Ground Realities

Ah! How far is perception away from truth.

Last week has been a homecoming of sorts. The only difference though is that the protests are peaceful and spontaneous. Get an idea from the headlines over the last few days.

Friday

Night protests are back in Srinagar

World wakes up to Kashmir crisis

Saturday

Shutdown, blackout in Valley

Green flags hoisted on Clock Tower

Sunday

LAKHS ASSEMBLE IN PAMPORE

No dearth of refreshments enroute Pampore

Fabric comes free for flags

For all those who still do not want to believe, they deserve the relentless agony of sordid channels like India TV and company. Let them listen to tales of utter nonsense. A glimmer of hope amidst this filth is NDTV and CNN IBN, which to some extent can hold their head high. That reminds me of the latest debate on ‘We The People’. Some brilliant bytes:

“For us the land deal is over, If you want it, touch me if you can”, Sajjad Lone reducing a Samiti’s leader to shame.

“I thank BJP because what Hurriyat could not do for last 10 years was achieved by BJP in a month, Revival of the Kashmiri sentiment.”, Shaukat Sheikh, Law Professor, Kashmir University.

“New Delhi likes to believe that they will sleep over the Kashmir problem and it will get solved magically”, Omar Abdullah.

“You have a problem, you have a severe identity crisis and that is why you are probably shouting over nothing”, Sajjad Lone making a mockery of the Jammu protests.

“Firing is the last resort, the Indian army does not seem to have water canons while dispersing protesters in Kashmir Valley. Even if you are forced to fire, fire in the air and if that fails, fire at the legs. The people who have died over the last 2-3 days have sustained bullet injuries in head, chest and shoulders”, Omar Abdullah stunning Indian politicians with bare facts.

Seeing the unity of thought of Kashmiris, other panelists were approriately stunned.

REVOLUTION

‘Beneath this mask there is more than flesh… Beneath this mask there is an idea, and ideas are bulletproof.’

V for Vendetta

I tried my best not to involve myself in the quagmire, but patience has limits (for I am human). How long can you wait, not an eternity in all. What is the point in waiting for I have a duty. A duty towards motherland. An unsaid commitment. And those who resist against this will bite dust in this world or the other.

I begin by saying, Kashmir is special, not because it ought to enjoy special status, but it will bleed to rise. It will defy oppression to hoist the flag of grit.

The oppressor is a country which has all the time in the world to boast about its petty gold medal (for they had won none) but has no channel-space for the people it is buchering on the streets of Srinagar (Impartial Media-bloody farce). It is so weak a country that it needs 7 lakh troops to martial a territory, which it claims to be its integral part. What paradox. The worst part is that it makes itself to believe that the people of Kashmir would forget the brutal attrocities, custodial killings, inhumane interrogations and public humiliation.

Indian Security Forces, who are reffered to as dogs in Kashmir can exercise no control over the non-entities blocking the highway but can definitely shower bullets on unarmed people in broad day light. The numbers speak for themselves. A 30-40 day unrest in Jammu results in the death of 4 policemen and 5 civilians, while as a couple of days of genuine protest in the Kashmir Valley sees 20 people attaining matyrdom.

And as far as Amarnath Yatra is concerned over which Jammuites whimper, there has not been a single untoward instance involving a Yatri. And yet, label the revolution as being communal. Keep in mind that if Kashmiris want, they will not spare a single Yatri, but we are not mass murderers like Indian authorites.

The only thing India or its citizens can do other than killing Kashmiris, is having an economic blockade, holding Kashmiris to ransom. It is good that India is taking away what little dependence we had on them. Let us die but we will not beg. We will excercise our freedom of choice of trading outside. Apparently India doesnt want that as well, what it only wants is to kill and cripple Kashmiris.

And finally, I salute all those Kashmiris who have laid down their lives for the elusive freedom. Your sacrifices will not go waste, in this lifetime or the other. Nasrun Minnallahi Wa Fathan Qareeb.

Children of Heaven – Film Review

I had only heard about Iranian films being original and simplistic. ‘Children of Heaven’ made me believe it. This unassuming movie makes you realise that cinema is all about telling stories with sincerity and unfeigned thought.

As the tagline ‘A little secret…Their biggest adventure’ suggests, the film captures the relationship of a brother (Ali) and sister (Zahra) and their endeavor over a lost pair of shoes. This struggle of sorts brings out their poverty of choice and purity of love.

Scenes where Ali and Zahra converse in verbatim or otherwise are the real highlights of the movie. Ali and Zahra exchanging notes, Ali gifting away his gift to Zahra, Ali kindling hope in Zahra of getting shoes and Zahra’s gaze at Ali’s feet in the climax are stirringly emotive. Infact you cant stop yourself from hitting remembrance of innocent childhood.

The movie reaches a zenith in the penultimate sequence of foot race where Ali is natural to the hilt. Check out his unpretentious expressions, they have never been captured before on celluloid. Well if I am not deducing too much, I would like to believe that Aamir might have had a sighting of this movie while making ‘Taare Zameen Par’. Even if what I am suggesting is true, it would be a case of genuine inspiration. [Drawing competition and Foot race dont compare well]

As fate would have it, ‘Children of Heaven’ lost out to the Italian film, ‘Life is Beautiful’ in Best Foreign Film Category of Oscars in 1998. What competition. What cinema.

Nazm-e-Shaam

The view is from a solitary hut in Yusmarg. The place silently breathes tranquility. That is ample inspiration for penning poems. This one is about experiencing nightfall with the beloved. It is purely imaginative and was envisaged by me, Muneem and Nadeem.

Nazm-e-Shaam

Shaam se aaj rubaru, Hum hogaye

Waqt to thamta naheen, Ae chand tu thahar

Jugnu bhi aane lage, Saraa shabnam huwi

Anjuman taaron ki, sajne lagee

Ik hirs jagee, dil main kaheen

Kaise kahoon tumse, Shreen-rukh saamne

Hairaan hoon main, Khamosh hoon

Shaam-e-Shameem main khoya hoon

Khaalis dil hai mera, Mumkin to zaraa

Baithe raho saamne, Nazm abhi zaahir nahin

MY NAME IS RED – Review

The reason for picking up this novel is not that it has won the Nobel Prize for Literature nor is it the extravagant praise that has been showered on it by critics. It is something to do with the allure that Pamuk’s writings possess. Translated works have never been more enriching. The rare intrigue that typifies Pamuk is definitely not lost in translation.

‘MY NAME IS RED’ is a work of art in every sense. It narrates art and exemplifies it. The murder mystery (It is demeaning to call it that) is set in the backdrop of Ottoman Empire in the 16th century. Miniaturists, Illustrators, Illuminators and Calligraphers of that era take centrestage. The conflict between cultures, ideologies and art (Orhan’s signature style) again forms the underlying melody.

With chapters presented as first-person accounts rather than the mundane third-person, the uniqueness oozes out. The ingenuity though lies in the chapters like ‘I AM A CORPSE’, ‘I AM DEATH’, ‘I,SATAN’ and ‘I AM RED’, where the abstract and innate converse with the reader.

Since every character recalls famous ancient stories to supplement their narratives (which can get a little repetitive and confusing), it is of value to get the chronology of historical events right. An excerpt from the novel:

‘As is recorded in books and confirmed by scholars, the soul dwells in four realms: 1. the womb; 2. the terrestial world; 3. Berzah, or divine limbo, where I now await Judgement Day; and 4. Heaven or Hell, where I will arrive after the Judgement.

From the intermediate state of Berzah, past and present time appear at once, and as long as soul remains within its memories, limitations of place do not obtain. Only when one escapes the dungeons of time and space does it become evident that life is a straightjacket. However blissful it is being a soul without a body in the realm of dead, so too is being a body without soul among the living; what a pity nobody realizes it before dying. Therefore, during my lovely funeral, as I greviously watched my dear Shekure wear herself out weeping in vain, I begged of Exalted Allah to grant us souls-without-bodies in Heaven and bodies-without-souls in life.’

Lest I Forget

This reminds me of memoirs which are meant to be understood by the implied few. More importantly they are there because thoughts betray.

T for truck, I know seventy percent, Thompson n Thompson, Zone Ka Problem, Surprise Surprise ! the dish is still there, Khandhar, Lucky and her unlucky BF, Moh-Maya, ShaiMak Daavar, Pehli Nazar, Jashn, Muftalazee, Pancha Futte Dandde, Rishi Bhai, Whispering Winds, Spikes at Tequila, Landmark-Guru Dutt, Express Highways, ‘I remember every place in Pune’, BOM-SXR, High Dynamic Range, Is it ……, Baba, Jigru, Of forgotten friends (Suhaib, Saqib, Yawar, Shadaab, Adnaan), Of remembered few ( Neo, Star, GM-HLL, BM-CCD, Munna, Afghani), Tulip Gardens, Vector Art, CANON.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

‘Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, Who is the darkest of them all‘

Although this should have been an introductory blog, an ‘about me’ sort of a post. But at such an early stage we didn’t know where the trend of our thoughts would lead ‘us’ or this blog. Now that the blog is some 2 months old, the blog feels it should say something. Listen.

Meet me. I’m “Recluse”. The name itself conveys an inclination towards solitude and with only a few fellow ‘blogs’ knowing me, I certainly portray the same ‘reclusive’ nature as my moderator. My moderator believes in “It is better to be alone than being lonely” attitude, but I wouldn’t concord to it, atleast not in a bloggers world.

Pondering over, my development over the last two months, I feel my contributors have rendered me with a gravity, at least in contrast to all my fellow blogs. It seems that I am a vent for a random mix of emotions and thoughts – most of the time doleful, though. My writers like to explore deep dark heart rending human emotions – complexity of human existence, parting away, death, so on and so forth.

However, in a light mood, they tend to go back to their Kashmiri roots – the beautiful place, the people, and yes of course the most recent ‘Chinar’. Oh, yeah and how can I forget the Barmecidal promises they make, of coming up with blogs about their childhood memories (after being inspired by ‘Taare Zameen Par’, and an evening C’not discussion), and the review about ‘SNOW’. I have regrets with my bloggers – for having spoiled my reputation among my fellow blogs, because of their procrastination in writing blogs, they plan to.

Some of the blogs posted on me, do have a commonality – most of the time they are comprehendible only to ‘the people behind the blog’ , (or sometimes not even to them, if the author happens to be ‘Peer Sahib’) or to Kashmiris, owing to the Kashmir specific nature.

It seems I’ve come up with a critical autobiography of myself. Anyhow I would like to offer my sympathies to all those readers, who get caught up in ‘My’ reconditeness and gravity. But it is good to have an enigma around oneself. And with regard to the promised blogs, I just tell my readers to be sanguine and never lose on hope. Keep checking.

Adieu!

Cliffhanger

Zones 1-56

It looks like a mountain (I would have preferred to call it a hillock, but somehow mountain sounds more attractive), turned anticlockwise by 90 degrees. Somewhere far away I hear a tune. I have been hearing it ever since I came here and now that tune is echoing from the mountain. The tune of life, the tune of mortality is slowly dying down. This particular mountain is unique in its own way. Apart from the uncommon inclination, it has embedded in it a whole lot of human qualities, ranging from calmness to rage, from love to hatred. In a strange way, and to my surprise, it reflects my life. I can see myself in each of it’s layers, one expression hidden behind the other. White for peace, red for anger, green for envy, blue for calmness, all artistically arranged.

My arms are giving away, fingers bleeding… I can no longer hold on to the cliff. I let go off it. As I start falling, I bid adieu to the mountain, somehow it felt analogous to bidding farewell to my existence. I fall and fall into the deep black abyss……

Aatish-e-Chinar

Whenever I post an article, I compile the writing first and then think of a picture that suits it. Well, that is what I usually do. Sometimes though you are inspired to make exceptions. The inspiration came from the picture below.

I took it on a fresh October morning and stylized it on a mundane November afternoon. It was orginally meant to be the album cover of an unreleased Kashmiri Band. [More on the picture in the next post]

For now, let me put down the Nazm/Poem that originated because of the artwork. The Nazm titled ‘Naar-e-Chinar’ has been written by Sharjeel and translated to a Poem titled ‘The Chinar Fire’ by me.

NAAR-E-CHINAR

Naar-e-chinar naar-e-chinar
Naar-e-chinar woh Aah-o-figaar

Dekhta hai koi meree weeranee ko,
Sunta hai koi meree ashq-i-fishaani ko

Woh koi hai ya nahee, Ek khayal ki tarah
Jal gaya mera wajood, Kisee aatish ki tarah

Naar-e-chinar naar-e-chinar
Patey mere watan ke huey khaak zaar

Jal gaye kisi gulzaar mein, Ronde gaye kisi mazaar mein,
Chinar ke woh jo patey hain, Talaf huey kisi ke pyaar mein

Naar-e-chinar naar-e-chinar
Naa dhuaan utha ai naar-e-chinar

Raat uskee ankhen hain ab, Woh jo meree ibaadat hai
Dhoondtee hai meree parchaai, Be khabar woh ki qayamat hai

Dekh ki mera ghar waheen hai kaheen
Ya phir kabhee woh dar kabhee khulaa he nahee
Kya woh bache khelte hain abhee bhee waheen
Har shab ke baad jahan subeh hotee thee kabhee

Sab jal gaya, Sab badal gaya
Na zameen rahee, Na aasmaan
Ai naar-e-chinar, Ai naar-e-chinar

THE CHINAR FIRE

The fire within The fire within
The fire within and That war cry

Is there somebody watching my ruins burn
Is there somebody hearing my tears turn

Whether there is or not, Like an unsure thought
My existence stands to expire, Like the smoldering mire

The fire within The fire within
The wilted leaves of mine, lie in the desolate shrine

Burnt in the flowery hearth, Trampled in the deathly earth
The young leaves that were, Slaughtered for their verve

The fire within The fire within
No smoke surge for the fire within

Their eyes see darkness, of whom I saw radiance
Amidst yearning for shadows, they overlook doomed gallows

Gaze for my abode, Somewhere it might be
Or did it never see, The doors of glee

Is that place there, The young played where
Is that place there, Where nights saw dawn appear

The fire engulfed, The change spread
The earth died, The sky cried
The fire within The fire within

Disappearing Humans

Memories. They come back. They ravage and you are left a handicap, the whole of your life. The autumn leaves always get crumpled under ones’s feet. And that is what the life becomes. A thousand hearts beat in your chest and you never really come to terms with the façade that this world is. But, at the irony of things, you love it all. To have been what no one can ever be.

The cold September wind knocks at my door. My dreams sleep and my indolence wakes up. At around 4:25 AM, I am at one of the rotaries in my college. In the distance, walks a man towards me, like a resurfacing memory, who looks so small. But as he draws closer my figure is subdued by something colossal. The man is Syed or ‘Peer Sahab’ (fondly called for his immoral divinity). His reaction is a fit of laughter and I join in. And none of us knows, what is it all about. Must be another beautiful thing from our unfaithful past. As the tumult dies down, we float on the hum of our conversations towards the mess, where we are supposed to do ‘Sehri’.

In a bright halo just outside, is Junaid, oscillating between the endless corridors of his mind. A glint lights up his eyes, as he finds us in that beautiful corridor. I greet him and Syed pats him on the back and it looks like an accident between a truck and a bicycle. Jitters again. We continue eating and come to a halt with the call of the ‘Muezzin’. But Syed Sahab issues a ‘fatwa’, saying we can continue for five minutes after the ‘Azaan’. As faithful followers (just the two of us), we continue lousily.

5:30 AM. Three of us at the college crossroad. Owais and Junaid are about to leave. They bid me goodbye. I don’t return it. They walk away, getting smaller and smaller in the realms of my mind, till I photograph them at the point where they seem to cross the threshold of my vision. I feel like tears in my eyes. I reach out for my hands to wipe them off. But my eyes are dry like a famine. The tears are long gone. It is all an illusion.