Saturday, October 08, 2005

Soon I got used to the darkness inside.

Tonight has been another one of those sleepless nights. Sitting in the darkness, without the fan, then walking around different parts inside the house without making noise and certainly, I'm good at it. Being a heavyweight but lightfoot for sure.

I have this sad embarrassment in my heart. I mostly hurt the people who love me. It's something I used to deny but let's face it. I'm like that. I question all intentions. Is it the inherent negativity in me? I don't know what I want from the people who love me. Do I want love or is it the fear of losing it that makes me hurt them so that I don't have any attachment to them in case I lose them, which would in turn cause me hurt.

My throat seems like it has been sandpapered. My lips are parched. I didn't cry or scream or weep. I'm taking water, swig after swig... I'm still thirsty. I do feel the need to use the lip balm but I'm too tired to do that. Why am I always tired?

There are many questions that one asks but hides from the answers because the answers are well known. Or one might be too cowardly to face those answers or one just asks those questions because one might want to look great in one's own eyes or even less.

Senate OKs $50 billion more for wars - Politics -

Senate OKs $50 billion more for wars - Politics -

Just a fraction of that money could help me get to Harvard, Sloan or UPenn or any of the other Ivy League business schools. Or a fraction of that to an Afghan or Iraqi student. I haven't met Iraqis but I've met a lot many Afghans who could use a good education. Let it not be one of the Ivy Leaguers. Let it be any school, college or university even in Pakistan. But no. Let's fight a war. Kill poor soldiers and civilians because soldiers fight for their countries without asking questions and civilians are of course just collateral damage. In fact, everything's collateral damage.

Or let's say, since they can't give a fraction of that money to fund my education or that of an Afghan or Iraqi, they could give that fraction to the people who've lost jobs due to Katrina or build houses for them, maybe?

Or maybe they could give a fraction of that money to help build a medical and teaching college in Kabul or Kandahar to help eradicate diseases and illnesses related to war and poverty that plagues that nation.

But war is more important. When all the people are dead, we won't be needing those fractions to spend on them.

Though it's an illogical conclusion, but those $50 billion are money well spent.

As for the soldiers and civilians: rest in peace. And for their families? I don't know. Would a sorry help?


Bandeewan literally means lost. It means that stage before dying, where one is hanging between life and death.

That's how I've felt for quite a long time.

A person becomes bandeewan but for a few seconds; some unlucky ones might be so for days, but who heard of one who was in such a state for years?

When there's no way out, I just stop looking.

Friday, October 07, 2005

To My Rival

To My Rival is a poem by the renowned late Pakistani socialist poet, Faiz Ahmed Faiz. I really couldn't capture it's beauty even if I tried. The real fun of Urdu poetry is reading it in Urdu. It's like Persian poetry. However excellent the translation, the actual essence is lost. The intoxiation that is found in Persian can never be found in the translation. Nonetheless, Faiz is essentially an Urdu poet. Here I've tried a hurried translation of one of his very beautiful and famous poem, Rakeeb Se (rakeeb=rival in love, se=to/adressing someone, rakeeb se would loosely mean adressing the rival in love).

To My Rival

Come let's sit together, because attached to you are the memories of that beauty,
which had made this heart the house of fairies.
In whose love we had forgotten the world
And made the end a novel, a fantasy.

Those ways have known your feet,
which her intoxicating youth fancied;
Through which have passed processions of her splendor,
Of which these eyes have been idol worshippers.

Those lovely wafts have played with you, in which
the sad scent of her raiment still lingers.
The light of the moon has radiated on you through that entrance,
Which still holds the melancholy of nights past.

You have seen that forehead, those cheeks, those lips,
in whose imagination I have lavished my life.
Those forlorn and mesmerizing eyes have been raised to look at you.
YOU know why I have squandered my life away.

On us the favors of the sorrow of love are mutual;
Favors so many that I may lose count.
What we have learnt, what we have lost in this love,
None could understand other than you, even if I tried.

I learnt humbleness and devotion to those deprived;
Hope and loss, the meaning of pain and sorrow, I learnt.
The trials and tribulations of the underdog I learnt to understand;
The meaning of cold sighs and yellow faces, I learnt.

Whenever the helpless sit and weep, whose
boiling tears sleep in their eyes,
The eagles snatch crumbs from the mouths of the weak
They come down in calculated flocks.

Whenever in these bazaars, the flesh of the laborer is sold
Then the blood of the poor is spilt on the roads.
A fire boils inside, burns my heart, don't ask!
I cannot seem to control of my heart then...