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!

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

Rubbish

Another piece of paper floated gently to the ground. Call me crazy, but every blank page has a certain life, for which it can remain exposed to a writer, for something of substance to be produced on it. After those minutes are gone, the page becomes paper; an object for which a tree was once cut somewhere. And I can’t use it once I have that thought on my mind. At the foot of the wall across my desk was a pile of crumpled pages. They were still pages because they had managed to have something written on them. However, just this simple fact is not enough to distinguish them from rubbish. How can a person be a human if all there is to him is filth? How can a piece of paper be anything but rubbish if rubbish is all it has to say?

I don’t understand how people keep their desks against the wall. Is it not extremely mundane; starring at a wall while one has nothing to be put on paper? How will I ever tear off a page and throw it across the room if I have wall in my face? Wouldn’t the rubbish I am trying to get rid of bounce back and hit me in the face again? A blank paper only needs to fall off the table since it did retain its purity. But a page which has ink on it but still doesn’t say anything worthwhile needs to be thrown as far away as possible. The latter had potential and all that potential achieved was to indulge in filth. The only thing it was worth, was to get the mind’s rubbish out of the way. Wouldn’t it be unfair to that page if the waste it has purified the mind off is not tossed away?

We waste so much time in efforts to save paper that we publish every piece of rubbish which bounced back to desks placed against walls. Has it never occurred to anyone that a blank white space in a newspaper, magazine, journal or even a book would be much more useful than an ugly jumble of words? The story of wasted paper is so much similar to that of mankind; the pure are stamped over by the filthy and those of substance are lost because the filth keeps bouncing back to the desks.

Without

A bull without horns. A horn without a honk. A flute without a whistle. A whistle without a mouth. A bell without a ring. A ring without a finger. A wheel without spokes. A bike without a wheel. A mind without a memory. An eye without sight. A glass without a base. A house without people. A tree without a leaf. A bullet without a gun. A clock without hands. A perfume without a scent. A tie without a knot. A garden without flowers. A flower without petals. A blade without an edge. An edge without a fall. A stove without a flame. A book without a page. A room without a wall. A lock without a door. A door without a hinge. A guitar without strings. A drum without skin. A pen without ink. You without him. Me without you.

Bitches and Assholes

Some time back I saw a book titled “Why men marry bitches?” It was just a passing glance, didn’t really get to read anything about the book. However, the first reaction it had in my head was, “We marry bitches? I don’t think I would.” Before reaching this judgment though we need to decide the criteria for labeling someone a bitch. Is she the woman who would bite you in the ass first chance she gets, the one who would poison you with venom on her lips just because she thinks that is a good way to betray you and who still comes out alive to watch you die? If that’s the bitch we are talking about, she doesn’t need to get married. Unless of course you are a power house.

Then there is the bitch because she puts out, is easy, is the bimbo with fake breasts and all she really knows is to moan in bed. A bitch, yes. But would you marry her? I mean okay a backseat fuck, totally understandable but that is where in ends no? Well, at least that is where it should end. Definitely not one you would take to the altar.

Which brings us to the third type, now this ones a bitch because she can do things we can not. She is powerful on her own, she’s in control, she’s is assertive, she actually has more wits than you, hell she is even dominant. She is a bitch because you are fucking scared of her. “This woman might be sitting on my seat of I don’t do something about it.” So you have to call her a bitch, not because its her fault but because she is so good at whatever she does you can not accept it at all. Let’s just call it a self defense mechanism, a very bad one but nothing else to blame this one on. Men in general are scared of powerful women, because hell we lose control and losing that makes us think we have lost everything. Maybe that is why most men prefer stick shift over automatic transmission; control.

Now coming back to the question which started this all, “Why men marry bitches?” As far as I see it, irrespective of the category of bitch that book is talking about, we do not marry bitches. One is out to get us, the second is a slut, the third hell she scares us.

So yeah, another question now. And this ones from us men, “Why do women like assholes?” Just like there was a reaction of, “we don’t” in my head when I read the marriage question I am sure a lot of women would have the same response right now. But hey, fact’s a fact, every prick, douche bag, jerk off, dick wad etcetera etcetera would have a hell of a woman (or in some cases, a handful) all over him. No I don’t have reasons for my observations. I am not going to write a book about it but had to be asked.

Here is a perspective though, maybe when the book talks of bitches and I talk of assholes the label is not being put on by the opposite sex. Maybe, women who see other women with lets say a catch, in jealousy end up labeling that woman a bitch. “Can’t take away what she’s got, lets slander her.” In which case the categories of bitches I just listed up there stand void, because that is a man’s perspective, not a woman’s. Similarly, when us men see a bloke with a hot one we call him an asshole because he’s got what we haven’t. Way to burn my earlier observation, but just because I am presenting this argument, doesn’t mean I agree with it.

I leave it to you folks to add perspective to this one.

The Rebel

I would be a rebel, I would break all of your laws. I would walk without shoes and shower without a room. I would fuck without a condom and love without a heart. I would see if you could then find some reason in my madness or pass me off to the psyche ward with chains in my arms. I would cut myself open and lay it on the table for you to sketch on. I would be a blasphemy, a spawn who was left alive for too long. I would shout out obscurities till the break of dawn and I would laugh at your Lord as you put your hands together for His cause. I would smile till I die for you would be at my command. A mere whisper from me would fuel this accord. I would always be a memory and my voice would echo in your halls. For your sticks and stones may break my bones but my words would always hurt.

Carpe Diem on Ex Nihilo

Got a story published at Ex Nihilo, which is a monthly online publication with the purpose of creating a platform for sharing and interaction on art work by young people. Anyway, linking it here.

Carpe Diem

The Wall

There were colors on this wall once, bright vibrant colors. A splash of red, a stroke of yellow, a hue of blue and a border of orange. There were faces, there was sparkle, there was life and there was an audience. The abstract blended in flawlessly, the splashes ran between the cracks, the strokes brushed against the rough. The wall was a time warp, you could come and it could soak all your colors and make you eternal. Before color it was white, it was pure and waited with open arms for life. It was without a personality, it was just a presence of divine. Then it sipped in color, it drank life. Then it became a painting, it built a character. However, as is with all that is perfect the wall, the colors, the life was corrupted. Tar seeped through the bricks, paint swelled and cracked and pus squirting out like a disease. The paint faded away and what remained adapted black. The surface eroded and took with it the last breath of pure. The audience were gone and the eternally vibrant were subdued. The wall succumbed to what it was, the chemicals which made it bright revolted and turned dark. There are still traces of what once was behind the tar but it seems like an abomination, a hate crime against all that is not wrong. The colors are gone and with that history of whatever it was.

I am…

I am a myth, I am a fantasy. I am who does not exist, at least not in the way you fancy it to be. I am what you think me to be and therefore I am flawless. I am an ideal a utopia, a whisper of your wishes. I am a cloud of vapors you hope could cover the sun. I am the answer to your questions, the object of your affection. I am a could have been you cannot get over, a mirage you fail to reach. I am what you desire but I am not what you need. I am who you lust and without me you can not sleep. I am who you will wait for even when everything falls apart. I am who can corrupt you and you won’t regret it even after I am gone. I am for whom you will leave everyone else from your past. I am who will sabotage whatever comes in your path.  I am the existence of your hopes, the place of your refuge. I am the ultimate gratification you could hope to receive. I am your perfect creation and you bow to my feet.

Forsaken

I don’t know what I said, I don’t even remember what I said. Everyone was standing here laughing with me and then suddenly all I could hear was the echo of my own laughter as the crowd became silent and started to walk away. Must have been something I said, but I can’t even remember my own name let alone what I said five minutes ago. How do I even remember what was happening? Maybe it actually was me laughing at myself and there was no one else to share it with me. They all seem so real though, “Are you for real, are you actually here?” He runs his fingers through his long and dirty hair, an action which has become a ritual for his perpetually confused mind.

Who knows, maybe all of those faces were a fragment of my imagination, an old memory bought back to life. Thing with not having a sense of time, of the present, of memories and sanity is that you don’t know what is now and what was then anymore. My mind is like a VCR, which playback my life and then suddenly jerks back to the present. It’s like waking up from a daydream and finding yourself in the same wreck you were when you had closed your eyes. Who am I kidding, it’s nothing like that, you in your perfect car and designer suit don’t have the aesthetic sense to even imagine what hallucinating a reality lived feels like.

I ache for the day when it stops making sense to me. I see friends around me and then the horror of reality. I know I hallucinate otherwise they would have talked to me. Tell me what is wrong and maybe I can be liberated, or take away my reason and the I can’t judge myself. This here is purgatory, let me be a sinner and burn in eternal fire, make me feel a pain which robs the senses. Reality realized is terror personified, demons displeased are nightmares achieved.

“Hello my friends where had you been? Lately your sight seems to bury a terror in me…”