Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Suqraat ka piyala

Yesterday one friend said a beautiful sentence in between conversation. I am not sure he himself even noticed it, but I loved it. Fortunately or unfortunately, I am surround by intellectually dyslexic people


سمجھہ نہیں آتا سقراط کے پیالے میں زہر تھا یا امرت 


۔

Monday, September 28, 2015

On "Social Pressure"

It is unfortunate that due to media, movies, magazines and in general - society has put so much burden on a common regular 'joe and jane' person to look "good"!  Being a physician, I have seen many women suffering from dreaded complications (and I mean dreaded) from undue and unneeded procedures! Many women have been rendered depressed and clueless. Again it's unfortunate. I was told by one plastic surgeon that now men are under pressure too. He has more men for hair transplants, tummy tucks, botox etc.

Personal grooming, being healthy and cleanliness is another thing but to have perfect body image is undue expectation from a self.



Sunday, September 27, 2015

Intern

25 years and Robert De Niro continue to amaze me! His new movie with Ann Hathaway is another gem which moviegoers should not miss. It's all about putting people at comfort and peace. You may disagree but I see this as a mystic movie as Ashfaq sahab used to say: "Allah aap ko aasani de aur aasani taqseem kerne ka sharf de".

It is a story of a young married working self-made woman who at surface looks having perfect life but going through issues in life - and how a chance encounter with a 70 years old man put her at ease! Simple but beautiful.

Trailer here

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f6dKhzYgksc

Friday, September 25, 2015

On 'ultra-short' stories

I developed interest in writing or reading 'ultrashort stories' when our tenth grade teacher gave us an assignment to write a "three words story" after giving introduction of allegedly six words story of Ernest Hemingway  - "For sale: baby shoes, never worn"  (there is a controversy about his authorship).  I remember my story was: "Main Insaan hun" (I'm a Human). Somebody forwarded this ultrashort story to me, and I loved it.

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Interesting quote

Very interesting observation. Let me put my comment after quote

"WHORES, ANNA ONCE READ, make the very best wives. They are accustomed to the varying moods of men, they keep their broken hearts to themselves, and easy women always ease through grief." ~ From Chapter 3 Jill Alexander Essbaum's “Hausfrau.”

I fully agree with above. Also, man needs to be very careful in cheating or deceiving 'whore turned wife' - as if she turns angry, he may not be able to bear that burnt, or she may ditch him in blink of an eye. 

Saturday, September 19, 2015

Life after delivery

In a mother’s womb were two babies.  The first baby asked the other:  “Do you believe in life after delivery?”  

The second baby replied, “Why, of course. There has to be something after delivery.  Maybe we are here to prepare ourselves for what we will be later.”
  
“Nonsense,” said the first. “There is no life after delivery.  What would that life be?”  

“I don’t know, but there will be more light than here.  Maybe we will walk with our legs and eat from our mouths.”
  
The doubting baby laughed. “This is absurd!  Walking is impossible.  And eat with our mouths?  Ridiculous.  The umbilical cord supplies nutrition.  Life after delivery is to be excluded.  The umbilical cord is too short.”  

The second baby held his ground. “I think there is something and maybe it’s different than it is here.”

The first baby replied, “No one has ever come back from there.  Delivery is the end of life, and in the after-delivery it is nothing but darkness and anxiety and it takes us nowhere.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said the twin, “but certainly we will see mother and she will take care of us.”  

“Mother?” The first baby guffawed. “You believe in mother?  Where is she now?” 
 
The second baby calmly and patiently tried to explain. “She is all around us.  It is in her that we live. Without her there would not be this world.”  

“Ha. I don’t see her, so it’s only logical that she doesn’t exist.”  

To which the other replied, “Sometimes when you’re in silence you can hear her, you can perceive her.  I believe there is a reality after delivery and we are here to prepare ourselves for that reality when it comes….”

Thursday, September 17, 2015

One fine read from Zia Mohyeddin

This is one miscellaneous read from Zia Sahib from Urdu literature - particularly first part on woman !!!! - in 2 Parts


Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Jibran says

"Keep me away from the wisdom which doesn't cry, the philosophy which doesn't laugh and the greatness which doesn't bow." ~ Khalil Jibran

Sunday, September 13, 2015

One common literary misunderstanding

Most people think following famous shyr belongs to Mir Taqi Mir, probably due to style of its baher but it is from a relatively unknown poet Zia Azimabadi, who came after Ghalb but died at young age of 19.


اک ٹیس جگر میں اٹھتی ہے، اک درد سا دل میں اٹھتا ہے


ہم راتوں کو رویا کرتے ہیں ، جب سارا عالم سوتا ہے


Wednesday, September 09, 2015

On 'Wars'

Note: Last week's picture of three-year-old Aylan's dead body at the beach shook the whole world with shock and grief. (I am purposefully not posting that picture). It started a massive exchange of emails between friends. I am posting stories of 2 of my friends who suffered the plight of refugees in the 1971 Pak/India war. I am not writing personal notes, as stories are enough to describe the lifelong psychological miseries of war.


(1)


The image of a Syrian child reminded me of myself. I was five years old when, one night, my father woke me up at 3 in the morning to walk out of our house quietly. We walked for 30 minutes and boarded a bus from Jessore to Khulna to Chittagong, a port in eastern Bangladesh. I was shipped from one hand to another hand to finally board 'safinae arab' (ship from Pakistan). It took 16 days in the Indian Ocean to eventually reach Karachi. I am alive and kicking, but hundreds of thousands perished in 1971. Images of Civil war, blood, army boots, rifles, crying women, screaming children, and dead bodies are as vivid as they were on that day. My childhood is connected to the image of EPR (East Pakistan Rifles) invading our house to search as they suspect we are hiding Bengalis!! (and we did :)) - I was told I spiked a fever that day. All night of March 25, 1971 - there was no electricity. We hear sounds of gunfire in candlelight (My experience of shama har rang main jalti hai). The following day, the 'talao' (lake) in front of our house was full of dead bodies and blood. We had two flags in our home - of Pakistan and of Mukti Bahini - depending on who is in charge of the area. It was interesting - we protected Bengalis, and Bengalis saved us, giving us safe passage (at least earlier in the chaos).


I was born in Karachi. My father made the mistake of sending us to school in East Pakistan as Christian schools were very good for education. I guess he was not competent to read politics. It is unfortunate how West Pakistan was kept in pure darkness. Our relatives in Karachi didn't believe our plight, though they were helpful. Later in the war, there was no distinction between friends and enemies at one point. Mukti Bahini kidnaped my father, and he was almost killed. They only let him go because he spoke Bengali fluently and Urdu in Bombay style. It took three years before my father made it to Karachi.


That image of a Syrian boy brought back thousands of lost pictures, like getting handed from one person to another, as we switched small boats (called launch those days) - finally, it was a big ship. People take pride in war, but human miseries on both sides always take huge tolls and usually go undocumented in history. When a human suffers - ideology, language, culture, and religion lose meaning. --- Jab aurat bazar main jism bechne nikalti hai to poori insaniyat be-maani ho jaati hai (Manto)


(2)


For the first time in 44 years, I am penning something over that traumatic lifetime tragedy. I went through almost identical after the 1971 fall of Dhaka. My father had a solid pro-army reputation and owned a wholesale cloth business. Ironically, Pakistan Cloth House first got burnt in New Market Dhaka with a Pak flag over there. I had vivid images of many horrible events followed by that tragedy. That particular night of December 16, I can recall, we were hiding in the house of our nani's sister, who was married to a Bengali lawyer, the only interracial marriage in our family. Mukti Bahini boys broke in upon hearing some of us Urdu speaking and hiding there. Just that one particular vivid image still brings shivers to my spine. Abbu was on the bed with a blanket up to their head. Ammi opened the door and spoke to those guys in Bengali. One of the boys shouted. There was a wristwatch of abbu shining out of blanket. He fired a bullet, and I started crying. Ammi said something to them again, taking me in her arms, and they left. We survived that night and took shelter in a dargah, not to trouble our hosts. Then it's a long story. We traveled by air to Calcutta from Dhaka, then by road to Patna till we reached the Nepal-Bihar border town, and stayed in Kathmandu for seven months till repatriated by Pak govt and reached Karachi on January 3, 1974, by Afghan airline planes. The last thing I still remember is the large Qandhari apples served by the air hostess!


My father hated the Bengali language, never tried to learn it, and ridiculed my mother because she had mastered it! Luckily, that expertise saved us from our house to the airport, where my other siblings were forcefully kept quiet not to utter any Urdu word. Abbu decided to leave all the property and arranged our exit. Plane taking off from Dhaka airport still gives me heartache, and landing in Karachi airport after nine months via Calcutta, Patna, and Kathmandu is still nostalgic whenever I board or land airplanes. The feeling of being free to speak Urdu when we touched Pakistan airspace is priceless; that's why abbu always insisted that whatever he lost to come to Pakistan meant nothing. He used to say: "Bengali daulat cheen saktain hain, qismat aur aqal nhi." He started here from scratch again. And الحمدللہ علی کل حال.


I never could come out of those images. Though very vivid, the pictures kept on taking shapes with continuous tales heard from grandparents, parents, and older cousins...dead bodies on streets...jiye bangla shouts...arsons...agents (some fake, some actual) taking money to get people across borders...changing residencies...lost childhood. I don't remember playing with toys and growing up by passing those years. I was 8 when we finally reached Pakistan.


When humans suffer in wars, zaban, aqeeda aur watan ki two kori ki auqat nahi rehti aur jaan bachane ke liye log aag ka darya paar ker ke mehfooz jagah dhoondte hain. In any warthe worst sufferers are women and children. Just spot any war in any country and follow the plight of their women and children in the following years. This pic has already made an unprecedented impact, just like in 1972 when a naked Vietnamese girl was made after the US napalm bombing and that dying kid in Darfur who was pictured moments before being eaten by vultures.


*

Monday, September 07, 2015

Sonya

(Previous 2 posts on Sonya here and here)

Ye 2004 ki baat hai

Meri residency ke baad pehli job thi. Sonya hamaare hospital ke cafeteria ke kitchen main kaam kerti thi. Uski umar 20-22 se ziyada nahi hogi (Allah jaane ab kahan hai). Main bohat arse tak usko hispanic samjhta raha. Main aksar usko hospital ke bahir tight jeans main cigarette peete huwe dekhta. Aik din hospital main kaam kerte huwe mujeh raat ke 11 baj gaye. Main hospital ki cafeteria main pauncha to sonya kitchen band ker ke safaii ker rahi thi. Mujeh dekh ker Urdu main boli: "Doctor sahab! kitchen to close ker diya. Magar aap betho main kuch le ker aati hun."

Sonya mere liye andar se grilled cheese sandwich aur chicken noodle soup le aayi. 

Sonya se main ne kaha: "Tum desi ho? Mujeh to spanish lagti ho". Woh samjh gai main ye baat uski jeans ke hawale se keh raha hun.

 Usne mujeh bataya ke woh UK main aik Pakistani ghar main paida hui. Usi ke hawale se pehli baar mujeh UK main basne wale PakistanioN ki halate-zaar ka pata laga ke kese bohat saare Pakistani welfare pe aik ghetto - below the line of poverty - zindagi guzar rahe hain. Sonya ne aese hi ghutan ke mahol main aankh kholi. Us ne saara bachpan aik ke baad dusre 'foster homes' main guzara. Na to school theek naseeb hui aur na hi koi college. 19 baras ki hui to koi lalach de ker Chicago le aaya magar uski niyyat koi aur kaam kerwane ki thi. Sonya women shelter main chali gai aur phir kisi tarah hamare hospital main job kerne lagi.

Sonya ki kahani sun ker main ne kaha: "Tumhe gussa nahi aata?"

Usne jawab diya: "Jab mere Allah ne mere liye aik cheez likh di hai to main kaun hoti hun shikwa kerne wali" - Ye baat sun ker mujeh halka sa jhatka laga jo har lamhe Allah se gila-mand rehta tha.

 Ye woh zamana tha jab main apne bete ki bimari se pareshan rehta tha. Jab main ne use bataya to bare sakoon se boli: "Jis ne zindagi di hai, wahi sahet bhi dega aur in choti choti bimarion se usi ka immune system strong hoga. Aap doctor zaroor hain magar nafsiyati tor pe bohat insecure hain." - Ye dusra jhatka tha.

Allah pe us ka iman is qadar mustahkam tha us ki annkhon aur chehre pe sirf itminan tha. Use hamari tarah koi jaldi nahi thi. Aik din cafeteria ki lambi line se meri jhillahat dekh ker boli: "Sir! ye choti choti batain sabar ki training hoti hain. Line main khare ho ker dusre insaanon ko dekha kijye, dil ki duniya aasooda ho jaaye gi." - Sonya ne bachpan main hi burhapa te ker liya tha.

Sonya ko UK ke foster homes main reh ker tight jeans pehnne ki adat ho gai thi, use cigarette peene ki lat lag gai thi. Is liye yahan masjid nahi jaati thi kiunke log use misfit samjhte the. Woh ghar pe hi namaz parh leti thi. Agle 6 mahine usse se baat hoti rahi (phir main ne Chicago choR diya). Roz woh koi aesi baat keh jaati ke main sun (numb) ho jaata. Aik din usne kaha: "Mujeh Allah ki talash nahi. Woh to har su basa huwa dikhta hai. Main to uske andar apne aap ko khoj rahi hun"!

Jab main ne Sonya ko bataya ke main kal Chicago choR ke ja raha hun to boli aap 2 ghante baad mujh se mil ker jaayye ga. Woh job se ghar gai - mere liye Suraf falaq ki khubsurat hand embroidery le aayi. Kehne lagi: "aap ka masla zindagi ki 'rat-race' hai - isi ko hasad kehte hain. Yahi shaR hai. Yahi Uqad hai. Yahi Gasaq aur Waqab hai - Khalaq se uth ker falaq ki fiqar rakhaiN, sab theek ho jaaye ga" !

Kamini saare lafzoN ki tafseer aur mere andar ki har bimari ki taabir - aik lafz 'rat-race' se ker gai !!!!

10 baras baad jab main ne naya house khardia to living room main Sonya ki embroidery aawezaaN ker di. Log aate hain, mujh kafir ko dekhte hain, phir deewar pe surah falaq ko dekhte hain - woh kiya samjhaiN har roz yahi surah falaq meri naal kheench ke rakhti hai - Aur - Allah Jaane ye ilm kis falaq se, raat ke kis paher, us ke bandoN ko ataa hota hai - jo na to kisi library main dekha aur na kisi aalim ko kasab huwa.

Sochta hun Muhammad ki Iqra wali baat theek hi hogi !!!!!


You may hear this post here

Sunday, September 06, 2015

Mehman

Jab log aap ko apne ghar pe 'invite' kerte hain - mehmaan bulate' hain - to apni zaat ka aik hissa khol dete hain jahan se unki kai bariikiaN aur kamzoriaN bhi jhankti hain. Ye aitmaad ka aik izhar hota hai. 

Bahir jaa ker us ghar ki kisi se buraii kerna bohat hi be-zarf si baat hai.

Saturday, September 05, 2015

Sureh Falaq (Sonya - 2)

Sonya (here) ne aik dafa aik baat kahi thi - jo mujeh aksar yaad aati hai ke

"Sureh falaq sirf us waqt nahi paRi jaati jab haasidoN ka dar ho, bulke jab khud ke dil main kisi ke liye hasad paida ho to bhi ye us aag se bacha leti hai"

Sochta hun - ye Allah ke kese bande hain jin ke diloN main paRa ilm na to kisi tafseer main parha aur na kisi maulvi se suna. 

Friday, September 04, 2015

On "Urdu"

If you are an Urdu lover - its a must watch. Javed Akhtar on history and dynamics of Urdu.