفر کے فتویٰ نہ لگائے
کیوں کے میں خدا سی بھی مل چکا ہو اور وو چب ہی
میں نکلا تھا ڈھونڈھنی
کس کو ؟ خود کو ؟ تم کو ؟ یا خدا کو ؟
پتا نہیں
دریا کے کناری پہ ایک صبح کو
دور ایک ملاح کے کشتی میں دو شخص ملی تھے
میں کناری پی ملاح کے بیٹی کو دیکھ رہا تھا
وو سخت سردی میں آدھا ننگا
دریا میں خضر کو تلاش کر رہا تھا .
کشتی میں سی دونو مسافر اترے
والی شہر کے منصبدار نی ان کو کہا "شناخت کراو اور محصول دو "
جواب میں مسافروں میں سی ایک نے کہا "خدا " دوسری نے کہا میں "بھگوان " ہوں .
اس نے مجھ سی پوچھا تم کون ہو ؟
میں نی کہا انسان .
مجھی یاد آئی جوگی کی وو بات
جس میں اس نے رام کے بنواس
اور گھوتم کے بن کا قصہ سمجھایا تھا
اور میں خوش ہوگیا تھا کے یہ دونو مہجی جلدی مل گئے تھے .
میں نی سوچنا شروع کیا کے کل جگ ، جنت اور دوزگ کے محور میں سی نکل کر
خلاؤں میں ایک گھر بناوگا اور ماورائی انسان ہوجاوگا.
اتنی میں خیال تبدیل ہوا اور میں نے دیکھا کہ پھگوان اور خدا کونی میں کھڑی تھے
ملاح کہ بیٹا خضر کی تلاش میں گم ہوگیا تھا اور پھگوان کو نید آئیگی تھے
میں خدا کے پاس گیا
خدا میری بولنی سی پہلی کہا تو بایزید بسطامی کی ساتھہ مل کی حسسیں بن حلاج کہ سر لاؤ.
میں نی خدا سی پوچھا آخر یہ سبھ کجہ کیا ہی ؟
اس نی کہا مجھسی یا بات موسیٰ نی بھی پوچھ تھے اور ابراہیم نے بهی
جبکی محمد کو میں خود بتائی تھے
اور کہنی لگا کہ تم کیوں پوچ رہی ہو ؟
کیا تمہی کسی نیک مرد نی نہیں سمجھایا کی خدا رازوں میں دخل اندازی نہیں کرتی ؟
میں نی کہا یا خدا میں یہ جانتا ہوں
اس نی کہا تمہی شیطان کی سزا بھول گئے ہی ؟
میں کہا نہیں یا خدایا .

کہنی لگا تو پھر اب ہماری ملاقات پل صراط پی ہوگی .
اگر زیادہ چاہو تو پھگوان جا کی ملو .
میں نی پھگوان کو جاکی نید سی اٹھایا
اس نی آنکھہ کھولتی ہی کہا
تم لنکا جاؤ راستی میں تمہی گھوتم ملی گا ، امید کہ تمہارا مسئلہ حل ہوگئے گا .
اتنی میں خضر ملاح کی بیٹی کی ساتھہ دریا میں سی نکل کی اتا دکھا دیا
اور مجھی کہنی لگا جلدی کرو تمہی گھوتم کی گھر چھوڑنا ہی .
گھوتم ٹیک اسی وقت گھر سی نکلا تھا اور دورر پہاڑوں سی میں نی بهی سنا تھا
سورودام دکھم دکھم
مجھی چپ کہ اشرا کیا ہوا تھا اور گھوتم نی تو جیسی اپنی ہونٹ سی لے تھے
اوراپنی الفاظ دور کہیں گفاؤ میں چھوڑ کی آیا تھا .
سات رات اور سات دن گوتم اور میں چپ چاپ چلتی رہی
اٹوین دن شام کو جب وو گاوں کی بوڑی
ہماری بھیک کی برتن میں

2010-12-17T09:16:00.000-08:00

اس برس سردی کا موسم کچھ زیادہ تنہا ے کا احساس دلا رہا ہی. میں یہ سمجنی سی قاصر ہوں کے لوگوں کے ہجوم میں شجر ممنوع کیوں بنا ہوا ہوں. عقل ور ابہام کے سرحد کوۓ بازگش لگتی ہی. وقت تھم سا گیا ہی. الفاظ اپنی حرمت کھو گئی ہیں. میں جس خدا کے انکاری ہوں وہ میرا پیچھا نہیں چھوڑتا? انتظار زمان مسلسل کے مسل تبدیل نہیں ہوتا. صبر کے درخت کے بیج پیوند ہے نہیں ہو رہی . خواب میںدیکھا بہت اوپر ایک سفید چھت تھے -اس کو چیر کے دوسری طرف پنہچا تھا -وو عجیب عکس تھے
-سفید بادلوں کے طرح-وو کیا تھا ؟ مجھی لگتا ہی پاگل پن اور بیخودی کا راستہ ایک ہے سمت کو جاتا ہی- -اس دن خواب کو میں قبرستان میں دفن کرنی گیا تھا مگر جب منزل پی پھچا تو پتا لگا اب خوابوں کو انسان کو اپنی اندر ہی دفنانا پڑےگا . میں کوہ تور کے تلاش میں کہان آ گیا ہوں- خضر تو کہان ہی ؟ میری وجود کو تو ذات کے قید سی آزاد کیوں نہیں کرتا ؟
میں کوہ طور سی بہت اگی جانا چاہتا ہوں -مجھی آئینہ چاہئے جو سب چہروں کا چہرہ دکھائی -

2010-12-13T14:56:00.000-08:00

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 ؟

Why کیوں

2010-12-07T09:17:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-30T11:18:00.000-08:00

آشرم

باقي ٻيو ڇاهي؟

ارشاد لغاري

هُن جڏهن جڏهن به پنهنجي ماضيءَ ۾ ٽُٻي ڏني آهي ته سندس اکيون سنڌ جي ان فريم تي وڃي کُتيون آهن، جنهن ۾ خاڪي رنگ جي وڳي ۾ ڪاري رنگ جي ڄاڙيءَ وَر پٽڪي سان هڪ گهوڙي سوار پنهنجي ڪُميت کي واڳ مان جهلي ڳوٺ جي وچ مان گذرندڙ چاري مان پنڌ هلي رهيو آهي. ڀل جو سج لهي رهيو آهي ۽ کيس دير به ٿي رهي آهي پر هو پنهنجي اُن روايت کي نٿو لتاڙي، جنهن ۾ سندس پيءُ پهريون ڀيرو کيس زين ڇڪڻ سيکاريندي، رڪيب ۾ پير وجهرائي اهو سبق ڏنو هو ته ”پُٽ راهه ۾ جڏهن به ڪو ڳوٺ اچي ۽ توکي ان جي وچ مان گذرڻو پوي ته گهوڙي تان هيٺ لهي پنڌ گذرجانءِ ۽ ٻيو اهو ته گهوڙي تي هجين ۽ رستي ۾ توکي ڪو پنڌ ملي ته پهريون سلام تون ڪجانءِ“. پر اڄ جڏهن ان سنڌ جا نقش آهستي آهستي مٽجي رهيا آهن، جنهن ۾ نه اهي گهوڙا رهيا آهن ۽ نه اهي سوار تڏهن هو ان ماضيءَ واري سنڌ جون ڪجهه اڪيليون ٿي ويل روايتون پنهنجي گودڙيءَ ۾ کڻي پنهنجي منهن الائي ڇا مان ڇا ڳالهائيندو ٿو رهي.

ڪالهه به هو آشرم ڏانهن ويندي ڪجهه هيئن چئي رهيو هو:

- ازل کان وٺي گذريل رات تائين آسمان مان جيڪو به ٻرندڙ ستارو ٽٽو آهي سو منهنجي ئي دل ۾ ڪريو آهي. منهنجي دل انهن ٻرندڙ ٽٽل ستارن جو آستان آهي جن کي خبر ناهي ڪهڙي ڏوهه ۾ پنهنجي افلاڪ واري ڪُڙم مان نيڪالي ڏني وئي؟ ڀل جو تو اڄ ڏينهن تائين پنهنجو هٿ منهنجي هٿ ۾ نه ڏنو آهي پر پوءِ به مون کي مختلف وقتن تي ڪئين ڀيرا ائين لڳو آهي ته آئون تنهنجي مهربان هٿن مان گذريو آهيان ۽ انهن لمحن ۾ تو مون کان اهو به پڇيو آهي ته ”تنهنجا لڱ ايترا ڪوسا ڇو آهن؟“ بس تڏهن، ها تڏهن مون توکي اهو چيو آهي ته جيستائين تون مُرشد جي رامڪلي ۾ موجود ”ٻري جن ٻاري“ واري مام کي نه پروڙيندين تيستائين توکي منهنجي وجود جو آڙاهه سمجهه ۾ نه ايندو.

- مون اڄ ڏينهن تائين هوائن کي تنهنجي لاءِ جيڪي به نياپا ڏنا آهن، سي توتائين پهتا آهن الاءِ نه، پر مان ايترو ضرور ڄاڻان ٿو ته کاري پاڻي واري شهر ۾ توکي جنهن مِٺي واهڙ جي تلاش آهي، تنهن واهُڙ تي تون جڏهن به پهچندين ته پنهنجي ملاقات ضرور ٿيندي. ۽ اها شام جيڪا تو اڄ ڏينهن تائين مون کي عطا نه ڪئي آهي، سا ان واهڙ تي ان لمحي دؤران پنهنجي پوري ڪامل گيڙو رنگ ۾ سميٽجي ايندي ۽ هيستائين تنهنجي ۽ منهنجي وڄ ۾ خودساخته طاري ڪيل خاموشيءَ جي جهنگ مان سُر مالڪوس جي صورت ۾ بيدل جو هيءُ پڙاڏو گونجي اٿندو.

الف آءُ سهڻا، سڻ حال مئڏا

تئڏي ٻاجهون ٻهون درمانديان مئين

راتين آب اکيان وچون نت وهي

ڏيهان خون جگر دا کانديان مئين

ڇا سُرندا، درد غمان دا، دست ڌري،

سُر سوز فراق دا، ڳانديان مئين

بيدل بار برهه دا باري

چُم چاهه ڪنون سِر چانديان مئين.

۽ پوءِ منهنجون اهي سڀ ڳالهيون توکي سمجهه ۾ اينديون جيڪي مون هميشه خليل جبران جي نالي ۾ توسان ڪيون آهن.

- توکي ياد آهي ته تو هڪ ڀيرو مون کي چيو هو ته ”مرشد جي هُو سِٽ ڪيئن آهي؟“ مون پڇيو هو ڪهڙي؟ ته تو چيو هو ”نهائينءَ کان نينهن سِک منهنجا سپرين“. آئون ان لمحي سمجهي ويو هئس ته مُرشد جي ان سٽ جو مون سان ذڪر ڪرڻ مان تنهنجي ڇا مُراد آهي! پر اڄ آئون توکي وري چوان ٿو ته ڳالهيون اڌ ۾ نه ڇڏبيون آهن. مُرشد اها سِٽ جنهن موڙ لاءِ سبق طور فرمائي هئي، آئون ورهين پڄاڻان به ان موڙ تي بيٺل آهيان پر جي تون پنهنجي دل تي هٿ رکي انصاف ڪندين ته توکي خبر پوندي ته تون ان موڙ کان ڪيترو اڳتي نڪتل آهين؟ آئون توکي واپس موٽڻ لاءِ ڪڏهن به زور نه ڀريندس. پر ايترو ضرور چوندس ته اڳيان جي ڪٿي توکي ٿوري فرصت ملي ته منهنجي ديس جي ڍول ويراڳي ڍول فقير کي ضرور ٻُڌي وٺجان جيڪو توکي اهو ٻڌائيندو:

”لائجي ته نڀائجي نه ته مرڳو ئي نه لائجي“

۽ پوءِ مُرشد جي ئي هي سِٽ به توسان سليندو:

”مون کان پاليو نه ٿئي، شوق اوهانجي جو شينهن“

- مون کي تنهنجي مستقبل سان ايترو ئي پيار آهي جيترو پنهنجي ماضيءَ سان. آئون جيڪو پنهنجي شهر ۾ ماضي پرست طور سُڃاتو وڃان ٿو، ڪڏهن به نٿو چاهيان ته تنهنجي سفر جي آڏو ڪا ديوار بڻجان، پر هڪڙي ڳالهه منهنجي ٻُڌي ڇڏ جيڪا توکي تڏهن ڪم ايندي، جڏهن تون پنهنجي مستقبل مان گذري، سندي حال جي ان لمحي ۾ پهچندين جتي تنهنجو فتح ڪيل هر معرڪو ماضي بڻجي چڪو هوندو. پوءِ اهو مقام ذاتي سماجي حاصلات واري بلندي هجي يا ڪو مجموعي انقلاب، ڪجهه به هجي پر ماضيءَ بڻجڻو آهي هڪ ڏينهن تنهنجي لاءِ.... ۽ جڏهن توکي ان موڙ تي ڪرڻ لاءِ ڪجهه به نه هجي، شل ايئن ڪڏهن به نه ٿئي پر جي ان موڙ تي زندگيءَ ۾ تولاءِ ڪا به inspiration نه هجي، تڏهن مُرشد جي سٽ ”حاصل جنين حال، آئون نه جيئندي ان ري“ کي سمجهڻ جي ڪوشش ڪجان.

ان سٽ جو حقيقي جوهر ئي تنهنجي منهنجي وچ ۾ ان وقت امين جو ڪردار ادا ڪندو. ممڪن آهي ته پوءِ توکي سڌارٿ جي ”لمحي“ واري اها فلاسافي به ڪم جي نظر اچي، جيڪا آئون بيشمار ڀيرا سيوهڻ جي گهٽين ۾ توکي آڇيندو رهيس پر تو ان کي هميشه جيان وري به مستقبل جي امڪان جي ڌنڌ حوالي ڪري ڇڏيو. جڏهن ته مون توکي ڪاڇي جي لوڪ راڳين سان به ان ڪري ئي ملائڻ ٿي چاهيو ته جيئن توکي ساڌوءَ جي اها ڪافي سمجهائي سگهان ته:

سج جيڪي لٿي، تئين نال مٺا

مئڏا، ماضي، آئيندا سو حال مٺا

ياد آوئي ڪو وعدا شال مٺا

بس ڪيهي ڏيوان مئين ميار تئڪون

ڏاڍي ڏينهن ٿئي ڏٺي يار تئڪون

شايد وِسر ڳيوسي دلدار تئڪون.

ڇو ته بس اهوئي ته هڪ لمحو آهي جنهن ۾ تو مون کي وساريو ۽ آئون توکي ياد ڪريان ٿو. باقي ٻيو ڇا آهي؟

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