Of The Wounds Of The 'Beautiful Soul'

It was a cursory visit to a leading book store in the heart of Liberty Market, Lahore. Wrapping up my things, I was at the cash counter collecting my payment receipt when she came and stood by me. Speaking in one of the most refined English accents I've heard from my countrymen, she waved her hands quite a couple of times. Even if I could ignore her for a charming, low key accent, or the unpleasant odor that she was giving off, the loud clinking of an arm load of cheap looking bangles resisted me. Sounds like a character! I thought. 

Grabbing my young boy's hand and moving him away from her to my side, I stepped back to discreetly, steal a look at her.  

Her feet! 

The first thing I noticed were her feet ... No, not her feet, it was actually her shoes! 

Beneath an excessively long hem of a very unclean, colorless shirt I could make the bottom of a big brown dress pants folded over many times, covering one leg. The other leg, from beneath the shirt hem, was unclad and visibly belonged to an old and weak person. But what took me absolutely off guard were her feet - Paint stained... And a perfect graphical synopsis of a tragedy they were supporting...

On her right foot, she supported a men's black Pashawari chappal; in her left foot she was wearing a broken, off-white plastic slippers. I couldn't take my eyes off it. In the couple of seconds that followed, I spotted far too many splashes of white paint on her dust laden, 1.5" high, black chappal; her black-grey-nameless colored shirt, and the brown T she had over the shirt, her hands, all bore that stamp of paint. 

I had moved a couple of steps back and she seemed to be done with her negotiations with men at cash counter, and was probably about to exit the shop. Not eager to be found staring at her with such interest, I held on tight at my child's hand and rushed out. 

However, as we left the shop, the student in me refused to go further. I turned to my sister accompanying me and asked if she would mind waiting here for a couple of minutes till that woman in the shop comes out. 'Are you going to talk to her?' She asked me. Of course I wouldn't! Who goes and talks to crazy beggars on roads? ... All I wanted was to have a good look at her face, to read the half written truths scribbled by a merciless life; to decode the working of Time; to, maybe, feel the soul of a character I've since long been stuck at developing in a script of mine. Though, it didn't sound a very convincing reason from someone who ritually behaves as a practical person, we nonetheless decided to wait. 

'You saw her hands? She is painting with her fingers!' I nodded. 

'There was a play over Roohi Bano's life, Samina Peerzda played as Roohi Bano', said my sister again, and I wondered at the exactness with which she could read my mind! How would she know that I was thinking about Roohi Bano! The woman's accent was just as polished as hers. 'I was thinking about Roohi Bano as well. This character in my mind HAD to be hers if she were still acting!' I said.

Sister looked at me incredulously, 'Are you kidding me? Of course we are talking about Roohi Bano! Who else are we waiting for here if not her?' She looked at me and added, 'She was Roohi Bano.'

I dashed to the store. 

(End of Part I)

(Next Part at Of The Wounds Of The 'Beautiful Soul' (Final Part) )

Instance Of Eternity

You may,
You may remain silent,
Remembering the friends,
placed to rest on the ground.
You shan’t speak before the dawn.

You may,
You may remain silent.
Remembering though, the hopes-
sliding down, against the walls of stone.
You shan’t speak before the dawn of the sun.

You may,
You may remain silent.
Recalling the fears and the wrench-
of the soldiers trapped in their trench,
of the martyrs left behind in blood-drenched.
And, you shall not speak, you shall not speak.
-.-.-.-.-

And if a while of your hour-
forsaken by the sound of your voice-
can take you to my rage and your remorse,
then, may your silence is tamed by my words.
And, you shan’t speak, you shan’t utter a word.

- Ahmad Shamlou

Poet: Ahmad Shamlou

Translation from Persian: Mariyam Dilmagani

Dedicated to today's incident: Malala Yousafzai, a 14yr old Pakistani peace activist was on her way to school when her school van was stopped by the Taliban who then asked for her by name and shot her. Till the latest news, she is badly injured as are two other children and in hospital.

And there remain many more, whom we may never get to know by names!

Roo'ay Shab'ay HijraaN

The first god man creates is always inside. A divinity, a deity, perched at the highest pedestal within the confines of one's own being.

This is probably why the concept of a structured religion mostly brings with it an outlandish, invader's cry of war. It tends to reduce man's majestic divinity to that of an undignified subject; and the Throne is anchored at a place so remote from access, that many lose their path in approaching it... swaying somewhere in between the abysmal abyss, belonging to neither the Conqueror, nor the conquered. 

Surrendering to the shift of holiness from within their own core of self, is then followed by another dilemma. Love.

Intoxicated by the Wine of Love.

From each a mystic silence Love demands.

What do all seek so earnestly? ‘Tis Love.

What do they whisper to each other? Love.

Love is the subject of their inmost thoughts.

In Love no longer ‘thou’ and ‘I’ exist,

For Self has passed away in the Beloved.

Now will I draw aside the veil from Love,

And in the temple of mine inmost soul,

Behold the Friend; Incomparable Love.

He who would know the secret of both worlds,

Will find the secret of them both, is Love.  

(Farid ud Din Attar, from The Jawhar Al-Dhat)

The tyranny of love, when subjects are exposed to it, is gagging. It unleashes its whip, and spares none. It shatters, it brands, it crushes. The crumbled, walloped, ashed subject is all there is left of the once lofty lord. The burns, the scars, the bruises, all but diminish the subject further. However, surprisingly, the abyss lying at the pit of the gulf separating the minuscule subject and the Divine Majesty begins to shrink!

Some say that there does exit a Silk Route that leads one across the abyss, that enjoins one battered lover with the lofty Lord. But none is sure how to read the Emerald Tablet that bears the map of the route. Rumi, perhaps, had grasped something of the scripture when he exclaimed

Drunkenness and emptyhandedness brought Thee to me;

I am the slave of Thy drunkenness and indigency!

But in the tradition of lovers, no one recognizes another's seal of kiss. Each wants his own seal...

And they keep searching. Some falling to the abyss, a few making it across...

Forgo The Frivolous

اي ناطقه بر بام ما ور در تاكي روي در خانه پر

  نطق زبان ترك كن بي چانه شو بي چانه شو

 مولانا

Roughly translated to

 (In the company of the Beloved),

Over the roof, under the sky, talk your heart out

Talk, and not beg for words,

Be restless. Embrace craze

Verse: Rumi

Inapt translation: mine

Dam-Kashi

Zulmat-e-shab say barh kay bhi daikha jo andhaira,

Resham say kham-o-kakal ki siyahi say ghanayra,

Dil kay sulagtay daghon say uth'ta hai jo dhuaan

Teergi-e-chashm ki surmahat say hai gehra!

~ April, 2008
- leenah

Istehqaaq

... without responsibility.

That was the ultimate settlement plan in life!

Some people achieve enviable success with their goals.

Unconditionally ...

I just listened to this song, and instantaneously fell in love with it. There are a couple of people in my life I can say this to. Unabashedly. 

Are there any in yours too? :)

Mun Tu Shudam

Moth and Flame - one favorite theme at the Sufi school of thought! 
In a sufi story by Fariduddin Attar (adapted from the book, Essential Sufism), it says:

One night, very many moths gathered together; devoured by their desire, tormented by their longing to unite with the candle. They all said, 'we must find someone to give us news of that for which we long so earnestly.'

One of the moths volunteered and went to a castle and saw the light of a candle within. Upon returning, it reported the finest details of what he saw. But the wise moth coldly replied, 'It has no real information to give about the candle.' 

Another moth set out passionately. It visited the candle ... passed close to the light ... drew near to it and touched the flame with its wings. It came back jubilant and explained in detail of what little union it had had with the candle. The wise moth, however, still looked displeased.'Your explanation is really worth no more than your comrade's,' it said.

Then a third moth rose up and blinded by the mad desire, doused itself completely into the candle's burning flame. As it entered into the embrace of fire, its members glowed red like the flame itself. The wise moth saw from afar the spectacle of the union. The candle had identified the moth with itself, rendering it it's own glow! 

It turned to all the other moths, and said, 'The one that burnt, this moth, alone understands that to which it has attained. None other knows it, and this is all.'

50K Visits Old!

I'm rather confused if what follows is a letter of gratitude, or a dedication post. Or both.

This blog has mostly been a chronicle of a personal experience.  A soliloquy of sorts. However, your generous on-blog, off-blog feedback made this an energizing interactive learning experience for me. Thank you!  

Once in a moment of absolute gushing over my mum, I had promised to her that one day, when I'll be someone great, I'll write about her. She had looked at me and smiled.

It's almost a decade, since. I continue to be a no one. Greatness has been successfully evading me, and now I've almost come to terms with keeping happy without being 'someone'. :)

However, there are times in this humble existence, when the generosity of others gives me an illusion of myself morphing into 'someone' :). Today is one such time. I'm elated for the kindness you've exhibited in becoming a part of a personal journey. And I name this 'one small step for a blog; one giant leap for this blog' moment to my amman!

She got mentioned at this blog only once, partly because I'm afraid to never be at par to how she deserves to be talked about, and partly because my laptop screen begins malfunctioning whenever I attempt to write about her!

A Pack Of 18 Pencils is where you'll meet her at this blog. 

Thank you all for being as kind as you are!

May the life brimming in the samovar of your self, be the intoxication that unveils the Beloved.

Stay blessed, always. InshaAllah.

It's 'When' You Choose To Surrender

If you want to change the world… love a woman-really love her. 
Find the one who calls to your soul, 
who doesn’t make sense. 
Throw away your check list and put your ear to her heart and listen. 
Hear the names, the prayers, the songs of every living thing - 
every winged one, every furry and scaled one, 

every underground and underwater one, 
every green and flowering one, every not yet born and dying one…
Hear their melancholy praises back to the One who gave them life. 
If you haven’t heard your own name yet, 
you haven’t listened long enough. 
If your eyes aren’t filled with tears, 
if you aren’t bowing at her feet, 
you haven’t ever grieved having almost lost her.

If you want to change the world… love a woman-one woman beyond yourself, beyond desire and reason,
beyond your male preferences for youth, beauty and variety
and all your superficial concepts of freedom.
We have given ourselves so many choices
we have forgotten that true liberation
comes from standing in the middle of the soul’s fire
and burning through our resistance to Love.
There is only one Goddess.
Look into Her eyes and see-really see
if she is the one to bring the axe to your head.
If not, walk away. Right now.
Don’t waste time “trying.”
Know that your decision has nothing to do with her
because ultimately it’s not with who,
but when we choose to surrender.

If you want to change the world… love a woman.
Love her for life-beyond your fear of death,
beyond your fear of being manipulated
by the Mother inside your head.
Don’t tell her you’re willing to die for her.
Say you’re willing to LIVE with her,
plant trees with her and watch them grow.
Be her hero by telling her how beautiful she is in her vulnerable majesty,
by helping her to remember every day that she IS Goddess
through your adoration and devotion.

If you want to change the world… love a woman
in all her faces, through all her seasons
and she will heal you of your schizophrenia-
your double-mindedness and half-heartedness
which keeps your Spirit and body separate-
which keeps you alone and always looking outside your Self
for something to make your life worth living.
There will always be another woman.
Soon the new shiny one will become the old dull one
and you’ll grow restless again, trading in women like cars,
trading in the Goddess for the latest object of your desire.
Man doesn’t need any more choices.
What man needs is Woman, the Way of the Feminine,
of Patience and Compassion, non-seeking, non-doing,
of breathing in one place and sinking deep intertwining roots strong enough to hold the Earth together
while she shakes off the cement and steel from her skin.

If you want to change the world… love a woman, just one woman. Love and protect her as if she is the last holy vessel. Love her through her fear of abandonment
which she has been holding for all of humanity.
No, the wound is not hers to heal alone.
No, she is not weak in her codependence.
If you want to change the world… love a woman
all the way through until she believes you,
until her instincts, her visions, her voice, her art, her passion, her wildness have returned to her-
until she is a force of love more powerful
than all the political media demons who seek to devalue and destroy her.

If you want to change the world,
lay down your causes, your guns and protest signs.
Lay down your inner war, your righteous anger
and love a woman…beyond all of your striving for greatness, beyond your tenacious quest for enlightenment.
The holy grail stands before you
if you would only take her in your arms
and let go of searching for something beyond this intimacy. What if peace is a dream which can only be re-membered through the heart of Woman?
What if a man’s love for Woman, the Way of the Feminine
is the key to opening Her heart?
If you want to change the world…love a woman
to the depths of your shadow,
to the highest reaches of your Being,
back to the Garden where you first met her,
to the gateway of the rainbow realm
where you walk through together as Light as One,
to the point of no return,
to the ends and the beginning of a new Earth.

Lisa Citore

Footprints

Micro Fiction

Years later, sitting alone in his mansion, with no one to hold him, it finally hit him. "This is what she meant."

By Sean Hill

Kehta Hai Ik Ghulam ...

Do you know what happened just now? 

I was getting off my laptop for the night when I noticed a picture on my face book time line. The picture belonging to a volunteer who is working at a current project of mine for an NGO, had been posted only some 3 minutes back.

What is so special about that picture, you must be wondering!

The picture was of him sitting on the steps of the Masjid-e Nabvi (Sallallahu Alaihe Wasallam)

I shot him an absolutely abrupt and probably not the most appropriately constructed email, asking for a favor. He was kind to respond in matters of seconds.

I haven't been calm since. The thought of a real-time pseudo presence has been too much to swallow without crying.

I am frenzied. I am ecstatic. And I am swaying in S.H.M. between the two extremes... gahay khandum, gahay giryam!

.... Bus ik Nazar ka sawal hai!

ps: for all this latest technology, sud shukar alhamdolillah! 

The Symphony Of The Soul

يـار مـرا , غار مـرا , عشق جگر خـوار مـرا
يـار تـوئی , غار تـوئی , خواجه نگهدار مـرا

نوح تـوئی , روح تـوئی , فاتح و مفتوح تـوئی
سينه مشروح تـوی , بر در اسرار مـرا

نـور تـوئی , سـور تـوئی , دولت منصور تـوئی
مرغ کــه طور تـوئی , خسته به منقار مـرا

قطره توئی , بحر توئی , لطف توئی , قهر تـوئی
قند تـوئی , زهر تـوئی , بيش ميازار مـرا

حجره خورشيد تـوئی , خانـه ناهيـد تـوئی
روضه اوميد تـوئی , راه ده ای يار مـرا

روز تـوئی , روزه تـوئی , حاصل در يـوزه تـوئی
آب تـوئی , کوزه تـوئی , آب ده اين بار مـرا

دانه تـوئی , دام تـوی , باده تـوئی , جام تـوئی
پخته تـوئی , خام تـوئی , خام بمـگذار مـرا

- Rumi 

And Truth Shall Set You Free

 "I’m saying you’ve already done plenty of things to regret, you just don’t know what they are. It’s when you discover them, when you see the folly in something you’ve done, and you wish that you had it do over, but you know you can’t, because it’s too late. So you pick that thing up, and carry it with you to remind you that life goes on, the world will spin without you, you really don’t matter in the end. Then you will gain character, because honesty will reach out from inside and tattoo itself across your face"

From the movie... The Big Kahuna

For Today ...

I so hate Pooh.

I like Panda though!

Here.

Qissa Kotah...

...

The story of self-made sustenance – The Express Tribune Blog

My post.

The story of self-made sustenance – The Express Tribune Blog

Odyssey Account

These days I'm out on a journey; a journey that travels, largely, across the other end of spectrum. There are many new faces I'm encountering. People, ideas, dogmas, beliefs, facts... it's a whole wonderland. I'm the Alice... :D 

Put simply, I'm lovin' it!

I shall try to share the recent voyages over here for the purpose of documentation, and maybe (hopefully) inspiration as well. But meanwhile, it's the crux of these journeys, from the Pulitzer-winning journalist and best-selling author Chris Hedges, that must be shared here... 

Aye Tabib-e-Jumla Illat Haye Maa!

When inward tenderness finds the secret hurt,

pain itself will crack the rock and Ah!!!

let the SOUL emerge.

- Rumi

Phenomenal Woman

It was a beautiful poem ... PHENOMENAL WOMAN. She read it. Then re-read it. Her inner woman swayed to the magical tune of the verse... word by word, line by line. Yet she couldn't decide if the words were actually so charming in their own right, or had the way they reached her, made them so charismatic? 

Her lips curled, as the woman in her bosom chuckled with relief. She still existed. And it felt a phenomenal reminder!

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing of my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,

They say they still can't see.

I say

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

The palm of my hand,

The need of my care,

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

from And Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

Had I Loved You Just A Little Less

"...When one has been as near to the reality of Life (which after all is Death) as I have been dearest, one only remembers the beautiful and tender moments and all the rest becomes a half veiled mist of unrealities. Try and remember me beloved as the flower you plucked and not the flower you tread upon." ... 

".. Darling I love you – I love you – and had I loved you just a little less I might have remained with you – only after one has created a very beautiful blossom one does not drag it through the mire. The higher you set your ideal the lower it falls. I have loved you my darling as it is given to few men to be loved. I only beseech you that the tragedy which commenced in love should also end with it..." 

From Ruttie Mariyam Jinnah's last letter to her husband, Muhammad Ali Jinnah. 

Aakhri Notice

Aakhri Notice aik aisee kahani ka unwaan hai, jo aj say das bars pehlay 'zehr-e bay-taryaaq' kay naam say shurroo hoi thi.

Ye aik ajeeb kahani hai. Iss main koi hero, heroine nahi hai. Iss main kisi perfect love story ko barbaad karta koi villain bhi nahi hai. Ap soach rahay hon gay phir iss kahani main kia khaas baat hai? Phir iss main kahani kia hai? Ap ki hairat bhi baja hai... Lekin jo baat apko samjhni hai, aur iss kahani kay kirdaaron ko bhi; wo yeh hai kay jo kahani zehr say shuroo ho, wo amrat par tou khatum nahi hoti na! 

Kaun bachta hai, kaun jeeta hai, dekhi jaey gi sab Aakhri Notice kay baad!

Abida Parveen meray liay kisi alien world ki awaz thi. Never appealing, never charming. Sufism meray liay bay rah'rawon ka likeable costume tha. Khusro could very well be just another idle musician with no better claim to fame. Farsi ka jadoo sir charh kay bolta hai, mujhay idraak na tha.  Frank Sinatra maray hoay baabon ki pasand hai, mujhay yaqeen tha. Dard, soaz, ishq ki dain kionkar ho saktay hain, meri samjh say, aur interest say bala'tar tha... par phir ... 

Bhar ke zehr pyala main te aapay peeta!

Ap jaantay hain phir kia hoa? Nahi jaantay? ...

Tan rabaab, mun ki giri,

Sau ragain, bhaio sab taar

Yeh rom rom surdes hai, so bajet naam tehaar!

Aur ab jab har rag-e jaan main gundha double helical DNA structure, uss zehr-e bay taryaaq main tar-batar ho chuka hai, tou ab kaghaz kay purzay mujhay khabr detay hain rukhsat-e kaafla-e shauq ki tayaari ka!

Ishq-e majaazi, ishq-e haqeeqi tak na lay jaey, tou mehaz daam-e hawwas hota hai. Par iska kia kiya jaey jab ishq-e haqeeqi tak lay janay wala ishq maa'toob-e gumaan ho jaey? Zaat kay har har reshay say lipti ap uss amr-bail ko kesay ye keh saktay hain kay 'bus bhai, bohat ho chuka! Ab peechay hato aakhri notice aa gaya hai!' Nahi keh saktay na? Amr-bailain kahan sunti hain? Wo tou bus phelti jati hain, barhti jati hain... seenay kay beech main apni jaRain pewast kati, agay hi agay chalti jati hain!

Kabhi kabhi meray seenay main bohat zoar se tees uthti hai, kay kaash itni tahi-daman na hoti, tou soaz-e mohabbat ki koi chingari main bhi sulga paati. Kahin meray naam ka diya bhi jalta kisi mazaar-e ulfat par! Lekin shayed Qudrat kay dain kay apnay pemaanay hain. 

Sach bataon, tou ye sab ilfaaz utnay hi bay masraf hain, jitnay pichlay das saal. Jitna wo aik yellow smiley wala card... jitna zehr-e bay-taryaaq ka mussawada. Jitni wo kaalay wrapper wali bon-bon toffee.

Bus aik sense of urgency hai. Kionkay ab khayaal kay dosh par honay wala zikr bhi baar-e gunah liay hoay ho ga.

I, hereby, surrender it all.

In safhon main rachi basi, Abida ki har taan main goonjti, farsi kay har shaer say phooTti, Khusro ki har kaafi say lipti, sufism ki aanch main sulagti, har mohabbat ki hikayat bay-unwaan hai. Uska koi naam nahi. Uska koi mukhatib nahi.

Ye Aakhri Notice hai.

Aur aakhri izhaar-e mohabbat bhi.

Lo hum nay daman jhaar diya, lo jaam ultaey detay hain!

Aur ab tou khayal bhi baar-e gunah liay hoay hota hai...




Ay mohabbat, teray anjaam pe rona aya!