From a Pakistani To a Pakistani

Nusrat:
Yeh jo halka halka suroor hai
Yeh teri nazar ka kusoor hai
Ki sharaab peena sikha diya
Ki sharab peena sikha diya

Grim:
Sharab ne duboe laakhon ke dil
Sharab ne kiya na kuch haasil
Bas ek lamha bitaya uski aankhon mein
Jab humne chua tha uske gaal ka til

Helter Skelter

On an empty road his auto raced a bike that had a couple having the time of their life. The girl’s t-shirt ridden up to let loose the little bit of acceptable modesty as she hugged her driver with stretched arms. Our lover's heart was having a race too but for brief moments. It is the point when he would be carried away to the misty swamps of silence and galaxies of possibilities. After screeching the breadwinning contraption to a halt, his auto driver took a look outside to the striped shirted bicycle man, then to a waiting biker and rubbed his palms to enjoy some guthka. The hallucinating red brake lights of the cars fell like a glow on him. The ears were plugged in and he was lost in the waters of Porcupine Tree. Back on the road, his auto plunged him into the springs of his seat. Everything seemed to be zooming by, hundreds of people on the streets whom he’ll never get to know, buildings he will never visit, bumps he will never endure, lights that he will never stare at for hours.

He looked out of his vista and saw a wedding procession take place, he always hated the idea of weddings, especially since the moment he saw eunuchs parading and dancing on one of his friends weddings. He thought about his marriage, dressed outrageously, dancing silly, smiling deliberately. Men in tight boots and worn out suits waking behind his horse, dancing aimlessly and throwing their notes in the air while little hungry kids scamper after them to get their daily bread. Lights and sounds of holy matrimony could not displease him enough. His bubble burst at another screeching halt at a traffic light. Another couple on the bike but this one seemed to be tired with their adventures and looked too big to be on a bike. She carried a bag full of onions, he was hanging a bag of tomatoes on his arm. Sitting in the auto,this lover couldn’t really get a look of their faces but imagined them as dull, stern and maybe confused. Confused as to where did they go wrong, whose fault was it, what happens now?

He looked up and his auto was moving again, this time much with a little urgency. Unfamiliar paths always intrigued him and his search for new paths was always inexhaustible. Beaming lights hit his face as he stared into the dark lands and lone lights. Hindi slogans were on the walls of support and help, some corners seemed to be darker than the others but then they ended. Green grass was now sprawled across his vision and then came lights, facing upward they were, hailing the monument that seemed to gain the respect and salute of each being by just standing there motionless in the night and all through the day. Maybe there were better things to do maybe there was a plan, did he have one? He remembered what he had bought an hour back, they were gifts for someone. Someone who had lost a lot and lost some more, he wished to give something back and give something more. He smiled a little and then looked at opportunities, hopes, dreams and then he looked at his driver. They will never meet again unless they exchange numbers which he didn’t intend on doing. The smell of jasmine then came to his senses and saw an old lady selling them on the road beside. She might like them in her hair, or she might not. Did he even know her that well? Making a mental note, he let the smell of jasmine pass by, only to be disturbed by the stench of the wreaking gutters of filth and birth.

He was almost at the end of this auto ride and he never really remembered anything from these rides. They are but another slideshow of his heroes, villains, achievements, failures, joy and pain. He did not need anything else right now, he just wanted to sense it all. At his rendezvous point, he lifted his bag, paid the man who didn’t seem grateful just cracked his fingers to show some gratitude and left. He was now on his own and so he walked into the sea of people, for he is just another face that will never be seen heard or known by hundreds.

A Coat for a gift

Come inside my coat,I will keep you warm
Keep your rings in the pocket
And wrap yourself around my arm.
I will take you to the zoo
And show you little monkeys
Steal a bird and keep them too.
In the realms of my coat it gets dark
I will pluck a star and hang it by
So you may never stop your homework
If you ever be hungry don't clutch your tummy
My coat has warm bread and hot milk
And I will slice the edges just like mummy
Lay your head on my chest and take a nap
Close your eyes and I will sing
A tale of kings as I pat my lap
And when you are old and big
You will leave the coat and step out
It is then I will feel the hole in me
grow bigger as you face the cruel world
I will drop a tear and snort my nose
But hope you will be safe and happy out there
If you ever miss the coat, do come by
I may not be around but it shall be hanging
Alone and empty but alive with its memories
But for now I pat you as I sing you to sleep
In the coat of warmth, the coat of dreams.

Good Night and Good Luck

THE BEATLES

I welcome you to the few 4 who carried me from the hot summers in May to the cold winters in the auto.

They sang a song once, I listened and I nanaaad to it.

A day will come when they all will be gone, and just incase I'm not blogging then;

I made a cake for them once but they were too high on LSD that time to have some. I called Jude, he asked me to make it better. I wasn't very good at baking good cakes so I added a little Norwegian Wood to it. I looked over my shoulder at them and I admired their simplicity in the midst of the madness they had created. Like school kids who had just come from an hour of play ball. Lying in a heap, they stared at the ceiling for hours. John wasn't wearing his glasses, he had something clutched in his hand, a letter from Eleanor Rigby. Paul on the other hand kept saying that he needed help. George had once played the sitar with me beside the sea, he never did say much these days. Calling Ringo yesterday for tea was a good idea, he spoke of his days in the USSR.

The cake still wasn't perfect, I let it be.

Standing at a corner, beside the guitar, I gently weeped.

Who am I ?

I am the walrus

Losing Marbles

The blue jays sing in the haze
As the white monkey says hello
I left the tree to the singing swallows
but where in the world are my marshmallows ?
See the point of the matter is that clues are questions
So while I be in the country, let me know your answers
Be a little to the left not much to the right
And you will see the light, oh the bright light
Bless the shadows they know me so well
If only they would come back, it would be so swell
Let it pour on the ashes, so a phoenix will sing
Not the song of love but maybe a catchy thing
When the bellows will borrow
You will see me tomorrow
And catch me cycling in the mud
So pass me a Hi and let out a sigh
For the pieces of grey seem to crack

Back

Being blue in the days of grey was on the cards. They never did fail to come with a surprise. The pages turn again today, maybe the corner of the page will be folded just to read it again. Seeing the drops fall from the trees took me back years back. In the middle of the heat came the cold and I was left undone. I looked at songs for friendship, I spent hours staring at the ceiling. Staring at the phone for a slight sign of life. This be my hobby, my food, my alcohol. Feelings are funny and how they tickle you so much that your shoulders droop and your sighs get doubled. I will be back to this but I have a degree to get.

To a Fellow Hosteller

Creeping under the bed, he touches the cold surface of the iron leg. Dust settled all around him, the spiders could be seen dozing in their corners. He peered from the shadows through his red beady eyes and stared at the darkness. It was a night like no other. His companions had left, there was no more music, neither was there any words being spoken. It was quiet, his grave would have had more to look forward to. He crawled out from beneath the bed and stared at the barren wasteland which was once a mess of books, clothes and cigarette butts. He saw faint traces of them being there once but all that had been left were rejected pieces of cloth, writings on the wall and a ghostly light falling through the window and onto the old table. The gusto building, awe inspiring charts were still there and the closed doors and rainbow slippers stared at him from the great heights they were stuck on. The wind knocked against the window, but nobody was there to open it. The stuffiness was settling around him and somehow he knew that his nights would never be the same. Someone used to lie on top of the iron bed and hum soothing tunes from time to time. A flute would come out of his pocket and then there would be sweet kisses in the air as the melody escaped from this stick of his. He had this smile on his face that could never really be figured out. This small creature, alone and in the dark felt warmth on that night with the thought of that smile. That Secret Smile