HAIDER QURESHI--- THE ACTIVE VOLCANO OF LITERATURE

By: Sohail Ahmed Siddiqui

Founder Editor, Haiku International (Karachi)
He bows down in front of his dashing wife, saying:                                                                                                                          
Iste’aaray tou kuja, saamenay uss kay Haider
Shaairy aik taraf apni dhari rehti hai
[Not just metaphors, the entire poesy of mine
Is set aside when she is present.]
This is somewhat un-usual dedication of “Sulagtay Khaab”, the first collection of Ghazals by Haider Qureshi, the most active volcano of Urdu literature, found outside the Sub-continent, i.e. in Germany.                                                                                                   
The 54-year old established poet has published five anthologies of his poetry, containing Ghazals, Nazm, and Mahiya. His two collections of short stories, two collections of pen-sketches, one book of Inshaiya (light essays) and one travelogue of pilgrimage (Hajj) are more than enough to prove him a trend-setting prose-writer. His eleven already published anthologies and some more stuff have been gathered in the form of a single magazine-size book, “Umre-La’haasil ka haasil” (the outcome of futile life). It goes right on the top of ‘Kulliyat’ tradition.                                                                                                                                                           
 Haider Qureshi was born on January 13, 1952 in Chenab Nagar, Punjab. The Seraiki-speaking poet was fortunate enough to have adopted Urdu as a favourite subject, as the parents were behind it. His maternal uncle, Habibullah Sadique was the first poet in his family. Mr. Sadique, now a resident of USA, greatly impressed the little Haider by his melodious voice.                                             
The man of many talents had started rhyming practice while he was only a student of class IX. He dared knitted a romantic novel-like story when he was employed with Haiyee Sons Sugar Mills, right after matriculation in 1968. Later he did Masters in Urdu. He wrote his first Ghazal in 1971which appeared in Weekly Lahore, sometime in 1972. He recited his first Mushaaira in 1974, under the          auspices of Bazm-e-Fareed, Khanpur. He later laid down the foundation stone of “Halqa-e-Arbab-e-Zauque Khanpur” with Nazr       Khaleeque, A.K.Majed and Jameel Mohsin. Besides playing a dynamic role in regional literary activities he also participated actively in “Anjuman Insedaad-e- Shoera, Khanpur” to chase and un-cover the fake poets. He is still a deadly enemy of pseudo poets.                 
In 1978, he launched a literary journal, “Jadeed Adab”, at the cost of ornaments of his wife which he sold out one after another and continued the magazine until last of the jewels went to the goldsmith. However, he revived the journal from Germany, after a lapse of several years.                                                                                                                                                                                
A strong supporter of Mahiya in Urdu, Haider has gained not only friendship, but also enmity for his extraordinary missionary efforts. He is the pioneer of “Mahiya on correct meter” movement. To my surprise, he asked me to write an article in English on the history of Urdu Mahiya. With his full support, I was able to pen down “Mahiya – Language of Love”, published in Daily Dawn of April 25, 2004.
Haider’s entire poetry is a rich blend of traditional Urdu with local lingo. You can find numerous examples of his ‘lingual liberty’. He is perhaps the only living poet who deliberately uses old Punjabi dialect of Urdu in Ghazal.                                                                    
Miray hee khaab kunwaray naheen rahay ab tou
Keh aarzooein tiree bhee biyahiyaan na gaeen
[Not only my dreams are left virgin, but your wishes too, remain un-fulfilled.] 
 He believes in ‘Roe’be-Husn’, the stunning impact of beauty:                                                                                                                

Uss se aankhein chaar kernay ka kahan hai hausla
Jub wo apnay dhiyaan mein hou, tub usay tum dekhna
[Have no courage to look at her directly
Better gaze at her while she is lost in herself.]

 The poet Haider Qureshi is well aware of the fact that notoriety is the fate of love:

Diloun ke khel mein paansa palat ker reh gaya kaise
Humein baynaam houna tha, kisi ka naam houna tha. 
 [How tables have been turned in love affairs!
We had to become nobody, for someone had to become famous]
The dream viewer does have a complaint, too:                                                                                                                                  

Bhur ke aankhoun mein sulagtay khaab, uss ki yaad ke
Mujh ko soutay mein bhee Haider jaagta rakh’kha gaya
[Having filled my eyes with burning dreams of hers,
I was made awaken, even in the dreams.]

 However, he knows very well how dreams are valuable:

Aankh kis tarha khulay meri keh mein jaanta hoon
Aankh khultay hee sabhi khaab ujad jaatay hein
[How can I open my eyes, as I know that
All dreams get decayed when eyes are open.]

 When we try to seek for a new diction with novel use of old and much repeated words, phrases and metaphors, Haider never let us hopeless. See just one example of his coinage:

Katraaye wo kabhi tou kabhi mein jhijhak gaya
Ik bhee kanwal khila na hijaboun kee jheel mein
[She tried to avoid me sometime, so I showed reluctance as well
Not a single lotus bloomed in the “lake of modesty”]

 The patron of Urdu Mahiya and author of 5 research-based books on this genre has himself created a multi-colour rainbow. You may find a wide range of topics:

           1. Milna hou tou miltay hein                             They see each other, if they wish so
Phool mohabbat ke                                          The flowers of love
Pattjhar mein bhi khiltay hein                          Do bloom in autumn

2. Thay upni hee lehroun mein                         We enjoyed our mood
Umr guzari jou                                                Spent life
Punjab ke shehroun mein                                 In the cities of Punjab

3. Europe ka nageena hai                                 It is the gem of Europe
Ubhra hooa dekho                                           Let’s see the rise
Iss dharti ka seena hai                                    Of its soil
                       [Germany]
Haider looks somewhat different in his Nazm. He is fond of free verse. See what he says in the opening stanza of “Khala” (Vacuum):
Kabhi tum dil mein bustay thay
Tou aankhoun mein
Kaheen ander ….
Baharein muskrateen
Kehkashaaein ruqs kerti theen
Zameen-o-aasman mein
Aisi yaktaee ka alam tha
Khala kaisa?
[Once you lived in the heart
Then in the eyes
Somewhere inside….
Spring would smile
Galaxies would dance
Between earth & sky
There was harmony
Vacuum, but for what? 
 And now we have the closing stanza of his poem, “Chaand kee taskheer ke baad” (After the moon conquered):

Jub jaanta hoon dil tira hai path’tharoun ka dher
Phir aayena-e-rooh kiyoon takraoonga bhala
Acha hein tujh ko doorr se hee dekhta rahoon
Acha hai tujh ko doorr se hee souchta rahoon
[When I know your heart is a heap of stones
Why should I clash my ‘soul-mirror’ then?
It’s better to see you from distance
It’s better to think of you, from distance]
The use of simple words, avoidance of complexity and creating a unique environment are praise worthy. Be it Ghazal, Nazm or Mahiya, the locale id definitely visible in most of Haider’s poetry. 
 Haider is one of few selected Urdu poets whose poetry has been translated in to Arabic. Recently, an Iraqi has rendered translation of his poem for an Iraqi website.
The short story writing is yet another way of catharsis for Haider. He mixes the ordinary narrative style with symbolic or somewhat abstract art. One can see a galaxy of events, personal experiences and sharp observations in his two collections. Recently, an Indian writer has done English translations of his short stories. Hope to see the book appearing soon. 
 Pen-sketch is somewhat a favourite pastime, as he proves his skills more briskly than he does in short stories. He has re-collected all his sweet and bitter memories in memoirs, included in two volumes. “Meri mohabbatein”, his first anthology of pen-sketches is full of lively expressions, deep observations and sweet /sour memories. He openly admits his errors and blunders wherever they peep in to his flow of writing. 
Through his wonderful writing, we are able to see a true picture of innocent Mirza Adeeb (late) who once asked him to let him visit the romantic land of Cholistan and never said, “ Oh, I’m the author of Sehra Navard ke Khutoot. Don’t you tell me about its magic”. 
 An ever-ready Haider has contributed positively in the promotion of INSHAIYA, in Urdu. ‘Faaslay-Qurbatein’, his collection of Inshaiyas is full of interesting and impressive light essays on various topics. His careful treatment is simply commendable. He has also authored a book on Dr. Wazir Agha, the critic and patron of INSHAIYA. 
 Besides writing reportage, Haider endeavoured to continue writing as a journalist and penned a few thought provoking columns. His two books of journalistic writings are also out in the market. 
 Six books including a research-oriented thesis for MA have been published about the works of Haider Qureshi, besides 5 special H.Q. sections in esteemed literary journals. Above all, he is the greatest supporter of premier Urdu literary websites.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

****** 

            It was my papa who had instilled in me the love of stories and story telling especially of the ethical and religious ones. He used to tell the stories of saints and ascetics in my child hood in a very interesting way and I used to hear spell bound. There were many things I could not understand but he seemed to be deriving a strange satisfaction out of his own relation. Once he related a very interesting and amusing incident pertaining to one of the twin sisters of his own religious head, his murshid or his spiritual guru. It went like this: 

“Jannat Bibi was a very God-fearing devout lady. Once she dreamed that she was standing on a sea – shore and the waves for the sea were coming up to her feet and returning. When she woke up and related the dream to her mother she was very surprised because her shalvar (a women’s pyjamas) was wet and soggy. When papa told me this I said with my childish innocence, She must have wee-weed! “Papa smiled affectionately and further explained that her shalvar was dotted with sand-grains. This mysterious happening infused in me a strong yearning to experience such a thing myself. When I grew up I came across many such stories but my desire was to experience it first hand. During the period of such yearning two soul exciting stories impressed me a lot.  
                        In the first story saint Abu Abdullah Jalla (May God be kind on him) was staying in the sacred city of Madina. When he found himself compelled to fast for days at a stretch he felt groggy and came to the sacred and most revered mausoleum of the prophet Mohammed (May peace be upon him) and said “O, Prophet of Allah I am your guest in this city but I am hungry and starving.” So saying he fell unconscious.  He saw the prophet in his dream that was offering bread to him graciously. He ate half of the bread in his dream and when he came to, he found the remaining half in his hand!
                     The other story, concerning saints Hassan Basari (may God be kind on him) ran like this: 
                        “A non muslim by the name Shamoon aged 70, once said to saint Hassan Basari: “Sir, all my life has been spent in infidelity and unfaith-fullness and nothing remains”. 
      “The saint said you embrace Islam! “ Shamoon said “Sir, if you write it down that Allah will not punish me for my sins if I became a muslim, then I will do so. “The saint wrote it down. Shamoon said, “I would like this letter to bear the signatures of the eminent persons of Basarah. The saint got it done and Shamoon became a Muslim. And he wrote it down in his will that when he died the letter should be put into his hand when he would be cremated. So when he expired the letter as per his will was put into his hand before his cremation. The saint, Hassan Basari, spent that night restlessly, He kept wondering if he should have done it! He thought that as he himself was not sure of his deliverance then why did he write down a certificate of deliverance for a sinner on behalf of God. In the wee hours he fell asleep and saw shamoon happily enjoying the comforts of paradise. He turned to Hassan Basari and said “my Moula (the last prophet) was so kind to me that I did not have to produce your letter of amnesty. And he, so saying, returned the letter to the saint reverentially. When saint Hassan Basari woke up he found the letter in his hand! 
            Going through all such events faithfully I found myself becoming sceptical. I was then an employee in a sugar mill. Those were the last days of December and I was on my 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. night shift. When I was going to report to the duty I was a little feverish. I hardly served for two hours when my fever shot up. I called my co-worker and handing over my charge to him in the lab, I went to an adjacent room, which was not in use for some time, to rest. There was a large rag of the filter cloth lying on the floor and converting it into a bedspread, I lay down on it. There was not any quilt and feeling the atmosphere cold I started shivering. Suddenly I felt that somebody encased me in a quilt and the warmth put me to sleep immediately. When the first hooter sounded at 1.30 a.m. to alert the laborers to start winding up in the remaining thirty minutes, I woke up, I was in perspiration all over and my fever had fallen down. I set aside the quilt and sat up. It surprised me a lot when I looked around in the dark room and didn’t find any quilt there. What was it? What kind of an unimaginable mystery it was? I felt overwhelmed by wonder and joy and related the incident to one and all. Some looked at me enviously while others termed it as a whim. Papa said I should have kept it to my self instead of making it public. He said I could not carry its load and hence I would not ever be awarded with such a mysterious gift. and to be true I never could savour such a tasty experience. But all my scepticism vanished and I again began to believe in spirituality. I again began to read about the lives and experiences of all saintly and reverential religious persons. And the reading too had its own flavour! 
            Twenty years after the incident yet another strange thing happened. I was suffering from some sort of bronchial infection for a week. Yesterday when the throat became very sore and the voice hoarse I went to see a doctor.  The doctor admonished me for taking health so lightly and prescribed a week’s medication of penicillin capsules three times a day. He stressed that they were to be taken with regularity without a single lapse. But despite his strict instructions I forgot to take the third dose of the first day and went to bed without it. Once in the bed I realized that I had not taken the capsule. I was feeling dead tired and damn lazy and though I wanted to get up and take the medicine I could not help and started sinking into drowsiness and sleep. Before falling fully asleep, I remember clearly, that I felt somebody putting a capsule into my mouth and I struggled to swallow it successfully without water. When I woke up in the morning the recollection of the last night’s strange happening filled me with surprise and happiness. The mysterious and divine secret of the universe or its shadow had again brushed with me lightly. I was sure that the capsules must be 3 short of the total 21. I had bought for one week. I counted them with my heart throbbing wildly but to my disappointment they were short by only two. I began to feel let down but the logical justification of the mysterious happening came to my rescue and I suddenly felt over-joyed. The doctor had strictly told me that I would have to take the medicine regularly for 7 days without fail to wipe out the infection. But after taking only three capsules, especially the third, though unaccounted, I was feeling perfectly O.K. there was not any soreness in my throat any longer and the harshness along with the incapacitating tiredness had vanished. I called my wife aloud and told her all about the strange happening of the past night. Meanwhile my children too assembled and listened to my narration with rapt attention. 
            When I was through, I realized that I shouldn’t have told this to any one. I should have kept it to myself. Now I would have to wait for another 20 years to experience such a thing. I am now 44 and I am least interested in going beyond 63*, and it means that such divine happenings wouldn’t come across me now. 
            But why I am not interested in living beyond 63? This too is a secret and I will never disclose at least this secret to anybody!

*****

The nature of a man
Is angelic;
It is the devils without
Who come into play with it. 
 

            I have a very special bond with Tauseef Ahmed, the bond of love. He is really a lovable person. Although his wife is a distant relative of mine but if there is a friend I really care for, it is Mr. Tauseef Ahmed. He married my relative after the death of his first wife. He was then forty-five and my relative’s age twenty-five. She was a divorcee but she hadn’t disclosed it at the time of her marriage. But when it came to Mr. Tauseef Ahmed’s knowledge he didn’t mind it. 
            At the time of his second marriage, some twenty years back, his nine years old daughter from his first wife was with his maternal aunt. I was entrusted with the responsibility to take her to Lahore to Mr. Anwar’s house. When I reached Lahore after a nightlong journey Mr. Anwar had left for his office. I was quite tired and after taking a bath and having my break fast I went to sleep. I am not sure why I woke up but there were some strange voices coming from the drawing room. Mr. Anwar’s daughter was calling somebody uncle Anees and the Uncle Anees was pestering her to bring lime from a nearby shop for vinegar. 
            The girl was not adamant but Mrs. Tauseef was not in favor of sending her out. Her sharp whisper was sharp enough for me to overhear it. She was saying, “Anees, don’t act as a fool, a friend of Mr. Anwar is sleeping inside!” Hearing this I further started acting as deep - asleep although I had become wide awake. I acknowledge sex as one of the obvious realities of life. If its demands are met within the parameters of the social set up it is fine but if someone is compelled to cross the limits with mutual consent without any kind of allurements I prefer to maintain a dignified silence over it. Everybody has his life to lead and let him or her go about it discreetly without allowing it to become a social nuisance. 
            I stayed in Lahore for two days and met Uncle Anees a couple of times. I never gave an inkling that I knew what was going on. And they, Mr. Anees and Mrs. Tauseef remained oblivious of my ‘know-how’ regarding their illicit relations although whenever I had to go to Lahore I stayed at Mr. Tauseef Anwar’s and often saw Uncle Anees there. But the news that surprised me very much later was about Mr. Anwar’s entanglement with a headmistress of a school. They were formal friends, but one day when there was no one else at his house the sense of being alone and in secured proximity carried them far enough to make them carnally one. It was Mr. Anwar’s maiden illicit adventure where as his wife was already an amateur in the field. She immediately pounced on him as soon as she smelt a rat and made him confess. Mr. Anwar, who was already living under pressure due to the huge gap between their ages, had to swear by the Quran that he would never repeat the mistake. When I came to know all about it I strangely felt hurt by Mrs. Tauseef Anwar’s behavior. It was a clear case of a pot calling the kettle black! How dare she made him to swear by the Quran! 
            In our world, social or ethical, a culprit is he who is caught. The one who sins to his fill with tact, commits crimes at his fancy shrewdly is regarded as temperate, pious and God fearing person! 
            I decided many times to tell Mr. Anwar about his wife’s real persona. But stopped short every time thinking that Mr. Anwar was already through hell and back and if I revealed the sordid aspect of his wife’s personality he will once again find himself bound for hell without the remotest possibility of getting back. At least he was again leading a near normal life. 
            But a chance meeting with Uncle Anees at a hotel where I had gone to dine jogged my memory again. When out of etiquette I invited him to join me in the dinner, he readily accepted it. There were two ladies too in his company who were quite known and socially respected in the city. One of them was called Shameem Khanum and the other Razia Begum. Uncle Anees introduced them to me and said that all his friends with liberal thinking had formed a new organization to fight for the women’s rights and to improve the performance of the organization they were busy in opening its branches. 
            As our meeting was par chance it should have remained formal and light hearted but it started acquiring the color of seriousness as Uncle Anees, in his enthusiasm of highlighting his role in strengthening the organization and making it more effective began to be expansive on the topic. He said that they were on an urban tour to make people aware of the need of the hour. He began to reel off statistics and in the manner of road side speakers plunged head long into the debate with clap trap cliches and one liners. I immediately sensed that it was more to impress the accompanying ladies than me. I am not against women’s rights. Women deserve their just place in the society and all kinds of tyranny that have been meted out to them by men for centuries ought to end forthwith. But hearing all this from Uncle Anees’ mouth began to jar on my nerves. At one point of the discussion I asked him why Mrs. Tauseef Anwar was not practically supporting him. 
            ‘Ah!’ He said pitifully, “She is a ‘Molvan” (a conservative). “She can’t even think of embarking upon such a radical mission!” It nearly came to the tip of my tongue to say “Uncle, she is not that religious. Behind the curtain of Namaz (Prayers) and Tasbeeh (a rosary) she is regularly having an illicit affair with you. She should have willingly come forward to help you in achieving such a lofty goal. But I couldn’t say it. And, instead, I reminded him that the women that were more affected by those injustices lived largely in rural areas and if he was really concerned about the women’s plight he should send his ladies to such wretched places to make those victims aware of their rights. I said that the liberal women leaders would have to knock on every door of a hut or a shack to accomplish the task. The women who lived in their urban areas and cosmopolitan cities were already aware of their rights to a large extent. 
            Instead of Uncle Anees, Shameem Khanum pitched in and said that the rights of the urban women too were trampled upon. She further added, “We have just begun our movement. Gradually we will branch out to the backward localities and villages. We have to set right this inequality in the society.” 
            “May I know how you are ging to set it right?” I asked. 
            “By eradicating the gender based bias and making people look at things as human beings.” She declared with elan. 
            “If it has to be so,” I said satirically, “then how about eunuchs and gays?” “I think they are subjected to insults and derogatory behavior!” 
            “This section too is suffering at the hands of male Chauvinists!” 
            This time it was Razia Begum who intervened. 
            “Then you should got to war against such things without Uncle Anees.”  I retorted jokingly and Uncle Anees let out a loud laugh. But his face reflected his inner embarrassment. 
            “No. Our struggle is in its nascent stage and whoever comes forward to help us is welcome!” Shameem Khanum said with a sophistication that seemed to be her forte. 
            “ A man goes about luxuriating in wine and women. Bat as soon as a woman steps out of the ‘ Laxman Rekha’ She is immediately condemned to life-long ignominy.” Razia Begum’s tone was bitter and acidic, She wanted to change the course of discussion in a challenging way. I, too, threw my hat in. “It implies that you want such freedom for the women too!” I asked her pointedly. 
            “ Look! “Uncle Anees protested,” You have descended to an excessive behavior!” 
            “ You tell me,” Razia Begum said to me with obvious fierceness, “are you ready to give the so-called right of ‘honor-killing’ to women too in an other-way-round situation!” Her argument held water but as I was talking more to tease Uncle Anees than his companions were I changed the tack and went hammer and tongs at him. “I am sorry if I have hurt the feelings of the ladies, but tell me how many ladies are following the example of Asima Jahangir, the famed liberal activist? They are just going on tours along with their male partners, leaving their husbands behind, to attend seminars and hold talk-shows. They are enjoying their new – found freedom with a glee and with no – holds-barred manner! 
            “ You are directly insulting us!” Both the ladies protested vehemently. 
            “ I personally know a woman who is a champion of ladies rights. She made her body a ladder and rose to fame instantly. When she lost her glamour and found herself down the hill she started supplying girls to many important officers. She is very well known. She can do any thing for the women’s rights!” 
            “I think we should no longer sit here!” Uncle Anees said furiously, rising form his seat. Both the ladies too followed suit displaying a royal annoyance. 
            “Uncle Anees,” I hit back calmly. “ I was intending to keep this discussion within the limits, but now that you are feeling so hurt and aggrieved, let me say one last thing. Please be so broadminded as to let your mother, your sister and your daughter enjoy the same rights and allow them to go with an Uncle Anees wherever they wish to!” They stormed out of the hotel in a huff, but I had succeeded in putting my point of view across. The dinner bill that was put before me later by the waiter was quite heavy but while paying it I felt quite light and easy. 
            It also looked as if I had succeeded to a considerable extent in avenging the mean treatment that was meted out to Mr. Anwar by his wife, the so-called ‘Molvan’!
* * * * *

THE IDENTITY

  They are all there to see
On every denuded branch of life;
The oppressions of the autumnal moments
That be-fell the flowery faces!

“PAKISTAN KA MATLAB KYA? LA ILAHA ILLALLAH!”
(SLOGAN: What does Pakistan mean? It means there is no God but God!).
“PAKISTAN PALEEDISTAN!” (SLOGAN: Pakistan means defilement!)
“WE’LL NOT REST TILL WE MAKE PAKISTAN!”(SLOGAN)
“SAT SRI AKAL!” (PUNJABI SLOGAN: HAIL THE TRUTH, HAIL VENERABLE AKAL!)
HAYYA ALAS SALTH! (SLOGAN IN ARABIC BY MUSLIM: WORSHIP OF GOD LIVES ON!).
“BAANG NAIN DE DIYANGE, SAADIYAN RANNAN BAANGYAAN JAANDIYAN NAIN!” (PUNJABI SLOGAN: WE’LL NOT ALLOW MUSLIM TO CALL FOR PRAYERS FROM THE MINARETS. IT LEAVES BAD EFFECT ON OUR WOMEN)
“MASJID-E-SHAHEED GUNJ!” (SLOGAN IN THE NAME OF SHAHEED GANJ MASQUE)!
GURU GOVINDJI KE BACHHE!” (INSULTING SLOGAN: YOU, SON OF GURU GOVIND JI!).
“HINDU MUSLIM BHAI BHAI!” (A UNITING SLOGAN: HINDUS AND MUSLIMS ARE BROTHERS!).
“JAI HIND, JAI HIND!” (INDIAN SLOGAN: MAY INDIA LIVES FOREVER!)

          There was a deafening thunder and it looked the earth was shaking. Pakistan had got freedom! All the events, the related scenes and the history started getting mixed and disoriented in her mind. She was not able to place a single scene or event in its right perspective. There was only a disturbing flash of a chaotic memory of blood, arson and looting. Her convoy had been attacked and its members, irrespective of their age and sex were being brutally murdered.
          Everything became dark in her eyes. After sometime she spotted some light in the nearby fields. She felt that the light was actually a ray of hope in her self, the hope of survival. She nearly reached the village next to hers. But once there, the ray of hope too died out.
“Who are you?”
“Me, mum, I’m Rasheeda.”
“Hee, haw, hee, haw...!” the laughs were like the laughs of the captors after winning a battle.
“Please take me to my mother please. Please send me to Pakistan.” She entreated.
“Look, you are not Rasheeda now, you are Prakash Kaur!” She, despite being helpless, mustered up some up some courage and said, ‘I am a Muslim and my name is Rasheeda!”
      The Sikh leader gestured to his seven companions and they seized her by her hands, legs and hair and began to carry her to an unknown place. The Sikh leader asked her tauntingly on the way, “Now tell me what does Pakistan mean!” 
She began to say “La ilaha illa Allah..” but they shut her mouth tightly. She still succeeded in completing the Arabic testimonial of a faithful to the oneness of God and Mohammed being His Prophet by saying “Moahmmadurrasool Allah!”
They took her to an empty house and dumped her into a room.
“The enemies of Islam, the enemies of humanity, the mufflers of Azan (a call to pray to Allah), animals, dogs!” A flood of protests and expletives began to rise from her mouth. The Sikh leader, after sending his men out began to slap her. And, despite getting slapped mercilessly, she continued to insist that she was Rasheeda and she should be sent to her mother in Pakistan. But her captor continued to slap her and while raping her he continued to convince her that she was not Rasheeda she was Prakash Kaur, a Sikh not a Muslim!
He kept raping her and along with him the warring slogans too kept raping her mind and soul.
“We’ll not rest till we make Pakistan!”
“Jai Hind!”
“Sat Sri Akal!”
The slogans not only raped her, they kept reminding her of her new name. When she cried aloud in agony the Sikh leader threatened her that if she didn’t ‘correct’ herself he would call in his other men to do the same. She began to weep inconsolably and then she started believing that she was not Rasheeda, she was Prakash Kaur. She ‘corrected’ herself and became a real Prakash Kaur, wife of the Sikh leader Surender Singh!
             Whenever her inner Rasheeda reminded her of the tragic events of the past she shut her up instantly. Whenever she asked he the meaning of any slogan she ignored her. May it be the ban on Muslim calls for prayers during the new Sikh era or the murder of the sons of Guru Govindh Singhji during the reign of the Moghals. May it be that the meaning of Pakistan were La ilaha illa Allah or defilement, she didn’t allow herself to comprehend. She had forgotten herself, the meaning of her own being and as a consequence every thing lost its meaning in her eyes. She compromised with her new and meaningless life and the compromise made the meaninglessness meaningful. The two sunny sons and a beautiful little daughter! Whenever she found her New World relaxing she found her inner discomfort increasing. She kept hanging in limbo between the comfort and the discomfort and the unstoppable waves of time brought her to the shape of the old age!
*****
There was a huge out cry and it looked as if the earth was quaking.
Indira Gandhi was murdered!
The Hindu extremists came into play and a Sikh genocide began. The known and unknown fears gripped her and she, in return gripped the arm of her young daughter with her old and feeble hand. The riots intensified. Surender Singh had gone to the govt.’s relief camps to seek proper relief and refuge for the affected or likely to be affected. But misfortune stalked him too. Both his young sons were slaughtered on his own doorsteps and his house was set on fire. His wife, along with her young daughter escaped unhurt by climbing over the boundary wall around the back yard and jumping down into the dark alley. She had barely walked a few steps when they were challenged from behind.
“Stop! Who are you?”
“Mum me!” She stuttered and the 37-year-old scene began to repeat itself.
“What’s your name?”
“Prakash Kaur..no, no… Rasheeda … yes sir, Rasheeda!”
“You are lying. You are not a Muslim. You are a Sikh!”
I swear by Guru.. by Bhagwan, I am Rasheeda and she is my daughter … Chitra …no, not Chitra… her name is…!”
She was utterly confused and she couldn’t come up with a suitable name. She kept thinking in a dazed manner and the scene, meanwhile, rapidly changed. She was made to stand in the sit out of a house and her daughter was taken in forcibly. They were eight and they raped her young daughter Chitra one after another. Chitra had fainted but the thirst of the rioteers hadn’t yet got quenched.
She too lay in the sit out, feeling helpless and incapacitated. All the events of the past and the present and all the related scenes danced around her. She felt like a person surrounded by giant screens on which many different movies were being shown with full sound and the person was unable to make sense out of any.
            She felt it was not Chitra lying before her, it was she herself and the rioteers were ordering her to mug her own name.” Prakash Kaur, not Rasheed!” Rasheeda, not Prakash Kaur!”
It was then that she realized that in fact she had no name and no religion.
She was only a girl, a woman!
And that was her name and that was her religion too!
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  Haider, this our obliviousness
May be right;
But her anger obviously
Has a reason!

            By God! I am not unworthy of my salt! I have been working in the house hold of Mr. Chodhry Allah Datta as an errand-boy and servant since the age of 6 or barely 7. Those were the days when a wage of rupees twenty was a fortune for my parents and the sumptuous meals that were doled out to me graciously to my fill were Godsends. Today, after a huge span of eighteen years’ service, how can I be termed as unworthy of my salt! Mr. and Mrs. Choudhry Allah Datta have always reposed their faith in my honesty. I never even cast a sinful. Look at the maidens and ladies of the family in spite of achieving adulthood in that house. I never misappropriated a dime in all my life. Then why this epithet of ‘Salt-unworthy’ is being thrown at me as an expletive?
              Choudhrani Ji, as she was always addressed, may God bless her, used to say to me lovingly “Bhola, you are really artless!” But, to be true to myself, I am not that artless in fact. On many occasions I find it prudent to look innocent and ignorant despite understanding and knowing the things fully well,. Artlessness is very important in being worthy of one’s salt! I have seen a lot of things taking place in Choudhry Allah Datta Saheb’s house and I have the tact enough that makes complicated situations comprehensible. But despite being in the know of many secrets of the family I never even thought to spill the beans.
                I can recall that when I was fifteen both the younger daughters of Choudhri Saheb were left behind while the rest of the family had gone to the U.S. on a visiting tour. The younger daughters Rafiyah Bibi and Majidah Bibi had to stay back because of the mundane chores and up-keep of the mansion. Majidah Bibi, during that period, began to sleep in the drawing room instead of her bedroom. Every night at 10-00 there was a peculiar dull knock at the door and Majidah Bibi would be in the alley in a jiffy. I knew that one of her neighbors’ son Dr. Abdul Khalique used to come to see her secretly. But I never disclosed it to anybody. I only smiled over it sagely. Majidah Bibi was married off later elsewhere and became a mother of three cuddly sons. When, one day, she received a marriage VCD of her sister’s daughter, she objected to a song and dance sequence by the family women. Every body wondered because that was a routine thing during the marriages. I recalled Choudhraniji who, despite being hefty and plump, used to join other women, dancing and singing, with delight. But I laughed very much inwardly when Majidah said, “the VCD should not be played before the children, it would spoil them.” I didn’t even attempt to remind her nocturnal “Pick nicks”!
                  When Saleema Bibi’s daughter Raeesa began to display her under lying qualities in the locality I remained tight-lipped. A relative of Saleema Bibi’s once tried to caution her but, instead of Paying heed, she took it as an insult and allegation and began to fume and went to the relative’s home along with her elder sister Haleema Bibi to create a scene. But the relative, seeing her behavior, told her everything that had been withheld in view that she might feel hurt. And as a consequence Haleema bibi not only had to eat dust, she had to bear the brunt of her own elder sister’s ire. Her elder sister had engaged Saleema Bibi’s second daughter Raashida with her son but she broke the engagement in the heat of the moment. I know Raashida Bibi is a very good girl, she is just the opposite of Raeesa Bibi her sister. When Saleema Bibi’s husband learnt about his daughter’s waywardness he suddenly died of cardiac arrest. He was a real dignified and self respected Choudhry indeed! I know lots of such things intimately but being a faithful and salt worthy servant of the family I have never betrayed them.
           Choudhrani ji, may God bless her, was a large hearted woman. Choudhry Allah Datta Saheb once went to Africa in connection with his business and returned after three years. Again he went there after some time and returned half a decade later. But she remained as magnanimous as ever. It was only after her death that such things like Majidah’s and Raeesa’s began to happen although Choudhri Allah Datta Saheb is a very temperate man and to be honest I never noticed any waywardness in him myself. But after the death of Choudhrani ji he has married again at the age of 73. Not only the youngsters but the oldies too have acknowledged his mettle. But proving one’s mettle by doing such things didn’t go down well with me. I have begun to suspect his marital integrity now. When he is not able to abstain from sexual demands at this age, he may not have abstained from them when he was away in Africa for years at a stretch! He used to be younger at that time. He must surely have rolled in the hay, though discreetly!
                People may not speak before him about his choice of a woman as his wife but they do speak a lot behind him. They criticize him on choosing a woman, a widow of a judge, though twenty years younger than him, with a dark background. She in her youth had run away with a man who unfortunately belonged to a different religion. And the woman the daughter of Ibrahim, who is supposed to be a custom, made sister of the new Choudhrayan is also a great friend of hers. The custom made suckling from the breast had made her the wife’s sister in the eyes of Choudhry Allah Datta. But people never forgot the dark background of the new Chodhrayan that became a part of her village’s history. The new Chodhryan, in no way, can be compared to the late Choudhraniji and even to try to do so is to defile her memory in my eyes. The people too are every arty. They talk in undertones even before the person they are talking against. They wonder, meaningfully, why along with the dry dates and popcorns the toffees and balloons were distributed after the Nikah (the marriage vow)! They explain it themselves by saying that like popcorns and balloons Chaudhry Allah Datta Saheb too are hallow. He is just making it a show of his manliness. Let him prove it by becoming a father at this age! I think the bastard who said this, said it loud enough to get it across to Choudhri ji and I believe he did hear it.
              I think my woolgathering is not in line with the thing. I want to make it clear. I am not salt-unworthy. And to prove it I have to tell you the incident that took place yesterday. Choudhry Allah Datta Sahab asked me yesterday night to change the setting of his bedroom a bit. He gave me the necessary instructions and took me to his bedroom. The Choudhrani was sitting there. I told her that the change of the setting would require some upsetting first, and that she could leave the room for a while. She didn’t budge. Choudhry Saheb had left and I tried to explain to her the matter at length. She, instead of leaving the bedroom, came closer to me with a strange expression on her face. I got really bewildered when she suddenly hugged me. I somehow disentangled myself and ran towards the door but I couldn’t open it and in a state of frenetic surge I jumped out of the window and ran. But I had to return to do my duty and hence by making a detour I returned to the bedroom and was surprised to find it latched from outside. I opened it with my hands shaking and saw the new Choudhrani standing in the middle of the room with her eyes blazing. She looked at me with those fiery eyes and spat out the epithet contemptuously “Namak Haraam!” (Salt unworthy) and closed the door from inside with a bang.
                Now tell me what kind of a salt unworthy I am!? Bye God, I am not salt unworthy. Choudhry Saheb hasn’t yet returned home since he left us yesterday night. Had her returned, he would himself have testified to my salt worthiness. He would have called his Bhola anything but salt unworthy.
                But I wonder where he has gone and why he hasn’t yet returned.
I also wonder who latched the door of the bedroom from outside?
It beats me but only God knows!
* * * * *

By: Haider Qureshi

a sesnse of suffocation

Haider, we have only borne
With it;
When have we lived the life
To its fullest?

When he was a child, his mother used to bathe him under a tap or a bore-well faucet. His brother used to jerk the handle while his mother scrubbed and soaped him. He liked his mother bathing him but he used to cry whenever he felt the soapy foam sting his eyes. A more scary thing for him was to get the jet of water directly over his face and head from the faucet. He used to shout and cry. His brother, sensing his discomfort, would jerk the handle more vigorously in a mischievous manner. He would begin to thrash about helplessly. His mother, seeing his nervousness, would hug him and that always used to soothe him enormously.

Once he went to the top of a hill with his father in his childhood. It frightened him a lot to peer below from that height. And as a result he developed a psychological fear of the height and the water. He felt safe in being rooted to the ground. In yet another incident, he had to creep along the wall of a 22nd floor balcony when he looked down perchance and got panicked. When he reached the adjacent room he was panting as if he had participated in a three hundred-meter-race.
           During his youth he had to change many houses due to his employment and postings. You can call it a coincidence that the bathroom of nearly every new house was small and narrow. He had to stand in attention under the shower lest his elbows touched this or that or knocked them out. Many times on such occasions he fondly recalled the bore well of his child hood and its faucet with its rough & circular basin underneath. It was in the open and this suffocation was, at least, not there! In the narrow bathrooms he sometimes felt he was a serenade who had lost his heart to a princess and was being en-confined alive in a standing position between the four walls as a punishment. He had to come out of the bathrooms in the middle of the showers to breathe freely outside. During the bath he often found it impossible to reach his back fully to scrub and soap it and then he longed that if only his mother were alive. One day, amid the course of such thoughts, he looked at his wife strangely. His wife was not only his maternal uncle’s daughter, she even resembled his mother in features. He asked her to lend a hand to soap his back whenever he washed. His wife blushed and said, “I can’t do these soap operas!” He laughed and marveled at her mental sprint from reality to fantasy. “Besides,” he thought, “where was the place for the two in the narrow dinghy!”
              He came across a news in a paper one day: “A woman, considered dead, breaks out of her grave two days later!” The news shocked him. Burying a live man as dead! And how could a man break open his grave after remaining buried without food and water for two days. She could have died with suffocation. He nervously left his room for sometime to return again. And when he pulled his blanket upto his head that night he felt he was lying in his grave in a shroud. He not only pulled the blanket down he sat up in the bed despite the chill. One day he narrated his fears and phobias to one of his friends in confidence. He advised him to learn swimming. He couldn’t tell his friend that he was totally incapable of even trying that. So he said in jest “Who knows I would have to play Mahinwal (Sohni & Mahinwal, fabled lovers of the Panjab), one day and cross a river and instead of getting drowned and dying reach the other bank safely to give the legend an embarrassing twist!”
             His study, mean while, on the impending disasters of air pollution, the thinning of the ozone layer by the day and a nuclear world war, kept increasing. He started thinking that people have further polluted the world by their self-interests and aggrandizement. They have punctured the ozone layer in the blind race of reaching higher and higher. They have dirtied the revered motherhood by creating weapons of mass destruction through their so-called industries and they have nearly made the world bald by shaving its forests off. All these so called highs of scientific and technological achievements of today are destined to take the humanity to the lowest of the low, he thought. And he began to feel further suffocated and nervous.
              Surrounded by such thoughts, he was once travelling by a train. He felt so nervous that he immediately rose from his seat and went to the compartment’s door. He opened it and stood on its steps for some time by holding its bars tightly to breathe and inhale the fresh air. It soothed him for a while but then he began to think about jumping down and getting relieved of all such fears and premonitions. He heard a voice rising from within, egging him on to jump. He got so nervous that he immediately returned to his seat. Had he remained standing there any further he would surely have jumped down. Since then, whenever he went to a high place, he always heard the voice from within, egging him on to jump and he always went down immediately feeling nervous.
              That was the day when he was returning from the state capital when he felt like going to his parents graves to pay homage and changing his direction he went to the town where they were located. When he reached the River Bridge through which he had to walk afoot, he found it under construction. He thought when he had come thus far it wouldn’t be right to return without offering his respects to his parents. He decided to stay back on his side of the river’s bank and go ahead next morning. But at 10 p.m. a person approached him and told him that he was an inhabitant of the other side and he was in the know of an another passage. He went with him without thinking twice. The other bridge turned out to be barely two feet wide and although one side of it was secured by a couple of iron bars that ran parallel, the other side was open and without it. He crossed it half way in his own thoughts. But suddenly he realized that he was walking on the Pul-e-Sirath (a bridge in Islamic mythology to be crossed by everybody after death). He looked up holding the pipe tightly and saw laborers engaged in repair on the Railway Bridge. The harsh light coming from there made him squint. Out of fear he looked squint-eyed below and found the Summer-river was rising. His heart began to sink. He started recalling all the graces he was asked to take by heart in his child hood. From prayers for knowledge to prayers for deliverance of parents, there were many. He was now unable to look up or down. When he looked at his companion who was leading him he couldn’t find him. He had disappeared. The fright of the unforeseen took hold of him. Who was he? And why he brought me here and disappeared himself? Why a person living on the other side deceived me! Engrossed in such ponderable-and-otherwise-thoughts and questions he looked at the sky helplessly. There was a deep and dark silence and at another angle the blinding light from the workstation above. The nervousness so gripped him that he lost hold of the pipe. He saw the rising river below and staggered because he had begun to hear the voice within that was egging him on as usual. “Jump down! Jump down!”
           He heard the sound of a big splash himself and then he felt his mother was giving him a bath and his brother was jerking the handle of the bore well tap vigorously. And when he tossed and writhed in agony his mother lifted him and hugged him.
He felt, all his nervousness, vanish!
* * * * *

   Translated from Urdu By : Nazim Khalili (India)

The days of meeting are
All scattered;
And the night of loneliness
Now resides in the eyes!

            after reading the book ‘The games of Magic!’ I take some tablets of musk camphor from my dad’s box to try out a game that was mentioned in the book. But a neighbor’s girl arrives to play. Her eyes are very beautiful. I tell her that I am going to set water on fire. She looks at me in a way that tells me that she was not taking me seriously. But when I ignite the camphor tablets and throw them in water they continue to burn and she looks very much surprised. Her beautiful eyes are full of wonder and they are lit up with a strange emotion. I, opening my eyes to the reality, note that she is more interested in me than my magic game, I find the shadows of love lurking behind her wonderful eyes. The magical shadows of love!
* * *
         I haven’t been able to come out of her nascent spell of love. I know that as soon as I come out of it the magic of her youth will petrify me. And no magic book or knowledge or recitation of ‘Abracadabra’ will be able to convert me into a living human being from stone again.
           She is talking incessantly over a variety of topics and I am just saying ‘yeah, yeah’, avoiding her eyes and instead, looking at the table before me intently. The summer has arrived and perhaps that is the reason a lot of moths were hovering around the glaring light bulb fitted in the ceiling. A lot of them have also fallen on my table. They are so small that a soft blow can make them fly. I rub a moth with my pencil without exerting any pressure. Obviously it has succumbed to the rub. But to my astonishment it begins to move again after sometime. Turning her attention to it I tell her, with my eyes still lowered that the moth is moving despite having died. She looks at it intently for a while and then lets out a tinkling laugh. I raise my head to look at her but nervously look down again, I want to remain bound under the spell of her child hood charm. I know the magic of her youth will turn me into a stone. And if once it happens then no magic book or knowledge or recitation of ‘Abracadabra’ will be able to convert me into a living being again. The echo of her tinkling laugh is still in the air. Her voice comes rustling through it. “It is the air from the ceiling fan that’s making you think that the moth is alive and moving otherwise the poor thing is very much dead!” I breathe easily and look at the dead moth that seemed moving due to the air. She speaks again, ‘The moths you haven’t rubbed off are also dead. All these moths are dead’, she waves at them, ‘They look alive due to the air!’ All these things are either illusory or quirks of fate. We, who look alive, are rather dead. Aren’t we?
        ‘You are right, we are dead moths looking alive under the magical fan of the fate (--- and no magic book or knowledge or recitation of Abracadabra will be able to convert me into a living being again).
And, afraid of getting petrified, I cover my eyes with my hand too.
             She softly removes my hand from my eyes and suddenly our eyes meet.
Her gazelle eyes brighten up. I don’t petrify, instead I begin melting and a fragrance surrounds me. A savory sense fills me up. I was afraid of her unnecessarily. I look into her eyes deeply and unflinchingly and the lights and fragrances from her eyes and body invade my being and begin a dance of sorts within. I feel lost in the flavor of this newfound moment. I begin to feel alive.
         She too looks happy but a strange sense of disenchantment is also peeping through her eyes. 
        ‘We are not dead insects or worms. We bear witness to life! At least you and me!’
         She becomes more disenchanted after hearing this.
        

       The sound of pipers playing pipes is making my whole body numb. Except my face my whole body has turned into a stone. At my right is standing the moment when we had played the game of fire and water. She is still looking at me with wonder, after seeing water, catching fire.
        At my left is standing the moment when lights and fragrances had traveled from her eyes and body into my being and begun a dance of sorts within.
       Her palanquin is about to leave and I negate my own statement. She was right. We are all dead moths and worms looking alive under the magical fan of the fate! I now know the secret of the strange disenchantment that had crept up into her eyes after seeing me pleased and happy.
        My face too has begun to turn into stone but before it is over the fragrances from her body turn camphor in my breath and get set in the form of tablets in my eyes.
         The lights that had emanated from her gazelle eyes are now igniting those tablets. They caught fire and are floating on the water in my eyes. I begin to try hard to save myself from drowning in the water or getting immolated by the fire. I don’t want to turn into stone fully.
           It is only to let life’s reputation be…! 
                                                                            * * * * *

 Translated from Urdu By : Nazim Khalili (India)

    THE TORMENT OF MY REVEALING Art!

 All the ways were lost;
By the time I knew them.
I have come back bearing
The biers of my destinations!

i am an artist, a painter. When I went through the infinitesimal quest of self and savored the pleasure of its acquaintance, its revelation surprised me no end. I tried to imbibe its touch into my being but strangely, though I was drenched in its intoxication, I was unable to touch it myself.
            What kind of a revelation or disclosure it is! What type of knowledge or learning could it be? I asked my self.
             “The outside world too should be able to comprehend this revelation up on you!” “Help it comprehend!” A holy voice sounds and ceases. I am an artist, a king of the world of colors. Colors that exude brightness, that turn into the towers of greatness when they take shape of words! They reveal all the secrets of life when they splash on stars. From, whence the springs of art issue. Then I, having faith in my artistic caliber, decided to paint a magnum opus on the canvas of my imagination. In the first phase I painted it with the red color of words. Crimson, red, pink and purplish.
                        I was deeply engrossed in painting and when the first phase was over I was astounded. All the redness of the painting was gradually turning into white. I had heard of the Urdu idiom “blood turning white” that means a nearest relative turning foe, it may not apply here though, but how about this color! And how about blood turning white. Blood is always red. If it is not red then it is not blood!
                       All the redness of the colors has become white and I feel, though idiomatically, that my own blood has turned white. I want to run away from within my body but find myself cloistered by its walls. Scared, I look back at myself. Then the very moment of my art’s revelation comes to life in me again. The revelation is the same, its touch is also the same but with a new taste, savor and intoxication. And perhaps, riding the waves of this new sensation I again begin transferring my skill on the canvas of my imagination. Though the colors of the earlier painting have all turned white, still there is some fragrance of them lingering. Some fading, pale but still red dots remain. Now I am painting the canvas with the greenness of words. Dark bottle green, eye-pleasing farm green and its innumerable shades that encompass all the beautiful, enchanting and venerable sights on this venerable earth. I continue to paint with a renewed zeal and zest, feeling a deep pleasantness and well being.
                      “But what is this!” I close my eyes with fear. But it invades my inner eyes and through them seeps into me. Helplessly I open my eyes again and it again comes out of me and spreads itself on the canvas. I can’t believe my eyes. I check the tube with its color tag. ‘Green’ is printed on it boldly. Then how about this yellowness instead of green! I ask myself. I pick up the same color tube again and squeeze it a bit. A lot of color oozes out with a spurt and dribbles down on the floor. I nearly cry out with fright. The tube contains only yellow color! Yellow color from a green tube. But the red tube had contained red. How then it changed into white on the canvas? I want to include the outside world into my unique experience of the revelation of my art upon me but the colors are playing truant. I am feeling a strange sort of helplessness.
             This disability and a strange sense of disappointment have begun a dance of death around me. It looks as if they have succeeded in killing the artist in me and I find myself standing on a huge mound of sand at one side of which is a chain of huge mountains difficult to trek and at another side a vast and in-navigable sea. From one side I can hear terrible hissing of hundreds of serpents and devilish creatures coming and from other side the howling cries of marine spirits and witches. I want to traverse the path of self-identity, I want to call out myself for help but the din of the blood curdling sounds turns my shout into a whimper. 
                  I empty all the tubes of color in to a bowl, violet, indigo, brown, green, yellow, and red. I make an amalgam of all the main colors and begin to paint the canvas wildly with my fingers dipped into the amalgam. I go at it coarsely and devilishly and when my boiling anger subsides, an another bout of surprise takes me over. The canvas is now displaying my intended magnum opus.
                   I try hard to find the meaning of this meaningless happening and it was when the revelation of my art upon me concludes its manifestation. And the manifestation is so revolting and repulsive that I no longer wish to tell anybody about it. This manifestation includes not only me but it includes us all. And perhaps that is the reason that holy voice is not rising from within, the holy voice that had commanded me once by saying: “The outside world too should be able to comprehend this revelation upon you. Help it comprehend!”
                                                                                               * * * * *    

Translated from Urdu By : Nazim Khalili (India)

By: Haider Qureshi

 A short Story having the "post nuclear war" Background,
according to Relegious Books.
written in urdu in 1980 and published in February 1981.

in search of the eve

Your dating me caused roses to bloom
In my body; What kind of an unseasonable nesting it is?
By the birds of dreams in my eyes I wonder!

            i can’t believe that I am in Hades! Hades, the world of the dead, (Prior to the final transfer to Hell or Paradise, on the Day of the Judgement.)
            I can’t believe that I am now in that world. Am I dreaming? Am I in the world of dreams? Or am I in the world of reality? It is most likely that I am in the world of reality. The conviction takes over me in the form of a whim and I sit up and remain so for sometime and then I get up.
            My right palm, in the form of my fate lines, always contained my future and my left my past. I always flowed like a river in the present by reading those lines of my future and my past.
            But today when I tried to read the right hand lines I couldn’t see any thing except a blur, a foggy in-distinction. I looked at the left and here too I was confronted by smoky air pollution. Helplessly when I tried to have an over view of my present I found all the fog of my future and all the smoke of my past engulfing me and dancing around me. And in that tragic hour I couldn’t even recall and say those prayers that were taught by my mother in my childhood. But I didn’t get disheartened. The dance of the smoke began slowing down and a ray of light emerged and started getting brighter and brighter.
            “Alam Tara Kaifa Fa’ala Rabboka Bi Ashaa-Bil Feel…!” (A Quranic Verse)
[Didn’t you see what God did with the people of Elephants]
The fog started getting disbursed and the smoke began thinning. I recalled the tragic fate of the people of Elephants, as depicted in the holy Quran, They were so destroyed that their bodies looked like Chewed husk.
I looked at the aftermath of the nuclear destruction and began envying the fate of the people of elephants as against this terrible fall out. They only looked like chewed husk. The nuclear-world-war has ended and I don’t know how and why I remained alive. The darkness of the horrific war is all around me. I need light to get out of this darkness. And the power, that had saved me from getting burnt to cinders, suddenly began endowing me with light. The light that had initially emerged as a ray had now transformed into a halo and seemed to be dawning upon me step by step.
“You don’t know ‘Hatam’ (the Atom). It is in fact an enormously built up fire by Allah (God) that would cinch hearts from within and cause blubbering!”
An unimaginable misfortune is going to befall this world and you don’t know O addressee what kind of a misfortune it would be! This great misfortune would scatter people all over like dead moths and the mountains would become carded wool.”
The earth would be shaken so that it would disgorge all its hidden contents and the people would wonder as to what had happened to the Earth!
I recall that I was staying in a hilly terrain when the nuclear war had begun without notice and at its end I hadn’t been able to find an intact mountain. I had myself tried out as to what had happened to the earth and had thus involuntarily testified to the divine foreboding.
I can now recall that the two so-called-powers had fought over the oil-rich middle East, the bone of contention. They fought presumptuously under the banners of their cardinal virtues. But what eventually happened? I don’t know exactly but the light has begun dawning upon me step by step, ray after ray. The halo has its own diction.
“There will be a day, God says, addressing the fire of His wrath and solemnity, when the land of Israel will quake and the denizens of land, water and air will shudder with fright before me. It will storm with hail, fire and sulfur and thus I will make the heathen nations acknowledge my supremacy!”
The Doom’s Day of its kind shall take place and the rulers will wage war against each other and a worldwide chaos and destruction will take place. And the center of all this upheaval and bloodshed will be Syria!”
O Europe, Asia and the inhabitants of the islands, you too are not safe and n false god is going to save you. I can see the cities burning and the localities getting deserted.
I acknowledge the greatness and the holiness of God with all humility and I acknowledge my humility with utmost humbleness. The rays from the halo are spreading on my body but they are not reaching my heart. Perhaps that is why I have been able only to read about my past. Either the language of the future has changed or I have lost my ability to read it. As the nuclear war has annihilated the progeny of Adam, except me perhaps, it is now my bounden duty to keep his race growing on this earth. Perhaps I am the Adam of the new era! I keep thinking, yes I am the Adam of this New World. But what should I do about the Eve?
In the name and in praise of God I begin my quest of the new Eve. I witness the heart wrenching scenes of destruction on my way. The halo of light is with me and it is still shedding its rays on my being one after another. My clueless journey, in the quest of my Eve lacks a fixed course but continues. I come across a place where, it seemed, a cluster of bombs had been dropped over at one go. I get terrified and try to hide from the scene by closing my eyes but at the very moment the showering rays from the halo open them.
Didn’t they walk the earth and witness the shameful end of their predecessors who were more powerful and more in number than they were. Their fine arts and the art of architecture far surpassed than their own. But the attributes of their predecessors didn’t help them because when the prophets of their time revealed themselves with their telling signs they ignored them and took pride in their little knowledge. They tried to laugh away the foreboding of their Prophets regarding the impending disasters and my wrath but the fate overtook them. But when they saw my wrath manifest they cried out that they never denied the oneness of Allah and always rejected polytheism. But it was too late because my wrath had already begun manifesting itself and this is my Modus Operandi that never changes and this is what my creatures have been witnessing since the Day One!”
I, hence, solemnly decide that the offspring of me, the new Adam, shall be trained strictly by the Book under my own supervision and my progeny will never be prone to the deceitful trick of Satan. The thought of training the offspring again started motivating me to look for a life partner. Nights and days have lost their meaning in my eyes because the halo of light is the only thing that helps me differentiate between darkness and brilliance. Whenever I feel tired I stop, rest, nap or doze. I try to keep clear of such terrible scenes of mayhem either due to their scariness or because of an inner urge to look for a life partner.
When I come out of that area of catastrophe, I, for the first time in many days of travel and wandering, remember that I hadn’t eaten or drunk for that many days. The thought of hunger can’t simply be wished away. It started making me feel drained and exhausted, I even felt my soul dragging.
I walk but the act seems laborious and in acknowledgement of God’s greatness and total might I begin to chant his praises. The halo of light above me suddenly sends a very bright ray upon me and I again start feeling panicky.
“Doesn’t Man know that I had created him from an insignificant drop!” “And he, forgetting his lowliness becomes warring and egotist and starts talking loosely about me and my being…!”
I bend my knees before his majesty. I am unable to recall any prayer but my eyes begin to shed the beads of tears one after another as if a rosary of tears had snapped. These tears are the silent acknowledgement of my helplessness and God’s omnipotence. I remain prone in supplication before God for long and when I feel my heart a little lighter then I get up. The desire for food has died down considerably. I set out on my journey again and after walking for sometime I spot some greenery. I head towards that patch promptly.
It is like an oasis. There are fields green with heaps of fresh harvest and there is a beautiful well kept garden at the center of which there is a wonderful spring of water. I don’t feel tired any longer but hunger has again returned. By seeing fish in the pool of the spring water I stop short. I wonder how this came to happen after such a great calamity thanks to which all the greenery had vanished or become poisonous and due to which all the living beings had to face extinction.
The halo of light is still showering its rays on me, I am in two minds. If I eat the fruit that hang from the branches I could get poisoned and die. If I don’t then again due to the hunger and weakness I would have to die. I decide to eat. It is better to die on a full stomach than on an empty one! I have begun to engorge the fruit as much as I can. I don’t know how much I have gobbled up. I come to my senses only when I drink the poisonous spring-water to my fill. Now I am waiting for my death contentedly.
But strangely I am feeling rejuvenated and vigorous. The halo of light too has begun showering more and more rays on me.
“He sends rains from above when we find ourselves at the tether end of our patience. He thus showers us with his mercy!”
“Come back to your God O sedated soul, heralding your return as an event of a destined meet of two admirers!”
I fall prone again before God. I now realize that the radio active elements that had invaded my body are now working as antidotes to the poison that had reached my stomach through fruit and water. They are now standing surety for my life and survival. And perhaps this is the reason why I successfully came out of those worst hit areas and why I am feeling strong and vigorous despite walking hundreds of miles non stop.
“And how many boons of God would you (dare to) ignore?
I am now at rest regarding my food problem. I think of the two so-called superpowers and their pitiable end. Both were at times jumps ahead of each other in cunning and deceit. The halo of light descends closer to me and begins to alight upon me ray after ray. And suddenly I feel it fully resting on my being.
“A great flame of fire shall be directed against you and the copper too shall be dropped from above upon you two on which you two will have no control. And now tell me how many boons of God would you (dare to) ignore…?” The halo of light goes back to its earlier place and begins to shower ray after ray upon me again, and I am now convinced of the total destruction of the two great powers. The thought of questing for the life partner again alerts me and I again set out on my journey to find her with a zest and sense of sacred responsibility.
I find a city intact not far from the oasis but the death ruled there too. The shops are open but the people are lying on the ground dead. Some seemed to be resting against walls and some shop owners looked sleeping with heads resting on the counters. But they were all very much dead. I recall a story I had heard in my childhood in which a prince enters a city and finds everybody petrified. I feel I am that prince. But the prince of the story could revive everybody by dispelling the magic of the magician. This case is quite different because it is a catastrophic consequence of a man working diabolically against another man.
Like a tired and disappointed prince I half-heartedly enter a departmental store but suddenly step back in panic. There was disheveled and wretched man standing. But I stop stepping back, when I realize that it was I in a man-sized mirror.
Is it.. is it me..! I refuse to acknowledge that but the reality makes itself felt and for the first time I become aware of my nakedness. And at that very moment another disheveled and wretched image appears in the mirror. It was a woman’s image. I turn hurriedly. Her face, despite its decomposed and panic-stricken features, tells me that she is a Westerner. Her eyes too are full of wonder and inquisitiveness. She is looking at me as if she is trying to identify me. She could be, perhaps, looking for her father, her brother and her son! Suddenly her eyes brighten up as if she had finally succeeded in recognizing me and then running towards me she hugs me tightly and begins to cry. I don’t know in what capacity she is hugging me. As my daughter, my sister, my mother or someone else, but I am fully satisfied now that the progeny of Adam shall not cease to exist. The lines of my past and future are standing on my both sides respectfully and my naked present is hugging my naked body and washing away all the hatred and jealousies of the East and the West by its tears.
The halo of light suddenly descends upon both of us and seeping through our bodies begins to enlighten our souls. And a very beautiful voice rises from within us. “Now tell me how many boons of God would you (dare to) ignore?”

* * * * *

by: Haider qureshi

THE MATERNAL LOVE

All this light emanates
From my mother’s face;
Where can you find this earthen radiance?
In the sun and the moon!

          I am standing on the lawn watching the plane take off. My mother is bound for Switzerland by this plane to spend the summer there. Daddy has gone to the airport to see her off. Zabie and Rubie too are going with Mummy. The plane is out of the focus now. I re-enter the mansion feeling tired and flop on a sofa in the drawing room. I suddenly see a beautiful plane flying in the mirror. I look more closely. My God! The soul of my mother is flying by this plane. Am I…. Am I dreaming? Mummy….! I suddenly call out. ‘You had never boarded a plane all your life, then why this journey by a plane after death? But there is silence in reply.
I leave the drawing room and now I am in the Dadder sanitarium. Mummy is being given many injections. All her sons and her daughter, i.e., me, are standing around her bed and daddy…. no not daddy, I mean to say Abbu (the word daddy seems to agree only with the word Mummy and the word Abbu only with Ammy) too is also there with anguish writ large over his face. I want to suddenly hug and comfort him. But I restrain myself. I never could ask for anything directly to him, I was so overawed by his towering personality. Whenever I had to ask for anything I did it via Ammy or through a hand-written chit. How could I venture now? Flustered I look back at Ammy. When our eyes meet, her dull eyes make my eyes glow with light.
I am back in my drawing room from the sanitarium. That beautiful plane is not flying in the mirror now. Abbu… no not Abbu… Daddy is also back from the airport. I have not yet written to Ritu’s Abbu regarding our safe arrival in Lahore. I sit down and start writing the letter.
Zabie’s letter from Switzerland has arrived. They are enjoying their summer vacation there immensely. Mummy too has sent her love in lots. Daddy is also planning to join them for a week now. He has left, and my Abbu has taken his place. Let’s go daughter, your Ammy must be waiting for you. I look at the Dadder valley with all its loveliness and the river Sarran with its clear blue aqua-pura… no scenic beauty of Switzerland’s valley can surpass it. But Abbu, unmindful of all this, is hurrying towards the sanitarium, holding my hand tightly. I stumble over the way a couple of times but Abbu’s grip is strong. We enter Ammy’s word. All my siblings are there except Zabie. ‘Where is Zabie?’ I want to say ‘Zabie has gone to Switzerland’ but I can’t because Zabie, being the youngest, suddenly appears from behind looming large. I feel suffocated when I look at the oxygen cylinder lying near Ammy’s bed. Abbu goes out with the doctor and I am again back in Daddy’s drawing room. Here rRitu’s Abbu is waiting for me.
‘Where have all the people gone?’
Mummy, Zabie and Rubie have gone to Switzerland for two months and Daddy for a week.
‘Why didn’t they take you along!’ His tone is a bit acerbic, firstly because Switzerland is not a satellite town of Lahore, secondly because somebody had to be behind here!
‘Shit!” had your real mother been alive, would she have gone on a pleasure trip leaving you behind like this?’
‘Please you do not provoke me against my Mummy. She is a very good lady. She always cares about us. It is like sowing a seed of hatred about her in my heart.’
‘I am only saying this to make you wiser!’
‘Man always misleads a woman and then conveniently holds her responsible for all his errors and the poor woman – she, due to her naivete, pleads guilty even of the sins she didn’t commit. The history is witness to this replication since Adam and Eve till this day.’ The heat of the moment would have carried me away further but the sound of a pen falling startles me. I pick it up again and begin to write a letter to Ritu’s Abbu. But a look at the just-begun letter startles me again. What exactly had I been scribbling? ‘Abbu – Abbu – Ammy – Abbu – daddy – Ammy – Mummy – Daddy -!’
Embarrassed, I begin to write afresh.
Daddy is back from Switzerland after spending a week there, and I have made up my mind to ask him point blank why at first he remained my Abbu for a long time even after the death of my Ammy and then became a Daddy after marrying Mummy? Why can’t he be my Abbu again? But I also know that I, who hadn’t ever spoken so boldly to Abbu, would never ever speak in this fashion to Daddy. Perhaps only Ammy could answer my questions! And again I am bound for the sanitarium. Abbu is still consulting the doctor. I enter Ammy’s ward.
Ammy is now sitting. She is just a skeleton. I envision Mahatma Budh. My inquisitive eyes meet hers.
Ammy is weaving her fingers into my brother’s hair. My brother’s eyes are watery. She is now patting Razia’s head. Razia too has become weepy. It is now Zabie’s turn, but Zabie’s eyes are full of an emotion of wonderment. Lastly Ammy beckons me, caresses my head and fondles me lovingly. I find a couple of tears sparkling in her sunken eyes, they look like embers smoldering under the ash.
Ammy-! ‘I give myself up to her. I feel the ashes charging. What could it be other than the maternal warmth! I wonder. Abbu is through with his consultation.
Your Ammy is now O.K. She is to be taken home dears.
Ammy is O.K.!
Ammy is O.K.!
I have heard about a lot of miracles. Is it also one?
A special wagon has been ordered to shift her. She is made to lie on a couch in the wagon. I rest her head in my lap. All the rest too board the wagon that is now meandering through the steep hilly terrain of Dadder scaling its highs and touching its lows. We get severely jolted once and I suppress my cries and limit them to whimpers. The hope for miracles has died out. I straighten the limp neck of my mother.
‘Your Mummy has sent these presents for you’. Daddy gives two beautiful packets to me. Ritu has woken up. I prepare milk for him. After giving him milk I unwrap the packets. One consists of valuable garments for me and for other siblings. The other is full of toys for the children. Among the toys there was a surprise. A toy plane. A plane exactly like the plane I had seen flying in the mirror with my Ammy in it, or her soul rather. I become speechless. I again sit on the sofa in the position from which I had spotted the plane flying in the mirror. But there is nothing now. I stand upright before the mirror. My God! There is my Ammy instead of me smiling through the mirror. Not a consumptive and weak Ammy, but a young, healthy and beautiful Ammy an Ammy of the age when I was only six. I again want to be six years old, a naughty, mischievous six-year old. I again want to be scolded and beaten on my girlish vehemence. I also recall that I was six when I had completed the full recitation of the holy Quran. My mother had held her head high that day pointing out my tender age as against the accomplishment. The day of my saying ‘Amen!’ (to denote the completion of the recitation) was a day of kisses and hugging by my mother. She even recited some holy verses and blew them over my face to ward off an evil eye. Ammy used to call Abbu ‘Baauji’. I, too, had once called Ritu’s Father ‘Baauji’ but I had then broken down and started crying. How much water has flowed down the bridge since then. A very weak and emaciated image of Ammy is now peeping through the mirror. But this image too is smiling.
‘Ammy you stood by Abbu solidly through his thick and thin but why have you backed off in his happy days?’
My Ammy smiles weakly. ‘It has to do with my fate daughter!’
‘Ammy, if you call it fate then what is tyranny on oneself?’
‘Nobody’s writ runs against fate my tiny tot!’ she replies in a tired voice.
‘I’ll blind the eyes of such a frightful fate!’ I cry out and feeling too tired and worn off myself I fall limply on a couch. Ammy comes out from the mirror, caresses me and kissing me on my forehead goes back to her mirrored niche. I turn over on the couch. I can still feel the warmth of her kiss on my forehead alive. Ritu is playing with the toys, sent by Mummy, on the floor. He is particularly interested in the toy-plane she has sent. The sounds of Rufi and Nuzhi, my other children, playing carom in the adjoining room are obvious. I sit up when Daddy enters my room and talk about the future plans of Ritu’s father. He exits after some time. I can still feel the warmth of my Ammy’s kiss on my forehead. I set out for the cemetery, where my Ammy is resting, to call on her. I look for Abbu here and there when I reach her burial ground, presuming that Abbu has to be there as an attendant at Ammy’s shrine. I call out. ‘Abbu – Abbu!’ the sound of my crying dashes against the surrounding hills and rebounds Abbu-u-u- Abbuuun! I shout again. And again the echo reverberates.
‘Abbu please hold me I am falling!’
“Abbu pleaeeese-!’ it looks I am no longer shouting for my Abbu. Instead it looks I am hitting my head against the hills. It looks I am bent on breaking those hills to smithereens by hitting my head against them.
Abbu-Abbu-Abbuuu-Abbuuuu-! I am now broken into pieces myself and the hills are standing unfazed as ever. Ammy you are right, you are right saying that nobody’s writ runs against the fate. Ammy, Abbu, I am all broken and scattered.
Suddenly I feel that somebody is collecting my pieces and setting them again in order. He has again set me as ME and now he is carrying me in his powerful arms out of the cemetery. I think my ‘Abbu’ has arrived and he is the one who is carrying me. I open my eyes and look at him. My goodness! He is not Abbu. He is Ritu’s father.
I am suffering from high fever. Daddy had to attend an important official meeting, so he has left. I am lying in my bed in a semi conscious position. I don’t know if it is delirium or what but I find my Mummy sitting at the head of my bedstead. She has my head in her lap and is pressing it very lovingly. I am feeling quite embarrassed over my way of thinking. I am trying to collect my words to say something, to recompense love for hatred. I say; Mummy--you are- Mummy – a good one-! ‘But I miserably fail in my effort. A couple of hot tears fall on my face (Mummy is weeping too). I have succeeded in collecting my senses.
I don’t wish to open my eyes fully because I know my tiny tot Nuzhi is sitting at my head and not my Mummy. I still try to be coherent.
‘Mymmy-my good Mummy – Please forgive me -!’
...................................................................................... 

Interview

With Haider Qureshi  By:Editor CDO

http://chaoticdreams.net/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=168&Itemid=229

CDO_Editor: How long have you been writing and do you write anything other than poetry?

Haider: I started writing in 1971 at the age of 19 and poetry is my first love but not the only means through which I express myself. I also write short stories, caricatures,Trevelogue,Memories, Light essays, Book Reviews and literary critiques. Occasionally I write reportage too.

CDO_Editor: What are your sources of inspiration for your poetry?

Haider: A subtlest nuance in the shade of joy and sorrow prompts me to take to pen. The emotion of love in its infinitesimal changes, too, inspires me greatly. It rather acts as a motor function and I am proud to say it never gets impaired!

CDO_Editor: Are there any notable authors who have influenced your writing?

Haider: Yes, the most notable among them is Dr. Wazir Agha. He is a great modern poet, critic and thinker. He greatly influenced my writing.

CDO_Editor: Is there any research involved in penning your poetry?

Haider: I never planned to pen some poetry or prose. My literary creations are spontaneous. The process of research in the fields of interest continues and shall continue till death!

CDO_Editor: Is there any particular target market you are trying to reach, and what do you want them to get out of your work?

Haider: Mysticism has always attracted me and I am of the view that it wipes out fanaticism. I am a staunch believer in ideologies and I have been a laborer all my life. I have got a well-knit clan too and all these things are manifested in my writings. But there is one thing. I don’t get carried away by castes and creeds and by mythologies and dogmas. Whatever I get from the innards of my soul I present it to the world for its perusal and this is my target. I don’t get swayed, at least consciously, by the sectarian dogmas, that are holding the world-peace to ransom now a days. The truth lies in my conscious creativity.

CDO_Editor: Do you follow a strict writing schedule or just write when the spirit hits you?

Haider: Life in Germany is busy. I cannot manage any schedule for writing. Sometimes I feel I should write something but time doesn’t allow me to do so. Sometimes it so happens that I sit to write something but the poetry or the fiction refuses to come. Still, in the midst of all this hustle and bustle whenever the fortune smiles on me I write and I write ecstatically.

CDO_Editor: Have you ever had writer's block and how do you overcome it?

Haider: It often happens that a lengthy stretch of time passes and nothing oozes out of my pen but being a multi-pronged writer my mind soon intervenes and doesn’t allow it to last longer. If the block is for poetry I would write short stories and if it is for fiction then I take to caricatures and reportage. My creativity cannot sit idle for long. But if the block is for the creativity itself I still write this or that on matters more mundane and routine and it acts as a warm up or you can call it ‘Foreplay’ before a final plunge! I thank God that He has given me that much literary potentiality at least!

CDO_Editor: Is there any particular process or setting you require to stimulate the writing process?

Haider: I have led a laborer’s life all through. The world has not been kind enough to a poor Urdu poet like me. So where is the question of a particular process or setting to get the stimulation. Everything that is taking place is happening in a state of limbo between patience and impatience. The difference in the past and the present, though, is that earlier I had the ability to write even in the din and commotion from around but now I find it excruciating to continue to do so and wait for some calm.

CDO_Editor: How are you working to grow as an artist?

Haider: Even after a lengthy span of 35 years of writing my quest for the better and the finer continues and as long as it does, I am sure, I will continue to grow as an artist.

CDO_Editor: Do you belong to any writing groups? How has that helped you?

Haider: I don’t believe in any group or coterie. My literary work and my creation is enough for me. And all those who published me without any personal reference did so only on the basis of my creative works. All those are my writing group.

CDO_Editor: What advice would you give to poets who are just starting this literary journey?

Haider: Don’t listen to any ideology. Only listen t you inner voice and go ahead.

CDO_Editor: Where do you see yourself as a writer ten years in the future?

Haider: Perhaps in a graveyard or perhaps among a chosen few! I also hope some of my creative works shall be published in different languages.

CDO_Editor: Have you done spoken word? How is this different of written poetry to you?

Haider: Let me go back to the beginning of this Universe. When God intended to make it He said ‘Be’ and it did (Be, being a spoken word). But it took 6 days for God to make it well laid. If the creator is big his spoken word too can carry the power to create. To take 6 days to lay the Universe well and proper is like writing. And the difference between a spoken and a written word is too obvious to mention. You can take the example of wilderness and a well laid-out park!

CDO_Editor: Gene Fowler said: "Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead". What are your thoughts on this statement?

Haider: Our South Asian poets and writers too have expressed similar feelings. It was often said that to pen a good piece of literature one has to burn a lot of his blood, and only then a Magnum Opus gets created, but to tell you the truth. I am now at the stage of my age where I don’t care much about the quantity of blood getting burnt or created. I am walking on the path of creativity nonchalantly without giving two hoots about its impact or its aftermath. And if you allow me to refer to Ghalib (A world renowned Urdu Poet) I have seen so many difficulties in life that they have started looking like comforts. And when I don’t find difficulties in my way I find it add and I find it difficult to walk without difficulties!

CDO_Editor: Is there anything else you would like to share with our readers?

Haider: Pray for me to get a good English Publisher who can publish my translated fiction and other writings so that it reaches you all.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------