Unwaan Tajweez karain

 

"جو کتابیں لے کہ آتا ہوں کبھی پڑھ بھی لیا کرو ۔"  اس نے بے توجہی سے کہا ۔ وہ خواہمخواہ ریموٹ کے بٹن دبائے جا رہا تھا ۔اسے ٹی وی سے نہایت چڑتھی۔شاید اس کی وجہ یہ تھی کہ اس کہ والد صاحب بہت زیادہ ٹی وی دیکھتے تھے۔

وہ میزپر سبزی چھیلنے میں مصروف تھی ۔ہاتھ کی پشت سے وہ بار بار بالوں کو پیچھے دھکیل رہی تھی ۔

"پڑھتی تو ہوں ۔"اس نے ایک ڈھیٹ کریلے کی کھال کریدتے ہوئے کہا ۔

"کہاں پڑھتی ہو ؟"اتنے بٹن دبانے کے بعد بھی ایک جیسی بکواس ہر جگہ لگی ہوئی تھی ۔اکتاہٹ سے اس نے ریموٹ نیچے رکھ دیا ۔ٹی وی پر کسی حسینہ کو اچھے بالوں کی وجہ سے نوکری مل گئی تھی ۔شاید مجھے بھی بال لمبے کر لینے چاہییں۔اس نے من ہی من میں سوچا ۔

کریلوں کے بعد اب سبز مرچوں کے سر تن سے جدا کیے جا رہے تھے ۔

"کہاں پڑھتی ہو ؟ "پھر بار بار کہتی ہو میری تحریروں میں کوئی کمی ہے ۔کردار سطحی ہیں ۔پلاٹ آگے نہیں بڑھتا۔

"تو کیا کروں  آدھی اندھی ہوں ۔زیادہ دیر پڑھوں تو سر درد سے پھٹنے لگتا ہے ۔عینک کے بغیر ٹھیک سے نظر نہیں آتا ۔" اس نے کٹی ہوئی سبزی کو دوسرے برتن میں انڈیلا اور اس پر پانی ڈالنے لگی ساتھ ہی اس نے اپنے ہاتھ بھی دھو لئے ۔

ٹی وی پر کوئی الو کا پٹھاداغ تو اچھے ہوتے ہیں کا بے سرا راگ الاپ رہا تھا ۔

"تمہیں نہیں لگتا ہم سب نے عینکیں لگائی ہوئی ہیں ؟"

وہ من ہی من میں اشتہارات کے بارے میں سوچ رہا تھا ۔یہ ایک الگ طلسماتی دنیا تھی ۔یہاں سب امیر تھے ۔یہاں سب سفید تھے ۔اس دنیا کا واحد مسلہ ڈینڈریف تھا ۔اچانک اس کا دل کر نے لگا کہ وہ سکرین پھاڑکے اس کے اندر گھس جائے۔

"لو پھر آپ کی الٹی سیدھی باتیں شروع۔" اس نے سبزیوں کا غسل تمام کرتے ہوئےکہا ۔

"سنو توسہی۔"اس نے التجائی لہجے میں کہا ۔جیسے وہ اس سے محبت کا اقرار کرنے والا ہو ۔ایک تولوگ سنتے کیوں نہیں ۔اس نے سوچا ۔

وہ سبزیوں سے کھیلنے میں مصروف تھی ۔

"کیا ہم سب عینکیں لگائے ہوئے نہیں ہیں ؟" وہ تیز تیز بول رہا تھا ۔کہیں وہ اٹھ کے چلی ہی نہ جائےاور ہمیشہ کی طرح اس کی بات آدھ میں رہ جائے۔

"ہاں کدھر ہے تمہاری عینک دکھاؤ تو سہی مجھے ؟" اس نے اسے چڑاتے ہوئےکہا ۔

"کیا میرا نظریہ عینک نہیں ، کیا میں ایک خاص شیسے سے دنیا کو نہیں دیکھتا ۔ کیا ہم سب نے اپنی اپنی عینکیں نہیں لگائی ہوئیں۔جیسے ہر کسی کی عینک کا اپنا ایک خاص نمبر ہو ۔ ہر طبقے کی اپنی ایک مخصوص عینک ہے اور جب کوئی غیر شخص مختلف عینک کے ساتھ ان میں آبیٹھتا ہے تو وہ اسے اندھا سمجھتے ہیں ۔ حقیقت تو یہ ہے کہ وہ ایک دوسری دنیا دیکھ رہا ہے جو یہ نہیں دیکھ سکتے ۔"

اسے پہلے دن سے ہی اندازہ تھا کہ وہ ایک عجیب شخص ہے ۔ٹی وی کے سامنے بیٹھے بیٹھے اس نے کیسا فلسفہ جھاڑ دیا تھا ۔

"ہاں کبھی کوئی کام کی بات مت کرنا ۔"اس نے منہ بسورتے ہوئے کہا ۔

"تمہیں پتا ہے مجھے پہلی مرتبہ بینائی کا احساس کب ہوا ؟"

"بتائے بغیر  تو آپ رہنے  والےنہیں۔" وہ چھلکے شاپر میں ڈال رہی تھی ۔

"ایک مرتبہ چودہ اگست پر آوارہ گردی کر رہا تھا ۔ہم ایک مال کے باہرٹہرےہوئے تھے ۔یہاں بہت ہجوم تھا ۔یہ کرونا سے پہلے کی دنیا تھی ۔" اس نے آہ بھرتے ہوئےکہا ۔

"بارہ بجے آتش بازی ہونی تھی ۔پہلی مرتبہ مجھے بینائی کا احساس یہاں پر ہی ہوا تھا ۔کوئی  بھی بینائی کی اہمیت کو سمجھتا نہیں ۔ یہ ایسے ہی ہے جیسے سورج ہو ۔ آپ اس کے ساتھ پیدا ہوتے ہیں  لیکن آپ کبھی اسے اہم نہیں سمجھتے۔ کیا تم نے کبھی آتش بازی دیکھی ہے ۔اگر خدا معجزات کرتا ہے تو پھر آتش بازی انسان کا معجزہ ہے ۔کیسے آسمان رنگوں سے بھرجاتا ہے نہ ۔" وہ شاید کمرے سے نکل کر کسی دور دیس میں چلا گیا تھا ۔یادوں کا طلسماتی دیس ،جہاں سب یادیں ایک کلک کی دوری پہ تھیں اور لمحات بغیر بفرنگ اور ایڈز کے چلتے تھے۔

" خیر ناجانے کیوں اچانک ہی مجھے احساس ہوا کہ بہت سے لوگ یہ منظر نہیں دیکھ سکتے ۔وہاں کوئی نابینا شخص نہیں تھا اور ہو گا بھی کیوں بھلا لیکن اس دن مجھے اپنی بینائی کا احساس ہوا تھا ۔ کیا عجیب بات نہیں کہ ہمیں ہر اس چیز کا احساس ہوتا ہے جو دوسرے کے پاس نہ ہو ۔ ہم اتنے کمینے کیوں ہیں ؟"

وہ خاموشی سے اس کی باتیں سن رہی تھی ۔سبزی تو وہ بھول ہی چکی تھی ۔لفظ ہمیں کہاں سے کہاں لے جاتے ہیں ۔

کمرے میں سناٹاچھا گیا تھا ۔جیسے ٹی وی بھی کچھ دیر  اس کی بات سننے کے لئےخاموش ہو گیا ہو ۔

"میں سونے جا رہا ہوں ۔" یہ کہہ کر وہ کمرے کی طرف بڑھ گیا ۔جیسے یہ سب کہہ کہ وہ بہت تھک سا گیا ہو ۔

اس کی نظر ٹی وی کے سامنے رکھی کتابوں کی طرف بڑھ گئی ۔وہ کچھ دیر انہیں دیکھتی رہی ۔پھر اس نے سبزی سمیٹی اور کچن کی طرف بڑھ گئی۔

عینک (مزاحیہ افسانہ ،ابن انشا سے معذرت کے ساتھ ) کاشف ناصر

عینک

(کاشف ناصر)

> یہ جو عینک والے ہوتے ہیں نا ، کہتے ہیں ہمیں ٹھیک سے دکھائی نہیں دیتا ، یقین مانو سب سے زیادہ دکھائی انہی کو تو دیتا ہے.کسی استاد کو دیکھ لو اس نے عینک لگائی ہو گی، کوئی پروفیسر ہو ،عینک،مذہبی رہنما ہو ، عینک ،ڈاکٹر ہو عینک ،مصنف ہو عینک ، آخر عینک اور علم کا کیا تعلق ہے ؟

یہ کہتے ہیں ہمیں دکھائی نہیں دیتا ، انہیں اوپر والے نے اندھا کر دیا ہے، انہیں دنیا اب ٹھیک سے نظر نہیں آتا ان کی لو اوپر والے نے علم سے لگا دی ہے .

"اب یہ نینا کو ہی دیکھ لو مشکل سے بیس بہاریں دیکھی ہیں. صبح سے سر درد ، سر درد لئے بیٹھی ہے،اور آخر کیوں نہ ہو گا سر درد ، مصنفہ ہے ، اخبار میں لکھتی ہے ،افسانے گھڑتی ہے ، کبھی کبھی کوئی الٹا سیدھا شعر بھی لکھ دیتی ہے."

"اس کے ساتھ کی لڑکیوں کو دیکھو فیشن سے فرصت نہیں، سلفیوں پہ سلفیاں، عجیب و غریب ٹک ٹاکس" بابا جی نےبازو پھیلا کر سلفی کی نقل اتاری ، مجھے ایسے لگا جیسے انہوں نے کوئی نہایت ہی گندا اشارہ کر دیا ہو .

"اب نینا کو دنیا نظر نہیں آتی . اس کی لو علم سے لگ گئی ہے ."

میں نے ایک نظر بستر پرپڑی ادھ مری نینا پر ڈالی. اس کے بال بکھرے ہوے تھے اور منہ سے رال ٹپک رہا تھا. وہ یقیناً گہری نیند میں تھی . یک دم ہی میرے پیٹ میں مروڑاٹھنے لگے . میں بابا جی کو باور کرادینا چاہتا تھا کہ یہ نینا کی بچی کوئی سکالرنہیں .بڑے الٹے سیدھے کام یہ بھی کرتی ہے . اب اگر مجھے عینک نہیں لگی تو اس کا مطلب یہ تو نہیں کہ میں کوئی الو کا پٹھا ہوں.

بابا جی شاید پہلے ہی میرا دماغ پڑھ رہے تھے . جھٹ سے بولے .

"میں ایک عینک والے کو جانتا ہوں .ایک دن اس نے مجھے ایک بڑے راز کی بات بتائی .کہنے لگا جتنا موٹا شیشہ ہو گا اتنا ہی پہننے والے کا دماغ تیز . اب تجھے دیکھ لو ."

میں چونک اٹھا .

"سارا سارا دن تو گلی میں کرکٹ کھیلتا ہے ، جب کرکٹ نہ کھیل رہا ہو تو موٹر سائیکل بھگا رہا ہوتا ہے .اس سارے کام کا فائدہ ، تیری نظر سکس بائی سکس ،لیکن علم سے تیری لو نہیں لگی." بابا جی کے چہرے سے لگ رہا تھا جیسے میں نے ادھارمانگ لیا ہو.

"او جائیےبابا جی ، میرے پیچھے کون سی پولیس لگی ہوئی ہے " میں نے جل کر کہا . "ہاں نینا ہو گی بڑی سادھو، لیکن اگر میں موٹر سائیکل نہیں چلاؤں تو گھر کا سودا سلف کیسے آئےگا ؟ کرکٹر بھی تو کتنے پیسے کما رہے ہیں اور وہ ہے نہ نیوذی لینڈ کا پلیر ڈانیل ویٹوری وہ بھی تو عینک لگا کر کھیلتا ہے ." میں نے فخریہ انداز میں کہا .

بابا جی کچھ دیر تومجھے گھورتے رہے جیسے اندازہ لگا رہے ہوں آیا یہ جانور گدھا ہے یا گھوڑا ؟ وہ کچھ کہنے ہی لگے تھے جب اس آسمانی مخلوق کی آواز ہماری سماعتوں سے ٹکرائی .

"بہرے ہو کیا ؟" نینا چلائی. "سنائی نہیں دے رہا سر میں درد ہے .کیا ٹائم ہوا ہے میری عینک کدھر ہے .؟" اس نے بستر کو ٹٹولتے ہوے کہا .

"ہاں توبابا جی ، بغیر عینک کے سادھو صاحبہ ٹائم بھی نہیں دیکھ سکتی . اب آپ بتائیں اس مں پروردگار کی کون سی مصلحت ہے ؟"

بابا جی کچھ دیرتو خاموش تھے . اتنے میں نینا صاحبہ بستر کے کنارے پر رکھا شیشے کا گلاس شہید کر چکی تھی .یہ اس بیٹالین کا تیسرا گلاس تھا جو جام شہادت نوش کر چکا تھا .میں نے من ہی من میں قل ہو الله پڑھ دیا .جس رفتار سے نینا گلاس شہید کر رہی تھی . یہ جنگ وہ جیت چکی تھی . جلد ہی گھر کے بچے کچے برتن اس کے آگے ہتھیار ڈالنے والے تھے.

"دیکھ پتر " ہم دونو ں نے نینا کی پھرتیوں کو یکسر نظر انداز کرتے ہوئے دوبارہ گفتگو کا آغاز کیا . اس دوران میز کا کنارہ نینا کے پاؤں کی چچی انگلی سے آن ٹکرایا تھا .ہمیں اب تک اس کی عادت ہو چکی تھی اور اس کے بعد جو کتھک ناچ جاری تھا .وہ دیکھ دیکھ کے ہم بور ہو چکے تھے . یہاں تک کہ مجھے خود اس ناچ کے بہت سے اسٹیپس حفظ ہو چکے تھے .زیادہ تریہ ناچ ایک ہی ٹانگ پر کیا جاتا تھا . ناچ کا دوسرا حصہ خاصا عجیب تھا .دوسرے حصے میں ایک ٹانگ پیٹھ پیچھے پکڑ کر گلے سے مافوق الفطرت آوازیں نکالنا تھا .یہ ان آوازوں کا ہی سحرتھا جس کی وجہ سے محلے کے آوارہ کتے ہمارے گھر سے کوسوں دور رہنے لگے تھے.

"دیکھ پتر بات یہ ہے ."

"اوئی ماں " نینا چلائی.

بابا جی نے آخرکار ترس کھا کہ اسے بتا ہی دیا کہ عینک نینا نے تکیے کے نیچے سمبھال کے رکھی ہے.

"دیکھ پتر بات یہ ہے " نینا کا کتھک ناچ تقریبا ختم ہو چکا تھا . "کہ الله نے اس دنیا میں کوئی بھی چیز فالتو نہیں بنائی.اگر نینا بغیر عینک کے ٹائیم نہیں بھی دیکھ سکتی تو اس پروردگار نے تیرے جیسے شگوفے بھی بنائے ہیں. جن کا کام صرف عالم فاضل لوگوں کوٹائیم بتانا ہے ."

بابا جی اور نینا کھلکھلا کے ہنسے اور میں جل کے رہ گیا .

Lost Honor of Pakistan by Hareem Fatima ; Review by Kashif Nasir

Lost honor of Pakistan, by Hareem Fatima, A review By Kashif Nasir:-

Greetings,

I recently read Hareem Fatima’s book, ‘The lost honor of Pakistan’.
As a person who mostly reads fiction, it was a unique experience for me.
Although history is a dry subject but the author has added humor in certain parts, the chapters about Pakistani etiquettes and her analogies are hilarious.
The book as the title suggests is about Pakistan’s lost honor.
Hareem Fatima attacks the root of Pakistan’s lost honor in the first chapter, she cites problems as nepotism, corruption, unaccountability and numerous others; the author looks back to the Mughal Empire, she is aware of Mughal era’s short comings but makes her case by stating that even under the worse of Mughal rulers, nation at least had some honor, the honor which is lost now. Parallels between Hareem’s arguments and Aitzaz Ahsan author of ‘The Indus Saga’ are striking, as they both present us with facts. Those prove that although Pakistan’s history started from 1947. The history of this geographic area dates back to world’s oldest civilizations like Harapa and Moenjodaro.
But how do we get back that ‘Lost honor of Pakistan’. The author purposes practical solutions for Pakistan’s problems 1) To regain our lost honor we must turn back to our simple past.
2) Monetizing education started in west. It is against the ethics practiced by our elders she makes a suggestion that A levels should be free. (A suggestion which has earned her hostile criticism.)
3) Constitution of Pakistan should be amended. Read the author’s humorous analogy, she writes “Take the analogy of Imran Khan being an expert level driver but has a rickshaw to compete with sport car race drivers. Our constitution is the rickshaw.”
4) Pakistan must look inside to save itself, blaming other nations is useless.
Old school Patriotism in this book is heart touching. Consider her sentence “In Pakistani context, when I see wasted potential and talent, especially of teenagers, I feel deeply saddened.”
Experiences of author Matthew Vaughan and Matt Vaughan are shared in Hareem’s book to prove that Pakistan is indeed misunderstood by the western countries.
For those who are new to history the author has added a brief historical account of East/West clash. This could be called clash of civilizations in a nut shell.

According to Hareem the reason Pakistanis are seen as potential terrorists in the west is because of Islamophobia. She says that Islamophobia isn’t new but has its roots in thousands of years of history like crusades and division of Ottoman Empire.

Hareem has finally asked the questions lot of patriots have wanted to ask.

“Who killed Zia ul Haq? Who killed Benazir Bhutto? Who was supporting Musharraf? What is India doing in Balochistan? What is happening in Kashmir? Who is supporting the terrorists, and why?”

The most enjoyable chapter for me was Pakistan’s social etiquette for example when the author says “Pakistani’s talk in roundabout way,” she is on point, when she writes, “when Pakistanis say, we will see, it means, ‘no’.

Hareem has simplified rules of courtship for foreigners or visiting over-seas Pakistanis:

1) You may arrive up to one hour later than the stipulated time when invited to party.

2) Men should avoid giving flowers to women.

3) If a man must give a gift to a woman, he should say that it is from his wife, mother, sister, or some other female relative.

I was impressed Hareem’s frank criticism of Jamaat-e-Islami. The present generation barely knows anything about the party’s past and its leader’s enmity with Jinaah. In Hareem’s view that JI and Jinaah rift has shaped Pakistan from its first days to its present form.
The last chapters discuss role of Pakistan’s parliament. The author gives brief account of rulers from Ayub khan to present day. Predictions are made about Imran Khan’s first government. The last chapter ‘Final Thoughts’ sums up all the points in the book.

I would suggest book to everyone who has a genuine interest in Pakistan’s history.

Download from here https://thelitlight.com/.../lost-honor-of-pakistan-by.../

Children of the north by Niddal Bin Tahir; Review by Kashif Nasir

Book: Children of the North

Author: Niddal Bin Tahir

Genre: Travel’s log/ Adventure

Plot/Summary:
It is a first-person account narrated by a character named Nido. The story starts in one of Islamabad’s shady sheesha café. A couple of young friends make a plan to visit the northern areas. The problem is these young men want to do something so crazy that none of their friends have done it before.

So in a fit of madness, they decide to borrow a jeep and drive themselves not just to Naran but to Aansoo Lake. A lake that is even higher than Saif-ul-Malook Lake.

What follows is an emotional roller coaster ride, high octane adventure full of drama.

My Thoughts

Unique, invigorating, interesting, and well written

The book is based on true events. It is entertaining to read, it drives home the power of writing. I am sitting at home reading this but the author has transported me to a crazy misadventure in Naran.

Reminds me of Thor Heyerdahl’s Kon – Tiki – Expedition. In Kon Tiki Expedition, a bunch of hotheads make a bet to cross the Pacific Ocean on nothing but a Balsa raft just to prove a theory.

The same way our young heroes start from Islamabad looking for an adventure. And adventure is what they get although some might call it misadventure.

A borrowed jeep of questionable vitality, one junky, an egomaniac, an armature actor, a joker; money which can only see them through half the trip, what can go wrong?

The answer: a lot.

The book is hundred plus pages - hilarious at times, as we follow our adventurers committing blunder after blunder.
The money runs out in mid-trip – and the jeep breaks down.
How will our adventurers get back home?

This is your local version of ‘The Hangover and ‘Banged up Abroad’ rolled into one. And the best part is all of it is true. Review by Kashif Nasir

Instagram: @mumblings_of_kashif

Wilde Reborn (A one act play) By Kashif Nasir

Wilde Reborn
(A one-act play)
Scene 1
Act 1

Scene: At Wilde's mansion. He is sitting in an expensively decorated room. The sofas are red and the walls are white, the floor is made of white marble, in the background, two giant stairs cases lead to the upper portion. There is a bar at the left of the sofa, spirits of all sorts are placed on the shelves. Through the French windows, the evening in the garden can be seen.

He has this strange idea, what if we chose our spouses like we chose our books?

"What do you mean like go to a cheap roadside sale, where there are a bunch of women laying down in alluring captivating covers?"

"Or men for that matters?" said his friend.

"You are insane."

"I have been called worse, anyway I am a firm believer that there is not a single idea that's insane enough, there is just unwillingness to carry the idea out."

"You cannot really mean that."

"Of course not, but I am saying for the sake of the argument, we are safe here, as a writer I feel safest on paper, I can do things which I won't do in reality, I can say things which I dare not, I can be what I cannot be, I can tear things in half, I can create or remake a world, I can get you your woman or I can steal her away, I can be God."

The eyes of his friend were filled with contempt. He could have been anything, such talent, such good looks, all wasted because he got into literature. He realized that it was ruining his friend's life. He was like a masterpiece facing erosion, decaying, disappearing. Sometimes he stared at his friend and didn't even recognize him, sometimes he was not his friend, sometimes he was someone else. Sometimes he was God. And all gods are arrogant.

"How will you choose a woman?"

"Well, it depends, it will differ from man to man, I think some men will visit expensive book shops."

"Rich men, you mean, like men visit expensive households, families with wealth, families with maiden daughters, well, maiden or not." He laughed.

"Yes," his friend waited "and they will choose."

"What they can afford." The arrogant prick cut in again.

"Your hypothesis has a hole, you are comparing non-living things with living things, in reality, men and women chose each other, but a book cannot choose a person, so." He left the sentence unfinished.

" A book cannot choose a person" he contemplated the thought, chewed on the idea, savored its contents, let juices run down deep into his intellect, he was quiet for a while, when he spoke again his voice was changed, he sat straighter, the arrogance was gone, he spoke with more vigor, he spoke dreamily, he spoke with conviction. "Ever been to book sales? The cheap ones, I have, there are so many books and there is always so little money, I walk hours between the stalls, unable to choose, unable to reach a decision, but then for absolutely no reason, I am drawn to a book, it might have an eye-catching cover, or it might be the dullest of the lot, but I am drawn to it, for some time I just stare at her, unable to move hypnotized, I stare at her she stares back, we steal glances at each other, here we have a beginning of a love affair, my feet are cold and I cannot move, but then she twists her head, shows a little bit of neck, all choosing signals, telling me, it's safe to approach, then I reach her, I caress her cover, my hand moves along her spine, we have reached an understanding, we know that it's okay. We know that it's meant to be. She allows me to take her home.

We mess around a little while. Me trying to act like I don't care. Her trying to act like it doesn't affect her, a little foreplay, all part of the primordial ritual. We delay gratification until finally my passion reaches Climax and she finally surrenders to my advances, then I open her up and lose myself inside her." He suddenly became very quiet like he was exhausted.

"Are we still talking about books?" his friend said dumbly.

"Are we?" he said to no one in particular. "My friend, I just gave you a highly graphic representation of how a book can indeed choose a person."

"Well I can't say I believe you, but it's all an argument right, an idea, a theory, so that's your opinion, you think that's how marriages work?

"Relationships, my dear fellow, not marriages. Listen, a man falls in love with a book, okay but for how long? eventually, he will get bored, eventually, he will crave a new thrill, all men are animals it's our nature, okay, so he visits another sale, you can call it the dating pool, or trying one's options, whatever floats your boat. At first, he is hesitant, he feels guilty, but the anticipation of pleasures will always overcome guilt. So he finally gives in and falls in love with a new mistress, he falls in love with a new book."

"I don't understand."

"That's because I am a nobody writer, if another asshole with a bit of followers on social media had written the same gibberish, you would have understood it, my dear fellow you would have been crying his praises, people would be downloading his photos and making those their profile pictures, a worldwide identity crisis within minutes, new York times would be writing articles, he would be called a sage, a genius, his books would be a literary marvel, set become a modern-day classic. I would tell you something remember this, the world doesn't understand, it's a brain-dead organism, an amoeba, a jellyfish, the world doesn't understand, it follows."

"Follows what?"

"Whatever it can follow?"

"You are being vague again."

"Great, because I hate being plain."

"Okay then, love affairs are book sales?"

"that's one way to look at it, another way is that, book sales are love affairs, the literature is Eros, that poetry is romance, that self helps are breakups, that there are books you lose and you never get over them, that's first love, that without language there is no feeling, without word there is no expression, that without authors there is no history, that without reading there is no life."

"My God, you are a poet, A Wilde reborn."

"Blasphemy," He said disgusted by the thought. "Wilde cannot be reborn; he is not your Buddha or Jesus Christ, he is something else, he doesn't tell you to worship him. He tells you to fuck off; he says I said what I said, he says I am what I am, wait, that doesn't sound right, do you think Christ was Wilde? No, it cannot be, Wilde drowned himself in every pleasure known to man, but Christ is God, he abhors pleasures, in fact, he abhors the greatest thing he created. Us.

"That's not how it works; the Christian theology teaches that Jesus loves you."

"Does he, then why did he leave, why isn't he coming back? He is acting like a spurned lover."

"I don't know maybe you will have to ask the priest, anyway I have to leave." He picked up his coat and waited before the door. Through the door one could see that evening was falling like a magic spell, the sky was a poem, the lightning a symphony." I must say though, your thoughts are terrible and you are a despicable individual."

"Good night." The writer said.

(Exit The Friend)

When his friend left, he lost himself in the music, he listened to the same songs over and over again like a lunatic. It was night when she finally came.

(Enter Girl)

"Ready for a night debauchery." She said.

"Not tonight," he said without turning back. "I am very tired today, I feel drained."

"In that case," she said "want to talk about it" she lay down on a sofa.

Even her bare legs didn't turn him on. "I don't talk to women, I only love them, I talk to men and they bore me, I am alone I feel like a deserted island, a barren wilderness."

"Oh don't be like that love." Said the stupid girl.

"I want you to leave, I want to be alone."

"Leave and go where" she sat up, "you brought me here, you asked me to come."

"And now I am asking you to leave."

"I cannot go back it's too late, I will have to spend the night here. It's okay if you don't want to… tonight."

It's too late. I love this phrase; I want to write a book on it or maybe a poem."

"I never like it when you are like this."

"Nobody does, but this is who I am, I am he, I am Wilde reborn, I have come again to offend the prigs, the self-righteous, the bigots, the open-minded ones."

"Who is this Wilde you speak of all the time?"

"He is me and I am he."

"You are insane."

"I keep hearing that, I feel insane, sick to my stomach all my thoughts are vomit, all my writings filth, they should lock me up and burn my books, wait they already did that."

"Are you drunk?"

"Only slightly, want a drink?"

"Sure," she said eyebrows arched.

"Help yourself he waved at the two empty bottles he had finished."

"My god you are trying to kill yourself."

"And failing." He said.

"You have everything a man could want, wealth, fame, good looks, then why are you so unhappy."

"I don't know, I don't try to be happy, it seems phony to me, imagine fooling yourself into happiness, a tragedy, oh world, where are you going? Happiness should come to me. It should make me happy but it doesn't." he sat down on the sofa.

"It's not going to come in this place, this place is haunted." Said the girl.

"Haunted you mean like by ghosts."

"No, I mean by you."

Haha, he laughed. "I love women you are so fascinating a minute ago you were a dumb bimbo, now you are a philosopher, you women you are actors, you are illusions, you are mirrors you let men see whatever they want to see."

"And you are pathetic."

"I am pathetic, a major achievement, you know they all wanted me to be successful so in spite I became pathetic, I put my heart and soul into becoming pathetic and now that I am pathetic I don't like it."

"What do you like?"

"Anything which I can later dislike."

"That's your problem you are addicted to change, you move from pleasure to pleasure, you are a slave to it."

"To them."

"You are so shameless."

He didn't answer her.

"you really like nothing ?"

"no"

"you are so strange."

He said nothing.

Silence.

"there must be something you like."

"Why can't I just be instead of must be, I am tired of must be, I must be a brother, I must be a lover, I must be a provider, I must be a man, I must exist, I must do, I must."

"You are not a wood log, you are a living breathing human being."

"Then I must become a wood log."

"You are insane, I have to leave."

"You said you couldn't leave."

"I must now after you have insulted me."

"Aha must, you must… I see… feel free to leave."

She leaves.

"Everybody left I am alone now, how peaceful loneliness is, how dreadful it is, it's like loneliness, no simile to explain it. And now I will kill myself.

He stabs himself in the chest.

Curtain.

Our lady of Alice Bhatti by Muhammed Hanif, a review

I have been reading 'Our lady of Alice Bhatti' by Muhammad Hanif. Hanif is well known for his novel 'A Case of exploding mangoes' it won several international awards but some how the book have recently disappeared.

Our Lady of Alice Bhatti is about social issues but mostly it revolves around religious discrimination and abuse of lower classes by upper classes (yeah definitely my kind of book).

The Characters

Joseph Bhatti

Joseph Bhatti is an eccentric catholic Christian. He is an amazing, brutally honest character. Joseph by profession is a sweeper aka a choora (hey it says in the book). Joseph's routine involves cleaning people's toilets, ranting against both Christians and muslims for their discriminatory behavior towards chooras. one of the most amazing lines he said.

"Yeah, we are the shit cleaners but what are they? shit"

Joseph is not ashamed of who he is infact he believes that the lord sent prophets to clean humanity's refuse. Joseph walks what he talks and during raining season when the city is flooded he volunteers for draining the blocked pot holes and sewerage lines. Joseph also has a unique talent for curing stomach ulcers, he does that by reciting quranic verses. The church pastor believes that he is secretly a muslim. joseph has one daughter Alice Bhatti

Alice Bhatti

Alice Bhatti is a young girl in her twenties. Alice Bhatti is a strong feminist character. Her dialogues in the book can easily be converted in to feminist manifesto. she had already spent six months in prison after she stabbed a doctor who tried to force himself on her. after leaving the prison she manages to get a job in sacred heart hospital. she works as a nurse. Alice knows foul language which will even put hardened men to shame. she has a figure which tunrs heads.

Noor

A young boy of fourteen whose mother is suffering with three different types of cancers. Noor and his mother were in the same prison where Alice Bhatti was. Noor manages to get the favour of hospital's head Dr. Pereira. form there on he works he works like an unpaid slave in turn his mother gets a bed at the hospital.

Teddy Butt

Teddy Butt is unpaid pet of the local police. he does all the dirty work so the police can keep their hands clean. but he also has a soft heart, in his free time he likes to watch National Geographic. He actually cried when he saw a bear trapped on a melting ice patch.

Sister Hina

Senior nurse, a tough, smart mouth woman, who has keen interest in history.

Dr. Pereira

A puppet Christian head of the hospital who has lost his power ever since sacred heart hospital has been taken over by the muslim authorities.

Not Abu-Zar

Not Abu-Zar is a boy who claims that he is not Abu-Zar. Abu-Zar is a criminal young boy wanted in three different countries. The boy Inspector Malick has captured claims he is Abu-Zar's driver hence not Abu-Zar.

Inspector Malick

A sexist, loose canon cop involved in illegal activities and fake encounters.

Plot/Summary

The plot loosely revovles around the Sacred Heart hospital, which was founded by the catholics but is now under local government. several misfits, Noor, Alice Bhatti and Teddy Butt have found their way in to the sacred heart hospital. The story is narrated in third person, the narrator narrates the events of the characters lives as it unfolds, satire and dark humor fill the pages of this very entertaining yet disturbing novel.

My Thoughts

Devastating, painfully Honest and Original.

I have read alot over the years. This book is too good. It is better than Harper Lee's novel 'To kill a mocking bird' Harper lee never managed to adapt the mocking, insulting and rude tone which Hanif has used. Hanif has met the subject of religious discrimination head on with a heroic Valor. His satirical attacks on religion will even give Joesph Heller (Author of Catch 22) run for his money.

what makes this novel so good, so real, is its brutal honesty. Hanif shows us a picture of a society in which religious discrimination in not the exception but the rule. All this is done with a dark humor, I mean you laugh and then you stop and think, man, that's not okay.

This novels tells you that if you belong to a certain society. you can never wash it off you. if you have a certain past you can never escape it. The society won't let you. you can become of gold but still it won't

The novel turns really sad after 140 pages. I mean its funny in parts. but it gets really dark. As the characters lives are thrown in to circumstances they can't escape. It eventually leads to one of the most devastating endings I have ever read.

This novel will give you trauma that will take weeks to get over. There is something about Hanif's characters, dualism, they are tough and soft at the same time. I have no idea how someone can manage to pen something like this.

This novel can sound very sexist and racist at times. But it also shows why sexist and racist jokes are partly true and funny.

I can say with certainty that this is the best book I have ever read.who knew we had writers better than foreigners.

one wonders why these books, Dancing girls of Lahore, The Party worker and Our Lady Alice Bhatti are not being adapted for movies or web series, instead they are making love stories.

If you are bored by fiction I totally recommend this book.

My favorite lines

"Theses Muslas will make you clean their shit and then complain that you stink,... and our own brothers at the Sacred? They will educate you then ask you why you stink?"

"She always thinks his struggle to bring order to this world through the practice of good manners is a bit pointless"

He is too polite to point out that not all Christians are sweepers. He also fears the retort: But all sweepers are Christian."

"She has more moral principles than I have pubic hair"

"Sacred texts as well as profane novels don't record everything.

"These boys in Charya Ward are suffering from what everyone suffers from: life"

"You have to tell them everything is normal. They might have buggered their own sister and then burried her alive, but you must tell them that is normal. They obviously did it because some god told them to do it."

"Raising your arse to the sky has never seemed to her the best way to express devotion."

"Your Yasso couldn't have resurrected himslef. Moses couldn't have baked all the manna himslef."

"What has ... God got to do with Camels? why are they stuck on this ugly beast? what's wrong with the horses? what's wrong with horses with wings? hell, what's wrong with trains? why all these hoves and humps pornography?"

"He has seen the postcards they send, and it seems to him maybe Yasso wasn't the eternal savior of mankind but a visa officer."

"This kind of man: Joseph Bhatti Choora. we were here before the Christians came, before the Muslas came. Even before the hindus came.I am just not the sun of soil. I am the soil. Yes, I am Joseph Bhatti Choora."

"Imran Khan is a failed batsman masquerading as a bowler."

"Every little step forward in life is preceded by a ritual humiliation.Every little happiness asks for a down-payment"

"Love is not just blind, it's deaf and dumb and probably has as advanced case of Alzheimer's it's unhinged."

"Mostly call her daughter or sister and then do exactly what they would do with their own daughters and sister: They treat her like a slave they bought at clearance sale."

"Any man who reaches for a book when he thinks about you is a man that you should think about."

"Love can only survive if it comes with ration card."

"Qaiser from Oklahoma, who claims to sell the thing which catholic evangelists all over the world seem to sell, the promise that the lame shall walk... how about real miracles, like the drains shall remain unclogged? or the hungry shall be fed?"

"Not a single day when she didn't see a woman shot or hacked, strangled or suffocated, poisoned or burnt, hanged or burried alive. Suspicious husband, brother protecting his honour, father protecting his honour, son protecting his honour,jilted loved avenging his honour, feuding farmers settling their water disputes, money lenders collecting their interests: most of the life's arguments, it seemed got settled by doing various things to a woman's body. A woman was something you could get as a loose change in a deal made on street corner."

He feels that finally they have pulled Yasso down to their level, as if Yasso wasn't the savior of all mankind but a janitor who went around cleaning their streets, then sat in a corner drinking his Choora chai from his Choora cup until the day he quiety died and ascended to a choora heaven."

"First love is like first heart attack. Chances are that you will survive it, but you don't outlive it. That first gasp of air is beginning of the end."

"But keeping a woman happy, any woman happy is impossible. You can become a clown in a circus and learn to swallow real swords, but it won't bring a smile to her face. there is a deep hidden well of sadness in every woman, and on certain afternoons its mouth yawns open and it can suck in every colour in this world."

Faith is the same old fear of death, dressed in party clothes."

"you could not grow up in french and not have God shoved down your throat."

Now that I am getting old they want me to literally see God in vegetables. for the last five years, every year there is a aubergine somewhere that , when you slice it has word Allah running through it. I am sure if you slice it another way you can see your own husband's face and if you move it side ways you can read something obscence. ... I know some people see Yasso on a cross or his mother in a pretty dress in every seasonal fruit. isn't there always a flood or earthquake or a child run over by a speeding car driven by another child to remind us that god exists."

I saw you in the winter rain

I saw you in the winter rain
You were drenched in sorrow
And dressed in pain

A tattered coat you were wearing too
It was brown and purple
And pink and blue

Your shoes showed scars of previous wars
And the battered tie told
How you came so far

Your shirt was torn in places too
It showed your wounds
red and blue

Then I saw, it wasn’t rain
It was hailing stones
It was pouring pain

I saw how cold were your hands
I got a peak
At your damaged brain

I wanted to drag you under the shade
To pause the scene
Before you fade

And the rain came pouring down in sheets
And still you stood
In the middle of the streets

Then you saw me
And I thought you knew
That you were me
And I was you.

Albatross, Most romantic Courtship ritual

Albatrosses

Albatrosses are very large seabirds in the family Diomedeidae. They range widely in the Southern Ocean and the North Pacific.

Flying

Albatrosses are the most efficient travelers of all vertebrates on the planet. They expend very little energy soaring hundreds of miles over the ocean each day using dynamic soaring and slope soaring. They have a tendon in each shoulder locking their wings fully-extended, so once aloft and soaring across a fair breeze they never need to flap their wings.

Courting Ritual and Dancing

Albatrosses reach sexual maturity slowly, after about five years, but even once they have reached maturity, they do not begin to breed for another few years (even up to 10 years for some species).

Young non-breeders attend a colony prior to beginning to breed, spending many years practicing the elaborate breeding rituals and "dances" for which the family is famous.Birds arriving back at the colony for the first time already have the stereotyped behaviors that compose albatross language, but can neither "read" that behavior as exhibited by other birds nor respond appropriately.After a period of trial and error learning, the young birds learn the syntax and perfect the dances. This language is mastered more rapidly if the younger birds are around older birds.

The repertoire of behavior involves synchronized performances of various actions such as preening, pointing, calling, bill clacking, staring, and combinations of such behaviors (such as the sky-call).When a bird first returns to the colony, it dances with many partners, but after a number of years, the number of interactions drops, until one partner is chosen and a pair is formed. They then continue to perfect an individual language that will eventually be unique to that one pair. Having established a pair bond that will last for life, however, most of that dance will never be used again.

Albatrosses are held to undertake these elaborate and painstaking rituals to ensure that the appropriate partner has been chosen and to perfect partner recognition.

Myth: Albatrosses are souls of lost sailors

A widespread myth holds that sailors believe shooting or harming an albatross is disastrous, due in part to the poem; as reported by James Cook in 1772. However, other sailors reportedly caught the birds but let them free again, possibly believing that albatrosses were the souls of lost sailors, so killing them would bring bad luck.

Albatross; a metaphor for poet

The poet is like this prince of the clouds,

who haunts the storm and mocks the archer;

but exiled on earth surrounded by jeers,

his giant wings make him helpless to walk.

watch the courtship dance here