Crutches, who?

I know the thoughts I have conceived so confidently today will lose their authenticity in my own mind tomorrow. Truth will hit me; at times gradually with no sudden harm visible; at times vividly hitting and making me bleed. But let’s bet. Let’s gamble in a wild lawbreaker casino of our minds. Let’s just sleep with a hope that tomorrow morning when we open our eyes, we would stretch our arms with an air of indifference… and a girl would tie her hair up with a smile… a wife would be there with a cup of tea to offer to her husband… a newspaper with a good news perhaps…

Pop!

*wakes up from the dream*

Here I am. Here’s the mountain top; a desolated cliff at the edge of the war stricken valley. A valley where soldiers are fighting and they are fighting for what they think is right. A bunch of conscious people who are opinionated, who know what they are doing. Realizations, they say, don’t hurl your way for nothing. If you conceive them, you must believe in them. If they come to you, you must welcome them. And if they come to you late, embrace them more warmly. This fighting is a holy act, they believe. I was once among them… and I fought well… until I lost my limb in a blow…

I am sitting on a rock. Here’s the mountain top; a desolated cliff. Watching them from this height is nostalgic scenery. Around me are densely populated trees. Too many trees make a forest; trees with stumps of wood. In fact, too much wood make a dense forest. Around me, is too much wood. A material our modern world deems obsolete i.e. they now prefer steel over wood when strength is needed. Wood fashion isn’t adored much now either.

“I know the material I chose so confidently today will lose its reliability in my own mind tomorrow”, says the much evolving world. “Truth will hit me”, says the eagerness of a curious mind.

I am alone. Here’s the mountain top; a desolated cliff. To walk back, I need support. But here, only wood I have at hand; too much of nature that’s obsolete to the modern world. Out of no choice, I take out my blade, cut the wood pieces to make crutches, take their support and stumble down back to the valley of conscious people having realizations, who know what they are doing… the holy war of conscience…

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Twenty one years, I feel,

Are not enough to understand myself

Life is a year and seasons, many. 

The autumn leaves

Have been cleared off the street;

No more crispy sounds

Under my feet!

I, now, walk this path

Without the music of rustling leaves

Now, road is a routine,

Not a treat.

Feelings, now, are froth and foam

Lights once guided me home.

                                It’s like once you used to see the moon with all the depth and delight, and then one day you came to know the tides in the sea owe their existence to the gravitational pull of the moon. That day, you headed towards the sea to spend days and nights surfing the waves, relaxing on the sand and forgetting the moon itself; forgetting that the sweater of your dreams was once woven by the threads of the sight of the moon in solitude; that you felt closest to yourself when you gazed at the moon and contemplated over the wild and the tame sides of your personality; that you are missing something basic, and that hurts…

Applying the same butter of logic on the bread of relations, I too feel the sandwich isn’t as bulky as it would take us to relish the first bite as an unforgettable delicious moment. The thought that tomatoes and lettuce are accessory fillers, and mere ketchup would make it to the expected volume, has often let me down. It’s like publishing in the menu book what you don’t have in your kitchen. Fake advertisement, some say, is a part of the business… but again… missing something…

“I know the words I wrote so passionately today will lose their charm in my own mind tomorrow”, says the sufferer of changes. “Truth will hit me”, predicts the pessimist.

Transiently achieved feats may sometimes exalt you to a mindset where you think you need no further assists; that crutches are a characteristic of the weak and the gloomy. And so changes your behaviour; making your present, past; breathing at a new artificial pace; but still missing something very basic. One must see between the intricate designs of nature that at some part of your life, you too with a lost limb shall be there on the mountain top, a desolated cliff. To walk back down the valley, you will need support; but, the only thing around you will be wood. No matter how obsolete a material you deem it, you would have no choice but to take out your blade, cut the wood pieces to make crutches, take their support and walk back to the valley where people are conscious; conscious of what they were, are and learning how to stay the same; aware of the statuses when they should fight for their basics, for the conscience lives under the pursuit of satisfaction.

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True friends are God-gifted crutches. Life is a quest for the trues ones. If they come to you, welcome them. And if they come to you late, embrace them more warmly.

Don't make me believe!

The pen that once used to race
With an undulating grace
Revealing the moments of strife
In my fantasies and realities of life
For the confidence in me ensued
The belief I have always pursued
that "Preach what you conceive at heart"
For your existence is an ideological mart
Where people come and go
In their minds some seeds I sow
Of care, truth and justice
Which I wish them to practise
Because in those virtues, I believed
And my conscience was spiritually relieved
But then, with intentions to loot
Some robbers came and began to shoot
The delicacies of my ideological mart
Those evils hit the dart of my heart
My urge to preach died there and then
And beliefs were torn by the lions in den
My pen that once used to race
Broke it's nib, like splinters in trace
And now I repent the moment I was given
The choice to breed faith that was driven
O world! don't make me believe from now on
For the days of inner beauty are long gone!

(Syed Ahmad Raza)
(In KELS short story writing competition)

کانچ کہانی

وہ تجهے تجهہ کو دکهاوے- سنورنے کی آرزو جاگے تو روبرو آوے- تیرے گهر میں گهر کیے ہوئے کب سے تجهے خوب دلکش لاگے- اپنے گهونسلے سے باہر بهی اس کا ذوق دید اکثر ستاوے کہ تو اسے اپنے پاس بهی رکهے تو بس پهر... "جب ذرا گردن جهکائی دیکهہ لی

تیرا ہر آغاز سحر اسے دیدنی سمجهے... کہ دن بهر بذات اس کے تیرے نین نقش تجهہ پہ عیاں ہوویں کہ پهر شام تک لاشعور اپنی ہی اداوں کے سحر میں گرفتار رہے- گویا سرگزشت اس دیوار پر لگے شیشے کی

 مرہون منت ہو جاوے کہ جب تک نہ دیکهے چین نہ آوے


پهر اک روز اک جهگڑے سے واپسی
 پر تیز رفتار گاڑی دہلیز پہ آکر رکی

 تو نے گهر کا دروازہ پٹخا اور کمرے میں داخل ہو کر اسی شیشے کے سامنے کهڑا ہوا- فرط اشتعال میں سگریٹ جلایا- اور دهواں شیشے پر پهونکا... گویا خود پر... ہاتهوں کو میز پر جمایا تو سانس نے مزید رفتار پکڑی- ہر گزرتے لمحے کے ساتهہ چہرہ غصے سے سرخ ہوتا چلا گیا حتی کہ میز پر پڑے گلاس کو اٹها کر پورے زور سے شیشے میں دے مارا- اک چیخ بلند ہوئی اور اگلے ہی لمحے فرش پر شیشے کے چهوٹے چهوٹے ٹکرے بکهرے پڑے تهے- پهر یونہی ہانپتے ہوئے خود کو
جهنجهوڑا اور یوں نیند کے آغوش میں ہو لیا

اب کے جب صبح ہوئی تو فہد پر عجیب کیفیت طاری تهی- اب تک کی ساری کہانی ایک ٹیپ کی طرح اس کے ذہن میں چل رہی تهی- جیسے کوئی انجان آواز ماضی کے صفحے تل رہی ہو- کمرے میں نظر دوڑائی تو ہر طرف کانچ کے بکهرے ہوئے ٹکڑے دکهائی دئیے- ہمیشہ کی طرح آج بهی سنورنے کا خیال آیا لیکن خود کو روبرو نہ پایا- فریم میں اب شیشہ نہ رہا- عکس کی آرزو بےچین راہوں پہ نکل پڑی- فرش پر بکهرے سیکڑوں ٹکڑوں میں سیکڑوں چہرے... اور ہر چہرے کا رخ الگ... جیسے اپنی دنیا میں اپنا ہی قتل کر ڈالا ہو... اپنا ہی وجود جیسے ٹکڑے ٹکڑے ہوا ہو... ہر ٹکڑا اک ادا کی روداد سناوے

ان دنوں جب لوگ نیا گهر بناتے تو صحن سے لگتی دیواروں کی چوٹیوں پر سیمنٹ میں شیشے کے ٹکڑے چنوا دیتے کے کوئی دیوار نہ پهلانگ سکے اور چور ڈکیت سے حفاظت ره جاوے- کانچ جسم پہ پهر جاوے تو زخم گہرا لاگے تو کیوں نہ اپنے ہاتهوں سے توڑے ہوئے شیشے کو گهر کی حفاظت کی نذر کر دیا جاوے؟ فہد نے مزدور سے کہہ کر ان ٹکڑوں کو صحن سے جڑی دیواروں کی چوٹیوں پر چنوادیا... بلکہ یوں کہئیے کہ سجوادیا... کیونکہ خواہش اب حفاظت سے زیادہ نظروں کے سامنے رہنے کی تهی- فہد نے سوچا کہ صحن میں ٹہلا کروں گا تو دیواروں کو دیکهہ کر پرانے دیدنی یار کی یاد تازہ رہ جاوے گی

یہ فہد کا مکان تها جو اسے وراثت میں ملا تها- ایک مکان اور بهی تها جو
اس نے بنایا تها اپنی دنیا کہ بحر رومان کے ایک جزیرے پر... سنبل کے پهول لگائے تهے کہ سنبل کے ہم نام تهے- وہ اپنی شخصیت میں موسیقی کا سا ساز رکهتی تهی جسے سن کر فہد نے یہ خوابوں کی دنیا سجائی تهی- سنبل کے لیے راحتوں کے سمندر میں فہد نے بہت سے طوفان دیکهے- ساحل سمندر پہ بسے شہر سے اس خوابوں بهرے جزیرے تک کا سفر اک عرصئہ دراز پر محیط تها جس کا آغاز کراچی میں پہلی ملاقات سے ہوا- سنبل اپنی ماسٹرز کی ڈگری حاصل کرنے کا بعد اب بینک میں ملازمت کر رہی تهی- فہد بهی آسٹریلیا سے تعلیم حاصل کر کے واپس پاکستان آچکا تها اور کراچی میں اپنے خاندانی کاروبار کو سنبهالے ہوا تها- والدین کے انتقال پر اسے ایک مکان وراثت میں ملا تها جسے وہ اب گهر بنانا چاہتا تها اور یہ بات وہ اکثر سنبل سے کیا کرتا تها- ابتداء میں تو اجنبیت کی آڑ میں ہچکچاہٹ رہی لیکن پهر دهیرے دهیرے گنجلک سلجهنے لگی کہ دل جڑے ایسے جیسے کراچی اور سمندر ساتهہ ساتهہ... کراچی دونوں کے دل کے بہت قریب تها کہ یہاں ان کی کہانی کا اک نیا باب کهلا تها- سمندر سیاہی بنا اور ورق محبت حسین عبارتوں سے سجنے لگا- جلد ہی دونوں کو ایک ہونا تھا

عشق کے ہنرمندوں پہ جاویں تو محبوب کو اک آئینہ پاویں کہ محب کا عکس خود میں سماوے تو محبوب کہلاوے- فہد سنبل کی آنکھوں میں خود کو دیکھتا گویا سرگزشت ان آنکھوں کی مرہون منت ہو جاوے کہ جب تک نہ 

دیکهے چین نہ آوے

وہ جو رسم پیامبری تھی کراچی کی ہواؤں کا خاصا رہی- وہ جو موسم تھا 

بہار کا تها- وہ جو کراچی تها نا، وہ باغ تھا کہ جس کے پهول بوٹوں کو مالی پر بهروسہ تها کہ کاٹے گا بهی تو صرف حسن کے لئیے کہ عاشقوں کے پہرے میں محبتیں جنم لیں گی- وہ جتنی اک دوجے سے محبت کرتے اتنی ہی کراچی سے بهی کرتے تھے غرضیکہ کراچی تکلیف میں ہووے تو فہد اور سنبل کو بھی برابر درد رلاوے

پهر اک حادثاتی شام کو ساحل کی ریت نے یہ منظر بهی دیکھا کہ سنبل کنارے پر فہد کی طرف رخ کئیے کهڑی ہے لیکن فہد کا رخ اس سے پرے ہے- سر غم سے جهکا ہے اور آنسو تو جیسے ساحل پر اک اور سمندر بناویں- اب کے دو سمندر ٹکراویں تو بهنور ایسا بنے کہ کراچی معزوری کی حد تک لڑکهڑاوے پر بیساکهیاں میسر نہ آویں... فہد نے برسوں اس زمین کو اپنا آشیانہ کہا تها- سنبل کی خاطر اپنا تن، من، دهن اس بستی سے منسوب کیا تھا- مگر یہ آوارہ ہوا کا جهونکا تو جیسے سارے سپنے اڑا لے جاوے- چارسو اب امن کا ساز گم سم سا لاگے اور صدائے ناراض گونجے... وہ جس ریت پر ان دونوں کے قدم نقش تهے، وہ ریت بحر رومان کی لہروں کے ساتهہ بہتی دکهائی دیوے- اتنے

میں سنبل نے فہد کے کاندهے پہ اپنا حوصلہ مند ہاتهہ رکها تو ڈهارس بندهی- اب جو دونوں روبرو آئے تو اک دوجے کی آنکهوں میں اپنے نین نقش پهر سے تازہ کیے- پهر دونوں نے رخ کیا سمندر کے اس پار شام کے ڈهلتے سورج کی اوڑ... جیسے بانہوں میں بانہیں ڈالے اک عمر گزاری ہو- ابهی اکٹهے اک آہ بهری تھی کہ بستی کے دشمنوں نے گولیوں سے دو خواب اور چهلنی کردئیے

وہ جو اک دوجے کی زندگی کے سورج تهے، کراچی کے سورج کے ساتهہ یوں غروب ہوئے کہ فریم میں اب شیشہ نہ رہا... عکس کی آرزو بےچین راہوں پہ نکل پڑی

(سید احمد رضا)

THE PITCHER TALK!

A dreary slum at midnight, like a haunted mire, aired with the croaks of frogs; a few dogs here and there- some asleep, some astray. The mud houses stood like idols of clay, as silent as the depth of some long forgotten well. The stars, as clear as in any part of the world, mesmerized her sense of curiosity. Thanks to there being not much clouds high up there- a clear sky night. She was never sure of the corners a star had- five or eight? May be six…

All in the corner of the courtyard of his congested place, she was sitting beside a pitcher. She decided to have a talk.

“Pitcher O pitcher! What makes thou so important to thee?”

And every now and then, she would admire its flask shaped body and the narrow collar, like the neck of a beautiful hen she once saw in the fields. How gorgeous! Glitters embellished its top half; a plate at the opening. Inside, life gets cool. Tilt it and savour life. Purposeful clay, shaped to quench- fashioned above, blunt below; and an intact product of a potter’s toil.

“… we are the clay and thou art the potter, and we are all the works of thy hand” (Isaiah- 64:8)

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Dangling our feet, we sit on the edge of the wall and talk about sitting on the moon. The wind blows and grows colder; helps to imagine more profoundly. An urge to sigh takes hold of the breath and we breathe.  We recall. We assemble. We rest our weight on both the arms and bow the head down, reflecting. “Thou hath been blind…” we overhear. With a sudden reflex of insecurity, we stand up; sweat. Out of bewilderment, we take out our fragile swords of reason and guard with the false shield of ego. A supernatural clamour rings the seven seas and we plug our fingers into our ears. We defy with all power. And when the image blurs, we kill each other… remains remain.

In a downtown, a car lay parked. The steering-wheel and the wheel beneath were talking. The wheel envied the steering-wheel. It thought it was as round as the latter; still it had to roll all the way through the mud, marsh and dirt of the roads; while the steering-wheel enjoyed the soft and comfortable hands of the driver, had the privilege of determining a vehicle’s direction, with no possibility of being dragged in the face of the streets.

“Why?” the wheel asked.

Meanwhile, the driver arrived and solved the riddle, “Thou hath forgotten to know thy own place’s value, and hath lost the sense of confidence in it. Thou hath to spin on the road because thou were made to do so. None can do it better than thou. Look at the girth, the volume, the strength thou hath been bestowed with. Thou art strong and tough. Know thyself lest the undue envy should kill the soul.” says the driver, with all the mighty brains. And in that just vehicle of tranquillity, I aspire to travel.

I journeyed a desert, sojourned under a date palm; a coconut fell and broke open- what was hidden inside became known. The holy nature talked of her nature. That she always said they could break her heart open and see themselves how much she valued them. She wouldn’t talk it out otherwise.

A canal ran nearby. The pitcher never talked to her back, but she knows the rationale of it, the place of it; she grabs it firmly, picks it up high and puts it on her head, like a queen being crowned.

 “Barefoot through the bazaar, and with the same undulant grace”, she would walk towards the flowing life to fill the pitcher again. Silent clay, meant to quench, finds its admirer. The king and the queen go all the way to complement each other, step by step, soul by soul, faith by faith.

(Syed Ahmad Raza)

The Bye-Bye Wisdom…

Cheers! (Joy)

(All hands held the drinks up high)

 All sitting around the round table gently stroke their beverage glasses with one another’s high up in the middle. What a memorable clicking sound of glasses that was! They were many. The restaurant and the party were lavish. All glittered in the atmosphere; the ecstasy being divine. The gossips, the pats on the back, the cuisine, the glistening neon illuminations and the company… all had the best time ever with one another.

Soft reviving music in the background… For some, it was that music which helped them recall everything about one another. For me, they didn't need any music. The strings of their hearts generated enough of music to fall in love with the moment. That night, their eyes shed waterfalls. And there had to come a moment, at last, when they had to look in one another’s eyes and still stay quiet. From heart to heart, it went then. And it was evident that it will have to go the same way from then onward…

All were happy they didn't have any debt of emotions to pay. All apologies practically offered and granted. They were all about to depart rich and contented. A tearful inner satisfaction existed among them. 

*May you stay blessed and happy wherever you go… Here we separate. Farewell!*

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Many years ago, you came to me and advocated the notion of “Living the moment”. You were actually worried about me. You took me to one side and tried to express… that wherever we go in life, we would be connected still. Hey! Who doesn’t want to live the moment? But not everyone is mature enough to do that. Some might live the moment at the cost of ruining the rest of their lives and that of others. So it’s again a general fear… Distance is a wise thing, you see. Trust me. I am just trying to preserve the charm of our inevitable farewell since the very first day. A happy ending note must not be compromised.

I have tried to live most of the moments nevertheless, except the one when you left. I couldn’t live it. It all started the day I asked you to be wise and forget me. And that strength lies in forgetting. You decided to show me your strength and were perhaps way too stronger. At different times of the year, you kept on reminding me that you were very happy you had not been depending on me for quite some time. All was going according to the plan. And I was glad you were becoming wiser… that my role as your crutches was fading away… I had longed for that. By then, I had a new dream- to make sure you could stay blissfully forever without me.

How childish it had been of us as kids! Childhood had been such a fantastic time. We used to think every destination was so simple to reach at. That victory is a piece of cake. Growing up, getting educated, having an ideal job and touring the whole world used to be the hallmarks of my dreams. I never knew some people would become such a crucial part of me that their likes and dislikes would become the way of my life. They would become my destiny. That making them smile would become the criterion of my being successful. See how unpredictable life is! Sometimes crossing a single speed breaker becomes a matter of life and death. The question of reaching the building ahead seems a far cry.

I would persist. I would stick to being masked. I would keep saying “I am fine”. But you would keep on inquiring continuously. I would get irritated, go out in the park and sit on a bench alone. You would follow and sit beside me on the bench after 5 minutes, embrace me and I would make your shoulder wet with all the answers of your queries. I would want to rest my head on your shoulder a bit longer and you would enjoy doing anything to make me comfortable. You would be a friend. After a decade, I might not remember anything but I would always remember weeping on your shoulder…

You trust me too much :’( It gives me fear. I know we won’t be together forever and I regret knowing that in the first place. But the circumstances have compelled me to think practically; hence the mask of not wanting love from anyone. I do it with a caring intention. No offence meant. I would wish to care about you behind your back. You know what; the music doesn't invoke in me what it does in others. I am on a mission to nurture selflessness. For others, the tenure of the music comprises life. But my life starts after the music. At the end of the melody, I would get up, put the bag on my shoulder and walk away silently, not because we broke up or had any misconception but because my job would have been done by then. 

I would leave you in the city and head towards the mountains. After making it to the top of some far off desolated spot, I would settle. And every night, I would come out of my haven, face towards your town, and see your place glowing out among those millions of radiant houses of the city which come in my birds eye view.  I would see the light of your house from far away… till the sun rises again… And utter with deep sighs, “My job is done”… :’)

*May you stay blessed and happy wherever you live… Here we separate. Farewell!*

And life goes on...

I had a dream...

From the lips of a newborn
Which has never been pricked by a thorn
Comes out an innocent wish
A humble longing to cherish
What would keep him intact?
Oblivious of every bitter fact...
He idealizes his existence
With time, he learns persistence.
He thinks he could remain as such
Pure, cute, without an evil touch...
Yes! It's my childhood story
Aspiration to carry the glory
A dream to be milk
Unadulterated, unalloyed, urbane like silk

But now, you have me
Like a cut tree
Like broken pieces of mirror
With shackles around, full of terror
My couch is despair
Now I have grey hair
I couldn't prevent my desire
From wearing a hypocritical attire

O world! Let me scream
For I had a dream
To dream the ideal purity
But now my tears give no surety.

(Syed Ahmad Raza)
(5th position at KELS English Inter-class short story and poem writing competition, 2013)