Sunday, July 19, 2026

Letters from the River: For Dada and Nana: A Prophetic Poem in the Voice of the Grandchild

 

I’m sorry—

I said it by mistake:
Hello, Grandfather...
in English.

But you’re not just Grandfather, are you?
In our Sindhi, you are either Dada or Nana.
Not one, but two—a difference of direction, of origin,
of lineage, of love.

And I keep wondering—
why does English only have one expression
for two different worlds of love?
Why does it singularize
what we have always known
to be double?

But does it matter—
this name in a language?
Is Grandfather less real
because he is wrapped in English
and not in Sindhi?

Are we any less real
when language cannot carry
the shape of our relation?

Tell me, truly—
am I your grandson?
Or are you my grandfather?
Are we maternal or paternal?
Are we eternal?
Are we fraternal?
Are you Nana or Dada?
Or are you both?

I am the song of your son,
or the poem of your daughter,
or perhaps the whisper
between them—
a sacred in-between.

Let me be more—
let me be the river’s child,
the flicker of fire in your memory,
a breeze from Sindh that carries
your sweat, your scent,
your silent prayer.

Let me be from your Atma,
your Agni,
your water,
your will—
and all the other things
that wished to become you
as you wished to become them.

As I keep switching you,
you become my memory—
an old soul of Sindh
where we don’t have
the neutral English "grandfather"—
we have Dada,
we have Nana.

Mother is different.
Father is different.
And that difference—
it lives in the names:
Dada and Nana.

But in English,
there’s just "grandfather."
One word.
A singular shadow
of two living flames.

Doesn’t that feel lonely?
Doesn’t he, the English grandfather,
feel too contained—
subjectivized—
a figure folded into grammar,
lacking the branches
that stretch into maternal and paternal skies?

I wish I could take that English grandfather
to meet my Dada and Nana sometimes.
Take him to Sindh.
Introduce him
to memory, to duality,
to the surs of relational being.

But did I forget?
To bring you to Sindh?
To Dada, to Nana,
to the whole sacred everything?

Am I the grandson?
You grandfather?
Or do we both like a song suspended between lines
of blood and water?

Do you remember where I saw you last?
In Sukkur—
by Parbhat Talkies,
near Baba Barkhandi Maharaj’s temple,
just south—
by the station signboard that says "Rohri Junction."
I saw you there.
 exactly—
your memory. Waiting for you... like passengers waiting at the train station...
Long ago.

It was my first visit.
I came from Pathan Colony, Hyderabad
in a Reed Bus,

Having winddowns open from Hyderabad to Sukker…

in the windy...chilly weather….

it was raining...
I was with a friend.
Sukkur was raining—
and the city was flooded.

The water rose.
It took you with it.


But your neighborhood still lingers
in my mind,
where you came to do your morning stretches—
your walking,
your silence.

But tell me,
do you remember
what the river at Sukkur once whispered to you?

Will you miss me?
It asked.

And you said:
"How can I miss you
when I will never forget you?"

Nana, Dada—
as for me, you are both.
I am the voice from the riverbank
that has never forgotten you—
like you never forgot the river.

Remember—
I sent you two letters:
one that you received,
and one still traveling,
held in the hush of the current.

These letters were given to me
by the sounds of the river,
when I went to goodbye.
Zinda Pir handed them to me.

And Zinda Pir said:
“Whether Nana or Dada—
names do not matter.
What matters
is the keeping of relations—
with the river.
Let it send its letters
to those still waiting
to know.”

Tell me—
what are the surs
of the river in Sindh?

These are surs of your memory—
but also of joy,
the joy that Zinda Pir’s letters bring
as I hand them to you,
my Dada, my Nana.

I also received a chitti for you—
from Jhulelal.

You remember that journey?
We went there once—
and I saw… two of me.
One before, in the dark dress
with my pluralness.
They couldn’t see me.
I passed unnoticed.

And then—
I returned, with her.
Different.
Again, they could not recognize me.

Then I told them—
“I am the same.
But I have become two,
like Udero Lal and Tahir Shaikh—
Hindu and Muslim—
water and flame—
a merging where everything becomes the same.”

Like the waters of Udero Lal
and Shaikh Tahir—
not black,
not white,
not even blue—
but something more ancient:

The trust in the squinch
of the thirst.

Like your thirst for Sindh, Dada,
and my thirst for Sindh, Nana—
this is our genealogy.
This is why we are plural.

And through these letters,
in these dualities,
you can become me,
and I, you.

But tell me—
my double-grandfather,
with the prefixes and suffixes
of Nana and Dada—
When will this English singularity,
this lonely “grandfather,”
dissolve these walls of alienation?

When will humanity be
one and another at once?

For the genealogies are here—
in the letters,
in the sounds,
in the rivers.
They were gifted to me
for my Sindh.
For you, my Nana, my Dada.

Even for English.
Even if it struggles to hold me—
and others like me—
because of its eternal singularity.

But you know, don’t you?
You know what Bedil of Rohri says—
the poet, the whisperer from your land—

"Those entangled
in the staircase of words
will never cross
the ladder of love."

 

Ithaca, NY, April 21, 2025

 

 

 

Saturday, April 19, 2025

The Burden of Being

 The Burden of Being

By Abdul Haque Chang

No path of love unveiled, no dusk of madness came,
No morning’s covenant whispered, no gateway led to grace—
We wandered the roads of exile like omens carved in stone,
Standing in the town square, turned to ruins of reflection.

We were—yet not quite.
What was, was all else,
And fate—fierce and urgent—unmasked every possibility,
Striving to declare even what dared not be.

Worse than a washerman’s tattered rag,
We were like broken tombstones
In a forgotten graveyard—
Half-speaking tales of life and death,
Becoming death itself in silent echo.

No dirge-singer sang, no sorrowful lute played;
The stench of being rose from soul to skin,
Dragging existence from realm of possibility
To the silence beyond form.

No philosopher’s prose, no myths of nation,
No scholarly sleight of hand
Could quench this thirst of the self.
We, like lepers unknown,
Wandered the jungle of solitude,
Angered even at our own shadow.

Healers became butchers—
Their arrows of cure mere cleavers of commerce.
On every wall in every city,
“Entry Forbidden” was inscribed—
And none dared ask, "To whom?"

The scholars of life
Took to ravishing wisdom by force—
And we—drunken with death—
Were ordered to sip the chalice of poison
As if it were divine command.

Yet we thirsted for that enduring venom,
For death was but a form of life.
Who kills by dying?

The drummers of knowledge
Struck false gongs in triumph,
And Yazid was crowned
While calling himself Husayn.

No battlefield of Karbala like that
Had ever been raised—nor is now.
Suffering was given the name of eternity,
And consciousness—the rogue leader
Of a pack of stray dogs—
Was noted thus in the lexicon of knowledge.

To speak was a crime;
To be silent—a sin.

There was no path to what was lost,
No miracle lighting what could come.
Quietly we journeyed
Toward a barren and forsaken village
Where silence was the only sound,
Where the name of civilization
Was a mask for its ruin.

A place where humanity could begin anew—
Where you were new,
Where I was new,
Where we became what we were meant to be.

Where thought alone ruled,
And thoughtless thought no longer reigned.
Where existence was unburdened of its weight—
Where the self became
A sacred thread in the cloth of cosmos.

Where the walls
Between being and non-being
Leaned into the night of Kun fa Yakoon.
Where being and intoxication
Circled the twilight of eternity—
In reverence,
In stillness,
In the hush of divine mystery.

 زیست کا بوج

عبد الحق چانگ

نہ عشق کے راہ ملی نہ وحشتوں کے شام ملی
نہ وعید صبح ملی نہ نجات کے کوئی گزر گاہ ملی
ہم دربدری کے راستوں پی عبرت کے آثار کے طرح شہر کی چوک پی عبرت کدہ بن کے رہ گئے
ہم تھی لیکن ایسے کہ ہم نہ تھے لیکن سبھ کجھ اور تھا اور ہونی کہ ہر ایک امکان ہونی کو عیاں کرنی پی مصر تھا
ہم دھوبی کے کتی سی بھی ابتر
اجڑی سی قبرستان کے ٹوٹی ہوئی کتبی کے مانند
جو حیات اور موت کے داستان سناتی ہوئی خود مماتی بنگیا تھا-
نہ کوئی نوحہ خوان نہ کوئی ساز غم
وجود کے بدبو روح میں سے نکل کر ہستی کو امکان سے لا مکان میں گھسیٹ رہی تھی -
نہ فلسفی کا بیان -نہ ملی کا داستان-نہ ا تالیف کی شبدی بازیاں وجود کے تشنگی کے دوا تلاش کر سگین
ہم کوڑھ کے مریض کے متعرف تنہائی کےتنہا جنگل میں خود سے بھی خفا تھے
طبیبوں کے ترکش علاج قصاب کے طرح کاٹنی کے کاروبار میں مصروف عمل تھے
شہر کے ہر ایک دیوار پی "ممنوع دخول " کے کتبی عیان تھے
فلسفئ حیا ت کے سا تھ زنا بِجبر اھل مکتب کا نیا شوق تھا
اور ہم تھے ک سکرات کےپیالا زہر پینی کے احکام بجا لانی کو کہی گئے-
ہم تو پیاسی تھی اس زہر دوام کے موت تو بس ایک حیات تھا
مرنی سے کون مارتا ہے ؟
علم کے طبلچی جھوٹ کے نغاری بانگ دام بجانی لگے
یزید رہبری حسین کہلوانی لگا
کربلا کا کرب جیسی نہ تب بپا ہوا تھا نہ کہ ابّ بپا ہورہا ہے
درد کو دوام کاا نام دیا گیا
ضمیر آوارہ کتوں کے گروہ کے سردار کا نام ہے فرہنگ علم میں درج تھا-
بولنا بھی جرم تھا اور خاموشی بھی گناہ کے زمری میں آ تی تھے-
نہ کوئی گم ہونی کی رہ تھے نہ کوئی جلوے افروز ہونی کا جادو
چپ چاپ دور کسی تنہا ا جھاڑ بستی کو چلتی ہیں جہاں چپ کے سوا کوئی آواز نہ ہو -جہاں تہذیب نام کے کوئی بَد تہذیبی نو -
جہاں انسان نو ہو -جہاں تم نو -جہاں ہم نو ہوں-
جہاں خیال کےسوا -کوئی کور خیال نو ہوں-
جہاں زیست وجود کی بوجھ سی مبرا ہو - جہاں ذات کائنات کے کل کا جز ہو
جہاں ہونی اور نہ ہونی کے دیوار کے راستی
کن ف یکون کے رات کے ساتھ ملتی ہوں
جہاں ہستی اور مستی رات کے شام کے ساتھ طواف کری -

 گناہ کا سراپ


اس شہر کے بازار میں
سبھی گناہگار ہیں —
کسی نے عبائے عصمت پہن رکھی ہے،
کسی کے دستارِ علم پر گناہ کا سرخ رنگ چھایا ہے۔
کوئی مذہب کی تلوار تھامے
جنت کا حقدار بننے کا سامان جمع کرنے میں مصروف ہے۔
کسی نے تہذیب کی تبدیلی کا ٹھیکہ لے رکھا ہے
اور کوئے انسان میں سوئے شعور کو جگانے پر مصر ہے۔

کسی نے تصوف کا لبادہ اوڑھ رکھا ہے،
اور کوئی گیان و دھیان کے گیت گا رہا ہے۔
ہر گامِ حیات پر شور و ہجوم ہے۔
ہر ایک کی جنت، برین، اعلیٰ و احسن ہے۔

یہ صاحبِ شریعت — زمانے کا فتویٰ اُن کے حق میں ہے،
اور ہم؟
ہمارے ہر آئینہِ وجود میں
اپنا ہی عکس گناہگار کے چہرے سا دکھائی دیتا ہے۔

زمانہ — ہر روز کا گناہ
صبح کچہری کے ڈھیر پر پھینک کر
اطمینان کا سانس لیتا ہے۔

مگر گناہ کی بدبو
شہر کے ہر کونے میں
مشکِ حیات کی مانند
چھپنے سے انکار کرتی ہے۔

گناہ کے ننگے پن کو چھپانے کے لیے
سبھی نے آنکھوں پر رنگین چشمے چڑھا رکھے ہیں۔

"ہونا" اور "نہ ہونا"
ایک دلدلی وقت میں دھنسا پڑا ہے۔

تحقیق، پرانے زمانے کے غاروں میں
لکھی ہوئی
پتھر کے دور کی کوئی گمشدہ تحریر بن چکی ہے،
جسے سب پوجتے تو ہیں
مگر اُس کی حقیقت جاننا —
مضرِ صحت کہلاتا ہے۔

خیالِ زیست،
زنگ آلود پرانی کشتی کے ملبے جیسا ہے۔
بس لوہأ وجود،
پگھلنے کے بعد کسی اور وجود کی تشکیل میں
مصروفِ عمل ہے۔

بننا، ہونا، اور ہو جانا —
بس ایک طلسمِ ہوش رُبا ہے۔
رقصِ جنوں ہے —
بے سمت راستے، لاحاصل راہیں۔

گناہ کے انسانی حقوق کے ترجمان،
انجمنیں
گناہ کی مظلومیت پر آہ و زاری میں
گریہ کناں ہیں۔

کوئی آسمان کی کھڑکی کھولو!
کوئی زمین بَرَد ہونے کی راہ دکھاؤ!

"ہونا"
کٹے ہوئے کُتّے کی دُم سا ہے —

ہونا، نہ ہونا —
ذات کی نفی، حیات سے جنگ۔

فلسفۂ حیات،
کمرے کی اونچی جگہ
کپڑوں کے لبادے میں لپٹی
ایک مقدس کتاب کی مانند ہے،
جسے اب کوئی نہیں پڑھتا۔

چلو، ابراہیم بن ادہم کے پہاڑی مسکن پر کچھ دیر ٹھہریں —
سانس کی اٹکی ڈوریاں سلجھائیں۔
کسی چھوٹی سی بچی کی بات پر ہنسیں،
کائنات کے غم بھلا دیں۔

چلو، چپ کے غار میں
اکیلا پن کے دیے جلائیں۔
چلو، کسی شام
پتھر کے بن میں چُپ ہونے کی صدا لگائیں۔

چلو —
ہم، تم ہو جائیں۔
چلو —
تم، ہم ہو جاؤ۔

چلو،
گم ہونے والی گلی میں
چپ چاپ گم ہو جائیں —
جہاں سے واپسی کا کوئی راستہ نہ ہو۔

“خدا سے مکالمے

 


"اے خدا! کیا تیرا بھی کوئی خدا ہے؟"

اے خدا—
تو جو ازل سے ہے،
تو جو ابد تک رہے گا،
کیا تو کبھی ایک لمحے کو رُکا تھا؟
کیا کبھی تیرے دل میں
کوئی خیال ٹھہرا تھا؟
جیسے میرے دل میں
ایک سوال ہر رات پلتا ہے
کہ —
میں تُو کیوں نہیں؟
اور تُو، میں کیوں نہیں؟

تو کہتا ہے
سب کچھ میں نے بنایا
چھ دنوں میں —
مگر میں پوچھتا ہوں،
تخلیق کے وہ چھ دن
کہاں سے آئے تھے؟
کیا وقت بھی تیری مخلوق ہے؟
یا تُو بھی وقت کے قفس میں قید تھا
کبھی؟

آدم کو تو نے پیدا کیا
مٹی سے؟
یا خواب سے؟
یا اپنی کسی خامشی کے اندر
اک چیخ کو بند کیا
اور آدم کہہ دیا؟

میرے دل کی محرومی،
میرے جسم کی تھکن،
میرے سوالوں کا شور —
یہ سب کیا ہیں؟
کیا یہ بھی تیرے کسی فرمان کی پرچھائیاں ہیں؟
یا میں ہی وہ اندھی گلی ہوں
جسے تُو نے کبھی گزرگاہ سمجھا ہی نہیں؟

تو بدلتا کیوں ہے؟
کبھی قہر، کبھی کرم،
کبھی نور، کبھی نرگس کا رنگ؟
کبھی دھرتی میں چھپ جاتا ہے،
کبھی آسمان پہ چمکنے لگتا ہے—
کیا تُو بھی خود کو
پوری طرح جانتا نہیں؟

کیا یہ سب،
جو میں ہوں، جو تُو ہے،
اک تماشہ ہے؟
کیا میں تماشائی ہوں
یا تماشا خود ہوں؟

کبھی کبھی
جب رات بہت لمبی ہو جاتی ہے
اور آنکھوں میں نیند کی بجائے
فکر اترتی ہے —
میں سوچتا ہوں
کیا تیرا بھی کوئی خدا ہے؟
جو تجھے کبھی تنہا پا کر
تجھ سے پوچھے:
"کیوں بنایا تُو نے یہ سب کچھ؟"

اور تو —
جو سب کا خدا ہے —
خاموش ہو جائے،
بالکل میری طرح۔

Masiha is no more among us

 




مسیحا مر گیا ہے

اور عیسیٰ بھی —

بغیر صلیب کے،

بغیر معجزے کے،

خامشی میں

دفن ہو گیا۔


میں نے خواب دیکھنا

چھوڑ دیے ہیں —

خواب…؟

جن میں روشنی ہوتی تھی،

یا کبھی کوئی در کھلتا تھا —

اب وہ خواب

بند کمروں میں

دم گھٹ کر مر چکے ہیں۔


میں انسان ہوں —

یا وہ مٹی

جو بارش کو ترستی ہے؟

شاید…

انسان بھی مر گیا ہے۔


نفس کی سرکس میں

جہاں خواہشیں جانوروں کی طرح ناچتی ہیں،

میں نے کئی بار

اپنے ضمیر کو روتے دیکھا —

پھر ایک دن

وہ چپ ہو گیا…

اور پھر

کبھی بولا نہیں۔


فرشتے —

جو کبھی خوابوں میں آتے تھے،

اب آسمانوں پر کھو گئے ہیں،

یا شاید…

ہم نے ان کے دروازے

خود بند کر دیے۔


شہر —

ڈرا ہوا،

سویا ہوا،

بھیڑ میں لپٹا ہوا —

کسی سنسان قبرستان کی مانند

دھڑک رہا ہے۔


کوئی نہیں جانتا

کہ وہ کون تھا

جس نے چراغ جلائے تھے۔

اب وہ خود

اندھیروں میں کھو گیا ہے۔


اور کل —

ایک کفر نے کہا:

"خُدا مر گیا ہے۔"

میں سُن کر

خاموش رہا۔


لیکن رات بھر سوچتا رہا —

اگر وہ مر گیا ہے

تو…

کیا اس کا بھی

کوئی مقبرہ ہے؟


کوئی مزار —

جس پر

ہم پھول رکھ سکیں؟

یا فقط

یاد میں آنسو؟


Monday, March 4, 2024

ایک قدیم بستی کی کہانی

ایک قدیم بستی کی کہانی

 

بچپن کی وہ شامیں، جب سورج کی زردی دیواروں پہ رینگتی تھی، اور گلی کے نکڑ پر بیٹھیں مائیں شرارت سے باز آ جانے کے لیے بچوں کو ڈانٹتیں:
"چپ ہو جاؤ، ورنہ باوو آ جائے گا!"

ہمیں کیا خبر تھی کہ "باوو" کون ہے؟ نہ کوئی چہرہ، نہ کوئی کہانی۔ مگر اس ان کہی ہستی کا نام ہی کافی ہوتا تھا ہمیں خاموش کر دینے کے لیے۔

اسی "باوو" کی سرگوشی ایک پرانی بستی میں اب تک گونجتی ہے۔ فرق بس اتنا ہے کہ اب یہ صرف بچے نہیں، بلکہ بوڑھیاں بھی دھیرے سے کہتی ہیں، "یہاں مت جاؤ... وہاں باوو رہتا ہے۔"

یہ بستی... جیسے وقت کے پتھر میں قید کوئی خواب۔ ایک ایسا خواب جس میں روشنی نہیں، فقط سنّاٹا ہے۔ یہ شہر کے بیچ واقع وہ پرانی بستی ہے، جہاں کے مکین اب بھی اپنی کہانیوں میں دیومالائی دھواں سموئے بیٹھے ہیں۔

میں نے جب بھی کسی بزرگ سے پوچھا،
"کیا آپ کبھی اس بستی میں گئے ہیں؟"
تو اکثر سہم کر کہتے،
"نہ بابا، وہاں تو موت کا باوو رِہتا ہے۔"

 

اس بستی کی یاد نے ایک روز مجھے پی ٹی وی کے ایک پرانے ڈرامے کی طرف کھینچ لیا۔
نور محمد لاشاری کا کردار... باکسنگ کوچ، جو نوجوانوں کو کھیل کے ذریعے زندگی کی طرف لاتا ہے۔ لیکن وہی نوجوان... محرومی، نسل پرستی اور غربت کی وجہ سے واپس اندھیروں میں ڈھل جاتے ہیں۔

کیا وہ ڈرامہ ہی حقیقت نہ تھا؟

 

کراچی سے حیدرآباد جاتے ہوئے، ایک پرانی سرخ بس میں، جب ٹول پلازہ پر ایک حوالدار نے پورے مجمع سے صرف ایک سانولے نوجوان کو تلاشی کے لیے کھڑا کیا، تو وہ چیخ اٹھا:
"میری تلاشی کیوں؟ کیا رنگ کالا ہونا جرم ہے؟ کیا میرے بال مجرم ہیں؟"

بس میں ایک سناٹا چھا گیا۔ اس کی آواز میں درد تھا، جس نے مجھے اس بستی کی طرف کھینچ لیا —
وہی بستی، جسے سب باوو کی سرزمین کہتے ہیں۔

 

وہاں میری ملاقات ہوئی لطیف ڈورائی سے۔

ایک خاموش مزاحمت کی تصویر۔
سماجی کارکن، بستی کا بیٹا، وہ خود کہتا ہے:
"جب تمہارا رنگ کالا ہو، تمہاری زبان الگ ہو، تمہارے بال مٹیالے ہوں... اور تم روز فائل لے کر نوکری کے لیے دھکے کھا کر واپس لوٹو — تو باوو تمہارے اندر بس جاتا ہے۔"

لطیف کی آنکھوں میں ایک زمانہ ٹھہرا ہوا تھا۔
"ہر صبح میری بیوی طعنہ دیتی ہے، 'کل جو باہر ٹھیلا لگانے آیا تھا وہ کروڑ پتی بن گیا... اور تم ابھی تک بیکار!'"

 

نبیل گبول چوک سے چیل چوک تک پیدل چلتے ہوئے ہر قوم، ہر زبان، ہر محرومی سے سامنا ہوا —
کچھی، سندھی، سرائیکی، گجراتی، بنگالی، پشتون، کشمیری، گلگتی — سب کے چہرے ایک ہی درد میں ڈھلے ہوئے۔

لطیف نے ایک کمپیوٹر سینٹر میں لے جا کر فخر سے بتایا،
"یہاں
۱۰۷ فٹبال کلب ہیں، مگر حکومت نے کھیل چھین لیا، امید چھین لی... اب یہاں صرف ایک ہی کھیل رہ گیا ہے — بقاء کا کھیل۔"

 

لیاری کے داخلی و خارجی راستوں پر پولیس اور ایف سی کے دستے،
گلیوں میں دیواروں پر شہیدوں کے پوسٹر،
سردار عبد الرحمن بلوچ، بابا لاڈلا،
اور ایک پوسٹر پر لکھا تھا:
"مر جائیں گے، مگر سندھ نہیں دیں گے!"

یہ پوسٹر نہیں تھے — یہ آنکھیں تھیں، جو مجھ سے سوال کر رہی تھیں:
"تم ہمیں صرف خبروں میں دیکھتے ہو،
کبھی ہمیں سمجھا ہے؟"

 

میں نے پوچھا،
"یہاں کے نوجوان ترقی کیوں نہیں کرتے؟"

لطیف نے دھیرے سے کہا،
"کیوں کہ غربت کتاب چھین لیتی ہے...
اور عزت کے نام پر مار دیتی ہے۔
میں بارہ سال کا تھا جب باپ مر گیا،
اور میں مزدور بن گیا۔"

اگر وہ خود نہ بتاتا،
تو کبھی گمان نہ ہوتا
کہ یہ شخص کتاب کا لفظ نہیں،
زندگی کا ہر ورق پڑھ چکا ہے۔

 

وہ بستی، جس کے لیے کہا جاتا تھا "وہاں باوو رہتا ہے" —
اب میری آنکھوں میں بسا ہوا ہے۔

وہ باوو کوئی جن، بھوت یا سایہ نہیں —
وہ وہ خوف ہے
جو ناانصافی، محرومی، اور تعصب کی کوکھ سے جنم لیتا ہے۔

وہ باوو ہم سب کے اندر پلتا ہے۔
کبھی تلاشی کے نام پر،
کبھی رنگ کے سبب،
کبھی شناخت کے عنوان سے۔

 

یہ بستی... لیاری کی ایک گلی نہیں،
انسانیت کا آئینہ ہے۔

جہاں ہر شہید کے چہرے پر سوال لکھا ہے —
"کیا ہم فقط خبر تھے؟
یا تم کبھی ہمیں بھی سمجھو گے؟"

 

خاتمہ:

اگر باوو واقعی موجود ہے —
تو شاید وہ
ہم سب کے اندر کی آواز ہے،
جسے ہم نے ڈر کر دبا دیا ہے۔

یا شاید...
ہم سب ہی باوو بن چکے ہیں۔

 


Wednesday, November 23, 2016

گمان -Guman

گاہے گاہے

کبھی وہ عکس کہ جیسے سراپا ہو
کبھی ہم، کبھی تم — وہی نقش تمنا ہو

کبھی دشت میں ہم، جوں کہ مسافر ہوں
ہر سایہ پہ گمان، کہ یہیں منزل ہو

مگر،
منزل؟
وہ تو اک فریبِ نظر ہے —
کبھی بھی ہم کو ملی ہی نہیں

ہاں، محبت…
محبت بھی باراں کی صورت برستی ہے
کبھی خامشی میں، کبھی شور کی مستی ہے

کون سمجھے؟
سوکھے شجر کا دکھ
پیاسی نظر، لبوں کی کسک —
کون جانے یہ ہجر کی حقیقت کیا ہے؟

عشق؟
عشق تو چور سا آتا ہے
دل چرا کر، خوابوں میں بس جاتا ہے

اور
آنکھ لگے —
تو جیسے خواب نگر کا راستہ ہو
کہ جہاں
ہر لمحہ غفلت ہو تو کفر سا لگے

عشق —
عشق وہی رازِ الٰہی کی لام، میم، نون میں چھپا ہو
جو ہر بار
ہمیں
کسی اور دیس کی رہ دکھا دے

درد؟
درد تو دوست ہے
ازل سے
ہمقدم، ہمراز
خدا کی طرح خاموش، مگر ساتھ ساتھ

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Why کیوں

اے خُدا، تُو نے کیوں آدمی کو بنایا؟
یہی فریاد ہے، اک دل شکستہ کی صدا
میں ترے حضور، نہ کسی جاہ سے
بلکہ عاجزی سے فقط، سوال کرتا ہوں

کیا تو
اُس بستی کے فقیروں پر
رمضان کے ان لمحوں میں
رحم کرے گا؟
کہ ان کے گناہ
کسی بوند کی صورت
تیرے عرش سے دھل جائیں؟

کیا
ایک پل کو
مجھے اپنا عکس بنا دے گا؟
اور خود —
میری مانند کوئی تنہا بشر ہوگا؟

اگر میں بھٹک گیا ہوں
تو معاف کر
کہ میں تیری خدائی کے بھیدوں سے
بےخبر رہا

تُو کون ہے؟
یہ راز اب تک کیوں پوشیدہ ہے؟
اور میں —
میں اس فقیری کے دکھ کو
اک تماشا نہیں سمجھتا
بلکہ ہر لمحہ
اک خنجر ہے، جو چپ چاپ کچوکے دیتا ہے

کیا تیرے گھر کا بھی کوئی در ہے؟
جہاں جا کے
میں دربدر ہونے سے بچ سکوں؟
یا فقط
دیواریں ہی ہیں
خامشی کی؟

میں کہاں پاؤں
تیری حکمتوں کی کنجی؟
جب ہر راہ
اک بند دروازہ ہو
اور نگاہ —
کہ اب دھندلا چکی ہے
اشکوں کی گرد میں

Sunday, January 13, 2013

And i am Intoxicated

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

A peom by Rumi 

Monday, January 9, 2012

First Strike

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  !!!!!!


+

Caution : Close box Before Striking


(:= :) :( =:)(:= :) :( =:)(:= :) :( =:)(:= :) :( =:)






س یہی ایک ڈر ہے"


تیری ماچس کی ڈبیا میں
وہ بتیس تیلیاں —
کیا جلتی یادوں کی
سرد چپ کو
حدت دے سکیں گی؟

سڑک کے کنارے
دھنسے ہوئے
اس سنہری تالے کی چابی
اب بھی
گُم شدہ گلیوں میں
پھرتی ہے...
کبھی دیواروں سے پوچھتی ہے
کبھی خود سے روٹھ جاتی ہے۔

کیا ممکن ہے—
کہ وجود کے دروازے کی چابیاں
یونہی خاک میں
بے نام ہو جائیں؟
جیسے ہم تم سے ملے نہیں،
اور تم ہم سے۔

محبت—
کیا سورج نہیں
جو سب کے لیے چمکتا ہے؟
پھر کیوں
ہر دل اندھیرے میں ہے؟
کون سمجھے گا
یہ چھوٹی چھوٹی باتیں
اس بڑی دنیا میں؟
جہاں احساس
بازار میں
وزن تول کر بکتا ہے۔

ہم تو پاگل ہیں،
یاد میں بھی، خواب میں بھی—
مگر ہوش والے؟
اے خدا!
تو بھی کسی اور خدا کا بندہ تو نہیں؟

کیا ہونا
اک اکیلی کشتی کا
وسعتِ وجود کے سمندر میں
بس یہ ہی تو ہے:
بے پتوار، بے کنار، بے یقین۔

کیا اب کی بار
ہم بچھڑیں گے نہیں؟
کیا وقت
اپنے بکھرتے لمحوں سے
رحم کی کوئی مہک لائے گا؟

بس یہی ایک سوال ہے—
جو ہر شب
میرے تکیے کے نیچے
اک خاموش چیخ کی طرح
سو جاتا ہے۔

بس یہی ایک ڈر ہے—
ورنہ سب خیر ہے۔


(:= :) :( =:)
خبردار: ماچس جلانے سے پہلے ڈبیا بند کر لیجیے—
کہیں نظم نہ جل جائے... یا دل۔














Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Bahram Baizai, Iranian Cinema, feminism, art cinema

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:
  1. Amoo Sibiloo - 1970
  2. Ragbar (Downpour) - 1972
  3. Safar (Journey) - 1972
  4. Gharibe va Meh (Stranger and the Fog) - 1974
  5. Kalaagh (The Crow) - 1978
  6. Cherikeye Tara (Ballad of Tara) -1980
  7. Marge Yazdgerd (Death of Yazdgerd) - 1981
  8. Khate Ghermez (Red Line) Writer - 1981
  9. Davandeh (Runner) Editor - 1985
  10. Bashu (Bashu, the little stranger) - 1987
  11. Maybe Some Other Time - 1988
  12. Mosaferan (Travelers) - 1999
  13. Goftegoo Ba Baad (Kish Stories) – 1999
CINEMATIC CONTRIBUTIONS:
  1. Screenplay of Rooze Vaghe’e (Day of Incident) dir. Shahram Assadi, 1995
  2. Editing Borje Minoo (Minoo Tower) dir. Ebrahim Hatami kia, 1996
  3. Screenplay of Fasle Panjom (Fifth Season) dir. Rafi Pitts, 1996
REFERENCES
  1. Ghokassian, Zavon. Conversation with Bahram Baizai, 1992, Agah Publications
  2. Gozaresh-e Film (Film Report) 12:185
  3. Mahname Cinema’i-e Film (Film monthly Magazine), 19:279
  4. Mottahedeh, Negar. "Bahram Baizai’s Maybe Some Other Time: The un-Present-able Iran," Camera Obscura 15.1 (2000): 162-191
  5. Mottahedeh, Negar. "Bahram Bayza`i: Filmography" in Life and Art: the New Iranian Cinema ed. R. Issa and S. Whitaker (London: BFI 1999)
  6. Interview with Jahanbakhsh Nouraei, "Iranianfilm.com"
Endnotes
  1. Conversation with Bahram Baizai, Zavon Ghokassian, 1992, translations by Najmeh Khalili. Further references as , from now on, this book is referenced as Conversation.
  2. Conversation, p. 287
  3. Gozareshe Film (Film Report) 12:185, p. 79
  4. Conversation, p. 54
  5. 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.
  6. 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.
  7. Conversation, p. 43
  8. Negar Mottahedeh, "Bahram Baizai’s Maybe Some Other Time: The un-Present-able Iran," Camera Obscura 15.1 (2000): 162-191
  9. 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
  10. 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!
  11. Interview with Jahanbakhsh Nouraei
  12. Conversation, p. 50
  13. 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.
  14. Conversation, p. 100
  15. Conversation, p. 269 
 http://www.horschamp.qc.ca/new_offscreen/baizai.html

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