PESHAWAR ATTACK

The news paper is placed just in front of me.  At its top, two pictures are shown. One picture is showing the sky high cruel red flames and the clouds of smoke, a man is crying for help and his expression are so susceptible that no one can say that a while ago, this phrase was the living mark of life where the blood was flowing like a stream of love and smile but now pale and indescribable fear. The other picture is of a very cute injured child, she is five to six year old dressed in pink shirt and sky blue pent and her eyes are closed, her little belly is uncovered and blood drops are roofing her face and body, her body has become the living witness of what had happened in the Muslim mina bazaar of Peshawar and instead of all that innocence has not left her face. My eyes are full of rips and their mist is producing a color in my eyes. This is the red color, the color which failed to hide the innocence of the kid’s face. Before coming to bazaar, may be her mother kissed her eyes and whispered in her red ear “Ayesha! Don’t lose the grip of your father” or maybe she came with her mother strongly holding her mother’s right hand, enjoying the hustle  of the whole way and when fragments of bomb separated her from her mother and threw her far on the ground, what will be the first question that strike her little mind “what is my error? why this bomb hit me? Where is my mother?” or maybe she wants to cry, cry so loudly that the kings of the earth living in the bomb proof safe houses of Islamabad could listen her and came to her help and her mother’s help. But how they can listen to her, how the wish of the kid’s innocent heart can be fulfilled? There is no way of it because the kings of the earth are busy in conversation with the white masters, demanding that aid should not be distributed among the N.G.O’s because they alone deserve it. So the bomb blast made her quiet. Tears are brushing my cheeks, I feel not less helpless than that injured kid of Muslim mina bazaar blast because in front of the kings my cries are also dumb.

On Wednesday 28^th October, approximately hundred people are killed in a remote control car bomb blast near Muslim Mina bazaar and most of the victims are women and children. According to police, a hundred and fifty kilograms of explosive material was used for the blast. After the blast, fire spread to the nearby cotton shops and markets. The horrible fire destroyed many houses and a mosque too. Now the fire brigade and police have controlled the fire but who will care about the fire burning the hearts of people is still an unsolved question.

The famous city, capital of NWFP province is the target of the terrorists. In the last month, from 26^th September to 28^th October, more than one hundred and seventy five people are killed in bomb blasts. And most of the victims belong to common public. Every time, after a bomb blast, the government authorities and leaders intensively censured the responsible of the bomb blast, announced aid for the sufferer families and promised that no such blast will happen again. But with every new blast, all their previous promises proved just a fraud. Now people are uncertain and reluctant to believe at the guarantees and assurances of the government. Men, women, children and old, when come out of their homes, are unsure that they will be back safely. The atmosphere of the whole country is terrified and every next moment is doubtful but the authorities responsible for peace and security are sleeping in their warm bedrooms. They wake up only with a new bomb blast and again fell to sleep after solacing the people with the promises that such incidents will not happen again in the future.

MY AFSANA GUP

“Mama! I have just finished it, would you like to see it?”. “Why not!” Mama replied. Last night I refurbished my writing for university magazine. It is an Urdu afsana. I have written in it in summer vacation but it was weak in many aspects. And now I found time to refurbish it due to “terrorism holidays”. *smiles* I was very excited that Mama will very like it and I will get admiration. But when Mama started reading it, then I understand that my Mama is a teacher too. Oh! She grabbed my mistakes of “imla” and criticized my “style”. “Mama! It’s the style of Ghalib”, I complained. “I think that I have read the same thing somewhere but I don’t remember it” another objection came. “You have never read it before rather you have heard the whole story. Don’t you remember the airy night of summer when I told you and Baba that I have written a Afsana and I told you the whole story, it’s my own creation” words after words came out of my mouth as bullets from a machine gun hole . *sad* She smiled “oh I remember it”. “Although I am an M.A Urdu” she added “but I am personally consider it a difficult thing, I think your writings resembles with a famous afsana nigar….”. “Ishfaq Ahmed” I interrupted. “No, no it’s another one” she said thoughtfully. “Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi?”, “No”, “Ghulam Abbas?”, “No”, “Mumtaz Mufti?”, “No”. “Then who the hell is that man who writes like me” Oh sorry “who is that great man with whom my writing match?” “It is Saadat Hassa Minto” she said. I was shocked “how? I am not writing like him, it is a soft writing” I objected. *my eyes formed the shape of semicircular curve protesting against the allegation* “means that just your style resembles not the writing that the reader feels difficult to find the relation between the writing and the end itself.” She explained. “Oh” I heaved a sigh “she is very true”. *smiles*

To be very true, I think myself very inferior to be mixed with such great afsana nigars. But she was my Mom, she can do it. Today, I became the member of the editorial board of university magazine too. Now I have to sacrifice my energies for it but in return I will not get any reward but respect and life experiences. And I think that they will be more than any pay or incentive.*smiles*

LOST WAYS

Our ways are lost in the terror of smoke and blood. We are running away from each other forgetting that a while ago we were standing together with hands in hands. But now we are running like sheep whose master forgot to keep his sheep back. We are not the sheep; we are the men with blood moving in the flesh, with mind sensing the love and care. But the blasts came and we lost. All our bravery, courage, boldness, heroism and mysterious tales of valor lost. Only a piece of land remained at which stone houses were built and heartless people started living. We became the sheep in struggle to run away from blast and smoke but actually moving towards the danger. We lost what we had and we are uncertain that can we hold that we have. The night is stretched and murky has become deepened, we feel our backs crooked waiting for the rising dawn but it has never come yet.   And if it comes who can guess what comes. We are the doubtful people. We have vague thoughts hesitant to see the future with open eyes. We are worried about freedom that we have once sold but we forget it.  Now we are fighting, crying and requesting for it. We are terrified but terror cannot remove gluttony from our wits.  And only God knows what will happen tomorrow. We are caught in a closed rectangle where we sticking to the walls not the nucleus. We beg for Mercy. We beg for peace. We beg for passion. We beg for power to throw out the enemy. We beg for nucleus that we lost in the fight of our individual benefits.  We beg, Allah, for Your blessing. We beg for Your blessing. No other way but Yours. No other companion but You.

LOVE AT FIRST VOICE

The time when I hear the wind passes by; I wonder what happened to me. The moon is looking bigger and its magnificent light is shining at everything, the grass, the water fountain and the shower of clear water, peaks of the plants, petals of the roses and me, the one sitting alone at the grass with his cheeks clutching between the hands and eyes gazing in some unknown direction.  A blow of cool wind came and the smell of roses struck my nose, my heart just wake up from a deep sleep and the memories of thy hit the rusted engines of mind. The remembrance of thee came with a pain as some rose has lost its fragrance, the scent which its own heart produced and it lost its recognition, the mist of its own body. Was that the love? I asked myself but there was an innate silence inside leaving my question echoing in the corridors of wits. Suddenly thy voice came to my ears, I waged at my foot but no one was there. Thy memories disillusioned me.  I sat back I tried to recall when my eyes saw they face but it remained blank because I have not seen thee in my life time. The only thing that was thy clue was thy voice. I know nothing of thy but what thee said. I heard thee and my mind made a doll picture, the Barbie. I saw light of innocence at thy face and I fell in love. Thy voice leaded me where I saw thee sitting in the shadow of a palm tree some time looking like a glowing shadow between the cloud line and some time looking like a star of the ancient times wearing the crown of stones imported from paradise . And now when thy voice is not there, I can’t have my questions answered, was that only an illusion or really you were there? I am speechless and sitting at the grass waiting for a miracle. Centuries have passed and I am sitting at the same place for thy return. But till today I have not heard thee again, it seems that someone muted the trance of the scene and time has stopped. The wind is silent and water drops stuck in the air like that hanging from an invisible thread from the sky.  But I have not lost my hopes and I am sure as I were at the first day that at the next moment, once more the wind will blew, the spring will return and it will rain. And I, in the symphony of rain drops striking the roses, will hear thee and this time I will never let thee go, I will grab thy hand and I will live again.

Days and Nights

The first thing that he met first was the rays of sunlight passing through the broken glass of the wooden window. In a lane, three or more people were sleeping on floor matrices in a random manner. He was the nearest to the window so light disturbed him first. He saw his watch. It was 6:45am. “It’s enough time to sleep, I can sleep up to 8:00 am” he thought without leaving his bed. Now he stretched his body upwards, raised his hand and pushed the curtain at the window and again slept. At 7:00 am, he had to awake again. It was the alarm tune of one of his roommates. He stood angrily and switch off the mobile while the man who planned to awake at seven kept on sleeping with a pillow under his head and a pillow between his arms. Nothing interrupted him again. And his slumber passed with the beautiful dreams of a date with most beautiful and innocent girl of the campus. In his dream, he was giving a red rose to the girl and trying to express his feelings that that entire scene vanished and a sharp and hasty voice stroked his ears “O man! Wake up, we are getting late, it’s 8:20 am”. The response was so quick; he left his bed with almost in a running manner, took his pants, soap and ran towards washrooms. In the way, he realized that he forgot pasting his teeth and carrying shampoo but there was no way back. When he reached the lane of old washrooms whose cement plaster was no more, he was shocked to see that no space was vacant and the strong competition to get a place in. but again there was no way but to wait hoping for getting space for him. After 15 minutes, the door of a wash room very close to him opened and he got the opportunity. Twenty minutes later, when he entered in the room with the feeling of a conqueror. No one in the room, all his roommates were gone. In a minute, he prepared and was on the way to campus. The campus was just at a five minutes walking distance. Luckily, these five minutes remained five. Entering in the department, he recognized that he is late from the class. He messaged his friend probably in the class “should I come? Is the man angry today?” the reply came in a minute “No, he is very soft today, just enter the class” hiding his shivering hands, he stepped inside. In the first look, he saw some of his friends at the back benches trying to control their grin and then the man giving lecture, the middle aged Professor turned back at the interruption, his black beard was totally secreting his neck. The professor gazed at him and words came from his mouth as hammers beating the iron “watch the clock and get out”. He glanced at his shoes which he always forgot to polish and came out. It was one hour left in the next lecture “so what should I do?” he thought. And there came the turning point, will he go to library or the heaven window will be his preference? And the decision came quickly, after a minute he was sitting with a group of boys at the heaven window just in front of his department watching the girls and the making expert critics at their clothes and discussing the teachers who seem to be involved with them. What a day is that!

“It’s time for the class” a friend called him. He moved to the class with balanced and confident steps. With the extreme excitement for taking lecture, he sat in the front row. The lecturer was an old minded, old fashioned and strict man. He was clean shaved and only some hair was present over his head. When the lecture started, he realized that he has no writing material to note the lecture. “Do you have some extra sheet of paper?” he whispered in the ear of a fellow sitting on the right of him. The poor boy without moving his eyes from the white board gave him two sheets of paper silently. “Thank you” he again whispered. “Do you have a pall pen or pencil or anything else to write” now he was whispering at the second row. But, unfortunately, he can’t stop his voice for becoming a slight louder. This time he was caught. “Don’t you know the manner of sitting in the class, I have not seen you before, you just came here to make disturbance, get out from the class and don’t show me your face again” the lecturer shouted at him. He slowly moved out with red face. The feeling of embarrassment was so much prominent that one can easily guess what had happened to him. He sat at the bench and thought of not taking the class of that man again. He felt the rats of hunger memorizing him of the lunch. It was 12:00am. Now his direction was mess hall. He entered in the mess and passed a smile to the mess Munshi. The munshi noted his mess number. Thirty minutes after, when he came out, his stomach was heavy and he felt dizzy. He went to his room and just fell at the bed without changing the dress and removing the shoes. And thanks to him that he had not removed the shoes otherwise the smell of his socks have the ability to make that room unlivable.

He opened his eyes and started staring the roof. There was a light darkness in the room and it was getting deeper and deeper. His ears heard the azan of Maghreb. It was 7:00pm. He stood up from the bed in the passiveness, changed dress and came out for a new track. Now his destination was mosque. He said the Maghreb prayer. Coming back to his room, he saw a little rush at the mess door. “Why not go for mess? Although it was seven to eight hours back when I did my lunch” and he entered in the mess. His sat with his class mates discussing the girls and making the fun of the class teachers. After an hour, he felt new energy in his veins and enthusiastic for study. As he put the key in the key hole of his room door, he listened the exhilarated voices of boys, there was darkness everywhere because light was gone. He shook his head in despair and moved to terrace. After ten minutes of light coming when he entered in the room, he just stuck at the door. His roommates were seeing a movie. “The movie seems interesting” he said loudly as he is going to announce it. Watching the movie he decided “I will study for an hour after seeing that movie”. But seeing a movie after a movie the time of study did not come. Every movie looks more interesting than the previous one. And he don’t know when he closed his eyes, placed pillow below his head and slept leaving the last movie half left. In the morning, the rays of sunlight strike his face and he opened his eyes. He was nearest to the wooden window. All his roommates were sleeping. He jolted his head in anger and again slept. It was 6:45am.s

 This all i have written keeping in mind the life of hostel. Although i am hostellite and can better understand what happens all the day and night in hostel.

Stooooory

When he was born, nothing important happened so his birth was taken as normal but his mother often remembers that when he was born, it was full moon night. For the first two years of his life, no one thought that he needs a name. When he was two years old, his mother called him “Salman” for the reason that before two days, she heard that name in the street by a man and she liked it. So he became “Salman”. Nothing special existed in his life. He was an ordinary boy with normal features, unreadable expressions and empty eyes. When he reached such an age that made him even mature to recognize his blood relations and to decide what is right or wrong, a strange feeling came to prevail over his heart and this feeling became the vital part of his nature with growing age. He was in the fifteenth year when something strange entered in his life. It was a beautiful night of mid April when he was sleeping at the roof of his house. Staring in the sky, Salman observed that moon was much brighter than the normal days. Suddenly the cool light of moon appealed his heart towards itself and he didn’t know why he passed all his night trying to absorb the beauty of moon. After that night, this became his habit to watch the moon for the entire night. In the last nights of a moon month, Salman was seemed so helpless that a man watching his actions will surprise that what he has lost. One day his mother was washing the clothes of the whole family that she heard strange sounds from the inside of house. She ran to the origin of sound where she found Salman. “What was that voice?” she asked in a shrilling tone. But Salman was not in his senses, he was pale and hushed. After few moments, words came out of his mouth in frightening manner “I don’t know! I was sleeping that I saw the darkness around me, the dense darkness!”  Then he was never able to tell something more. After that incident, salman became more quiet and piped. He was seemed to be normal but no one knew what is going on inside him. Some days after, salman, falling in his thoughts, was passing through the Mall road that bundles of fragrance strike his nose. Salman raised his head and a colorful flash went by his eyes. She was a beautiful girl with black eyes and blond color. Salman was so much mesmerized as he is made to see that girl. After the girl disappeared, he remained standing and seeing, where the girl moved out until some shopkeepers of his neighborhoods sent him home. The first night after that incident was the full moon night, the night when everything is covered with light. Salman in fidgety was thinking about that girl. He thought so much about that girl that the girl prevailed over his mind and his eyes started seeing girl everywhere and on every side. He was vague about her, about her address, about her house even about her name. But he was certain about one thing that he was in love with her. No one believes on love at first sight but salman believed. He saw towards the sky and looked the moon. The moon was in full shine. A light splash occurred in his mind. He saw her face in moon’s face. A psychological bang turned the flow of his love to the moon. And he passed that night as he was passing that with his lover. So the man with nothing special fell in love. He found her lover’s face in moon so it became the center of his attention. In the nights, he talked to the moon and in the days he just wandered so peace for the strange love. He made a world of illusions around him. He saw his palace, his lands, his children and his love in his word that was just the world of his own, where no one interrupted him and nothing made him scared. The love gave him a new way to live. He needed a release valve to express his feelings and emotions. And his love took him to the poetry. Would ever believe that a poet can be born in that way but that happened. Whoever in his colony listened that salman has started poetry became so much amazed as you and I are. But salman didn’t care for all that they said. He was a man of his inside. His illusions showed him new ways. His vision expanded. He wrote what he thought. People liked his poetry. He became famous but he never cared about fame and wealth. Salman became the legend of the state. Publishers came to him and he allowed everyone to publish his poetry. The years passed and he lived with his love alone. But this passage of time developed his maturity. He felt the delusions around him. He became confused but before he got the reality. A carpenter whose solid hands were full of scratches, stopped him on the way and asked “why the people die of hunger?” “I don’t know” salman replied “they die because they cannot eat the beautiful words of poetry” the carpenter said.

ILLUSIONATING DESTINY

With the passage of time, my heart beating is lifting up. I after a period of unwavering years feel the chaos of coming. I can hear the foot steps of the practical years moving slowly towards me as flood coming quietly with destroying and wiping out the resistance. I am in the third professional year of engineering, left with only swiftly passing time. But I can imagine the horrible time when the ghost of job unemployment will grasp the neck of mine. I can see people shouting in my ears “Do you have a job?” and then “job?”, “job?”, “job?”  And I am standing with mouth wide open, with my hands on my chest, thinking and scratching my mind “where is the job?”  I am standing in the chowk seeing the people coming and going but all are empty handed like me. All crying with dry tears, sacks full of degrees on their back. Come my dear come! We are not alone. We are for ourselves. Join hands and snatch your part from that cruel world. We will not let you go. I cried and…………..i was on the floor. What a horrible dream it was. But it reminded me of the future fuss when I will be wandering for jobs, for a good job, for a good career to lead a good life. But was that only purpose we educate ourselves.  No we did it for leaning……..a deep pause…..sighs………no we did it for job. In all our life, we didn’t think education as a learning medium even a single time. We are educated but our minds are helpless to understand the meaning of education. To us education is a source of job not of learning. It is the trend and it is all that we are being taught and we want from education.  So why we expect that one day there will be good scientists……successful engineers…..honest politicians……dedicated doctors……exemplary teachers…….and a flourishing nation. No no……..My dear! We cannot get any of them because we are wondering in the circles; we are trying to get gold mines from the heaps of ashes. That is not the way…….My dear. Material is not a purpose but a helpful tool in the way to success. It is not the destiny.  My dear!……. it is sincerity and selflessness that alters and revolutionizes the future………. It is destiny and it is end.

Matter Of Oppurtunity

The times often come when you have opportunity. But most of the people waste it. They pass all their life in crying for, or demanding for a single chance just a single chance to step into the victorious. But when the chance is given to them, they fell in the fear of loosing. They think that this chance is too risky and then they drop it. They saw the successful people and say “I am better than him but he had the opportunity that I don’t have.” I think it is the most ridiculous thing people do. They ignore the fact that behind his success there are nights full of work and a passion. They make responsible their luck of all their failures that are actually happened due to their passiveness.

You should know God has given opportunity to each and every person. The thing that creates the difference that how much courageous are you. But many of the people close their ears when they hear such things. They act like sheep which just follow the tread of the first and careless of their surrounding.  And when they lost their opportunity, they cry that they can’t have it again but I think that you can have your time twice or thrice or more. It depends on your valor. The second time God gives opportunity to only those people who bold and courageous to achieve it again, getting lesson from their previous mistakes. The matter is only of our faith and character.

You have the character, you always have the opportunity.

Just……..Random

After the long time back…….I want to post something on my bloggie but……. I feel empty………My mouth is paining…..It was an easy day…….but still i feel thirsty…….I dont want to waste my time…….Remembering you…….life is not so easy sir……I dont expect it from you…….One more smile yar…….Messaging…….I am hungry……..I love you……..dont cry I am not deaf…..now i am posting you…….random…….bugh bugh bugh…….screen blurred…….bugh bugh bugh………..signals are disconnected……..bugh bugh bugh…….disconnected

One Dollar Note

The years after when I came to my home

I found my mother sitting at the door

Wet with the tears

Waring the black

I asked “Why you are crying?”

She said “I lost my son”

I said “Mother! I am your son”

She cried “My son had a golden heart”

I saw behind my chest

There was nothing left

But

The ashes of the forgotten part

And a one dollar note