Life Goes On!

Life goes on….so the cliché goes. It is a reality. To those who cling to the past and the memories of the beloved, it is a subtle advice that….Life Should go on!! I remember every time I read this stolid cliché; there was an uneasiness in me. I could not help being agitated by the indifference of this statement. It seemed blatantly dismissive of the people who hold my world. The very people who give meaning to my life, who share the experiences of my life, who hold my hand in times of need, who encourage me to think ahead in life.

And now when I recall this, I want to scream…life CANNOT go on…It SHOULD not!!…I do not want to think of taking one step without them…How can it go on without those very people your life is hinging on? What do you do with the void that stares at you? What do you do with those memories that cloud your today? Those fears that loom up again and again? Those symphonies that you composed for them? Alas, where do you put those words that you wished to share with them?

Perhaps, life has to go on, but the paper of our life is blotted forever. It forever floats from the images, echoes and scents of the past that add hues to our present. We go through poignant nostalgic phases, which detach us from our surroundings. We search those faces in the crowds. We feel a shade on us when the sun is scorching. We feel them smiling at us in our happiness. We tell them the tales of our heart in our loneliness. We cry and laugh in their presence. Because, they live in us forever and ever!

Curfewed Night

As a child in mid-nineties to 2000, I remember seeing images on PTV 9o’clock news from Kashmir. Daily, it showed statistics of people martyred and procession of funerals. Though, Srinagar was the name only heard on TV, the images of aggrieved mothers thumping their foreheads, wailing over the corpses of their men remains etched in the mind. The hatred of Indian Army still fills the deepest recesses of heart.

Yet again, I see the glimpses of Kashmir in the form of a memoir ‘Curfewed Night’ by Basharat Peer. How I wished it had been about the scraggy icy peaks of majestic Himalayas meandering through it the flamboyant stream, exquisite saffron fields, latticed huts and poplar lined highways. On the contrary, it evoked military convoys, red snow, mine blasts, night curfews and violent militancy. It tells the heart wrenching tales of shattered youth and the tragic gallantry. ‘The poet lied that Kashmir is Paradise’.

Peer is raised in Kashmir. He introduces the impressive profile of his family. His mother and grandfather work in school and his father is a civil engineer. Kashmiris are a people who have put a premium on girl’s education. The family lives happily sending time in much cherished library, and Peer honing his English. However, when the dispute kindled and there appeared the maze of check posts and the gun totting soldiers skirmishing with the militants, their lives turned a new leaf. Fear and paranoia took hold, afflicting the whole population. He narrates to us different incidents of massacres by Indian Army during protests and funerals. This provoked the series of attacks by the liberation armies such as JKLF and Hizb-ul-Mujahideen to avenge the attack by the military. Thus in the skirmish between the Army and the Militants, the innocent people suffered.

He tells the tales of youth crossing the border, to train for militancy. Returning they fought the Army, firing grenades and exploding mines. Interestingly, charmed by their heroism, Peer also garnished the dream of joining SLF which thankfully was discovered by his parents and revoked. The militants were seen as heroes, whom people wanted to see and embracing them, touching their Kalashnikovs in awe. Tariq is one such guy who is a superb athlete, but joined militancy keeping his family in dark about it. His father is grief-struck, because becoming a militant is only next to being killed or worst maimed and tortured for life in notorious cells.

One feels the surging anger and hatred at the brutality of Indian Army. Scores of innocent civilians are killed everyday in the pretext of hunting down militants. One such incident was of Mubeena, the bride who was shot and gang-raped on the day of her wedding and many of her family members were gunned down. Similarly, villages were burnt down, mosques and shrines were destroyed. Hundreds of years of history were razed to ground in a day. The incidents about torture cells send goose pimples all over you. Papa-2 is one of the heinous cells where the captured militants are interrogated. It is infamous for its methods of torturing the prisoners that left such indelible disorders both physically and psychologically making them vulnerable for life.

The BSF practices notorious acts of dictatorial and oppressive regimes. Thousands are displaced by the military and the police. They raid the house and take the men away as suspected militants, never to be returned. Their families mourn; their wives are half widowed waiting for their news if they are alive or dead. Parveena’s speech impaired son was taken away. Hers is an inspirational as well as heartbreaking example. She is a ‘crusader’ who is fighting cases for the disappeared people. But, those disappeared remain lost forever. In compensation, the government offered her the pittance of one lakh rupee, but she loathed it as selling her son. It is now known that the displaced people are killed and cremated in mass graves.

One thing that really struck me was that in this violent militancy pitted against state oppression, the combat only worked to the detriment of the people. Though, the militants are seen as liberating them, ironically, they also spurred and at times directly killed those whom they claim to be liberating. There was an attempt by the militants on the life of Peer’s own parents and his uncle. The local people had to obey them submissively, lest they install a mine on their way home. Thus, forced subjection is from both sides. It was also surprising to know that the militants also switched sides becoming the part of Indian Army and spotting the potential as well as suspected militants. Moreover, it was very heart breaking to know of Shafi who had been tortured in Papa-2 who is verging on blindness. He laments about the chief of JKLF whose lives are stark contrast with those who are actually sacrificing their lives and languishing in torture cells. He talks about the demoralized leadership, shielded by the bodyguards, riding white Ambassador cars looking like mirror images of their ideological rivals in the state.

One thing that I came to appreciate is its style of narration free from any polemics against Indian Army. It does not indulge in any rhetoric against Pakistan or India; the conflict between the two actually which is devastating Kashmir. Rather, he tells the tale of people. He takes us deep down into the quandary showing all sides; of the individuals marred by military and of the youth lost by militancy, of the shrines dilapidated by the ruthlessness of one and the forts demolished by the fanaticism of the other. However, what grieves you is not only the brutality of Indian Army because that would persist, them being our enemies. What we need to see is what our people are doing in the garb of Islam and liberation movement?

The question that persists is of Identity, of Kashmiris free will and self respect. The writer humorously tells that Cricket Match, which evokes most passion in India and Pakistan, serves as a test of their affiliation and will. They never cheered for India. If India played against Pakistan, they cheered for Pakistan, and if it was Sri Lanka against India, they prayed for Sri Lanka. Lately, there had been elections in Kashmir, the writer says the army forced the people to choose ballot over bullet.

The vignettes of a journalist are the lives of people he is reporting on. Peer became journalist against his father’s dream of making him a civil serviceman. His industriousness and unflinching professionalism is an inspiration to all the budding journalists. He yearned to tell the world about Kashmir, both about its beautiful vale and the dilemma of its people. He trudged onto danger zones and plunged himself into dangers to reveal to the world the depths of its misery, the shadows of death and loss and yet the feats of fortitudes and resilience in the lives of Kashmiris. He ends the book showing the bus crossing the bridge between Muzaffarabad and Srinagar. Perhaps, we need a stronger bridge!

Milestone

We all, at some point in our lives, have come across disabled people. The first feeling evoked in us is that of sympathy. We sigh at their miserable condition, being dependent on others, that we, the well-functioning robots cannot fathom how they bear it. Some of us usually cringe from interacting with them, and this was precisely how I felt. However, I finally dragged myself. Huddled in the car with my three friends, one of them Maria who happens to be visually challenged, we set off for Milestone. The car pulled over to a government building, the part of which was given to Milestone. Piles of pale buildings met our gaze.

As soon as we entered, we were greeted by a lad on wheel chair who had recently come from Lahore. He looked beaming with smiles and quite nattily dressed, wearing chunky rings and below shoulder hair. This was Tayyab Bhai. Quickly, I registered a change in my friend’s attitude who was acting like she has come home. She was no more like the fish out of water that I sometimes feel in her demeanor. The poster on the wall near us read You can’t make the world safe for democracy, unless you make it safe for diversity! I heard the orchestra of sounds from the room and as we were shown in, everyone became quiet and smiled at us. There were five to six people couched on the sofa and some working on computer. Hey Maria, we were supposed to meet disabled people. But, it was like a family sitting together chatting and having the moment of their lives. Maria gave our brief introductions that garnered another row of smiles at us.

The first person I met was Uzma, who had a subtle resemblance with someone I know, but could not really figure out. She had such a serene and hopeful face and elegance in her disposition that I cannot really put in words. She was on the electric wheel chair and clad in pink. She told me she had muscle dystrophy, and on observing our blank reaction, she rhapsodically started explaining it. It is basically a disorder in which the muscles weaken with age and there is no cure for it. Once you have lost the power, you cannot replenish it anyway. Seemingly, the person is normal, but there are major difficulties in mobility. She was ten years old when she got to know about her illness. At that time, she did not know there could be other people having the same disability. Coping with school was really hard for her. She could not carry her bags. But, her father was persistent on having her educated. She used to be dropped off at school quite before the start time, to escape pushing and crowds on the way which might hurt them. In her tender age, she was very shy of her disability. She would wretchedly cry about it, and went into self exclusion from social events, avoiding family gatherings and going out in recess at schools. At weddings, they stayed behind in the car and had their foods while their parents attended it. She told me that she needed an attendant virtually for everything from toileting to combing, and they could not take a step outside the room even without her aid. Later, she went on to do Masters in Computer Sciences and also taught tuition till BSc level. At university, she said that the departments were far off, due to which she used to reach the class late while the rest of the students made on time. Her strength was gradually fading away. She said that the people around her did not accept her condition as disability, rather they thought of it as an illness, due to which they were never provided wheelchairs, which were necessary for her condition- to save from further loss of strength of muscles.

The fear of remarks from society, embarrassment and the almost nil mobility made her feel that her life has come to a blank wall. However, she thanked Allah and her parents for helping her become this person exuding confidence and optimism. But the stimulus was provided by Milestone, to appreciate herself and also to help other’s survive. It was 25th July 2006; she remembered clearly, when milestone came to her life. She respectfully mentioned the name of Shafiqurrehman, the President of Milestone who helped her recover psychologically and explained to her about her disability. She felt there are people who knew what she has to go through, and she could make them understand her experience. By the end, she was again cheerful and related to me how she has become so suave in talking after joining Milestone, whereas she used to be very quiet at her home. She feels now she has found the purpose of her life.

After that, Tayyab Bhai ushered into the room. Maria asked him to talk and initially he sounded a bit hesitant. I asked him about his name and he said Tayyab Bhai, to which I asked if Bhai is the part of his original name, he said yes there should be a stress on it. We all laughed. He had Polio from the age of five and was ridden to permanent wheel chair after having several unsuccessful treatments. He had done ACCA and was doing a job in government as well. One of the remarkable things about him was that he had written a book Dhundle Saaye which was the confutation of Dhundle Chehre written by a renowned author. Currently, he is working on his poetry book. He rapturously told me that he had done everything what people consider normal. He had enjoyed his school, college and university life as a bright student and made lots of friends. He said he had been engaged in this organization for around seven years, initially coming for sports competition. He happily expressed his service in earthquake 2005, acting as Assistant Program manager in Muzaffarabad and Mansehra. He provided wheelchairs, mobile phones, white canes and training for attendants for the disabled people. I asked him about his hobbies and he said he loves reading books which are Islamic and present a different outlook of life. In the end, he passed the recorder to us and started his round of questions which was very humorous.

Finally, we had a group photo and Maria saw us off. I walked out as a different person, putting my troubles on the backseat. Those gleeful, charming, serene faces, encouraging and making each other’s time pleasant, living for a goal higher than their own self, remarkably changed my philosophy of life. I wondered who are actually disabled. Isn't it us who cannot overcome our petty problems, who believe in only taking, or is it them? My heart pleads yes.

Hard Times

“Now, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but facts….Stick to Facts”.
What is a Fact, but the wrecked refuge of Fancy? What is the principle of Fact, but profit and inequality? Why stick to Facts, and shun fancies and sentiments?

Most of us condemn the materialism around us, leaving no space for human expressions and sentiments of love and empathy. Dickens’ Hard Times is also a didactic criticism of the system of education based on Facts and reasons that paved the way for profit-oriented capitalism and utilitarianism. He draws out a plot and characters that we can easily relate to in our own society today.

Capitalism is the new raging phenomena. Dickens exposes its harsh and demoralizing effect on humanity. He laments about the inequality and exploitation of workers. In the wave of Industrial Revolution, the factories got flooded with workers. Though, this brought prosperity to the owners, the ‘Hands’ producing comforts worked in extremely appalling conditions. While it carved out new cities, those humans-turned-robots only breathed denser smoke under the rusted chimneys, engulfed by the ‘serpents of smoke’.

He laments that the owners remained oblivious to the sufferings of the workers and the perils in factories. As we learn that when Louisa went down into Coketown, she was baffled by the ghastly scene it presented. Paradoxically, the utilitarian economists make a never ending list of calculations, trying to maximize profits, through any means possible. They can shrewdly tell ‘how many hands in the mill or how many steam power horses are needed for hundred units of production’. But, these vertigo causing calculations of National Treasury are impotent of measuring the capacity for good or evil, for love or hatred, or for the corrosion of virtue into vice in these oppressed souls.

This is the ruthlessly selfish side of market-spurred capitalism.

However, the owners and the bourgeois have turned a blind eye to the injustices and disharmony of the system. They zealously pursue the education system which promotes it thus, perpetuating the vicious cycle of ever-growing inequalities and reinforcing the status quo. The ‘ologies’ they study day in and out strictly focus on the statistics that leave their minds enervated of affections and sentiments.

Thomas Gradgrind is the founder of education of reason and Facts. He is described as ‘eminently practical’ and he sees things by way of practicality. Sentiments and Imagination are considered delinquency. Dickens has shown this education system to be dehumanizing and bound to collapse. It is against the grain of fanciful nature of mankind. His children are strictly raised under the same system. Gradgrind reproaches Sissy for indulging in fairytales. He proceeds in life with the formula that two by two is four. He tells his students to ‘settle everything by addition, subtraction, multiplication and division, and never wonder!’

He considers things statistically and value by how much profit they can reap. Thus, he statistically makes viable the marriage of his daughter to his friend who is thirty years senior and whom she is incapable of loving. Human nature is a mixture of different sentiments and desires. The happiness of the soul is not only in the material, but in the intangible expressions of sincerity and love. However, this was obscure to Gradgrind who taught complex calculations only and converting them into money.

He formed a mind of rules and lines. But, the heart devoid of humanity! He envisaged a society, where things are ‘settled by the law of supply and demand, where wheat is pinched when it becomes dear’, where fortunes are made at the plight of weak. Thus, the rich gets richer and the poor gets poorer. This is what happens in the pursuit of statistics, of seeing progress in terms of only rates and percentages.

This education made Louisa rebellious while Tom became wayward. Both are extremely dissatisfied with their lives. Tom makes sense of things in a mathematical way. He indulged in gambling and squandered his life away.

However, Louisa is always in search of the one with whom she could share her fancies. While she is at her father’s place, she gazed at fire for long hours morbidly. She was forbidden to yearn for any kind of amusements. Her father makes the marriage proposal of Josiah Bounderby, whom she loathes. When she questions him if she could love Bounderby, Gradgrind draws out all the utilitarian aspects of the marriage. He never quite understands her soul desires. He is more inclined to abide by his devised system. This shows the barriers in Louisa-Gradgrind relationship. The people who had exhausted all their lives and energies cramming Facts could not learn the essences of human relationship. With his unbending utilitarian mind, he asserts the prospects of wealth, name and status, but forgets the imperative i.e. love.

Tom is portrayed as a mercenary. He is derisively named as ‘whelp’. He makes Louisa marry Bounderby so he can get his money through her not valuing the enduring love that she has for him. The feminist world will sue him or simply ram him up the wall when he says to Harthouse that a woman can be married off anywhere, regardless of her will. Her wishes can be sacrificed at the whims of man. When Louisa was no more able to embezzle money from him, he irately disowned her.

Harthouse manages to gain trust of Louisa. She finds him tender and someone who has a luscious heart of feelings. The relationship reaches a near tryst. However, she refrains from going further down the ‘moral staircase’. Here, she cries in distress to her father and blames his system. At last, Gradgrind saw ‘the pride of his heart and the triumph of his system lying, an insensible heap at his feet.’

Conversely, we are filled with sympathy and awed by Stephen and Rachel. In the midst of materialism and hypocrisy, we find these two utterly compassionate beings. Though, fortune is relentless with them. The reader is on the verge of tears at finding Stephen fallen in a mine. Yet, their lives were ornamented with true love, sincerity and sentiments. They stand in stark contrast from those whose souls are cold and impoverished of romance.

In the end, the triumph is of Fancy i.e. Sissy Jupe, who absurdly remarked that she would carpet her room with flowers. The world is not to be ruled by digits and rates. Let’s color it with beautiful emotions and fancies. Let’s wonder and learn about human nature, passions, hopes and fears, struggles, triumphs and defeats, joys and love. Let not the humanity turn into the serpents of smoke!

Sunburnt

The sun burnt roses in the unmarked streets,
Walls stained with revolutionary graffiti,
and the dark legends of the heroes worshiped.

The child wails in the broken cradle,
Soaring humidity and parched tongues
Hands flail in the shadows,
Plead to end the suffering.

And slowly the sky trickles,
Earth resounds with the rain drops,
Rising conflagration in the hearts,
Search the sky for the fulfillment of promises.

Power lines quiver uncontrollably,
Nail box rattles
Cat’s eyes glowering beneath the rusted Foxy.

Soon, the rain wanes out,
Windows perched yet again,
Eye lids collapse
the world left with commotion...the harsh music.

Professional Beggary

From the advertisements of the black soaps, to the red Vitz driven by male chauvinists, the low network rates to the long marches, the uncontrollable suicide bombings and to the incessant protests on flogging of Chand Bibi, we survived the uncertain times. Sometimes glad, sometimes gloomy, gleeful, awed.

And sometimes frustrated! How many a times have we stopped our car and found ourselves swarmed by beggars. The whole troop escort you to the shop and then back to ride. You term them as not so needy, good for nothing, and snub them Nasso, but they obstinately stick. Most of us deem them professional beggars, who are just draining their lives and intently not working.
Begging has become nation’s way. The headlines read “Pakistan is Promised $5bn”. Wow, a handsome cheque, most of our nattily dressed politicians are seen gaping. It is beyond Islamabad’s expectations. Rosy days are back. Yet, I felt embarrassed. The President cladding Armani suit, Tissot diamond watch and boots, that makes even the best French designers gush with awe, is begging. What do you call it, Professional Beggary, huh?

Some people say that we carved out this nation solely for economic reasons. At least, this is our revived ideology founding the two nation theory. Now, where is our free and autonomous economic system? That dream has come to ruins with the replenishing of our beggar’s bowl. Being independent economically is what makes us a sovereign nation in the true sense. Otherwise, we are just the puppets. Our strings in the hands of IMF, World Bank, and Friends of Democratic Pakistan, yet another on the list.

Let’s mull over the disastrous and humiliating clauses that we will be obliged to be the beneficiaries of this aid. The conditions that subvert the writ of the state, as done by the terrorists, we rant. We are wheedled to letting it go by the offer of monetary aid.

This aid will cease the day we mistakenly owe our brothers and sisters in Swat and FATA. The day we clamor against the injustices inflicted on them. The day we put our foot down against the drone attacks. The day we react as vehemently against the countless women and children maimed in Swat as we did in Chand Bibi’s case. But no, we are paid. We thrive on it. We will hail the present trend to restock our bank accounts.

Once again, we as a nation are cashing in, as we cashed in on Afghanistan War. Now, we are capitalizing on our own brothers and sisters. At least remind those at the helm of the affairs the selfish slogan “Pakistan First”. What will our next patriotic slogan be “Punjab First”?
Moreover, how much of this aid will actually proliferate to the masses after the profligacy of those who receive it. Or will it be spent on only lavish parties, Rolce Royce, decorating the palaces and trips abroad?

This is avaricious. An Embarrassment and Indignation. Yes, our economy might be inflating but our souls are dying. There maybe more street lights, but our hearts will steep more into shadows. There maybe more luxurious and topnotch gadgets being imported into our country, yet our manners will remain like those of pagans.

It is time that we build ourselves financially, but on our own terms. Our foremost focus should be the subsistence level of the population and reducing luxury goods ,to say the least. We should rely more on our local products. Though, this demands immense sacrifices but this will make a profitable and autonomous economic structure in the long run.

This is a time of reform, of breaking the old chains, the old bigotry and the corrupt and fraudulent practices infested in our country. It is time we think not as individuals but shift our paradigm to country level. Think with Self Respect!

What Bothers Me?

Aggression is in the name of Salvation,
False is leading the world,
Rights of poor violated and trampled,
Down is the dark despair and above is the Supreme forgotten.

This is what bothers me.

Little hands toiling hard in the sun,
Children are suffering dreadful starvation,
You call it cruelty and it is true,
But there is nothing we will do.

This is what bothers me.

Life is short and time is running out,
Lofty expectations pinned to me,
The hidden face behind the mask,
And the procrastination before the last mile.

This is what bothers me.

Destructive criticisms are dampening my spirit.
The sacrifices that went in vain,
If you were made my Protector,
Then why did I suffer the most by you?

This is what bothers me

Our silence is tyranny,
Our faith is hypocrisy,
With it, the realization that nothing will change,
The scattered glass marbles reflecting my life!

This is what bothers me.