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!

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.

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

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.

Tagged Again

Apparently I have been tagged at more than one blog. In a way the previous tagging took me to this one. Was tagged by Rabia this time around.

1. Last movie you saw in a theater?
Transformers, it was the 3rd time I was watching that movie and it was the theater where I actually loved the action sequences. Otherwise, it was an okay movie.

2. What book are you reading?
Just finished Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conard, amazing book and Rabia you must read it.

Other than that, right now I am reading The Lord of the Rings – The Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien. Again, loving it and this is the best of the three books series. Maybe because there are a lot of battles etc. in this one.

3. Favorite board game?
Okayyy this one requires some contemplation… Monopoly is a lot of fun, even if you lose (which I shouldn’t but hell I did)

4. Favorite magazine?
Can’t even remember the last time I actually read a magazine. I mean okay, there is the occasional skimming through when there is nothing better to do but been ages since I have actually read one. I think I will go with Reader’s Digest here.

5. Favorite smells?
Never actually thought about it but love the smell of BBQ. Don’t know the names to any of the chic perfumes I like so can’t really say anything about that, but damn the right chic with the right scent does bad things to me.

6. Favorite sounds?
Thunder, heavy rain, heavy rain and thunder together (i.e. thunder storm), a guitar solo, the roar of an engine (of course the engine should not belong to a Mehran or a cd70), my laptop’s keys.

7. Worst feeling in the world?
There is one, but I can’t quite put my finger on it or explain it for that matter.

8. What is the first thing you think of when you wake up?
“Dammit Taimoor, you know you shouldn’t have [insert random activity] last night.”

When I had to go to FAST, that sentence was usually followed by, “Ah well, there is the hour sleep I can catch on the point.” Ironically, days I really really really needed that hour sleep, I would miss the point.

Point – The bus which used to take us to our university.

9. Favorite fast food place?
Subway

10. Future child’s name?
I think I would be busy cursing myself for not using a condom.

11. Finish this statement. “If I had lot of money I’d….?
…spend it. (Anyone who knows my spending habits knows what I am saying … In fact, now everyone should know what I am saying)

12. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal?
Errr… no!

13. Storms – cool or scary?
Fucking amazing!

14. Favorite drink?
Have only had vodka, I don’ think I am in a position to chose my favorite drink yet. Seriously though, I think I will go with Pina Colada but only because I have to answer this question.

15. Finish this statement, “If I had the time I would….”?
…travel the world, go on expeditions, participate in a triathlon, oh and extreme sports like bungee jumping, jumping of planes and doing random shit before pulling the cord on the chute and stuff like that.

16. Do you eat the stems on broccoli?
I don’t think I have ever had broccoli, I will need to check with mum if she ever tricked me into having it.

17. If you could dye your hair any color, what would be your choice?
My hair color is perfectly fine, thank you.

18. Name all the different cities/towns you’ve lived in?
Okay, starting from 1987 – Gujranwalla, Quetta, Skurdu, Okara, Nowshera, Pano Aqil and Karachi. Yes, in that order.

19. Favorite sports to watch?
Used to watch cricket but it sucks ass now and honestly quite a waste of time. Tennis and Basketball, again used to watch them eons ago.

20. One nice thing about the person who sent this to you?
Love the way she (Rabia) writes and I really wish I had more of fiction written by her to read. Other than that, honestly, she is sort of mysterious which is sort of cool. However, I find her to be a person who is not judgmental, is open to other’s ideas, beliefs (or lack of them) and thoughts. What most of us do is that we gauge a person on only a few predetermined attributes and then label them accordingly. Something about Rabia says that she doesn’t label people that way.

21. What’s under your bed?
Books, an old computer, lots of random papers, a couple of boxes with random junk, a small box with around 5 old cellphones.

22. Would you like to be born as yourself again?
Hell yeah!

23. Morning person, or night owl?
Hands down night owl.

24. Over easy, or sunny side up?
Sunny side up.

25. Favorite place to relax?
The beach, that place me and my friends always thought is Cape Montz but is not. However, it completely serves the purpose.

26. Favorite pie?
None

Whom to tag, whom to tag?

Tagged

Tagged by Roomiat

Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages)

The Lord of the Rings – The Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien

Open the book to page 123.

Find the fifth sentence.
..

Post the next three sentences

The leading company rode off as swiftly as they could, for it was still deep dark, whatever change Widfara might forebode. Merry was riding behind Dernhelm, clutching with the left hand while with the other he tried to loosen his sword in its sheath. He felt now bitterly the truth of the old king’s words: in such a battle what would you do, Meriadoc? ‘Just this,’ he thought: ‘encumber a rider, and hope at best to stay in my seat and not be pounded to death by galloping hoofs!”

Tag five people.

Sammy Wiseguy
Mobzilla
Ayaz Ahmed
Lubz
Rabia

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.