Sindhi topi aen Ajrak aahay Shaan asaan ji [Sindhi Topi and Ajrak is our pride]

Sindh – the land of the Indus, the Bab-e-Islam of Subcontinent, home to affluent culture and known for its intricate pottery, the glass-clad Sindhi topi and elaborate Ajrak – has been blemished. Its culture has been ridiculed. I’m not only shocked, but also furious at the fact that my culture has been sneered at. It moves me to tears to see that now we aren’t Pakistani – but Sindhi, Punjabi, Balochi, Seraiki etc and our culture isn’t Pakistani but Sindhi, Punjabi, Balochi etc.

We are divided. And I can’t even deny the fact now.

It was an ordinary day. I was flicking through the channels on television, when I stopped on Dr. Shahid Masood’s Meray Muttabiq airing on Geo News – apparently the channel which unveils the truth to the people, or I should rather say “manipulated truth”. Geo since its inception has persisted in being scandalous, spreading dissension in the nation already plagued by terrorism, poverty, unemployment, illiteracy and other social degradations.

This man – Shahid Masood – in his usual I’m-so-staid tone, scoffed that the President should have worn the National dress on his Afghanistan tour and shouldn’t have worn Sindhi topi since it is provincial!

I’m astounded. Does it make a difference that the President of my country wears an element of his country’s culture on a foreign tour? Apparently it does.

Or is it that Sindh is not a part of Pakistan, or its culture is not an integral part of Pakistani culture? It seems so from Dr. Shahid Masood’s obnoxious comment.

Or is it that Sindh, deprived as it is, plundered as it is, left barren as it is, not anymore considered as the “S” in Pakistan? If not so, then why should its culture be not included in that of Pakistan’s?

These questions naturally have arisen in my mind. That being a Sindhi, am I not a Pakistani? That, if I exhibit Sindhi culture, am I not manifesting Pakistani culture itself too?

This sectarianism, this fundamentalism, and this ethnocentrism I strongly condemn. I condemn Shahid Masood for talking so imbecilely on national television, for influencing the minds of 16 million people who otherwise wouldn’t even have given a damn about the President wearing the Sindhi topi, and for naturally undermining a culture that is a thousand times older than him.

Ha! To think that democracy would flourish in a country, where under the banner of freedom the “free media” scandalizes even a single fart.

PEOPLE CALLED ME A MISER, WHEN I HAD NO MONEY- A STORY OF MY LIFE

PEOPLE CALLED ME A MISER, WHEN I HAD NO MONEY- A STORY OF MY LIFE:

BY: YUSRA SHAFQAT

Man is never content with whatever he is blessed with, he always desires for more. I am like every other human but whenever I wish for more, my past flashes in front of me and I thank Allah for everything I am blessed with.

My dad owned a shop. We led a very happy life and were financially sound. But then everything changed, when our shop burnt down in an accident. My dad started a new job but we were in a financial crisis for many years. Those were the years that groomed me into what I am today.

Nowadays when I go shopping for clothes, I fancy buying the entire shop and buy as much clothes I want, forgetting that there was a time when I used to wear cardigans all day long just because we couldn’t afford buying full sleeves uniforms for winters separately.  And my classmates called me a MISER.

Nowadays I ask for a fancy lecture copy forgetting that once there was a time when I couldn’t buy art papers and colors and used to borrow them from my friends. And my friends used to call me a MISER.

Nowadays I need a mobile card every other day forgetting that there was a time when I never called anyone to save some money. And everyone called me a MISER.

Nowadays I want a different dress for every occasion forgetting that once there was a time when I wore same shirt for four Eids consecutively. And my cousins called me a MISER.

Nowadays I demand for a servant for all the chores forgetting that once there was a time when I used to wash dishes because we had no spare money for the maids. And my relatives called me a MISER.

Nowadays I crave for more and more daily money for my expenses and spend it extravagantly on my best friends forgetting the time when I only got 10 Rs and could only buy a Pepsi from it. And my best friends still call me a MISER.

MISER… MISER… MISER… That’s what I used to hear then and now too. Nothing has changed much, the only difference is, in those times I had no money and nowadays I have money but I save it rather than spending it. It is said that a person learns from his past. And I have learnt two things, firstly no matter how many storms and gales strike our lives, we will always remain a happy family. Money or not we will always stick to one another. Secondly if I tackle my present cautiously and thank Allah for His blessings, I’ll have a harmonious and blissful future.

————-_————-_—————

This is one of my sister’s pen-downs. I found it very touching so thought to share it here.

Life and Lies of an Akhrot [WALNUT]

By Anas Shafqat and Mr. Animus

Salman Latif – a composed, reserved individual, a renowned debater, a
brilliant writer – that is, what most of us know about this unusual
person. However, in this report, I shall unveil some startling truths
and this pooled with the candid analysis of Mr. Animus, our resident
expert on scandals, we heretofore embark on a journey to understand
that “all that glitters is not gold.”

Walking tightly on the line that separates diplomacy from hypocrisy,
Salman Latif has always acted poised and unruffled in even the most
trying situations – but is he really as composed as he pretends to be?
Does behind that posture of a serene peacock, in truth, a chicken
restlessly clucks? Upon investigating, a very reliable source divulged
that Salman Latif can ALSO be chickenly.  He says that once when
Salman had come to Lahore for some debate, I went up there to meet
him. There I wanted to use internet [for the general benefit of the
public, this guy is a major net-a-holic] and so we went to the
computer lab. We were happily using the net, when suddenly the lab
attendant pounced on us and demanded to see our student I.Ds.
Supposedly only students with I.Ds were allowed, and since I didn’t
have one, the lab attendant started threatening Salman that he would
complain to the authorities and have his entire team disqualified
because he had broken the rules. And, readers here comes the juicy
part, that IS, our very own unruffled, composed Salman Latif begged
the lab attendant for ONE HOUR to not rat on them! The rumors say that
Salman practically even grabbed the lab attendant’s feet! I asked Mr.
Animus as to what he thinks about it, he replies with another
question, “I think that he had a natural reaction towards it, you know
“begging” or have you not wondered how he always is on good terms with
girls?” Indeed, what Mr. Animus suggests makes a lot of sense.
However, this is a very mild scoop, compared to the crème ala crème
which is going to be served in the next few lines.

Salman Latif has always been taken to be as a straight-laced, shareef
bacha. However, all that looks shareef IS not always shareef. So in
order to prove the following statement, I set upon sniffing for a
scoop. And I DID find one. Yes, a source [upon taking some money]
revealed that, our very own Salman Latif used to jump over the gate of
his house at 3 A.M to get net cards! This sounded a bit strange to me
that, why would someone be so desperate to get online? When I
discussed this issue with Mr. Animus, he replied, “UH must be some
girl!” I had already suspected it to be so, and the statement of Mr.
Animus added weight to my suspicions.  Another statement of our bribed
source intrigued and surprised me pretty much, which was, “Once Salman
told me that he goes to all these debates because cute girls come to
them.” Yes, people, Salman Latif DOES NOT participate in the debates
to win prizes or to deliver speeches, but to stare at cute girls! This
statement has ascertained us that Salman Latif is NOT at-all
straight-laced, but he is also a GAWKER! I have also heard rumors that
Salman has even become a STALKER now, but having not found any valid
proofs of him being so, I shall not comment on it in this report.

In the course of my investigations, a source upon much wheedling,
disclosed, “He is very obedient.” Upon asking why, the source
returned, “Once we had a fight, I kept calling him so that I could
apologize and we could get back to normal. However, he didn’t receive
and I kept on calling. Almost whole night was spent in doing so and I stopped when the call button of my cell phone stopped functioning. Next
morning, when I asked him, why didn’t he receive my calls? He replied
that you had told me that I mustn’t receive your calls until you tell
me to do so. Then I remembered I indeed had said so and he was just
being obedient.” Interestingly, in order to spice things up a bit, I
leave the gender of the source hidden and leave it to you people to
decide whether the source was a HE or a SHE! Mr. Animus too had to
voice his opinion, he says rather slyly,” It was so stupid,
pointless and a total drag but the most important and learning part was that it just
goes to show you that they don’t make cells as they used to!”

To summarize this report I asked for the help of Mr. Animus, who whole heartedly agreed and replied with the following golden words, “Salman Latif is one of a kind. Knowing the fact that he is cute he participates in all the events he can except for studying and if I remember my probability lessons correctly, the probability of him coming out victorious is very high… in more than one way. He portrays to be, “the oh so naïve and SHAREEF bacha” though inside he is always laughing at every dirty joke that is being thrown about. So, if you think you have hidden something from him and that you really know the real him to be really SHAREEF and the guy who behaves like an akhrot. That is without a brain.… WELL MY FRIEND, THINK AGAIN!!! He is like a wolf on the prowl. He will cut you up so sweetly that you will be laughing like it tickles.”

When I sought to pluck the rose …

It bloomed to be an exquisite rose: pulchritude streaming from its
ruby-red petals. And rubies were they, gleamed as they did in the
tepid sunlight. It was truly a divine sight, with sunshine filtering
through its dainty leaves and reflecting its rosy beauty to the
optima.

Ah! A sigh escaped my lips as I gazed at it – and who wouldn’t stare
at it? With its gullible show, mesmerizing beauty and breath-taking
fragility … who wouldn’t?

I bent and sniffed its fragrance: the nifty fragrance seeping through
my nostrils, frenzied my nasal senses and I leaned forward to pluck
it.

However, in midair, I checked myself.

Why yank the poor thing? How could even one think of tweaking
something so beautiful?

I trod a few steps back bashfully and set upon watching it again:
absorbing its beauty and, not curtailing it.

Because I understood beauty is to be preserved, and not impaired.

Unusual Ponderings

When we’re aware of the fact that death is inevitable, that it has to
come one day, that the cycle must end one day, then why should we fear
death?

If death is the beginning of another, eternal life, a life free of all
miseries and predicaments, then why should one mourn the death of a
beloved?

If people say that love is immortal and never-ending, that it survives
every hardship; that it is so perpetual that it grows even after
death, then why should the memory of my beloved grow fainter with
every year?

I STROLL ABOUT THE TERRACE …

I stroll about the terrace;
And sounds of my land immerse into my existence:
The soft drip of the lonesome trickle of dew,
As it embraces the thirsty earth;
The soulful chirrup of the swallow,
As it meditates on the benevolent neem;
The cadenced buzz of the honey bee,
As it prowls about for the nectar;
The gurgled hoot of the sleepy owl,
As it finally slips into slumber;
The whooshing flow of the morning breeze,
As it invigorates the mortals far and wide:
But then ruthlessly, in a flurry of time
The bliss of spring is cut off,
And … autumn on its throne of gold and red,
Arrives to proclaim its crown: the land that had bloomed
With the scintilla of flora and the jade of prairie,
Now lays barren of its vibrancy,
And squandered of its colors … and so it happens, that
Blood tinkles down the leaves galore;
The shades of neem no more benign, snigger in deceit;
The bee drones as it strikes to raze the mountain-homes;
The owl cowers in fear, alert and tense;
The wind lashes in fury, blood and flesh its feed:

Helpless and vulnerable, unable to do anything,
I still stroll about the terrace, contemplating
Does my land have a future?

Ephemerality …

It was a grub: a monochrome shell of existence within which pulchritude bloomed secretly, set to burst free when the crescent acquired its complete shape.
A nature’s anomaly, the grub was. So ugly, and yet fostered beauty in its womb. So seemingly unimportant, and yet reared something that added to the loveliness of the world.
How unfortunate that it couldn’t survive more than a fortnight … and the fact that the moment when it would embrace death, at that very same moment, its embrasure to death would become the cause of sprouting of another life.
Then the butterfly would arise from the remains of its cocoon, the drab casing that had enclosed her while she nurtured her existence.
Such striking disparity would radiate between the two! The butterfly painted with the most scintillating colors and the cocoon an etiolated being, devoid of any color. The butterfly a symbol of exquisiteness, while the cocoon a symbol of drabness.
However, they would both hold something in common: this duo of opposites, the cocoon and the butterfly.
They both would be ephemeral, and therein this ephemerality would lie the true beauty, however the short-lived it be …

.

.

.

.

Because, beauty, when short-lived, is appreciated the most.

Children for sale – Five Daughters and Two Sons!

A few days ago, I happened to pass by the Press Club, where I was attracted by a commotion gathered outside it. Of course, curiosity compelled me to go and check out what had drawn such a crowd. I could also see news reporters hurtling through the tight knot of people and furiously clicking photographs. This further gave leverage to my curiosity, and pushing aside people, I looked upon on the object of people’s interest.

What I saw saddened me greatly.

A man and a child stood in the centre. The man was bearded, and seemed quite healthy, while the child besides him was a girl of about fourteen or so. The man smiled, whereas the girl seemed lost elsewhere in her thoughts.

But a bearded man and a girl in tattered sandals are common sight these days. What attraction did these two ordinary father and daughter exude that had fascinated so much people?

That attraction was the poster the girl held in her hands.

Scribed in blue and black, it read:

“Bache baraye farokht … paanch bachiyaan aur do bete.” [Children for sale – five daughters and two sons]

I was shocked that our country and its population had stooped to such a fell state that parents were being forced to sell their own seed, so that they could feed themselves!

However, once the shock ebbed away, I didn’t appreciate what I beheld.

 a) If they were really as destitute as they posed to be, then why did the man smirk while he looked into the cameras? He was neither doing something great or accomplished.

 b) When the man was aware of his abject poverty, then why did he have 7 children? When he knew he couldn’t provide for them, then why produce 7 children?

c) If he was so indigent, then why didn’t he go and do some work? If he had so much time to brandish a banner to sell his children outside the Press Club all day long, he certainly must have had a lot of time to work and provide for his family.

d) The man actually seemed to enjoy the attention, which our “free media” was more than ready to give. They furiously clicked pictures and videoed the man about what had forced him to sell his children. I was outraged. Hell! This man is not some Katrina Kaif, nor is he doing some ramp show. It was pretty obvious that the man was a fraud and he only wanted to arouse the sympathy of the people so that they could donate him money. A clever ruse in which our media happily got into, so that they could further get a chance to discredit the already-in-shambles government.

Ha! To actually think that such a country could ever progress, whose people are so inherently corrupt and the media so exceedingly scandalous.

“Nankurunaisa!”

“There’s so much to do. And there’s never enough time. I feel pressured and hassled all day, everyday, seven days a week….” complained Anwer Baig, as he flipped the pages of a diary frivolously.

8^th August … where is it? I’d written in it myself! Where has it gone now!? For once, I’m running late for office and I can’t find the stupid things-to-do list! Where had I written it … Ahan!

Anwer Baig let out a cry of joy as he finally stumbled upon the 8^th August list, though groaning as he glanced at the long list:

-          OFFICE WORK.

-         APPOINTMENT WITH MR. GHULAM MUSTAFA.

-          MEETING IN THE OLD CITY HALL.

-          SITE WORK.

-          BUY SHIRTS, SALE “CAMBRIDGE SHOP” 50% OFF, LAST DAY OF SALE.

-          BUY 3 KILO FISH, 2 KILO CHICKEN

-          BUY ITEMS FOR DOMESTIC USE, LIST ENCLOSED BEHIND.

-          APPOINTMENT WITH GHAURI ESTATE SERVICES’ DIRECTOR.

-          WEDDING OF SON OF MR HABIB, DEAL TO BE FINALIZED WITH HIM LATER, SO IMPORTANT.

-          BACK TO HOME.

Anwer snapped the black leather-bound diary shut, and flung it away, thinking that this was not to be one of his better days. Resolutely, and with great effort, he compelled himself to leave his relatively cool room, to bear the scorching heat outside.

Taking long strides in the torrid weather, he finally reached the bus stand, and joined the long queue, which patiently waited for the bus to arrive.

He marveled at his life.

He: who had secured straight A’s, who had procured a first-division MBA degree from SZABIST, now practically rotted in the battered office of a dilapidated airline?

“What did I do to deserve such a fate?” 

Perhaps I had lost the four-leaved clover when I stepped into the farce that we christen as the “real world?” … he thought ironically.

————#————#————

Anwer sat on the footpath.

Rain poured in torrents: the stifling heat preceding the storm had quite dissipated. The world was being washed, and so were the ambitions, hopes, dreams that Anwar Baig had ever cherished in his life.

He had been fired on the account of economic recession.

Though, he was an excellent worker, the authorities had told him, he lacked experience in comparison to his other colleagues and hence, he was being fired.

Bunkum! He who had been working for 2 years in the company, was slighted by a person who had just joined the airline a month back?

But then … he thought bitterly … I didn’t have an influential source behind my back.

———–#————–#———–

He had abandoned the footpath, and now strolled in the park that adjoined it.

The joyful cries of the children playing in the rain had shaken him out of his reverie. His attention diverted, he walked towards the children.

Particularly, his attention was fixated on a little girl who he had earlier espied watching him when he had established himself on the footpath, enshrouded in misery.

The little girl had been happily splashing in a puddle, whence her glance found him walking towards her.

She went rigid, her gaze frozen on him. Shades of hesitation crept up across her face.

She took a few steps back.

And, then a cheeky smile unfurled on her face and she cried out:

“It’ll work out, uncle!”

 “What did you say?” Anwer shouted back.

The girl laughed loudly, and cried again,” I said it’ll work out!”

And saying this, she turned and ran to join her friends who had attacked the swings.

A smile spread across Anwer’s countenance.

He’d wrongly believed that it was his fate that had landed him into the employment of a decrepit airline, that due to it he had lost his job … but, no, in truth his fate had had other thoughts for him.

Yes, he had to traverse a difficult path. Yes, he had to suffer through the humiliation of getting fired.

But he had learned a lot on this road: perseverance, value of hard work, tolerance to minor issues of life.

And, now fate had taught him his last lesson by the words of a little girl: how to get up when you fall down.

————#———-#————-

Note:  “Nankurunaisa!” is Japanese, meaning “It’ll work out!”

Home is not home without you …

“Amijaan, Papa is home! He is home!” shouted the child, as he flung himself on the newcomer, standing stolidly on the threshold of the door.

Upon hearing the child’s shout, an elderly woman bustled out of the kitchen, saying,” Ali, how many times do I have to tell you that Papa won’t —-“ She stopped in mid-sentence, frozen, as her shrewd glance found the new-comer.

“Ibrahim?” She uttered unbelievingly.

“Ami, Your son is back,” said the new-comer weakly, his eyes glinting in the shimmering moonlight, creeping in through the door, as tears welled in them.

The elderly woman, hurled herself into the arms of the new-comer, scolding shrilly her son now and then amidst sobs and cries: “O Ibrahim! Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you since ages! Why did you ever leave me alone, you naughty, naughty boy! You didn’t think how much anxious I’d been! No, you’d to go and leave your Ami and your child! O Ibrahim, why? Why? Why did you do so?”

The newcomer bent his face towards his mother, and pleaded softly, trying to reason with his mother,” I’m sorry, Ami, but I’d too. Prices are soaring high, Ali’s school has swelled its fees, the landlord has doubled the rent … I don’t know how I could have paid for Food, Education and Shelter from just 10,000 Rupees? It had become imperative for me to find a job in the city … or else we would have starved and you know I would never let it be so. Had the inflation not escalated so alarmingly, I’d have never left you … still, Ami I’m really very sorry,” and then added imploringly,” I hope you understand me, Ami.”

“I do understand you, my dearest,” returned his mother, as tears flowed steadily down her wizened cheeks, adding impulsively,” But, home is never home without you …”

————#—————-#————-

“Banwara mann dekhne chala ek sapna …” crooned the radio somewhere and I wondered:

 “Can we ever stop dreaming?” Dreams stab in the heart. Dreams wound the soul. Dreams puncture hopes. Yet we dream. Yet we hurt ourselves … But no … we don’t stop dreaming … we can never stop dreaming … never stop clinging to optimism … never losing hope till the last moment … never stop dreaming!

Thoughts after thought whirled through the failing mind of the shriveled lady, reclined in a couch. Beside her slept a child tranquilly, evidently unaware of the calamity that had struck his beloved father.

The withered woman clutched to a piece of paper tightly in her one hand, while the other hand clasped the remote of the television.

 The television had been switched to a news channel, which flashed consistently,” BREAKING NEWS!” blaring the following headline:

“BOMB BLAST IN KARACHI. GREAT POLITICAL LEADER HANIF DANDI ASSASSINATED. 37 REPORTED DEAD, 19 INJURED. THE CHIEF-INSPECTOR HAS CONFIRMED THE BLAST TO BE SUICIDAL.”

The piece of paper slipped from the woman’s hand, as she drifted to sleep, exhausted by her own train of thoughts, falling lightly on the matted, moldy carpet. The glass lantern cast its intermittent light on the paper, which read:

 Dear Ami, You are aware of our poverty-stricken conditions. It is our destitute state that has forced me to take this step. Do pray for my clemency, for the step I’m going to is unforgivable in the eyes of the Providence. I shall miss Ali. I love you, Ami.

Yours affectionately, Ibrahim

PS. Inside is enclosed a cheque of 5 Lakhs, the price of the step I’m going to take. Use it well.

———-#————#———

As the mobile beeped, Mr. Asghar looked at the caller id and swore loudly.

He received the call and asked gauntly,” Report me?’

“The work has been done, sir. Open your television,” returned the caller in calm tones, his calmness most agitating to Mr. Asghar.

Consequentially, Mr. Asghar did as the caller bid him to do, his face beaded with drops of perspiration. With fumbling hands, he opened the television. Every sign of apprehension, agitation, impatience and annoyance vanished from his face, as he read the headline.

“Congratulations. You have done your work well,” said Mr. Asghar joyously, as he settled himself in a comfy pouf, his face bearing a triumphant smile, as he had finally got rid of his worst political rival.

“The entire work went remarkably smooth. You see, I’d got hold of an agile one this time.” replied the caller callously.

“How much did he cost?” asked Mr. Asghar, inclined to pay as much as the caller asked, as his most precarious obstacle to the Seat of President had been removed, and so made his way to the Presidential House more unproblematic then ever.

 “5 Lakhs. He came off cheap,” replied the caller, further adding with a nefarious laugh,” He seemed desperate for money.”

“Isn’t that too less? I mean he was giving away his life, you should have paid him more,” said Mr. Asghar, ill at ease.

“Boon for boon. He gave away his life, I paid him 5 lakhs … and that is enough,” said the caller cruelly, adding cold-heartedly,” I didn’t force him. He volunteered himself. Anyhow, population growth has been troubling our country since few years. One person less, does count. Therefore, we should celebrate as we’re trying to solve our blasphemed country’s problems and fighting against overpopulation.”

Mr. Asghar laughed and said,” Your reasons are always so sound. Let us celebrate tonight.”

———–#———–#———–