Vahidy

پیاس اور سوچ کی قلا بازیاں۔۔۔

2011-11-10T04:18:00.000+05:00

پیاس کا خوف

اور تھکا دینے والی سوچ۔۔۔

بے تکی، بے لگام دِماغی گردِشوں میں

رگڑے بے معنی الفاظ

اور پیدا کیے نئے الفاظ

جیسا کہ

سوچ اور پیاس کی مدہوشی

لیکن گردِش ہے کہ پلٹتی ہے

اور پھر معنی کی تلاش میں دور نکل جاتی ہے

پر لفظ کہیں ختم نہیں ہوتے

نئے لفظوں سے ڈر آتا ہے

کہ یہ اِختتام کو کہیں دور لے جاتیں ہیں

پیاس، سوچ، گردِش اور الفاظ

سب گُڈ مُڈ ہو جاتے ہیں

لفظوں پہ ٖلفظوں کی اُلٹی کیے جانا

بے معنی ہے

اور پھٹ جانے کی حد تک محدود

لیکن معنی کی تلاش کسے کہتے ہیں؟

گردِش ہے اِک بس

پلٹتی ہے

بل کھاتی ہے

اور ایک چھوٹی سی قلابازی کھا کہ

اپنی راہ کو ہوتی ہے۔۔

Imran A. Vahidy (1966-2011)

2011-10-14T23:39:00.000+05:00

I am probing my fingers in a great deep vacuum which has came into being all so sudden; huh! vacuum coming into being, isn’t it sounds so absurd? But then what should we call which is left behind when a being –a human being with whom we once lived and shared all sorts of awkward silences, roof whooping laughters, tensed moments and the times which passed so swiftly and happily that they left no traces in the minds– took his last plight, where would he go? One cannot know but what he left behind is surely a great vacuum in which even our sighs do not echo back. The struggle he did and what he had achieved in life is still very meaningful for us and present around us in every physical shape and form. But this vacuum is beyond my comprehension. Only the flashing memories juxtaposing with each other are the last resort. In the home, when I see the spaces and objects which had been once taken up and touched by him I see the time rewinding itself and showing me the images of us living together happily and also sharing moments of grief now and then. But these sorrowful times are hardest of all as he had already flown to some unknown skies…

Imran A. Vahidy
(1966-2011)

Toothpaste Ideologies

2011-04-17T13:34:00.000+05:00

Living in Pakistan, one often encounters statements that contain no real substance other than an effort to ram a particular point of view down someone else’s throat, no matter how oblique or convoluted their perspective. Any recourse to nuance, balance or alternative arguments is largely absent, with only a dogged determination to emphasize a single worldview. Such statements are symptomatic of the fact that most often, Pakistanis tend to talk at each other rather than to each other; we tend to be so convinced of our own opinion that the views of others can only be counted as nonsense and thus, dismissed.

The statements that can be heard as a result of this mindset - in our media, in the speeches of our politicians, in our educational institutions and workplaces, and in our social circles – stem from what I like to refer to as ‘ideological toothpaste’. Any particular brand of ‘ideological toothpaste’ may have several ingredients, just like a brand of regular toothpaste has various ingredients such as calcium, fluoride and chloride. However in my concept of ‘ideological toothpaste’, the ingredients could be described as historical narrative, world-view, goals, ambitions, factual information, rebuttals. All these ideological ingredients are then perfectly compressed into the shining brightness of the ‘truth’.

Now, it is a common belief that two contrary ‘truths’ cannot exist, so if you are used to brushing with one ‘ideological toothpaste’ you tend to find yourself in a conflict with someone who uses a different brand of ‘ideological toothpaste’. But in all these conflicts and ideological clashes over the right brand of the ‘truth’, we forget that we are reducing what should be a rich, diverse and engaging dialogue into something like a childish and stubborn fight between children about whether Colgate is a better toothpaste than Pepsodent or not.

Over the course of the last few decades and in the contemporary context as well, whenever leaders or public representatives in our country attempt to build a mutual consensus through public opinion and dialogue, they tend to directly import ‘ideological toothpastes’ which have evolved and developed in other parts of the world, with diverse historical backgrounds, and in completely different contexts. By this I mean that, instead of evolving and developing a mutual consensus on issues concerning Pakistan and instead of initiating and supporting a naturally evolved public dialogue, we are given imported ideas, concepts and remedies that have been implemented elsewhere, without any attempt to make them locally relevant to Pakistani history, culture and society.

Our inability to understand that there is no universal solution, and to realize that we cannot generalize and implement the exact same model across different contexts, sometimes makes us waste our resources on the wrong ‘brands’. Our apathetic attitudes and unwillingness to work hard on initiating and developing novel, local solutions to our needs, along with our tendency to adopt such ready-made ideological brands with little self-reflection, often results in our failure to see the underlying essence or context of those imported ideological brands. We start advocating and advertising them so fervently that it seems as if we have no other options before us. In the heat of the moment, we forget that this is just another set of farfetched ideologies which we have adopted without serious thought of dialogue for the sake of our own convenience. In turn, this unnecessarily rigid stance leads to us developing inflexible attitudes and behaviors. I truly believe that the root cause of the lack of any ideational consensus amongst us is due to our habit of turning towards foreign toothpaste, without any reflection or dialogue over how that ‘ideological toothpaste’ could be adapted for the Pakistani context.

Some of us emphasize paranoid ‘toothpaste’ slogans such as “War against the West” and “Western hypocrisy and prejudice” or propagate other brands such as “Arab Imperialism,” as a friend of mine recently thought it would be cool to rant about. To reduce complex historical and social developments to such token phrases is short-sighted and dangerous. One of the major hazards of using a particular brand of ‘ideological toothpaste’ is that people tend to ignore their critical and analytical capabilities and keep using ready-made token slogans just to reaffirm that we are good Muslims, Pakistanis or whatever simple label one may like to attach to oneself.

In my opinion, the greatest tragedy to have befallen us is that we really do not know how to deal with a diversity of thoughts and how to appreciate the multiplicity of human conditions and thoughts, as opposed to enforcing a narrow one-dimensional perspective. This simplistic and indeed, tokenistic way of thinking is a serious malaise for our country and shows both our apathy and our appetite for myopic ideologies.

My toothpaste analogy might seem sarcastic or childish but perhaps we can extend it further for the sake of variety and replace our ‘toothpaste’ with ‘chewing gum’. As Ayn Rand said in her wonderful novel, The Fountainhead, “Sentences have been used like chewing gum, chewed and re-chewed, spat out and picked up again, passing from mouth to mouth to pavement to shoe sole to mouth to brain…” Chewing gum then can serve as an excellent model for the dissemination of narrow ideologies, which move throughout society and are recycled repeatedly. Chewing gum also comes with an extra metaphorical quality that is, the more you chew it, the harder it gets, which is also the case with narrow ideologies. Of course, before anyone raises a question about the ‘foreign’ nature of chewing gum, we can see the same munching and chewing tendency in Paan-Supaari which not only lingers in our mouth but also leaves red stains behind.

[First published in Laaltain]

Erratic

2010-11-08T22:12:00.001+05:00

The bank of the river was shimmering and brimming under the gloomiest shadows of the day. The view had the certain streams and radiations of agitation which were gushing out of the scene like tangerine rusty water revolting out of the fountain which was never supposed to function due to the poor manufacturing. But still the whole environment was up beating under a strange singular flux. No boat was ready to go across the river. I had to wait, a long interminable wait which was allowing me to imagine every possible tragedy which should happen to my town from where I flew a long time ago. I just wanted to see those tawdry little buildings where I spent the worst years of my early life; they were still stood there in their jostling uprightness.
I started strolling across the bank; a boat was getting ready to set off but three more passengers were needed to make that little journey economical and commercially possible and there was no such hope of these three people showing up at that particular space and at that particular timeline of human history. But one person showed up and all the torturing memories of my primary school English classes started bubbling in my mind. God knows what made Sir Ishtiaq Din to faint over that muddy bank, all drenched and wretched. I went near to him held his one arm and in an artificial cheerfulness I asked; “Sir how do you do?” Just like the way we used to do in the school.
“Who???” A shattered voice came from nowhere just like some squeezed air puncturing out form somewhere.
“Sir me, the Lambo of your class.” I replied obliquely.
“And do you know who am I?” The same voice again transcended from somewhere. “I am a stagnant pool on whose shore still there are lots of disordered and jumbled ripples appear time and time again.”
“Sir what?” I tried my best to make some sense.
He opened his eyes at once, “don’t look at me,” he mumbled while some bubbling white fluids were flowing out his mouth. He held my hand and asked, “Do you know how to pronounce ‘rrratik’; ‘E-double R-A-T-I-C’, rrratik.”
Now he was smiling and shrinking himself, he gripped me tightly, his words were rolling and fainting over his tongue; “you know son! God never gave me the ‘A’ he started my life directly from the ‘X’ then he never turned it to ‘Y’. He tortured me with this randomness, the ‘K’ after bloody ‘S’ and then a lingering ‘H’. He messed it up, messed it all up so neatly that I can never make anything out of it. But there is still an intense desire in me, which is constantly yearning and longing for the climax and the whole "me" always wishes for an undecided end.”
Somehow, now he was making perfect sense. Everything seemed like the way he was describing. Although, that was another matter that my natural dumbness and inability to comprehend such things was again overlapping and I couldn’t make any head and tail of it or I think I was not supposed to do such a thing. The essence of the time and the place was speaking directly to me. There was no way I should think about any regularity in any thought progression because there was none.
Then the boatman started shouting; “Bao gee! Don’t pay any attention to this goon he is nuts you know.” He twirled one finger around his head, tried to give me the common signal about such people. “O.K Bao gee quick, we have to leave now.”
I tried to stand up and told Sir Ishtiaq that I would see him again. He didn’t let me go easily, it looked like he was searching for something around me. However by force I got up and started running towards my boat. The boat set off toward that strange town of mine. Air was freezing me and the water was rippling randomly around the boat. I inserted my trembling hands into my pockets and a sudden electric shock ran all over my body. In a sheer frenzy the only thing about which I can think of was my purse, I have certainly lost it. That was the most hostile irregularity which can ever happened to me and almost pushed me in the blind alleys of trauma.
When my nerves calmed down I understood everything. I had been mugged under this emotional erratic wisdom. There was no way I could see the bank but I could imagine the enthusiastic dances of my English teacher who just taught me how to pronounce ‘rrratic’.

---END---

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2010-08-24T18:47:00.000+05:00

جعالی عذاب

ایک دن ایسا بھی آَئے گا

جب سوچ کے سب رستے بند ہونگے

حیرت کے تمام دور بے ہوش ہونگے

جب ممکن ہوتی منزلوں کے نقشے

میں اپنے ناخنوں سے رگیدوں گا

جب الجھے ہوئے سلگتے دھاگے

گھٹتے چیختے دم توڑیں گے

جب اُدھڑے ہوئے مردہ جسم پہ

سوئی کا ذندہ ناچ ہوگا

اورایک دن ایسا بھی آَئے گا

جب کسی شرمندہ سی فالتو رات میں

میں پھوٹ پھوٹ کےرُو دوں گا ۔ ۔ ۔

Dishonesty

2010-08-14T01:53:00.002+05:00

I love the great despisers, because they are the great adorers, and arrows of longing for the other shore.

Nietzsche

Thus Spoke Zarathustra

The day is a ridiculous one when both the passionate believers and non-believers call each other dishonest. It seems like they both despises dishonesty. For being honest implies that you are doing the right thing and both love the righteous way.

Hermann Hesse's Goethe!!!

2010-01-16T22:47:00.007+05:00

While reading some book, some lines may creep under your skin. You try a lot to avoid them, resist them and forget them but they pop up again and again at the oddest timings. That is what exactly happening to me. I just read the Hermann Hesse's one novella 'Steppenwolf' and the following lines were dazzled me a great deal. You can't really understand anything when some spiritual 'voice-over' so persistently annoying you. The subject matter is not new but its presentation (means the linguistic mechanics) is really disturbing. Just have a look at what he wrote:

You take the old Goethe much too seriously, my young friend. You should not take old people who are already dead seriously. It does them injustice. We immortals do not like things to be taken seriously. We like joking. Seriousness, young man, is an accident of time. It consists, I don't mind telling you in confidence, in putting too high a value on time. I, too, once put too high a value on time. For that reason I wished to be a hundred years old. In eternity, however, there is no time, you see. Eternity is a mere moment, just long enough for a joke.

Just to give you an idea what he think about humor and eternity:

Humor alone, that magnificent discovery of those who are cut short in their calling to highest endeavor, those who falling short of tragedy are yet as rich in gifts as in affliction, humor alone (perhaps the most inborn and brilliant achievement of the spirit) attains to the impossible and brings every aspect of human existence within the rays of its prism. To live in the world as though it were not the world, to respect the law and yet to stand above it, to have possessions as though "one possessed nothing," to renounce as though it were no renunciation, all these favorite and often formulated propositions of an exalted worldly wisdom, it is in the power of humor alone to make efficacious.

....... I was particularly thankful to her for having expressed the thought of eternity just at this time. I needed it, for without it I could not live and neither could I die. The sacred sense of beyond, of timelessness, of a world which had an eternal value and the substance of which was divine had been given back to me today by this friend of mine who taught me dancing.

I was forced to recall my dream of Goethe and that vision of the old wiseacre when he laughed so inhumanly and played his joke on me in the fashion of the immortals. For the first time I understood Goethe's laughter, the laughter of the immortals. It was a laughter without an object. It was simply light and lucidity. It was that which is left over when a true man has passed through all the sufferings, vices, mistakes, passions and misunderstandings of men and got through to eternity and the world of space.

And eternity was nothing else than the redemption of time, its return to innocence, so to speak, and its transformation again into space.

God save me!!! This grueling!!!!!!!

YAKAANGAT

2010-01-16T19:27:00.007+05:00

Following is a very beautiful poem written by Meera Gee. The amazing thing is its language. All the words and phrases are very simple but still they convey some of the most intricate matters of our existence. Not only it shows us a very chaotic glimpses of the world around us but it also try to encompass its basic essence in a very hypothetical way.

یکانگت

میرا جی

زمانے میں کوئی بُرائی نہیں ہے

فقط ایک تسلسل کا جھولا رواں ہے

یہ میں کہہ رہا ہوں

میں کوئی بُرائی نہیں ہوں، تسلسل کا جھولا نہیں ہوں

مجھے کیا خبر کیا بُرائی میں ہے ،کیا زمانے میں ہے' اور پھر میں تو یہ بھی کہوں گا

کہ جو شہ اکیلی رہے اس کی منزل فنا ہی فنا ہے'

بُرائی'بھلائی' زمانہ' تسلسل --- یہ باتیں بقا کے گھرانے سے آئی ہوئی ہیں

مجھے تو کسی بھی گھرانے سے کوئی تعلق نہیں ہے

میں ہوں ایک' اور میں اکیلا ہوں' ایک اجنبی ہوں'

یہ بستی' یہ جنگل یہ بہتہے ہوئے راستے اور دریا

یہ پربت' اچانک نگاہوں میں آتی ہوئی کوئی اُونچی عمارت'

یہ اُجڑے ہوئے مقبرے اور مرگِ مسلسل کی صورت مجاور'

یہ ہنستے ہوئے ننھے بچے' یہ گاڑی سے ٹکرا کے مرتا ہوا مسافر'

ہوائیں نباتات اور آسماں پہ اِدھر سے اُدھر آتے جاتے ہوئے چند بادل۔

یہ کیا ہیں؟

یہی تو زمانہ ہے ' یہ ایک تسلسل کا جھولا رواں ہے

یہ میں کہہ رہا ہوں

یہ بستی' یہ جنگل' یہ رستے' یہ دریا' یہ پربت' عمارت' مجاور' مسافر'

ہوائیں ' نباتات' اور آسماں پر اِدھر سے اُدھر آتے جاتے ہوئے چند بادل'

یہ سب کچھ'یہ ہر شے مرے ہی گھرانے سے آئی ہوئی ہے'

زمانہ ہوں میں' میرے ہی دم سے ان مٹ تسلسل کا جھولا رواں ہے'

مگر مجھ میں کوئی برائی نہیں ہے

یہ کیسے کہوں میں

کہ مجھ میں فنا اور بقا دونوں آکر ملے ہیں۔

Ants and frogs

2010-01-13T23:54:00.000+05:00

‘Hey Sussti! Come over here!’ Kaami was shouting at his full volume and trying to gather as many buddies as possible and the folks started gathering around him. We were there for our regular Sunday morning cricket match and Kaami had ruined it by introducing an eccentric apparatus of round glass fixed with a metallic stick.

‘I have got a magnifying glass, you know.’ He was a hell of a bragger, showing it to everybody but didn’t let anyone to hold it.

I was not particularly showing any interest in it. Though, I wanted to check that thing out but even in childhood you may possess certain stubborn egoistic characteristics. “Ok, your Uncle brought it from Germany, not a big deal! It is worth nothing,” I said that to Kaami.

“Ok guys! Just start the match.” I yelled over them, but nobody listened.

“Anyone has a piece of paper,” Kaami was at the height of his enthusiasm and he was behaving like a stage actor, “I am going to show you guys a magic.” He got the paper and started focusing the sunlight by magnifying glass over the paper. That was a hot August morning and the ground was very dusty. It was actually a plot of a plaza which was supposed to build last year but the contractor didn’t get enough funds, so, its parking lot and half built grey cemented walls gave us some wonderful opportunities to play around.

“Hey it’s burning,” the folks were amusing over a piece of paper which was burning due to the concentrated sunlight. I still believed that it was worth nothing and we should rather play our match. So I was watching them from a distance. Meanwhile, Pappo shouted, “Burn her! Burn her!” I was curious to whom he was referring. I went near to them and saw that they have burnt an ant which was now look like a minute black dot sticking to the wall. They all jumped over a five feet wall and were looking for the colonies of ants. Kaami focused the sunlight over a running ant and within few micro seconds it turned into a black dot.

“You guys are pathetic.” I was upset and sat at the edge of the filthy brown water in which all the rainy water had been pooling since of the first rain. A certain breed of tadpoles were growing there and lots of frogs had already grew up and jumping in and out of the water. I got an idea; jumping frogs were looking great and could be a nice distraction. I tried to catch a frog, filled my hands and clothes with dirty water and at last succeeded in grabbing one poor frog. It was small and looked like a prefect driver for my dinky car. I opened the front door and tried to push it in the car. He was moving his legs madly and while putting him in the car I almost broke his one leg. I dragged the car backward over the wall, gave it enough mechanical energy so that it could reach to the ant burners. Car ran straight to them hit a brick and my frog driver jumped out of it and laid in front of them helplessly. He couldn’t run. I don’t know whether it was devil which came over all of them; they grabbed the frog and started laughing. Kaami was prepared with his magnifying glass and he burnt the frog two times after that the frog died. The black blisters appeared at his skin and he looked shattered. When they burnt him he showed very less resistant. I don’t know about the high school laboratory labs where they cut the frogs out; but to me that was the most horrible event in the frog history as living species.

TAO'

2010-01-13T23:52:00.000+05:00

I couldn’t understand why some people always find a small corner in your head. Though they never speak anything but they rest there and make their presence felt. I am not talking about memories. Memories are intangible; you can only feel them emotionally. But that presence is a tangible feeling of somebody’s existence in your head. Tao is one such person in my life. With unexcited eyes, trembling hands and bony structure, all he could do was sit and gaze. Gazing just like a cool and tranquil lake stares at the sky. You can hardly saw his eyelids because he tempted to not to use them. His eyes were always open and attentively searching some point around his vicinity to knot an invisible cord between his eyes and that point. The cord vibrated and produced beautiful rhythms. To me it seemed a sin to break that knot by passing in front of his eyes. Though I doesn’t mind passing in front of my grandmother when she offers prayers. But Tao’s attentive and constant gaze always seemed more sacred to me than my grandmother’s prayers.

I don’t know whether or not he practiced some kind of meditation in his room. May be he didn’t even know how to pronounce the word ‘meditation’ but I guess he naturally established a kind of harmony with that small space around him. May be that’s why I never found him out of his room. Either he was hanging his eyes on some unseen hooks or playing with lots of winding wires, used speakers, small electric motors and lots of junky mechanical parts of different household machines. He was good on technical stuff. He could tell you the diameter of a steel pipe by just holding it. My father, in other words Tao’s brother used to say that there is a great engineer in Tao but others just gave him the status of some technical worker who can tell you how to install a ceiling fan or give you an advice about what things to check while purchasing a new washing machine.

That day, however, his technical expertise frightened me a lot. I was in 7th grade and working on an assignment. I had to draw the famous Minar-e-Pakistan (Minaret of Pakistan) on a big chart paper which I completed without adding any creativity on my part. I still couldn’t figure out what thing brought Tao in the living room that day. He just sat over a sofa and started staring at my ridiculous version of Minar-e-Pakistan. Some kind of tension started growing in him. His muscles were stretching and he seemed bit confuse. At last he spoke;
“Where is the lift, the elevator?” He was repeating the same line with the constant frequency and his confusion was transforming into anger. He was furious but still repeating the same line;
“Where is the lift, the elevator? Where is the lift, the elevator?” I grabbed both of his arms and shook him a little bit, as waking him up from an uncomfortable sleep.
“What’s this heck about the elevator?” I asked annoyingly.
He lapsed right away. Like a tide falls after a very high rise. After the twitching of few muscles and some synchronized movements of his head and hands he mumbled something;
“I installed the elevator in that tower, and it has vanished now. I did that with my own hands, we all,,, we all put it in that high tower…” And then he recited all the names of associates and subordinates who finished that uphill task of installing the elevator in that strange tower. The recalling of that event brought a strange shine in his eyes. From that day I know it in the time line of mankind there exists a particular series of events which resulted in the fitting of an elevator in our national monument and my Tao also played some sort of undefined role in it. After a tough negotiation and sketching few lines over my drawing he satisfied that the elevator still exists in it and running perfectly fine. Now when I recall Tao I want to be in that elevator, the elevator which might be another focal point of his steady and holly gaze.

A horrible day at Prime Care Clinic

2010-01-13T23:46:00.001+05:00

My head was not bleeding as badly as my family made me to realize it. I just fell from my brand new BMX bicycle and the entire family shocked to see the trickling blood running from my forehead. Mom was sobbing behind her duppatta and the loudspeaker of my throat was on the maximum volume. I was making unbearable noises and everyone was standing around me doing everything abruptly.

When every effort to stop the blood with the ice and other utensils didn’t work out, Uncle Bobby, our neighbor, had been called. Everybody knew that he got a car and he usually didn’t go to work. My mom was with me in the back seat of the car, constantly pressing my bleeding forehead with the ice and Uncle Bobby was driving us to some doctor. He was also persistently advising my mom to be cool, “these things happen to the kids of his age, nothing to worry at all”; he was repeating this sentence again and again.

Car stopped and I read the signboard with great effort as English words were still a problem for me to read yet I was in 4^th grade; “Prime Care Clinic” it was written on it. We entered the clinic and Uncle Bobby was carrying me in his arms with a true sportsman spirit. The doc instantly made me to lie down on a horrible bed like structure and start wiping the blood from my wound with the cotton soaked in some extremely pain-giving liquid. He almost burnt my skin with his cotton as I started feeling painful itching in my wound. I tried to stop him but he was ruthless, he made Uncle Bobby to grip my legs and he was holding both of my hands strongly. My mom still sobbing behind her duppatta, it seemed that she wanted to help me but when I looked at her for help she did nothing besides moaning.

When he finished with the blood wiping job, I thought, “Thanks God! It’s over”. But I didn’t know that it was only a trailer from this brutal doc. He in an over smart way explained to my mom that he had to stitch my wound. I thought he was just kidding. But when I saw that he actually produced an injection from somewhere and started giving me shots around the wounded skin I became uncontrollable. I tried to move my hands and legs but nothing worked, Uncle Bobby was strong and doc was merciless. However, after few seconds the pain vanished and I was feeling much relieved. That idiot doctor started cutting hairs from my forehead and ruined my whole hairstyle. After that he stitched my wound with a weird apparatus. It was strange that I felt a very little pain this time. But I cried a lot due to the fear of being stitched.

After stitching and bandaging I felt much relaxed and it seemed that doc had also done with all of his ruthless activities. My mom came to me and wiped all the sweat from my face.

“Such a brave kid you got madam”, doc said in a very polite manner. And he kept on questioning that how this incident happened. When he came to know that I fell on a main street he explained to Uncle Bobby and my mother that an injection named tetanus is also very necessary for me. I did not prepare for another shot. Not only doc wanted to inject me but also he removed my pants for it. That was the embarrassing most event of my life. I did not resist as I knew that these guys were really powerful but I thought about lots of ideas how I can torture Uncle Bobby and this doctor when I will become the superman.

نفس بہ نفس

2009-10-18T17:46:00.017+06:00

نفس بہ نفس

﴿اِنتشار نویسی۴۲۰﴾

کیمیا نے تو بَس اُسے اِتناہی بتلایا تھا کہ تمام دُنیا ماسوائے خالقِ دُنیا کم و بیش سُو عناصر کی خالص یا پھر اُن کے پیچیدہ مرکبات کی ایک صورت ہے۔ گویا اُسکے چار سُو پھیلی یہ دُنیا اِن بنیادی عناصر کے میل جول کی ایک حتمی صورت ہے جو تعداد میں اِس قدر تھوڑے ہیں کے اُن کے نام صرف ایک صفحے میں سما سَکتے ہیں۔ لیکن اُس پر یہ بھی واضح ہوگیا تھا کہ جسطرح اُسکےچاروں طرف موجود مادے کی حالتیں اُنگلیوں پہ گِنی جاسَکتی ہیں اِسی طرح اَربوں کی تعداد میں موجود اِنسانی رَویوں، اِنسانی روایات، اِنسانی جذبات اور بالآ خر اِنسانی شخصیات کی بھی صِرف چند بنیادی صورتیں ہیں۔ جن کے ملاپ سے کچھ ملاوٹی شخصیات نےجنم لیا اور پھر دوبارہ اِن ملاوٹی شخصیات کے میل جول نے سینکڑوں شخصیات پیدا کیں حتٰی کہ یہ سلسلہ جاری رہا۔ یہاں تک کہ اَربوں کھربوں کی تعداد میں مختلف نقلیں تیار ہوگئیں، وہ نقلیں جن کی بنیاد ہی جھوٹے رِشتوں اور ملاوٹی اِقدار پر رکھی گئی تھیں۔اور اَب یہ مظہر اِتنا عام ہوگیا ہے کہ تمام نسلِ اِنسانی ایک دوجے کی نقل بن کہ رہ گئی ہے۔ کسی کی شخصیت چار اِنسانوں کی نقل ہےتو کسی کی شخصیت پچاس اِنسانوں کی نقل ہے۔ سینہِ زمین پر چلتی پھرتی، دوڑتی بھاگتی نقلیں جنہوں نے خود کو مُطمئِن کرنے کیلیے شخصی آزادی اور اِنفرادیت کا تصور دیا اور ہمیشہ ہمیشہ کیلیے خودفریبی کا شکار ہوگئیں۔

یہ خیال آتے ہی اُسے اپنے وجود سے گھن آنے لگی۔ بنیادیت اور اُسکے وجود کے درمیان فاصلہ اُسے اِتنا ذیادہ لگنے لگا جتنا کہ مسجد کا مولوی جنت کے درختوں کی چھاوُں کے بارے میں بتاتا تھا کہ اگر سات گھوڑے سات نوری سال تک کسی ایک درخت کی چھاوُں تلے لگاتار بھاگتے رہیں تو بھی درخت کے تنے کو نہ پا سکیں گے۔ لیکن پھر اُسنے ٹھان لی کہ یہ فاصلہ عبور کرنے کیلیے چاہے اُسے سات نوری سالوں تک بھاگنا پڑے یا روشنی کی رفتار کو مسخر کرکے ماضی میں جانا پڑے وہ یہ خلیج ضرور عبور کرے گا اور وہ بنیادی تشخص تلاش کرے گا جسکے بطن نے کھربوں شخصیات کو جنم دیا مگر خود وہ کبھی نہ جنما گیا۔

سوچیں منتشر ہوتی گئیں اور تخیلاتی ریزے ٹوٹ کر اُس سے جُدا ہونے لگے۔ ایک ٹکڑا ٹوٹتا، کسی جلتی دیا سلائی کی مانند پھڑپھڑاتا اور زمین میں اپنے پنجے گاڑتا چلا جاتا۔ زمین اِس بے بہا تخیلاتی بوجھ کو نہ سہار سکی، طوفانی موجوں کی مانند گڑگڑا اُٹھی۔ صدیوں قبل دفنائے گئے مردے ایک ایک کرکے اُٹھنے لگے۔ وہ اِنسانی ہڈیاں جن پر کسی زمانے میں نرم نرم گوشت بڑی محنت سے مُنڈھا گیا تھا تیز ہوا کے ساتھ رگڑ کھا کر آتشی شعلے اُگل رہی تھیں۔ چاروں طرف ہڈیاں ہی ہڈیاں تھیں۔

سُرخ ہڈیاں۔۔۔کالی ہڈیاں۔۔۔ نہیں صرف سفید ہڈیاں!

کسی غول کی مانند وہ اُسکے اِردگرد معلق ہو کر رہ گئیں۔ یک دم اُن کے بدبودار بساندھ بھرے اعضا سے ایک فلک شگاف نعرہ بلند ہوا اور وہ پھر سے زمین سے جا لگیں کہ زمین سے اُنکا رشتہ بہت پُرانا تھا۔

انسانیت کی با قیات کا یہ تحقیر آمیز رویہ وہ برداشت نہ کر سکا۔ وہ نعرہ ایک بدبودار بھبھوکے کی مانند اُسکے ناک اور کانوں کے راستے دماغ میں دا خل ہونے لگا اور آہستہ آہستہ اُسکے جسم کو پرسکون کرتا چلا گیا۔ اُسکے عضلات ڈھیلے پڑتے گئے اور وہ بھی اُن ہڈیوں کے ڈھیر سے جالگا۔ بیرونی دُنیا سے رابطہ رکھنے والی تمام طاقتیں جواب دے رہی تھیں۔ آنکھوں کے آگے اندھیرا چھارہا تھا۔ چٹختی ہڈیوں کی آوازیں بھی کانوں میں نہیں پڑرہی تھیں۔ بدبودار بھبھوکوں کی شدت بھی کم ہوتی جا رہی تھی اور جسم بالکل مفلوج ہوچکا تھا۔ وہ احتجاج کرنا چاہتا تھا مگر اُسکی زبان کنگ تھی۔ جب اُسکے جسم پر سکوت چھا گیا اور بیرونی دنیا سے رابطہ مکمل طور پر منقطع ہوگیا تو اندرونی دُنیا میں عدالت بچھائی گئی، وہ دُنیا جسکو اِس سے پہلے اُس نے کبھی محسوس نہیں کیا تھا۔ جس میں مدعی بھی وہ خود تھا، مدعاالیہ بھی وہی تھا اور قاضی بھی اسی کی ذات تھی۔ منطقیں گھڑی گئیں، پیش گوئیاں کی گئیں، اور حقائق پیش کیے گئے۔ کافی دیر کی جنگ کے بعد بُنیادی تشخص کی تلاش کے جذبے نے اُسکی ذات کی آتشیں حدوں کو پار کرلیا اور عدالت برخاست ہوئی۔

جب اُسے ہوش آیا تو اُس نے اپنے مادی وجود کو ایک سرسبز میدان میں پایا۔ میدان کے بیچوں بیچ ایک آتش کدہ جل رہا تھا اور اُس کے پاس کچھ زرہ بکتریں، تلواریں اور شراب کے پیالے رکھے ہوئے تھے۔ لگتا تھا کوئی لشکر دشمن کے ڈر سے فرار ہوکر بھاگ گیا ہے اور اپنے آتش کدے کی حفاظت کےلیے تلواریں چھوڑ گیا ہے۔ دور ایک پہاڑی پر واعظ سُنا جا رہا تھا اور واعظ کی آواز اپنی تمام تر کرختگی کے ساتھ، سناٹے میں کسی بھونکتے کُتے کی طرح اُسکے کانوں میں اُتر رہی تھی۔

"یاد رکھو ماجھی نہ تو مصلوب ہوئے اور نہ ہی مصلوب کیے گئے۔ وہ تو جلوہ تھا کچھ مادی اجزاء کا جسکے بدلے روح نے جنم لیا۔"

"ماجھی کی روح نے؟ "

"ہاں ماجھی کی روح نے۔ جو کہ پاک تھی تمام دُنیاوی آلائشوں سے اور معصوم تھی۔"

"اُس روح نے جنم لیا کیونکہ اُسنے جنم لینا تھا"

"انسانیت کی بقاء کے لیے ۔"

"انسانیت میں رَچے بسے گُناہوں کو بخشوانے کے لیے۔"

"اور وہ روح آج بھی زندہ ہے۔ جسم فنا ہوگیا پر روح کو دوام بخش گیا۔"

"ماجھی نے قربانی دی اِس روح کی خاطر جو کہ آج تک ہمارے گُناہوں کو روندتی آرہی ہے۔"

"تو ہمیں جسم کو بھولنا ہے اور روح میں بدلنا ہے۔ جزوئیات کو مٹانا ہے اور کُل میں شامل ہونا ہے۔"

اُسکی آنکھوں میں اُمید کی ایک کرن چمکی۔ اُسے قریب قریب احساس ہوچلا تھا کہ اُسنے سچ کو پالیا ہے۔

وہ اُٹھا اور لشکر کی باقیات کی طرف دیوانہ وار بھاگنا شروع کردیا۔ ایک تلوار دائیں ہاتھ میں تھامی اور اپنے بائیں ہاتھ کی کونی پر مارنے لگا۔

ایک وار۔۔۔ پھر دوسرا اور پھر تیسرا۔۔۔

پہلے گوشت پھٹا اور پھر گا ڑھاسرخ خون کسی چشمے کی طرح اُبلنے لگا۔ پھر ہڈی آئی اور زور سے وار کیا۔ تڑخ کی آواز کے ساتھ وہ بھی ٹوٹ گئی۔ صرف جوڑ رہ گیا۔ اِسکے ہاتھ سے تلوار چھوٹ گئی اور درد کی ایک شدید لہر پورے جسم میں دوڑنے لگی۔ آنکھوں کے آگے اندھیرا سا چھانے لگا اور دِل کی دھڑکن کسی پاگل گھوڑے کے ٹاپوں کی آواز میں بدل گئی۔ پھر بھی وہ نہ رکا اپنے دائیں ہاتھ سے بائیں کو پکڑا اور ایک شدید دباوُ اور فَلک شگاف چیخ کے ساتھ اُسکا بایاں ہاتھ بلکہ بایاں جُزو اُس سے جُدا ہوگیا۔ اُسے جُدا ہونا ہی تھا کیونکہ اُسے "کُل" میں شامل ہونا تھا۔ ڈولتے ہوئے قدموں کے ساتھ وہ آتش کدے تک پُہنچا اور اپنا بایاں ہاتھ اُس میں جھونک دیا اوربڑی غور سے اُسے دیکھنے لگا۔ گرم شعلوں کی حِدت تھی اور اُس کے بیچ اُسکا ہاتھ۔ کٹے ہوئے حصوں پہ گاڑھا کثیف آمیزہ سا چپکا ہوا تھا۔ اور اَب گوشت سَڑنا شروع ہوگیا تھا۔ رقیق مادہ اُبل رہا تھا۔ آگ کے شعلے کالا دُھواں چھوڑنے لگے تھے۔ اور وہ ہاتھ ہلا ہلا کر دھوئیں کو اپنی ناک تک لا رہا تھا۔ اُسکا "جُزو" "کُل" میں تبدیل ہورہا تھا اور اُسے اِس تغیر کا اِدراک اَپنی حسیات پر تو لازمی کرنا تھا۔ جب اُسکی سُونگھنے کی حِس بھی جواب دے گئی تو وہ بڑی غور سے اپنی ہڈی چَٹخنے کی آوازیں سُننے لگا۔ لیکن کچھ حاصِل نہ ہوا۔ پھر اُسنے جلدی سے آگ میں ہاتھ ڈالا اور جلتے ہوئے گوشت کا ایک ٹکڑا منہ میں ڈال لیا۔ ابھی گوشت کے ٹکڑے نےزبان کو چھوا ہی تھا کہ وہ درد سے بُلبلا اُٹھااور اُسکے منہ نے اُسکو اِسکا ذائقہ چکھنے کی مہلت ہی نہیں دی اور فوراً ہی اُگل دیا۔ زبان جل گئی تھی اور وہ پانی کیلیے تڑپ رہا تھا لیکن پھر ا ُسے احساس ہوا کہ ابھی بھی بہت کچھ باقی ہے ۔ کچھ سوچے سمجھے بغیر وہ آگ میں کود پڑا۔ فوراً ہی اُسکے جسم پر آبلے پڑناشروع ہوگئے اور وہ جلتا ہوا باہر کود پڑا۔ جسم پر آگ لگ گئی تھی اور جزوئیا ت پھر سے "کل" میں تبدیل ہونا شروع ہوگئے تھے۔ مگر اُسکے ہاتھ کے دیوانہ وار تھپیڑوں سے آگ فوراً ہی بجھ گئی ۔ زبان بُری طرح جھلس گئی تھی۔ پورا جسم جل چکا تھا اور ایک ہاتھ کٹ گیا تھا۔ دماغ ساتھ نہیں دے رہا تھا،تمام حسیات ماوُف ہورہی تھیں اور پھر ایک کمزور سے جھٹکے کے ساتھ پورا جسم زمین پر ڈھے گیا۔

پتا نہیں کتنی راتیں اور دن وہ اسی حالت میں پڑا رہا ۔ جب اُسے ہوش آیا تو اُس نے اپنے مادی جزوئیات کو ایک بہت بڑے بازار میں پایا۔ انسانی چیخوں کا بے ربط بہاوُ اور اُن میں سُلگتی ہوئی خواہشات۔ نہ ہی بہاوُ آگ کو بجھا پارہا تھا اور نہ ہی آگ بہاوُ کو روک پارہی تھی۔ بس اِن کے سنگم سے ایک تعفن زدہ ماحول وجود میں آچکا تھا۔ اور اُسکا وجود اِس سنگم سے دور گھوڑوں اور خچروں کے درمیان پڑا تھا۔ پاس ہی ایک لاغر سا منحوس کتا اُسکے جلے ہوئے ہاتھوں کی ہڈیوں کو بہت رغبت سے چچوڑرہا تھا۔ اُس نے ایک پتھر اُٹھا کر اُسے بھگانا چاہا تو وہ ہڈیاں چھوڑ کر کچھ دور جا کھڑا ہوا اور بڑے انہماک سے اُسے اِس دردماندہ انسان کو دیکھنے لگا ۔ اُسکے لبوں پہ ایک عجیب سی مسکراہٹ تھی جیسے کہہ رہا ہو :"جاہل انسان!غلط فلسفہ غلط طریقے سے پڑھو گے تو یہ ہی کچھ کرتے رہو گے۔ "

دردماندہ وجود یہ مسکراہٹ برداشت نہیں کرپایا۔ گھٹنوں کے بل کھڑا ہو کہ دیوانہ وار چلاّنے لگااور وہ لاغر سا منحوس کتا ڈر کے مارے چاوُں چاوُں کرتا دور بھاگ گیا۔ خریدار حیرت کے مارے خریداری چھوڑ کہ اِس نوواردکی طرف متوجہ ہوئے۔ مگر کسی میں بھی ہمت نہ ہوئی کہ اِس لُٹے پٹےبے حال زخمی کی طرف قدم بڑھاتا۔ گو کہ اِسکا رشتہ ابھی بھی کسی نہ کسی طرح نوعِ اِنسانی سے ملتا جُلتا معلوم ہوتا تھا مگر کوئی بھی یہ رشتہ جتانے نہ آیا۔

زخم خوردہ جزوئیات اپنے وجودکے اندر درد کے سمندر لیے گرتے پڑتے اُٹھ کھڑے ہوئے جیسے ہوا میں معلق ہو کر رہ گئے ہوں۔ وہ ایک قدم چلتا تھا پھر گِر پڑتا۔ اپنے آپ کو گھسیٹتا چھوٹے چھوٹے فاصلے ناپتا بری طرح ہانپتا ہوا قصبے کے کتب خانے جا پہنچا۔ صدیوں کی گرد لپیٹے، کتابیں ایک لمبی نیند کی چادر لیے سو رہی تھیں۔ کچھ کتابیں خود کلامی میں مشغول تھیں اور کچھ کو اِس نئے آنے والے مسافر کی شکل ایک نہ بھائی۔ چاروناچار وہ بے برکت کتابیں، جن کے صفحات کسی بھی روحانی حکمت سے عاری تھے، اُسکے سامنے کھلتی رہیں، دُھول اُڑاتی رہیں، خوابوں سے جاگتی رہیں اور اپنے ناپاک علوم برساتی رہیں۔ کچھ بکھر کر ر یزہ ر یزہ ہوئیں اور وہ جو پچھلی برساتوں میں بھیگ کر خشک بھی ہوچکیں تھیں، اپنی پھیلی ہوئی ہونق روشنائیوں سمیت ٹوٹتی بکھرتی رہیں اور کچھ ابھی تک افزائشِ گناہ کی خاطر محاز پر اپنی پوری آبُ تاب کے ساتھ ڈتی ہوئی تھیں ۔ زخمی تمام دن اُن کتابوں سے اُلجھتا رہتا۔ اُسکے زخم پَس کی پیداوار میں اِتنے مشاق ہوگئے تھے کہ کتب خانے کی عمارت میں اَب پرندوں کی بیٹھوں کے علاوہ اُس کی زرد مائل سبز سی پَس بھی جگہ جگہ پڑی خشک ہوتی رہتی۔ اور ساری رات مقدس روحیں اُسکے گرد معلق زرد پھولوں کے ہار پہنے اُسے حراساں کیے رکھتی تھیں۔ غرض ہر وقت، ہر لمحہ ،لمحہ لمحہ کرکے قلم کی سیاہی کی مانند پھسلتا رہا۔ لفظوں کی ایک پوری فوج اُسکی تلاش میں سرگرداں تھی اور صفحہِ اِرتکاز پر منتقل ہونے کے بہانے تلاش کررہی تھی۔ لیکن وہ کُتب خانے میں بیٹھا متنوع موضوعات کہ درمیان گِھرا اَپنے موضوع سے سُبک دوش ہوچلا تھا ۔ الفاظ اُس پر حاوی ہوتے چلے جارہے تھے۔ لیکن نہیں! اُسے خیال آیا کہ وہ یہ کس منحوس راہ پہ نکل چکا ہے۔ گو کہ وہ لفظوں کا اَسیر ہوچلا تھا مگر اَب بھی اِنخلا کا متقاضی تھا۔ وہ کھڑکی اُسکی نجات کا ذریعہ بن سکتی تھی۔ لیکن وہ بوڑھا آدمی سہ پہر سے اُسے گھورے جارہا تھا۔ اُسکی سفید داڑھی کا ایک ایک بال اُسکی اِس جسارت کے خلاف نظر آتا تھا۔ لیکن اُسے اِنخلا چاہیے تھا۔ کہیں وہ لفظوں کی اِس ساکن جھیل میں کود کر اپنی ہستی کو ہی نہ فنا کر بیٹھے۔ پر وہ بوڑھا شخص تو مسلسل اُسے گھور رہا تھا۔اُسکا سفید چوغاہوا کی زد میں آکر کسی اُڑتے پرندے کی مانند پھڑپھڑارہا تھا۔ پر بوڑھےکی آنکھیں اُس پر ساکت تھیں۔ پتھر کی طرح۔ ساکت! اور اُسکا چہرہ مظہر تھا نہ کسی اِشتعال کا اور نہ ہی کسی تبسم کا، نہ کسی جذبے کا اور نہ ہی کسی درد کا، نہ کسی مذاہمت کا اور نہ ہی کسی جراءت کا۔ بس وہ وہیں تھا اور موجود تھا۔ موجود اِسلیے کہ زخمی اُسے دیکھ رہا تھا۔ پھر اُسے خیال آیا کہ یہ بوڑھا شخص کوئی آدمی نہیں ہے بلکہ آٹے کی بوری ہے۔ جو موجود بھی ہے اور نظر بھی آتی ہے۔ لیکن کتب خانہ اور آٹے کی بوری ؟ کوئی تعلق نہیں۔۔۔ وہ یقیناًکوئی بوڑھا شخص ہی تھا جو اُسے گھورے جارہا تھا اور وہ چاہتا تھا کہ وہ وہاں سے نہ جائے ۔تو پھر اُسے اُس بوڑھے شخص سے بات کرنی ہوگی۔ اُسے بتانا ہوگا کہ اُسکا یہاں سے نکلنا کس قدر ضروری ہے۔اُسے بتانا ہوگا کہ اِن کتابوں میں لکھے ایک ایک حرف سے اُسکا دَم گُھٹتا ہے۔ اِنہوں نے کسی عفریت کی مانند اُسے جکڑ رکھا ہے۔ اور وہ اگر اِس کھڑکی سے نہ کودا تو یہ لفظ اُسے نِگل لیں گے۔

وہ ڈرتے ڈرتے اُس بوڑھے شخص کہ پاس گیا ۔ اُس کے گھٹنوں میں اپنا سر دیا اور تقریباً روتے ہوئے بولا:"خدارا اَب تو میری جان بخشی کرو۔ مجھے آزاد کرو۔ یہ لفظ میرا تشخص مجھ سے چھینی جارہے ہیں۔ میں کسی برباد پھٹے حال مسافر کی حالت اِختیار کرچکا ہوں جس نے اِتنے سفر کے بعد بھی کچھ نہیں پایا، بلکہ مسلسل کھوئے جارہا ہے۔"

بوڑھے نے اُسکے سر کو ایسے پکڑا جیسے کسی غلیظ اور بدبودار مچھلی کو پکڑا جاتا ہے اور اپنے سے علیحدہ کرکے پوچھا: "تو کون ہے؟"

زخمی کی کچھ سمجھ میں نہ آیا۔ یہ سوال وہ اپنے آپ سے کرتا تو اُسے اِتنا عجیب معلوم نہ ہوتا۔ پر اَب کوئی دوسرا اُسکے وجود کے متعلق سوال اُٹھا رہا ہے۔ یہ بالکل نہیں ہونا چاہیے۔ "تمہیں دکھائی نہیں دیتا میں اِنسان ہوں۔ یہ جمے ہوئےخون کے لوتھڑےتمھیں نہیں بتا رہے کہ میرے اندر بھی کسی نہ کسی مقدار میں خون بہتا ہے۔ میں بھی غلاظت نگلتا اور اُگلتا ہوں۔ میرے جسم سے بھی گلے ہوئے گوشت کی سرانڈ آتی ہے۔ یہ کوئی اِتنی پیچیدہ بات ہے کہ اِسے سمجھانے کے لیے مجھے تمھارے کان میں چیخنا پڑے؟"

یہ سُن کر بوڑھا مُسکرا اُٹھا ۔ اُسکی ہنسی اُس کالے کتے کی ہنسی سے بھی منحوس تھی جو اُسے یہاں لانے کا موجب بنی تھی۔ بوڑھا شخص بہت اِنہماک سے آگے بڑھا اورزمین پرپڑی ایک شیشی میں موجود عرق کو سوکھی ہوئی گھاس پر چھڑکنے لگا۔ وہ گھاس تھی یا خدا معلوم کسی جنگلی پودے کی جھاڑ پھونس ، اُس کالے مائع کو چھوتے ہی ایسے سُلگی کہ دیکھتے ہی دیکھتے پورے کمرے کو سفید دھوئیں سے بھر دیا۔ سفید اور کثیف دھوئیں کے بادل ایسے لہرا لہرا کر بلند ہو رہے تھے جیسے کسی آفاقی ناچ کا حصہ ہوں۔ کوئی دیوانگی تھی جو زخمی پر طاری ہوتی چلی جارہی تھی۔ دھوئیں کے مرغولے اُسکے نظامِ تنفس میں راستہ بنا چکے تھے۔ سینے میں گھٹن جم کر رہ گئی تھی۔ اُسکا جی چاہ رہا تھا کہ کسی تیز دھار آلے سے اپنا سینہ چیر ڈالے۔ وہ اپنے وجود سے کہیں دورجاتا جارہا تھا۔ تاریکی کا ایک لمبا سفر تھا جِس میں وہ ہچکولے لے رہا تھا۔ کہیں گرد تھی کہیں پہ چکر۔ چکر اِس قدر مسلسل تھے کہ اُسکو اپنے زماں و مکاں کا کوئی ہوش نہیں تھا۔ وہ بس بھاگ رہا تھا ایک مسلسل بے وجہ کی دوڑ۔ اُسکے قدم زمین کی ساری غلاظتیں بکھیر رہے تھے۔ مقدس زمینوں پر جب غلیظ اِنسانوں کو اُتارا جاتاہے تو زمینوں پر بھی غلاظت کی پیداوار شروع ہوجاتی ہے۔ گندگی سے نئی پیدائشوں کا خمیر جنم لیتا ہے۔ اور اِنسان اِس میں لوٹتا پوٹتا رہتا ہے۔ وہ بھی غلاظت میں گھس گیا تھا۔ کالے بدبودار پانی کا ایک وسیع سمندر اُسکے سامنے پھیلا ہوا تھا۔ بالکل ساکن۔ ہلکی سی سنسناہٹ تھی جو پانی کی سطح پر طاری تھی۔ کناروں پر گندگی کے ڈھیر تھے اور تہہ پر نجس سیال مادے بہہ رہے تھے۔ غلیظ اِنسانوں کی غلاظت جو کہ پہلے نگلی گئی پھر اُگلی گئی ۔ یہ وہ جگہ تھی جہاں پر لوگوں کو اِنسان کے خارج شدہ مادوں سے ایک خاص اُنس تھا ۔ اُسکی نرم اور گرم سطح ، اُس پر اُبھرے ہوئےدھاری دار نقش ونگاراور دماغ کو ماوُف کر دینے والی اُسکی بُو اُن کو متحیر کیے رکھتی تھی۔ اِنسانی اُلٹیوں کی ہر قسم اور اُن میں موجود خوراک کے چھوٹے چھوٹے تیرتے ٹکڑوں کی بُہتات تھی۔ اُس غلیظ اِنسان کو غلاظت سے بھرپور یہ ماحول بہت بھایا۔ اُس نے گندگی کے چند ٹکڑے اُٹھا کر کالے پانی میں پھینکے۔ پانی کی سطح پر نہ کوئی ارتعاش پیدا ہوا اور نہ کوئی بلبلہ اُبھرا۔ وہ پہلے جیسا سپاٹ اور پُر سکون رہا۔ جیسے گندگی پھینکنے سے کوئی خلا تھا جو پُر ہوگیا۔ یہ اُس بوڑھے کی سُلگائی گئی چلم کا اَثر تھا یا پھر اِن نجس مادوں کی نحوست تھی جو اُس پر طاری ہوچکی تھی۔ وہ چیختا چلاّتا، نرم گرم گندگی سے اَپنے جسم کے پور پور کو بھر رہا تھا۔ وہ کسی خواب میں سویا تھا اور کسی خواب میں ہی جاگ اُٹھا۔ وجود سے متعلق تمام سوال اِنسانی قے میں تیرتے غذا کے ریزے معلوم ہورہے تھے۔تمام چیخیں دم توڑ چکیں اور اُسکا جسم ایک شدید دھکّے سے کالے غلیظ پانی میں گرگیا۔ پانی نے کوئی ردِّعمل نہ دکھایا نہ کوئی آواز اُبھری نہ کوئی بلبلہ زیرِآب آیا۔ اور وہ ڈوبتا چلا گیا ایک الگ جہاں میں۔ جہاں اِنسانوں کے پاوُں کی سخت کھال کو اُدھیڑا جاتا ہےاور تمام ر ینگتےکیڑے دھات کے بنے ہوتے ہیں۔

[شکر اے اِلٰہی!]

Uncertain Ambiguities - (A Story)

2009-10-03T22:51:00.003+06:00

Twitching a sharp 2B pencil in her hand, she asked me what's my single most fantasy in this world.

"Always go for a 2B, good for every shade", her old, rusty voice echoed in my head.

Hey!!! Where are you? Fantasy? Tell me.

And I was looking her like a dumb. Short brown kurta, a pair of blue jeans, she always wear a simple V collar, half inch wide circular strip of fabric erected around the neck, what my mother call it ‘a kanthi collar’. Some designer designed this and some tailor tailored this attire just for herself.

My good heavens! Where the hell are you! I'm talking with you. What's your fantasy?

Err.... FANTASY??? MY FANTASY???

No the fantasy of that crazy writer of yours.

She held that book to strike my head. Near miss!

Hey! He is not crazy.

Yeah, yeah!!! He wrote about some crazy human-wolf, now don't start over again.

God!!! She's sharp. Have I ever said anything about those crazy painters of hers, neither a word for that weird Goya nor a phrase for that freaky Giovanni.

Ok baba! Now tell me please, what is your dearest fantasy?

Oh! Leave that fantasy thing; first tell me why you always aromatize this office whenever you get here?

That put a halt on everything, stammering of her legs, humming of the AC, those clamoring rickshaws outside on the road, everything just stopped for a moment. And then she smiled, and at last laughed.

Everything again set to motion and sound.

You dog! Why you always start discussing me?

No, by god! You smell really great.

And she again showed me those beautiful pearls of hers. What if I fantasize this moment for my whole life, a childish face with smiling curves, an aromatic, heavenly body, a kanthi collar, a studded kurta with tiny beads and sea like trousers…

Aroma, aroma everywhere! Smell of some sophisticated gardens!!!

Then something happened I gazed across a glass pane, my colleagues started hovering over a TV. I passed an intriguing glance to one of them and he said casually; “just another suicidal bomb blast”.

I said; “okay”.

She watched it too, the flashes of the breaking news, bricks, demolished buildings and then closed her eyes, shivering with a pale face; she lay down on a sofa. I was feeling some tidbits of bones knocked me, pieces of red fleshes filled the room, splattering dense blood making its ways down on the window panes. My fantasy had lost its aroma, smelling like ammunition. I told her that those beautiful gardens of yours and sophisticated words about fantasy have no place in this world. Your beauty and that aroma can do nothing, just useless perceptions for brains. I watched a tiny stream of red blood making its way down mixing with the soil, producing a reddish-brown substance, the very matter of my fantasy. And she lost her aroma.

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She met me the other day with her same vibrant face. The paleness had faded, leaving the reddish flow which is the most charming feature of her face.

“Nobody knows the real story behind every blast”, while turning a telephone wire with her fingers she told me; “but I know the story behind this one”.

Another imagination huh!

“No, not my imagination, I know it for sure”, she said it in such an affirmative tone that nobody can refuse that claim. But sometimes I think all of her stories ‘from her mother’s funny hairstyle to the local scandals of famous artists’ are some made up visions of her mind. But the innocence of her face made me believe in almost everything.

“So mind telling what is it?” Showing a least expression of interest I asked her. After that what she told me was some kind of junky words spitted under the hallucination of some junk. I’ll try to reproduce them with the possible chronology of events and rationale for the comprehension of the normal beings.

She was reporting about some weapons acquired from a terrorist group. Fortunately or just by chance the police fought well, arrested a man named Haroon Ali, found him guilty of terrorist activities. His undergarments included a belt manufactured for the explosion of 50 meters of surroundings including him. The Police was busy in the official proceedings, tired of all the beating and prosecuting sessions with the arrested terrorist. Deprived of his undergarments he was in a deep thought. Salty waters were trickling out of his body drop by drop and soaking up in those thready strips which were covering him in the name of dress. He gave a big nod to one of his thoughts, “it doesn’t matter if these black toadies have taken the belt; I can do even without it.” And he was pretty much sure about it.

The night overlapped the day. Haroon Ali had thought about every possible way of escaping from this godforsaken prison and rejected them in severe disappointment. Then he heard a noise in the station. It was sound like police men were beating someone.

Oops! A sudden darkness surrounded everything in the vicinity. Her speaking face with the dribbling words suddenly disappeared.

“Meer gee! Now what happened with your generator?” I yelled over the office boy.

“Sir gee! Out of diesel you know; petrol pumps are on strike”, his reply echoed from some corner.

We came out and started strolling over the green belt; a long, wide strip of green grass between a road and a footpath lined by the small trees. Annoyed by the consistent load shedding and due to unavailability of parks in this area public has made this green belt a kind of fun place. I was constantly seeing the small families, young buddies and even couples with orange shopping bags having snacks from a nearby confectioner, sitting over the thick grass enjoying a casual breeze with the rural view of the sun set.

She then told me that police men were not beating someone; actually they had become hostages by the brothers of Haroon Ali’s terrorist group. They had the weapons far better than the police, giving the ability of only five men to occupy the whole police station. They broke into his cell.

“Damn you! Lying here comfortably”, one of the brothers clinging his shoulder shouted into his ear, “what about our training, our mission, did you forget everything?”

“No, brother no, not at all, how can you even say that”, Haroon Ali replied straight away.

“Then get lost from here and complete your duty, nobody is waiting for your crazy tantrums”, Brother pushed him out of the cell.

For one moment he thought about the belt but a voice reverberated in his head; “it doesn’t matter I can do the job even without it.” He’s feeling explosions in every muscle. He ran and ran hard, finding his target but couldn’t been able to recall it. That portion of his memory had just elapsed. He was just running and running like hell, evaporating all the sweat which he produced in that godforsaken cell. Trying to figure out his next step, he forgot all about the target, now he just needed to collide with anything. And at last he had seen his paradise, a white ambulance with blinking red lights and clamoring loud sirens.

“That would be perfect”, he thought and leaped over it. Abbas Hussain, though he was a very experienced driver never encountered with such an event, brakes, hand brakes, clutches, steering nothing seemed to be working and Haroon Ali crashed over the front screen. With a big bang and a loud crushing metallic voice his body exploded right away without the aid of any belt. He was right about it, he just didn’t need any material ammunition for it; his soul was enough for all that. That blast had taken two lives.

“No they were three” someone shouted from the crowd which had gathered there out of curiosity, “one must be the bomber, another one is the driver and here lies the patient, dead too.”

She left me after narrating to this point, leaving me at the mercy of newspaper and news channels. I watched her go, her hands signaled to a rickshaw and her shoes jumped over it. The aroma again faded away.

----------

I tried to keep the track of the events happened after that blast and those events were also no less absurd and melodramatic than her narration. The bodies of Haroon Ali and Abbas Hussain never found. Those are believed to be melt and evaporated because of the extreme heat and momentum of the vibrations produced by the explosion. The only body found was the corpse of the patient lying alone in the back of the ambulance. Coming from an unknown place heading towards an unknown destination that patient was not just another common man; in fact he was the religious and spiritual leader of a great majority. Nobody knew how to overcome with that great loss but they wept hard. A will had been produced out of the pockets of the spiritual leader. A special committee had been made to understand and comprehend that will. According to the will the grave of the spiritual leader should be situated at the same place where he would give his soul to the Almighty God. The followers insisted on the same procedure. Government tried to intervene for ruining the joint of three major roads but on seeing the vigor of the public, they stepped back.

After the momentary reaction and exhibitions of grievance public start making a large tomb for the dead body of the spiritual leader. Fund had been raised to make it another piece of the art in the city. Speeches had been made over the grandeur of the loss. The buried personality had been discussed with the great respect and admiration. Everything was going normal and perfect then only one problem arose. What to write on the grave in the place of the name. Nobody knew the name of their spiritual leader. Everybody remembered the attributes like ‘Mentor for the generations’, ‘Holly of the Hollies’, ‘God’s distributor’ etc. But nobody exactly knew the real name. Again a committee had been made; topic was researched; subject specialists debated over the issue but all in vain. Nobody came with a real conclusion. At last the possible solution had been approved:

“After all we can afford a nameless burial place.”

---------

I saw three souls over the horizon, Haroon Ali, Abbas Hussain and the nameless mingled in each other. They were flying over the beings whose emotions cling over their heads like their flesh grip their bones. Nothing can be done to distinguish three of them, the wicked one, the good one and the spiritual one. They were shouting only three words again and again as some holly chant;

“God knows all.” “God knows all.”

They started flying high into the ocean of light leaving behind them nothing but just uncertain ambiguities.

[END]

Silly Ends

2009-08-28T22:16:00.007+06:00

The tornadic weeping angels,

Dying passion and burning fevers!

Shivers for a lost love

Will she come again?

A question of thousand possibilities

Imaginative ideas!

Articulated suppositions!

May one day she will come again,

Come again and torture me with the whips of your hairs

No more reckoning and flatty replies

One goes another comes

There she goes and now she comes again

The laughter and reckoning arise in me

The egoistic lizards are surging out of my fleshy frame

Now each of my tong has pierced to the thorny walls

And she might be spitting blood on the city streets.

Daada Ki Qabar

2009-08-23T18:39:00.004+06:00

Click to read

Khayaali Palaao

2009-08-16T18:30:00.004+06:00

Click to read!

Comical Realism: A new literary term is going to be coined

2009-08-07T15:19:00.006+06:00

“How does it really felt like to ridicule each and everything around you?” This was the only question which arose in my mind after reading both the novels of Mirza Athar Baig. By ‘ridicule’ I don’t mean just to find the funny aspects of the things, it is a complex process in which you dive more deeply and try to explore other dimensions. The process has only two possibilities either you will run out of the oxygen or you will end up discovering something totally new and innovative. So when in this process Mirza Sb. got a new word, or an eccentric phrase or a weird idea, he keeps on ridiculing it until he gets a thoroughly revised and metabolic version of his initial material. It is like a work of a chemist, who on discovering a new chemical mixes it with other substances, boils it; try to find its constituents and chemical and physical properties. Same process we can see in the fiction of Mirza Athar Baig, whenever something hit in his mind (preferably his protagonist’s mind) he keeps on experimenting with it; mixes it with other words or ideas, do rhetorical tests with it, split it into its basic units and try to analyze each part and their relation with each other. And the fun element of the ridiculing process keeps on changing from start to end. Not only there is a kind of mockery toward the different ideologies, language itself and its words and phrases, there is also a gushing distortion everywhere in his fiction. So his second novel ‘Cipher Se Aik Tak; Cyberspace Ke Munshi Ki Surguzasht’ (From Cipher to One; A Cyberspace Clerk’s Ordeal) is not different in this respect than his debut Novel Ghulaam Baagh, despite it has got more intensity this time. If we could not describe his style of writing with the established literary terms then we have to invent a new term for it. And the writer has already simplified that problem by giving us one hint ‘Comical Realism’. You have to read his novels to understand it because ‘Comical Realism’ is not just a fun approach to reality. It is a fun approach of ridiculing, symbolizing, referencing, attributing, annotating, interpreting, decoding, and sometimes distorting the previously accepted meanings.

After reading first 100 pages I was bit frustrated that the writer is still obsessed with the characters and the story line of Ghulam Baagh. Zaki with the new talent of IT has taken the place of Kabir, Hoffmann and Zohra of Ghulam Baagh has merged together and created a new being called Zulekha and the doctor has switched places with a history professor. Not only characters but the motifs of this novel is also to some extent seemed to be identical in functionality as we see ‘Khassi Club’ and ‘Salar Network’ has been given almost the same job of social and mythical evils. But it doesn’t make it ignorable at all because when the story enfolds afterwards the writer has showed us that there is enormous potential in his writing abilities.

As somebody once said that sometimes the language itself becomes another character in the novel, means it gets so unique that you cannot find another example and then you ought to discuss it more than just tags for the writer’s thoughts. Same holds true in the case of Mirza Athar Baig’s language. Though unlike Ghulaam Baagh, the narration of Cyberspace is pretty much linear but still it has its thrills and it is never going to let you bore. The back and forth movement of the chronology, the transformation in the narration style with the psychological mood of the protagonist and sometimes the progression of the story through the instant messaging using cyberspace are the factors which make it unbeatable.

Another question arises; what does make this novel so ‘cyber’? And here you get a real disappointment. Of course it is not like some sci-fi suspense thriller and you cannot expect it to be so. The novel has a unique subject of no background in Urdu literature but the writer still has to put lots of other themes to make his protagonist a real Munshi of the cyberspace. By googling for the few definitions, chatting with your girlfriend on the Internet, upload your website of unknown contents, thinking in terms of computer jargon and planning for the coding of few computer games do not make you a real Munshi of the cyberspace. In the writer’s own words this novel:
“Deals with a world, even stranger! The world as it was transformed during the last decade of the twentieth century and the first decade of the twenty first century. I have tried to understand it through the almost picaresque adventures of a software engineer with an oppressed feudal background.”
But in the novel all the adventures confronted by that software engineer belong to the real world not even one in a cyberspace. Still it has lots of interesting computer related terms like Trojan Horses, Ruby-on-Rail platform, blogging, SF (Survival Factor) fuzzy logic and even he tried to explain a small psychological situation with the help of Boolean algebra. And when these terms mix with the real life situations, like ‘street axioms’ of ‘Tharra Conference’, ‘Salar(a feudal caste) Network’ and ‘Gaamu’s digital black magic’, they give this novel a dimension which somehow relates to cyberspace.

The varying themes of the novel are another display of the level of the writer’s creativity. The hero of the novel sustained two Post Traumatic Stress Disorders, which he named with PTSD1 and PD2. The narration of these disorders is not only psychologically intense but in a way quite humorous too. A motif of a computer game between two teams in which one team wants to keep on playing the game while the other one wants to end the game, has been used playfully. The character of the hero’s brother has been developed dramatically. From his three eccentric careers one is the most remarkable in which he became the spiritual leader of the village by claiming only two lines: “God is the only eternal reality. Besides him everything is fake, so am I” Now the more he says I’m fake, the people’s faiths on him strengthen more. Above all, the protagonist Zaka-ullah, the gifted computer programmer (Cyberspace ka Munshi) himself is an artist’s creation. He made me to believe that the Kabir in the Ghulam Bagh never died; he is just an eternal character for me.

Whether you know anything about cyberspace or not; as a serious reader of the literature this novel is a must read. Not only it shows that Urdu has a potential to support new trends in the literature but also it predicts that a new genre or a literary term is going to be coined by a Pakistani writer; a writer which has no lesser talent than any internationally recognized writer. And I think this is a time when we need to think about our inefficient publishing industry which neither can markets the Urdu fiction globally nor can translate it into other major languages.

Graphite Wastage Mechanical Growth

2009-07-11T23:04:00.005+06:00

So that mean anybody can draw :)

DESI BEAT

2009-06-28T11:09:00.005+06:00

Thousand suns and mingling ways

Don't do this buddy, it'll take you away

Far away where the sinners lay

To present themselves as blessed ones' prey

---

They'll choke your throat and lash your hips

Boiling waters for thirsty ferocious lips

Angels ready with their malicious tricks

Gonna torture you with their holly whips

---

The entire globe balances on two pivot wiles

Choice's yours buddy,,, Pharaohs pyramids or Moses Niles

Never wonder nor even think about your traversed miles

'coz a couple of angels are already filling their files

---

Have somebody ever laughed on this eternal drama

Written under the hallucination of some marijuana

The godforsaken world and its mythical sonatas

In which only two coins got an infinite nirvana

---

Only a hag from the village Larri know the eternal truth

of the world. She sings it like a melodious chant:

'Reddish brown earth and all its abundant births

Simple like an elephant; complicated like an ant.'

Vanity of Affiliation

2009-06-24T21:24:00.005+06:00

For god sake! You were the one;

Who showed me those streams

Those stream of postulates

Junctures of turbulent waves

I surfed over them for so long

So long! That when now i think of return

My shaky hands and wobbly eyes yearn

for the devastated lands of throbbing thorns

Now you look like a child of thirteen

For god sake! Don't ask for a candy

Your brainless vulnerability

Silly attacks to the considered enemy

Only deserve the stroke of harsh reality

You, the shattered one; me, the collapsed one

Just made for the streams of mingled confusion

Fantasy

2009-06-15T18:42:00.004+06:00

{{{ Under Construction}}}

Godforsaken World....

2009-06-11T23:19:00.006+06:00

Disoriented Births

Fugitive Children

Conflicted Kids

Alienated Teens

Frustrated Adults

Tiresome Men

Debilitated Olds
&
Frantic Corpses

What a godforsaken world we are living in !!!

The midget of Lahore

2009-06-10T17:14:00.007+06:00

The midget of Lahore

falling undeniably.

Provoking enrichments in a 'being'.

That Being is me
&
Enrichment is you.

One night the other midgets

The midgets of Lahore,

threw a lavish party,

invited that being midget.

Enriched one!

Showed him the dames of the city

Call him an enriched being

Midget-Being swirled in enrichment,

showed them the diadem,

the diadem of his enlightenment.

Whop whoppa whop! they yelled

They danced over an acrylic flame

Called him a legend, the Monarch,

cuddled in each others' bones,

then they cry
Whop whoppa whop!

Cry cry and a shriek
WHOP!!!

Somebody stabbed the Monarch,

the barbecue stick stained,

with the hot fluids.

Vibrant enrichments oozing out of the midget

The midget fell undeniably

Then the whoopers rhymed

'Midgets aren't meant to enrichment

anguish woe and torment,

the only fate of a being midget.'

Then all the midgets of Lahore

called it a night!

Dying midget said:

'Being is me
&
enrichment is you,

Rest is fluid and fragmented dew

60 minute cerebral, corporal trauma.

2009-05-21T16:15:00.003+06:00

Stumbling pools of mystic
Sweaty salts trickiling
drop by drop
Batteries wiped off
My UPS beeping, suffocating,
trying to take one last breath
My hands fumbled for an old newspaper
Not to read the prophecy of some minister
But just to blow a useless air
My reports, my thesis,
unfinished tasks and readings
lying numb in some metallic disks
Why the heck my life is so dependant
on this micro, mini stream of electrons.
An electronic pestilence,
yielding nothing, but just a
60 minute consistent, persistent,
cerebral, corporal trauma....

Tabah Hal Tot'tay Hain Aur Bikhartay Hain

2008-09-23T06:45:00.014+06:00

Click to read
Download its pdf from:
http://www.scribd.com/doc/10670605/tabah-hal