Project taimoor.me

Couple of days back there was a ticker on the WordPress Dashboard urging me to buy a taimoor.me domain through them and mapping it to my current blog. A passing glance at that and with a slight push from Munir today I have managed to register for both domain and hosting. Apparently, my blog is now being self hosted and as this is typed WordPress 3.2.1 is being uploaded onto the hosting servers for subsequent installation.

While it happens, a little run through for anyone else who might be interested in getting this done:

1. Do not get the hosting or domain registration done through WordPress itself. The price tag there is day light robbery.
2. The folks at Pi Labs Hosting, however, are quite helpful and at least for me made the entire registration process fairly swift & simple. Not to mention not that heavy on the pocket.
3. Next comes the installation of WordPress 3.0 (or any version for that matter) on your hosting servers. Again, fairly simple. A step by step tutorial can be found at: http://codex.wordpress.org/Installing_WordPress
4. Going with the assumption that my readers are noobs such as your truly, FileZilla is nice little FTP app which lets seamlessly upload your WordPress installation files to the hosting servers.
5. Now I am sure most people would actually have a blog before they would decide to migrate their blog to a self hosting scenario. This subsequently means that the bulk of posts &  comments already on the blog need to be moved to the new enterprise. If you are a WordPress blogger simple follow the link below and your migration problem is solved.  (The page makes it looks fairly simple, haven’t experienced it first hand as yet. #FingersCrossed)

Like I said, its fairly simple and hopefully you folks would find Mind Storm at a new destination for the future posts.

Returning now to the uploading, installation and migration.

P.S. If PTCL is your DSL service provider, forget hosting and better go shoot your brains out instead. Otherwise, their super slow upload speeds would knock your socks off!

What is Swaish?

Swaish is the answer when you don’t know the question. Swaish is the agreement when there is a fight. Swaish is the word when there is no word. Swaish is the conclusion to all arguments. Swaish is a religion when you have lost all faith. Swaish is the light when there is night. Swaish is I love you when you are feeling shy. Swaish is the beauty we cant find. Swaish is the food which warms our bellies. Swaish is a thank you when you don’t want to thank openly. Swaish is culture, swaish is a code, swaish is everything which is otherwise missing. Swaish is the tradition which separates men from beasts. Swaish is the honor which is difficult to keep. Swaish is the bird when there aren’t two in the bush.

When there is nothing there is swaish, when there is swaish there is everything.

I bid you all swaish!

Captured in Ruins

Times when things beyond usefulness suddenly don’t seem useless. In death they mingle with the barren landscape and come to life when captured in their ruin!

Visions of Hellfire

Days when heavens pour, nights when fires roar!

Mad Hatter’s Tea Party

That’s water & milk serving for a single cup of tea. Coupled with the tiny salt & pepper shakers and a plate it makes an interesting capture.

Of Famine, Douchebaggery & Fat Asses

Read an utterly depressing statistic today; twenty nine thousand children have died in the Somalian famine. Yes TWENTY NINE thousand. That’s a huge number. That is actually a bigger number than the number of people who died of suicide attacks in Pakistan in 2010 and we are all well aware of how gruesomely large the suicide blast death toll sounds like.

But if we take a minute and stop to think about the Somalian statistic, get over the entire brutality of death argument and analyze all the vices these poor Somalian children have actually been spared off through their untimely and undoubtedly painful deaths one can only be a cynic to not realize that these were twenty nine thousand lucky souls who had to part company under wretched circumstances.

Honestly, just take a look at the world around you! In fact you don’t even have to go that far, the average death toll in our own hometown has been 20 per day during the last month. No, that is not a random number picked up for the convenience of my argument, it’s an actual fact! Worse still, the one day we have a death count slightly lower than the horrible number up there, we had an official douche bag commenting on what a pleasant day it has been in the city dripping in red. Yes! Fifteen systematic acts of violence are better than forty in a day so let’s drink to that!

But I digress, it was about our uncalled-for sorrow at the death of thousands in a famine. Before you get sympathetic, become a one minute philanthropist and cry blasphemy; just imagine for a second, what sort of malnourished , dysfunctional and under developed adolescents these innocent kids would have grown up to be. Hunger kills, but worse still it presents you with motivation to kill. Aren’t these kids better off dying with their innocence intact rather than grow up and learning the injustices of this cruel world? How would they feel, surviving the famine only to find out that exactly when they were watching their kin die of hunger some obese fat ass in another part of the world was actually paying a ton of cash for getting the fat sucked out his belly? Why? Not because he would now make a pathetic attempt at living a healthy life but so that he could stuff more burgers down his throat and die of a heart attack while masturbating to a porn movie because he wasn’t really capable of handling all that excitement.

You know what would be a more pragmatic approach to the whole thing rather than absolutely brilliant idea of shaking your head in grief? Ship one fat bastard to Somalia for every ten children who are dying there and maybe these ten will actually grow up to achieve more in life than die with their dicks in their hand and a cheese burger in their mouth. Replace one douche bag politician with 5 kids dying of hunger and maybe they would grow up to be actual representative of people. Hell! Just shoot them in the head and spare them the agony of a slow death. Thankfully, we live in a world where bullets are cheaper than bread.

Curses!

Alarm rings. Wake up. Check clock. Ample time before work. Hit snooze. Sleep again. Wake up. Check clock. Late for work. Curse the shitty movie on TV last night and rush for the shower. Run up the office steps. Sign in. Barely make it on time. Curse the old man in the rickety old car and his slow driving. Reach your desk. Turn on computer. Stare in agony at the pile of papers on the desk. Curse the office boy and his perpetual inefficiency.

“Is the report for the client ready for dispatch?”

Lie; “Yes boss!”  Flip through a pile of papers. Rub your temples to sooth the morning ache. Curse the boss for his early morning drive. Search around desperately for the tea boy. Curse the punctuality of the office staff.  Sink into your uncomfortable chair. Curse whoever bought the office furniture. Forget everything else. Bury head in work. Curse co-workers for their gross incompetence.

Check watch. Lunch time. Ask co-worker for cafeteria menu. Curse the administration for yet another unappetizing menu choice. Pick phone. Order in. Eat. Get out. Smoke. Curse the clouds and their inability to pour. Forget everything else. Bury head in work. Curse the heavy lunch and the drowsiness its causing.

Check watch. Its 730. Stare in agony at the even bigger pile of papers on desk. Curse the ever ringing phone and its effectiveness in not allowing any work to be done. Turn off computer. Sign off. Leave office. Curse the traffic jam and the long long drive back home.  Smoke.

Reach home. Find everything in darkness. Curse KESC and its never ending workers’ strike. Turn on generator. Turn on TV. Curse the news channels and their ghastly habit of repeating the same bad news over and over again. Get off couch. Wash up. Eat dinner. Curse the ever growing belly. Eat dessert! Eat some more dessert. Get out of the house. Smoke. Curse the mosquitoes and their determination to suck you dry.

Get in bed. Watch another shitty movie. Check clock. Curse the late hour. Put on alarm. Curse the remaining four days before the weekend starts. Sleep.

Dedicated to Monday blues.

Inspired by My Friend Leonard by James Frey. Read the book years ago but somehow its tone seemed appropriate for the piece.

The Search for the Canvas

Between writing official correspondence and various project reports, somewhere I lost the knack or maybe the creativity to write for pleasure. I guess that is what happens when you make things official. In case of writing, it took away the rawness and the flow required byone to use the medium for the expression of thoughts, emotions and observation. Instead, the medium was reduced from a temple of ideas to a mere channel of communication. Instead of being a canvas waiting for the brush strokes it turned into a parchment simply delivering the king’s message!

So now I search for the canvas in the dusty attic lined with useless parchments, to paint – maybe once again – something glorious to part with.

 

History

Words once said can not be taken back. Deeds done can not be undone. Mistakes made can not be corrected. History can not be changed. The past is gone, we have to us the present which turns to the past with every tick of the clock. Every second we live, every breath we breathe is only but a moment. Each of which defines us, makes us and shapes us and with it the future. Words said, deeds done, mistakes made – lessons learned.

But history is nothing but a record, it is a recollection of moments called memory. And memory is selective, we remember what we chose to and forget what does not appeal to us. History is therefore written not by the actors who are part of the play but by the observers who record the events. Observation, again, is selective. We see what we want to the rest drowns in the sound of the next tick of the clock.

So what we have of the past is not how it unfolded then but how the history books reveal it to us in the present. Lessons learned but forgotten, future shaped but destroyed. Words written but smudged, thoughts spoken but slurred, deeds done but forgotten, mistakes made but amended; history made but written.

Urdu Adab ka Janaza

Ik zamanay tak apnay khayalata ko angrizi main qalam band kernay kay baad hum nay soocha keh inhe khayalat ke akase Urdu zaban main bhe kerne chaye. Akhir yeah humari madari zaban hai aur is ka bhe hum per haq hai. Chunanchay, apnay dostoon ke iltajha kay bawajood, khe hamara Urdu main likhnay say Urdu adab ke moat waqay ho jae ge, hum nay is zaban main bhe apnay khayalat ko tehreer kernay hai pukhta azam banna leya. Ab sawal yea paida howa keh shuruat kee kidher say jae. Ik taraf kalaam likhnay ka khayal aye tu dosree taraf ik afsana. Akhir main soocha keh moqay ke munasabat say shair kahee jaen tu yea ik acha pehla kadam ho sakta hai. Wesse bhe angrizi main likhnay ka agaz bhe ma badolat nahin shaire say he keya tha.

Is silsalay main hamaray ik dost Rabbani sahib nay bhe hamare kaffe madat ke. Becharay akhir main khud he pachtae, liken merray nazarye say un kay pashtanay main Urdu adab ka ik nihayat he nafees adeeb/shair apne is silhayat ko pehchanay kay kabil howa. Rabbani sahib say mushwarat kay sath hum nay apna pehla shair porra keya, jo keh kuch essay hai

Ankhoon he ankhoon main keh deya, mujhay tum say peyar hai
Kahan ho mere sanam, terra intezar hai

Is shair kay filmi rujhanat kay mutaliq humain kaffe took jhook ka samna kerna para. Albata, is say bara masla yea tha keh humari ik qaribi dost bhe isse naam say pukare jateen hain. Ab shaire kernay ke thane hai Urdu main, aur sanam ka naam istamal kernay say hitchkichayen. Yea baat kuch munasib nahin lagte. Leken ab jab shair kehnay ke thaan le tu is tarhaan kay masiall tu paish ayeen gay. Almia yea hai keh is khayal kay sath bhe hamara dosra shair kuch essay kaha gya

Talo-e-aftab say terra intezar hai sanam
Gul-e-kanwal per aa gya ab, mager teree ana na mani

Is shair say humain kaffe shurat hasil howe aur tareefen bhe sunnay ko mileen. Chand logoon ka tu apni angrizi main likhay gye tehreeron ka taruf bhe hum nay is shair he kay ziryay keya. Dosra hum shair kum keh rahay thay aur un pay logoon kay tasurat zeyada sun rahay thay. Sath main khayal aya khe koi takhalus bhe chun lenna chaye. Rabbani sahib nay ik daffa “sexy” ka lafz tajweez keya tha, liken humain is ka wazan shair main bethtay maloom nahin howa. Khair, mukhtasir alfaz main yeah kehna sahe ho ga khe humara takhalus nay tay paya.

Ishar ke kami kay bais hum nay ik din beth ker chand bachkana shair likhay, jis main say ik ka ziker na kerna zayadte kehlae ga.

Idher hum aur udher tum
Ik ke choonch aur ik ked um

Ik aur shair kuch is tarhan say hay

Sitaroon say agay jahan aur bhe hain
Wahan Roti Kapra aur Makan bhe hai

Iqbal ke shaire ka aisay bay darde say galla katna kaffe logoon ko na manzoor tha. Hum nay is ko mazhaya shaire kay zamray main daal ker mazarat chaye, leken ab tak humaray dostoon ka sabar ka paimana labraiz ho chukka tha. Akhir hum nay Urdu nazam ko waqte taur per alwida kaha.

Raita pehlanay ke umang the humare
Yeahan tu damgh ke dahi ban gye

Ab hum nay soocha hai khe apni silhayatoon ka andaza Urdu nasar main lageen gay. Isse silsalay main Urdu adab ka janaza humare pehle tehreer hai. Albata, essa na soochain khe hamara Urdu main likhnay kay azam ko koi thees pohanche hai.

Zamana humain kuch bhe bolay
Hum tas say mas nahin hongay