...Of Holiday Haikus

Written at sporadic intervals today, during duty that involved nothing more than sitting in a chair for ten straight hours..

Orange juice and tea 

In an air conditioned room 

Sarkaari breakfast.

.....................................

A weekend workday,

Borges and Tufail Niazi 

Might help pass the time.

......................................

The minutes tumble.

Cricket news on the telly 

Interspersed with cows.

......................................

Pleasant company 

Distracts me from my reading 

As I make small talk.

...................................

Anonymous text.

Embarrassed to ask their name 

Reply with a : )

....................................

His face was traversed 

By a vengeful scar, a grey 

Almost perfect arc.

(Borges)

.....................................

Abdul Karim Khan 

Sings Malkauns,his voice echoing

Across ninety years.

 ...................................... 

Perspicacity 

Pullullation, Pirilence. 

Borges loves his P's.

........................................

Fateh Ali Khan, 

Shaukat Hussain Khan's tabla. 

Khamaj in Teentaal.

.........................................

Eight hours in a chair, 

 with nothing to do. At last 

the cry goes forth, Lunch!

......................................

Ten hour duty ends. 

Wouldn't have survived but for 

Haikus and Borges.

.....................................................................................

.....Iqbal

"I sat by a stream and asked it;
'Why is it that you swallow up everything;
From the largest rocks to the tiniest needles,
But this broken branch floats on you,
When everything else drowns.'

"The stream thought a while, and spoke
'Do you think I am so heartless, so as to drown
Something that I have nourished with my own lifeblood ?'|"

Iqbal (or as they call him in Iran, Sheikh Eghbale Lahori). "Israare Khudi"

بہار ...

پھر لہو رنگ ہوئی ہے میرے گلشن کی بہار 

آگ برسی  ہے پھر اس باغ  کی  سیرابی کو 

برق اتری ہے ہر اک بام سے، ہرغنچے کا لب

پھر  سے  دہرانے  لگا   قصّہ  بیتابی  کو

لالہ  و  گل  کا  یہ رنگ ،  نوحہ  سرا  یہ  بلبل 

یہ  سماں  اہل  چمن  کے  لئے  نیا  تو  نہیں 

لیکن  اس درد  کا  یوں  حد سے گزرتے جانا 

 روز  اک  سروِ  قد   افروز  کا  گرتے  جانا

یہ تو ممکن ہے کہ اس درد سے  بے حس کردے

لیکن  اے اہلِ  چمن ،  بے حسی  دوا   تو   نہیں

اب کے  جس  طو ر سے  یہ  خونیں گھٹا اٹھی ہے 

یہ  تو  ممکن  ہے ذرا  دیر   سیاہی  ہو  گی

پر  نہ  گھبراؤ ، بہت جلد اسی   باغ  سے  ہی

لاکھوں  قندیلیں  لئے،  اہل  چمن   ابھریں  گے

بلبلیں پھر سے سنائیں گی وہی پیار کے گیت
دامنِ شب پہ ستاروں کے گہر بکھریں گے

اور ان سب کی ضیا، درد کے ماروں کے لئے 

ایک  بے  داغ  سویرے  کی   گواہی   ہو گی 

 

P.S ... A Post Exam Poem

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Some poems rhyme
This one doesn't.

Thirty-one days
Drinking cockroach-brew
Was Musi pleased?
No he wasn't.

Now that I've read it
A couple of times
Despite what I said before
This thing actually rhymes.


Cheers !!!

....Of A Good Excuse To Sing The Blues

You can't be expected to receive a billion dollars worth of blues records and not be inspired to write a blues song. But there's preconditions to writing the blues. The first thing I'm gonna need is a proper bluesman name, even Bobby Dylan had to call himself "Blind Boy Grunt" when he was in the hollerin' mood. Although my eyes have finally started to give in to the strain, calling myself "Blind Musab" will be a bit premature. Considering the medical degree I oughtta get when my five years in the pen end and the massive paunch that I seem to be destined to carry, I think " Big Doctor Moose" will do fine..... unless I can think of a better one.

So, here goes. In the tradition of Elmore James, Otis Rush and Blind Willie McTell, my first blues song.

"Springtime Blues" by Big Doctor Moose. All rights reserved and so forth...


"The springtime sun was shinin', I was sleepin' in my bed;
Lawd, the springtime sun was shinin' , but I was snoozin' in my bed,
Sunlight streamin' on my pillow, shinin' on my weary head.

When the blues they come to wake me, I was dreamin' of my gal;
When them blues come to wake me, I was dreamin' of my gal,
Walkin' with my pretty baby, by the banks of the ol' canal.

There's a million things goin' on, millions more about to start;
I said there's a million things' a waitin', millions more that I could start,
But these springtime blues have got me, and they're tearin' me apart.

All my friends they ask about me, wonderin' why I don't show up;
All them friends they ask about me, wonderin' when'll I show up,
While I'm runnin' from my blues Lawd, hopin' they never catch up.

I'm gonna lay my weary head on some lonely railroad track;
Friends I'm gonna lay my weary head down on some lonely railroad track,
And if them springtime blues come steamin' up, I'm gonna pull my damn head back !"

Now if only I can get someone to record it.........

....Of Mourning

How do you mourn for someone ?
Someone you met barely once or twice,
But wished that you knew all your life.

How do you mourn when your senses have been shot ?
And your eyes,unaccustomed to tears,
Suddenly gush forth in silent agony.

How can you cry,when you know you can't ?
When your resolve is all that stands between;
A shattered friend and his tears.

How can you grieve for Father ?
For his children,your brothers and sisters,
With their eyes empty,yet o'erflowing.

How can you reconcile your mind ?
When you know there won't be any closure,
When your heart will never accept it.

How can you comfort a brother ?
Whose burden is much worse than yours,
And yet you can't imagine anything worse than what you feel.

How can you keep the nightmares away ?
When all you see is your own flesh and blood,
Irrecognizable in the fog of your fevered mind.

How can you banish the Black Dog ?
As it snarls,as it slinks,sinks down in your heart,
And you know that it's going to be a long spring.


In Loving Memory.....Lt. Gen. Mushtaq Baig,may he find eternal paradise.
May Allah grant Imran and all his family the strength to get through this horrendous time.

...Of Nostalgia ??

Nostalgia ?
No,that's not it.
Isn't nostalgia for the times you've lived through ?
For things you've seen,things you've felt in your own lifetime.
Yet these things are not mine.
These snippets of song,these flashes of light and dark.


I was not there when they shot Lincoln,
Or was I?
So why do I have a faint recollection;a gunshot,a scream,a bounding leap.
Sic Semper Tyrannis !!
Or when they shot Oswald,or Garfield or Wild Bill Hickock...


When they first showed Nosferatu,or Casblanca or Pyaasa.
I wasn't among the teeming crowds.
I wasn't in the art-house cinemas where Bergman The Lion roared,
While the audience smoked and tried to deconstruct his pain.
These grainy relics are not mine.


When Rafi cooed in Bombay,I wasn't there to listen,
Nor was I with Cash,or ol' Muddy,or Bob 'n Joanie.
But I was there..
I tell you I was there,right beside her,right beside them all.
But how's that possible,and why am I missing them ??


I've never been to Wooster's London,or Lake Wobegon.
Then why is it that all my friends live there.
Long gone friends,long dead friends.
But still alive,still full of elan.


If these aren't my memories,why are they mine?
Why are these foreign emotions more personal than my own ??
And why do I sit staring at them,staring at the dates,
1915,1931,1962,1865.
My own life seeming trivial before these swathes of time...


It can't be nostalgia,can it?Isn't nostalgia supposed to be personal?Well,this is personal,isn't it ??

...Of One Final Trip

It's the darkest hour of the night.The usual night traffic rolls on by while everything stand still.But there is still some life stirring someplace.Under the shadow of Chauburji,there sits a lone bluesman smoking pot.Wearing his worn down hat and his beaten up shoes,with barely a shred in between,he lovingly nestles his slide guitar in his lap.Polishes it with his dhoti,spits away the guthka and starts to sing...


"I got the rickshaw jitters,man they's messin' up my mind

Lawd I got them rickshaw jitters,they's done mess'd up my min'

I feel that shakin' in my bones Lawd,right down to my intestines !!"



With the last week of the holidays upon me,there was still time for me to drag my bootheels a' wanderin' again.Having learned nothing from the gut-busting hikes in the Northern Areas,I was off again.This time it was gonna be a trip to the plains,Lahore to be precise.It was gonna be a train trip from Pindi,two nights in lahore and then back home again.It shoulda taken two days,ended up spanning over four nights...


The first night was a surreptitious trip up to Islamabad.Surreptitious because I would never have been allowed to go there with the whole Lal Masjid drama going on.But go there I did.Now,Islamabad's a pretty organized place,and that's what numbs my brain.I'm a pretty disorganized person,and it doesn't take much for me to get completely lost.And that's exactly what happens everytime I go to the capital.But before getting lost,I managed to run into the mother lode of good luck.An hour later,lugging two thousand rupees worth of CDs and DVDs,griining like a Cheshire,I rode out to eat.


And this is where my GPS handed in the dinner pail.Now I knew,and my friend knew that there's just one darn Pizza Hut in the whole of Islamabad,but for the life of us we couldn't find it.At least ten times 'round Jinnah Super,and almost as many around Super Market left us dizzy,hungry and queasy.At last,giving up,we went into a KFC for a burger and that's when we found out,those damn Pizza Hut buggers had closed down the joint two weeks ago.It was midnight when we set out to my friend's house,knowing full well that the train to lahore was at 7.30 the next morning.So either we were gonna miss some sleep,or be late for the train.


In our ever-obligin' way,we managed to do both.Stayed up half the night,and had to run like blazes to catch the train.And even then,the adventures didn't cease.Now how were we to know that there were two trains to Lahore,and how were we to guess that they both looked the same,and both were rearing to go.To cut the long story short,we got into the wrong train,and realized our mistake at the very last moment,sending us runnin' crazy across the platform to the right train and to the comfort of our seats.And comfort it sure was,a credit to the Railway department.Five hours later,(it was a local train,dontcha know) we were in Lahore.


Now there's something in the Lahore air.A mix of petrol,lavender,sweat and soil,it freshens up a man like nothing I've known.Leaving me at the Mess,my friend went out to meet some of his relatives while I slept.When I woke up round about six,I still couldn't find the bugger anywhere.Turns out he was gonna be out till nine,leaving me stranded.I stood it as much as I could,but finally decided to take matters into my own hands and set out to meet an old College friend of mine.Now I know there must be thousands of rickshaws in Lahore,but I couldn't find a single one.


There's something in my demeanor that sorta invites confidence.People look at me and say, "Say,this here looks like a nice chap.Sort of decent,well behaved lad,dontcha think.Let's ask him for directions !!"

And they stop,roll down their windows and ask me the way to such-and-such.And I bend down,look 'em straight in the eye,flash my most charming smile....and send 'em off to god knows where !!

At least five cars stopped to ask me for directions,and unless they ran into a bit of luck,they might still be wandering listlessly across Lahore,trying to find their way back home.Thus a word of warning,do NOT ask me for directions.Ever.


I finally managed to find a rickshaw,and headed out to Jinnah Hospital,where I was to meet this friend of mine.It had been ages since I had ridden one,and it was bloomin' good fun.My innards got the churning they deserved,and any earwax I might 'ave had must have perished in that magnificent wall of sound.Finally I was at the rendezvous point,waiting for my friend to come.


Now,I'm a cad when it comes to keeping in touch with friends.All through my life,as soon as we moved to a new city,the old friendships were ancient history.I used to,and still evade any contact with some of the best friends I ever had.So it was by a bit of effort that I got around to hooking up with a bunch of old acquaintances.Meeting up,exchanging pleasantries,we set out towards my first destination,a bookstore.Now the only nice place I had heard about was Readings,Main Boulevard,and that's where I headed.Excellent place,nice ambience,great books,(I bought seven!),and bloomin' cheap.Try to imagine eighty rupee books in Islamabad or Rawalpindi and you'll understand my excitement.My errant friend and his cousin hooked up with us and we set out to eat round about midnight.A hearty meal,and a good night's sleep,and that was that for the first day.


Sunday was Tourist day,sightseeing day.The museum,the fort,the mosque.And that compulsory trip to Iqbal's tomb.The fort's in pretty bad shape from when I last saw it,but the Masjid's as beautiful as ever.Strange bit of irony that Chinese tourists are allowed in the mosque,and we can't enter the adjacent Gurdwara.Ce la vie...


Another hooking up with a friend,and then to a couple of other places.Went roaming about NCA and FC College out of pure ennui,and then more shopping.I bought another bunch of cds as my friends' hair turned white at the thought of these fresh monstrosities that would eventually find their way to my hostel room,and hence to their tormented ears.Then it was a walk across deserted Defence,where a strange thing happened.As we were walking,a bike passed by and suddenly bust it's chain.I shrugged and passed on,found a rickshaw to take me back to the mess,but the driver refused,saying that the chain was broken!

Another mile of walking brought me to another rickshaw,this one with all of it's innards thankfully intact.We rode on home,weary but elated,when it suddenly stopped.The driver got out,did a quick diagnostic,and delivered the verdict,the chain's broken.Well,I mean really !! Finally we were back in our room,and slept soundly..


The final day was reserved for shopping for clothes,something I detest.But a phone call to another long lost friend saved the day.I picked up a couple of Dockers,and a bunch of tees,and that was it for shopping.Then roaming about Lahore,killing time till I had to go back,I realized what a nut I'd been in not keeping in touch with all these lads.Finally it was time to head home,and I boarded the Daewoo with the song of the Chauburji bluesman ringin' in my ears...



"Well the rickshaw's a howlin',howlin' for all to hear

Lawd that rickshaw's howlin,n' it's howlin' for y'all to hear

It's turned my brain all to puddin'and it's a tricklin out ma ear"



Shopping For The Week,

CDs;
A Bob Seger compilation
A Johnny Cash comp
A Leonard Cohen collection
Another comp of Cohen covers
A Joni Mitchell comp
We Shall Overcome,Bruce Springsteen
A Springsteen live bootleg
A Neil Young comp
A Jackson Browne comp
A Naushad collection
A Van Morrisson comp
And the latest White Stripes record,Icky Thump...


DVDs;
Dracula (the original 1931 film)
The Grapes Of Wrath
The Lavender Hill Mob


Books;
Sula,Toni Morrisson
Ovid's Metamorphoses
My War,Andy Rooney
Leaving Home,Garrisson Keillor
WLT-A Radio Romance,Garrisson Keillor
Two more for my friends...

...Containing a sonnet of sorts

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day
Thou art more lovely and more temperate....

So begins Shakespeare's Sonnet 18,one of the loveliest pices of poetry,at least in the English language.I usually read it with great pleasure,lost in the melliflous,meandering mass of words.But recently,I discovered the fact that a single piece of poetry can strike you differently in different moods.

A few days ago,while in a particularly foul mood,i read the above sonnet,picked up pen and paper,and composed one of my own.Technically,it could be called a sonnet,but only technically...


An empty breeze,a scentless limpid breeze
A mere nothingness,a limitless vaccuum.
From whence arrived,a' sailing 'cross the seas
The caravans of your sublime perfume.

Where once you walked,the wretched raven crows
Time scurries by,where once it stood so still.
Throughout my heart, a silent tempest blows
A sudden void,no sign of life ,no thrill.

But no regrets,I find no sense of shame
No weary sigh,no frown can mar my smile.
When through my heart,it flutters by; your name
Does bring some pain,but only for a while.

A life of loss,a weary state of mind
No other friend could give a gift so kind.


Pretty horrid,innit??
Just another endeavour towards spreading soul searing poetry(read mind numbing bilge) on the internet.

...As I Lay Dying

The silent,sibilant stillness speaks
in whispers,as the furious moon gives chase
To countless wayward,weary
wandering stars.
Across the barren sky.

What I have here's a motley bunch
Of outcasts,outlaws.Unpossessed
They've gathered round to bide their time with me
Once more,just like those old,familiar times

These friends of mine,this pain,this sky,this weariness
This fear and longing,desperation.
Still sit with me awhile,as simply out of courtesy
I keep on entertaining them as I've done all my years.

So I lay still,afraid to stir

For fear that my unknowing,unwelcome steps

Might cause them all to flee away

And leave me once again,alone with just myself.

An age I've lived,an age of hope,of love,of compromises
A weary path I've trod throughout
My travels in this life.

And now,as with all journeys,long
Or short,mine too is near it's end.
But still I can't let go so quick,leave all these faded relics
My pain,My fears,My guilt,My doubts to make do by themselves.

They all beg me to linger long
To keep them company just like I used to long ago
But peace awaits,and slumber calls
And this new journey beckons.

It beckons me to leave them all
My hopes,my loves,my steady friends
To let the relics fade away,along with all the rest
As I set off to sail the skies,
Become a drifter once more.