We are taught that the thing that differentiates us from the rest is our free will. Coupled with that is our ability to reason and something within us that helps us differentiate between right and wrong. As if there was a universal good and evil. Goods and evils that go beyond the petty differences generated though differences in religious beliefs, social backgrounds, skin colours and cultural inclinations. Goods and evils we would all agree upon, powered by free will and the immense ability to reason. Yet these realizations always seem beyond us, while we are caught up in desecrating everything that is not in agreement with our smaller rights and wrongs.
An existentialist sits and preaches personal responsibility driven through free will, all the while saying that we cannot escape our surroundings, while the realists just accept everything around them and try to mould themselves accordingly. Idealists follow their ideal notions and shelter their existence from the practicalities of our existence. All of them are in one way or another trying to figure out existence and more importantly the puspose behind it. Religion makes that easier for us. It starts us out by handing out a few ground rules and gives purpose to existence. Where every good is given to test how grateful and sharing you are, and every bad that is given is a test to your endurance and patience.
sabhi kuch hai tera diya hua sabhi rahaten sabhi kalafaten
kabhi sohbaten kabhi furqaten kabhi duriyan kabhi qurbaten
Where there are religions that teach us to live our lives within this world, never taking leave as long as we are bound by existence, there are those that preach leaving everything behind and pursuing a higher state of being through meditation. No matter what the religion, the basic definition of the right and wrong don't change. The notions of good and evil remain the same.
No matter which extreme the religion advocates, there's always love for something. Love for people, love for a deity, love for freedom from needs, love for that special someone who shares your life, and above and beyond all, the love for the creator who created. But love is considered a necessity to keep us alive, to separate us from the dead. Love, which can be found in the smallest of animals, and love that can be found in the sonnets of Shakespeare.
ye sukhan jo ham ne raqam kiye ye hain sab waraq teri yad k
koi lamha subah-e-wisal ka, kai sham-e-hijr ki qurbaten
Yet in the pursuit of our loves we tend to forget that everyone is pursuing their own love. In the quest of our one true love, all other loves become secondary, less important, expendable...we become horses drawing their carts that can only look ahead blinded by leather pads shielding them from the rest of the world. In our own quests we run over anything that comes in our path, for everything is justifiable. Teenagers dispose off their parents for their love, and parents crush their kids to enforce their own higher notions of love. Masses in love with their own set of beliefs collide with masses that are in love with a different set of beliefs.
Somehow the love that was supposed to bring us together hones our skills at identifying differences and bringing down bridges. Our love makes it a battle for the ends, and the means to those ends lose importance. Irony seeps into everything for even though the eventual goals are the same, it's actually the routes to those eventual goals that we start fighting over. The love of people, life, and beliefs is replaced by love for revenge. History is written down in huge volumes by holders of perspectives and the volumes are stacked in shelves and forgotten. The voices of reason and sanity are relegated to the back seat.
jo tumhari man len nasiha to rahega daman-e-dil main kya
na kisi udu ki adawaten na kisi sanam ki murawwaten
Soon everywhere there is smoke and the smell of burnt souls; souls that are damaged beyond repair. No more is there a possibility of acceptance and no one is willing to adjust with another. The love for revenge blinds us to all realization of rights and wrongs. Collateral damage becomes just another phrase, and body count is just like learning how to count. The love of revenge leads us to the love for death. No more is life appreciated, but only death of the enemy is valued.
Generations are crippled as the stack of bodies grows. A side can only see the losses on their side for the stacks are so high that you cannot look beyond them. Every side now has stories that gut you with a blunt knife. A global gang war is launched where whoever has the strength inflicts damage that reeks finality. Blows aren't meant to hurt anymore, they are meant to obliterate. Current affairs just become a never ending obituary.
chalo aao tum ko dikhayen ham jo bacha hai maqtal-e-shahar main
ye mazar ahal-e-safa k hain ye hain ahal-e-sidq ki turbaten
In the middle of all of this, there is always the optimist. Someone who somehow sees beyond the smoke and hopes that even this will end. That there would be a tomorrow where people would step out of their circles to take in the smell of dawn. When eyes will be serenaded by the sight of a flower in blossom, and a tree in swing. Where ears will dance to the sound of innocent laughter and mindless chatter.
A tomorrow where acceptance will be the most important virtue, where the earth will be big enough to house us all. Where people would step out and won't need to look behind their shoulders. There would be a jump in every step and a whistle on every lip. A hand in every hand, and love for love...
meri jan aj ka gam na kar, k na jane katib-e-waqt ne
kisi apne kal main bhi bhul kar kahin likh rakhi ho masaraten
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Life is...
As a child I remember the first day I went to the school campus on Hill Road. I remember that my mother took a job in Beacon House so that I, her son, could attend what was considered the best school in the country at that time. The year was 1984 and I was just a second grader going into third grade.
I remember we had to wear shorts in the winters. And a big blazer over two sleeveless sweaters meant that everyone in the class looked like they were just wearing their blazers and had forgotten to put on their pants over their knee high navy blue socks and shining oxford shoes. I made friends fairly quickly, for we all shared the same problems, our legs froze in the morning assembly, and we all feared being called up on the podium to sing the national anthem. Going through school all I knew was that I am a Muslim. I didn't know which kind, for Muslim was just a Muslim. None of my friends knew either, and we never even thought about it. For the biggest concern was always to convince our parents to buy us a challi from the challi-waala. I also remember the question popped up in sixth grade when a politician's son joined our class and asked me what kind of a Muslim I am, and I didn't know what he meant.
Life is beautiful...
Over the years I found out the kind of a Muslim I am, but it still didn't matter, for I was a Muslim, and that meant I loved peace and harmony. That was my interpretation of the religion, for all the prophet's stories I read showed how forgiving he was.
I was gone for two years in-between when my parents wanted to leave the country (Zia's time was tough on so many) and I discovered a whole new life in the States. There I made friends from all over. My Jewish home room teacher doted on me, I went to the school prom with a girl who traced her roots to Vietnam, and I was best friends with two Caucasians and an African American. At home I hung out with a boy who wore a turban and had beautiful hair, a Filipino, and a girl who called herself the Chicano Queen! We shared snacks, laughter and numerous adventures around the little stream behind our apartments.
Life is a wonder...
Then one day we packed up and flew back, for home called out to my parents and they couldn't resist the urge anymore. I went back to the same school, still a little confused, for everyone in my family somehow treated me differently, except perhaps my nephew who loved me and remembered me from his childhood. School had shifted buildings (houses rather) and this time I went to a campus on Nazimuddin road. But I met the same friends again, and things became comfortable again. Soon enough I was going to the Margalla campus in H-8 and was part of the first A-Levels batch of our school. Times were great.
My friends and I loved jumping over the school walls and heading to the dhaaba nearby and enjoying numerous cups of tea and their wonderful daal. Smoking was fun, specially sitting on our beach (a little enclave of sand around the famed Islamabad naala). The thought of going to expensive restaurants never crossed our minds for fun was where we all were. Going to Jinnah Super meant having an ice-cream cone or coffee (which no one liked but everyone had for it was so mature to enjoy a cup of coffee). Vanguard books was the best bookshop in the world, but the beautiful original books that were a treat to hold and smell were always a little too expensive for a student like me. But Islamabad housed some wonderful old book shops with an unlimited amount of comic books and novels.
Life is perfect...
Going out to eat at Sams or Black Beards was fun and nothing was pretentious. Dinners at Papasalis were intimate, and going out on a date was dangerous for cops would pull you over and swindle you out of your last dime. Soon A-Levels was over. Everyone had scraped their hearts and knees with love gained and lost and the next step was college. While most of my friends went out of the country, the others left the city. I went into FAST and stayed in the city. Once again as part of the first batch. Our campus was a pretty little house in Bazaar Road. Soon I had made some wonderful friends and walking around G-6 in those pretty little streets ate up all our free time. We spoke of everything, love, music, life, poetry, books...we even discussed our futures or the kind of jobs we wanted.
But things had already begun to change. Sams had closed down and Black Beards was going down. Pir Suhawa was still a wonderful getaway, be it on our bikes or our cars. Going there with the girls in our class was never a problem for everything was always safe and their families never objected to the unplanned excursions. We hiked there as much as we drove, and when the sun went down the only fear was of wild monkeys and crazed dogs.
Life is serene...
University was soon done with, imparting all the wisdom you can only get by burning your hands; professional life began. It was all about hard work. Proving my cousins wrong, who said you cannot get anything without a recommendation from someone powerful or a bribe. Somehow everything worked out, within days I was at a job working my way up the corporate ladder.
Then things started to change even more. The towers went down and I was sobbed watching TV for one of the best days I spent in the City as a kid was on the roof of one of the twins looking out at the world beneath my feet, shouting screaming and running around. Then Afghanistan was ripped to pieces. I realized how a bomb never distinguished between who it blew up, restricted by it nature to just blow up. There were often images of torn limbs and broken babies on TV. This had all been going on for a long time in Palestine / Israel, and even though I felt strongly about it, it was too far away. Unlike the famine in Africa, this was all man-made.
Life is confusing...
Then I travelled to the States after about 15 years. I was shocked by how much air travel had changed. You were not allowed to smoke in the plane, and you were never allowed to relax in the airports. Special Screenings, interviews at five different counters to get in, and every interviewee looking at you threatened, as if fearing that you were ticking and about to go off. I remembered how that last time I came we just got off the plane, got our luggage and walked out into the wintry gales of New York City! This time it took me a little over four hours to just get to the luggage belt.
Over the years it all became routine, and like clockwork I would take off my shoes, belts, remove all metallic objects and stand to be directed like a puppet. Move now, stay extremely still sir, place your feet on the foot marks and move your hands up. I am going to frisk you now sir. Sir could you turn on your laptop please...
Things went from bad to worse, Soon Iraq was ravaged on justification that would amaze an illusionist. London was hit by further blasts, even Spain wasn't spared. Things in the older problem centers kept on going from bad to worse and beyond. Globally it felt like West vs Islam and the fight had just gotten into the third round.
Life is a revelation...
Islamabad kept changing as well. Gone was the comfort of big scattered trees. How the city smelled of an Elven habitat when it rained...all just a fond memory. Trees were cut down to provide security to the heads of State. Barriers were put up everywhere. Suicide bombers introduced themselves to the city. And suddenly (inexplicably) the city got a night life. New, up-scale, ostentatious restaurants where youth gather that represented the elite, the modern, the open-minded, popped up everywhere. I was a bit taken aback how being moderate meant dressing like you had walked out of the latest issue of Cosmo. While one groups of moderates went to this extreme, the other group of moderates that practised their religion quietly grew big beards and became loud about how only they had the right to decide what was right for everyone. Slowly they took the streets and built a fort around Lal-Masjid. Suddenly dreams had were justification enough to go against what was written in black and white in the book.
Life is a nightmare...
Yesterday it all broke out in utter pandemonium specially for the special city. I sat in front of my TV screen helpless at not being able to do anything, not because I can't but simply because I don't even know which side of the BULLSHIT to buy.
Today I feel the same as this city I love. Ripped apart to build all the roads and underpasses, bombed and shot to allow the mercenaries of faithless extremes expression, and broken down to pave the way for a new tomorrow.
Life is...about to change...
- like this city over the past 40 odd years
- like my perceptions over 30 odd years
I remember we had to wear shorts in the winters. And a big blazer over two sleeveless sweaters meant that everyone in the class looked like they were just wearing their blazers and had forgotten to put on their pants over their knee high navy blue socks and shining oxford shoes. I made friends fairly quickly, for we all shared the same problems, our legs froze in the morning assembly, and we all feared being called up on the podium to sing the national anthem. Going through school all I knew was that I am a Muslim. I didn't know which kind, for Muslim was just a Muslim. None of my friends knew either, and we never even thought about it. For the biggest concern was always to convince our parents to buy us a challi from the challi-waala. I also remember the question popped up in sixth grade when a politician's son joined our class and asked me what kind of a Muslim I am, and I didn't know what he meant.
Life is beautiful...
Over the years I found out the kind of a Muslim I am, but it still didn't matter, for I was a Muslim, and that meant I loved peace and harmony. That was my interpretation of the religion, for all the prophet's stories I read showed how forgiving he was.
I was gone for two years in-between when my parents wanted to leave the country (Zia's time was tough on so many) and I discovered a whole new life in the States. There I made friends from all over. My Jewish home room teacher doted on me, I went to the school prom with a girl who traced her roots to Vietnam, and I was best friends with two Caucasians and an African American. At home I hung out with a boy who wore a turban and had beautiful hair, a Filipino, and a girl who called herself the Chicano Queen! We shared snacks, laughter and numerous adventures around the little stream behind our apartments.
Life is a wonder...
Then one day we packed up and flew back, for home called out to my parents and they couldn't resist the urge anymore. I went back to the same school, still a little confused, for everyone in my family somehow treated me differently, except perhaps my nephew who loved me and remembered me from his childhood. School had shifted buildings (houses rather) and this time I went to a campus on Nazimuddin road. But I met the same friends again, and things became comfortable again. Soon enough I was going to the Margalla campus in H-8 and was part of the first A-Levels batch of our school. Times were great.
My friends and I loved jumping over the school walls and heading to the dhaaba nearby and enjoying numerous cups of tea and their wonderful daal. Smoking was fun, specially sitting on our beach (a little enclave of sand around the famed Islamabad naala). The thought of going to expensive restaurants never crossed our minds for fun was where we all were. Going to Jinnah Super meant having an ice-cream cone or coffee (which no one liked but everyone had for it was so mature to enjoy a cup of coffee). Vanguard books was the best bookshop in the world, but the beautiful original books that were a treat to hold and smell were always a little too expensive for a student like me. But Islamabad housed some wonderful old book shops with an unlimited amount of comic books and novels.
Life is perfect...
Going out to eat at Sams or Black Beards was fun and nothing was pretentious. Dinners at Papasalis were intimate, and going out on a date was dangerous for cops would pull you over and swindle you out of your last dime. Soon A-Levels was over. Everyone had scraped their hearts and knees with love gained and lost and the next step was college. While most of my friends went out of the country, the others left the city. I went into FAST and stayed in the city. Once again as part of the first batch. Our campus was a pretty little house in Bazaar Road. Soon I had made some wonderful friends and walking around G-6 in those pretty little streets ate up all our free time. We spoke of everything, love, music, life, poetry, books...we even discussed our futures or the kind of jobs we wanted.
But things had already begun to change. Sams had closed down and Black Beards was going down. Pir Suhawa was still a wonderful getaway, be it on our bikes or our cars. Going there with the girls in our class was never a problem for everything was always safe and their families never objected to the unplanned excursions. We hiked there as much as we drove, and when the sun went down the only fear was of wild monkeys and crazed dogs.
Life is serene...
University was soon done with, imparting all the wisdom you can only get by burning your hands; professional life began. It was all about hard work. Proving my cousins wrong, who said you cannot get anything without a recommendation from someone powerful or a bribe. Somehow everything worked out, within days I was at a job working my way up the corporate ladder.
Then things started to change even more. The towers went down and I was sobbed watching TV for one of the best days I spent in the City as a kid was on the roof of one of the twins looking out at the world beneath my feet, shouting screaming and running around. Then Afghanistan was ripped to pieces. I realized how a bomb never distinguished between who it blew up, restricted by it nature to just blow up. There were often images of torn limbs and broken babies on TV. This had all been going on for a long time in Palestine / Israel, and even though I felt strongly about it, it was too far away. Unlike the famine in Africa, this was all man-made.
Life is confusing...
Then I travelled to the States after about 15 years. I was shocked by how much air travel had changed. You were not allowed to smoke in the plane, and you were never allowed to relax in the airports. Special Screenings, interviews at five different counters to get in, and every interviewee looking at you threatened, as if fearing that you were ticking and about to go off. I remembered how that last time I came we just got off the plane, got our luggage and walked out into the wintry gales of New York City! This time it took me a little over four hours to just get to the luggage belt.
Over the years it all became routine, and like clockwork I would take off my shoes, belts, remove all metallic objects and stand to be directed like a puppet. Move now, stay extremely still sir, place your feet on the foot marks and move your hands up. I am going to frisk you now sir. Sir could you turn on your laptop please...
Things went from bad to worse, Soon Iraq was ravaged on justification that would amaze an illusionist. London was hit by further blasts, even Spain wasn't spared. Things in the older problem centers kept on going from bad to worse and beyond. Globally it felt like West vs Islam and the fight had just gotten into the third round.
Life is a revelation...
Islamabad kept changing as well. Gone was the comfort of big scattered trees. How the city smelled of an Elven habitat when it rained...all just a fond memory. Trees were cut down to provide security to the heads of State. Barriers were put up everywhere. Suicide bombers introduced themselves to the city. And suddenly (inexplicably) the city got a night life. New, up-scale, ostentatious restaurants where youth gather that represented the elite, the modern, the open-minded, popped up everywhere. I was a bit taken aback how being moderate meant dressing like you had walked out of the latest issue of Cosmo. While one groups of moderates went to this extreme, the other group of moderates that practised their religion quietly grew big beards and became loud about how only they had the right to decide what was right for everyone. Slowly they took the streets and built a fort around Lal-Masjid. Suddenly dreams had were justification enough to go against what was written in black and white in the book.
Life is a nightmare...
Yesterday it all broke out in utter pandemonium specially for the special city. I sat in front of my TV screen helpless at not being able to do anything, not because I can't but simply because I don't even know which side of the BULLSHIT to buy.
Today I feel the same as this city I love. Ripped apart to build all the roads and underpasses, bombed and shot to allow the mercenaries of faithless extremes expression, and broken down to pave the way for a new tomorrow.
Life is...about to change...
- like this city over the past 40 odd years
- like my perceptions over 30 odd years
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