I wrote this old world ditty when I was around 16 years old. Introverted and a lover of words, this was a fitting tribute to my world then. The funny thing is that of the little poetry I wrote as a teenager, this is the only piece I remember by heart. The rest I have committed to a well worn, dog eared diary which once I get home to Karachi, I will also reproduce here. If nothing else, I (and anyone else who feels intrepid and fancifully armed!) can reflect on my eccentric adolescent mind when re-reading the mostly quirky, sometimes pained, sometimes euphoric pieces that I wrote.
O Solitude, thou art to me A silent, wholesome company When of the world of beings I tire To thee for solace I retire
Each moment that I spend with thee In thy wholesome company Retrieves for me my peace of mind Worries and cares are left behind
And the world itself begins to seeem A place where is upheld one’s own regime And the heart is filled with serenity In thy wholesome company.
I ask you if you’re Happy You say that you ALMOST are ... But for that deal still stuck in the pipeline The car you’ve had your eye on Of someday getting into the privileged fold With a house in a gated neighbourhood
I ask you if you’re Hopeful You say that you ALMOST are ... But for the country’s socio-economic situation The children’s future, their education And oh your eternally dismal luck! Your lottery ticket is always a dud
I ask you if you’re at Peace You say that you ALMOST are ... But for the fear of contracting a dire disease Of neighboring countries planning a seige And that infernal noisy discord From the red duplex across the road
I ask you if you’re Alive You say that of course you are! You’re breathing, you’re living You’re thinking, you’re worrying You’re working, you’re hurrying You’re planning and hedging Against what might be coming...
Stop! Breathe .... Listen ....
Open up your mind and your heart Cast off the spell of your self-doubting trance Quit just living, come gloriously ALIVE! Be happy and be hopeful even as you strive Face the sun, take control of this time, seize the day The magic is NOW, not in your ‘morrows or yesterdays.
It’s the little joys in life That lift and hug the soul; It’s the little brushes with sublimity That paint the rosiest strokes
It’s the steaming mugs of tea shared With a friend, over confidences and laughter; The mugs wrapped in hands as warm as the hearts That are bonding, ministering, healing ... and after Memorializing that perfect little moment of joy.
It’s the sudden cool breeze that caresses the cheek And then wraps me up in its vital embrace; It’s the happy burst of a monsoon shower As she dances and cleanses; prances and quenches Leaving behind her intoxicating petrichor In a joyful bouquet of nostalgia and grace
It’s the intrepid, songful, mirthful mynah That unexpectedly struts right up to my feet Warbling of little delights; trilling with all her might Laying her little heart bare in melodious refrain It’s the big, big soul in that fragile frame That reminds me of the precious little joys.
It’s the beautiful Sakura tree, bounteous in its white and pink Waiting for a wayward breeze to stir up her flower-bedecked limbs; It is seeing the frolicsome duo of tree and breeze Create magic in a moment they mutually seize As the blossoms flutter down in lusty effusion Covering the ground with inflorescent profusion An enchanting, enthralling moment of joy.
It’s little kindnesses wrought in the moment A helping hand on a busy street, A warm smile in the milieu of rushing feet A tender word to the transiently fallen A little something more for the lonely and forgotten It’s seeing this shared transcendental camaraderie That gives me that small little rush of joy.
It’s looking up into a clear night sky And finding Orion and Taurus winking up high It’s watching the Big Dipper look tenderly upon Little Ursa Minor nestling just under the moon It’s seeing our little world from the vastness of space That fills me with joy and bolsters my faith
The quickening string that binds us all Our whole web of life; all living creatures Are these startlingly simple acts of joy These wondrous, alchemical creations of nature It’s this coming together of life’s vital energy That lifts and elates with its mystical synergy This is the mannah that nurtures the soul Mending our cracks and making us whole.
You ask me if I’m alright ... I am alright, but the stabbing ache in my heart is not alright.
You ask me if I’m ok ... I am ok, but the stranglehold of despair around my throat is not ok
You ask me if I’m fine ... I am fine, but the icy grip of fear in my soul is not fine.
I need to remove the steely shards from my heart, one piercing sliver at a time; Even if a hole, an abysmal gorge remains, I can learn to fill it with other things, better things.
I need to loosen the malevolent grip of hopelessness, one hoary, gnarled finger at a time; And learn to open myself up to the comfort of a quiet, gentle embrace.
I need to thaw the icicles of dread, one knifelike lance at a time; and learn to warm my soul with the simple heat of being alive.
I know that I need to learn to separate my angst from my being; learn to put the wretchedness to bed So that every so often, I am able to feel whole, happy and free.
And so my friend, when you ask me if I am well I say I am well, because I’m learning to take care of the most fragile parts of myself.
This is well meaning satire. (Clarifying for the benefit of those readers who are still in awe of the Royals and may feel quite contrary about such outrageous literary endeavors 🤓) Read to the lilt of “Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary, How does your garden grow?”
Harry Harry! You’re so contrary How does this scandal go? With Meghan talking The Monarchy balking And the Commonwealth all in a tizzy so.
Hairy Hairy! The story’s getting scary! As Archie’s peaches’n’cream glow ... Was once under suspicion Since the pasty skin condition Is vital for the bluest blood to flow.
Marry Marry! In crowns and skirts a-flarey You had to jostle the imperial bough ... Daddy did the right thing Big brother duly followed him You went and started a socio-cultural row.
Goblins and Fairies! You wish that you could tarry In Nevernever Land with Cap’n Hook ... For reality’s a-biting This game of thrones is frightening And it just seems nicer to be hiding in a book.
For Friends and Adversaries! To know was necessary That is how great changes take root ... So keep the commoner cloak on The scandal’s far from being gone Granny too’ll want to stomp her august boot.
But when all’s said and done ...
Its hurrah hurrah Harry! You’ve been extraordinary For calling out the system so ... The bigoted beast’s a-fester Of king and queen and jester Dang! It’s been a cracker of a reality show!
Day ends and darkness sweeps in, Enveloping the ready and the unready into its blackened folds. It scuttles into crannies and leaps into fissures, Blotting out the light for another 8 hours ... or eternity... Tonight, am I happy to be in its restful, warm embrace Galvanizing my body and my spirit for tomorrow? Or am i dreading the walk with Erebus* in the murky corridors of gloom? The choice is mine to make.
Night ends and daylight marches in Casting off the monochromatic grey-black silhouettes. Lingering shadows disappear; the sounds of silence explode into daytime clamor. Exultant photons ricochet through the air As Earth waltzes around her own cosmic maypole; one dance done, another begun. Am I ready to seize the day today? Or am I dreading the tread of Helios* outside my bedroom window? The choice is mine to make.
The gods of Myth and the gods of Now Continue their battle in the sacred space of my heart. They wrangle with each other, the twain never meeting; Perpetuating confusion, torment and intrigue; Shredding my soul as the spoils of their unholy war. Will I continue to shed blood, lose hope and malinger for the false prophets within? Or am I ready to make this day, this life, my own? It is MY choice to make.
The Joy of Being is not by chance, but by Choice
*Erebus: The god of Darkness in Greek mythology *Helios: the god of the Sun in Greek mythology
Almost but not quite beleaguered and bemasked – February 23rd, 2021
In the spirit of well-meaning satire, a droll little tribute to our visiting PM, Imran Khan. You’re still our best hope.
The flags are flying at full mast The PM’s coming to town The green and white, oh what a sight For diplomatic, foreign affairs of the heart.
He’s also got the go-ahead To traverse through enemy space The Indian stratosphere, oh dear oh dear What if he disappears before arriving here! A conundrum, a tragedy, a veritable geo-political disgrace.
But when all is said and done and he brings His cooperative politicking to town Then if things go his way or the way of the Modi Is superfluous as he leaves some of his aura behind That persona, that charm, oh what a man! It is Love Actually* that i feel for Imran Khan. The icon, the enigma, the sportsman turned statesman of Pakistan.
(Yes, with sugary sweetness this verse is replete, But I hope you can read the gentle comic relief)
And so I end this tribute with a nod and a cheer, You’ve got your hands full our PM dear, So while you’re trippin’ around, This erstwhile seaside town Do get some R&R with Lanka’s favourite Arrack and beer.
A view of the Galle road, Colombo from my cafe vantage point today
Another end of year has trundled in at last - Dawned is far too genial a word to use for what’s been a blast Of a year, of our lifetimes, of living memory too they say So on this blessed December day, I’m wishing it all away!
May the Corona perish in the gentle warmth of spring Helped along by its archnemesis, the grand old vaccine. May the dear departed find rest and cosmic grace; May their earth-bound loved ones begin to make their peace With losses, grief and tender hearts; With new endings and even newer starts.
But most of all, let us hold on to the quietness within, The fruits of all those locked-down hours of introspection; May that stillness guide us in the years to come, To live a life more fulfilled, to let our purposes be done; To become intimate again with our humanity, To learn to give, to love, to coexist more easily.
Another end of year is upon us once again Nuanced as it is with a ragged, shadowy mein. Even in its greyness, it is ripe with the promise of better days; Of togetherness and laughter, of joy and celebration, Of birthdays, anniversaries and triumphant graduations.
May 2022 be a soulful, wholesome distillate Of all the growing-up we’ve had to do over the last year; May it help us recover our little magical moments The joyful alchemy of all that we hold dear.
So family, friends, neighbours and those merrily blundering on this digital wire Have yourselves a very merry Xmas and a happy new year.
De Khudai pe aman
*Title inspired from A Walk to Remember, a 2002 American coming of age romantic drama
**Read the highlighted words in sequence from top to bottom for the Blackout poem/ phrase within the poem. It reads: December 2020 a year bound with losses, but our humanity once again is ripe to recover all that we hold dear.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall Humpty Dumpty had a great fall All the king’s horses and all the king’s men Couldn’t put Humpty together again!
A lovely old quatrain, filled with the promise of blood and gore (or at the very least, massive quantities of ill-fated yolk!). Or how about:
Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree top. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall. And down will come Baby, cradle and all!
The doomful melodrama spanning from the cradle to the grave was never more succinctly played out than in the above poem. Or then:
Jack and Jill went up the hill To fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown And Jill came tumbling after!
Another rhyme, another disquieting tragedy at the heart of which are the children – always the children, as its main characters. The more of these nursery rhymes you recall, the more you’ll be reminded of the copiously sinister top note in almost all of them. Ranging from racism to bigotry to plain old sadism, these rhymes from our childhood embodied them all. Try reciting a few others like, Eenie meenie miny mo”, “London bridge is falling down”, “Sing a song of sixpence”, “Little Miss Muffet”, “Old Mother Hubbard” and “Goosey goosey gander” – all straight up threatening or woeful or just plain evil! Some of them are actually pithy, blackhearted little odes to actual personages and their peculiar quirks, like Mary the 1st’s religious malevolence – (Three Blind Mice), King Edward the 1st’s cruel avarice – (Baa Baa Black Sheep), the wonton love affairs of the royal European courts and its many colorful denizens; and also a myriad plagues, witches and famines. These rhymes were akin to recording history for quick, unprejudiced recall. And so, what better way than as a child’s beloved refrain, repeated ad nauseam, passed on from generation to generation; the rhyme and meter keeping it true to its original foreboding self.
Indeed, for many of us, nursery rhymes were probably the first few words we ever uttered with any pleasure after the general familial ID allocations of Mama and Papa. I still remember the infinite pleasure, comfort and toddler-centredness (there has to be such a thing!) I derived from repeating these much-loved childhood rhymes. And once the novelty of “she already knows all her nursery rhymes” or “tell aunty what happened to Humpty Dumpty” wore off, the adults also became innocently, resignedly tangled in our whole love affair with these refrains. The slightly disturbing thing is, had they known of the morbid origins of the rhymes we were so lovingly taught, how many would have still thought, let well enough alone; if it makes the kids happy, let them sing of old men being thrown down rickety stairs and babies falling out of their tree top cradles. And they wouldn’t be entirely to blame. Generations of painting the malignant with the brush of hunkydoriness quite entirely dilutes outage and indeed, skews the moral compass itself: Atrocity takes on a happy vagueness; racism becomes invisible; patriarchy adroitly sits atop any semblance of gender equality, and so on. And so now we are all quite happily complicit in perpetuating the crazed ramblings of 400 years ago, cloaked as they are in the rhythm of rhyme and meter. The nursery rhymes of our childhood, thus made eternal, are now forever rolling and roiling in the ether.
Now that we know, seems like it may be time to change the lyrics at least, while keeping the nostalgia-laden tunes/ meter alive. That too requires a break from the inertia of tradition. I’ll begin the Great Re-hash with the below rendering of a favourite. Any other shakers of the status quo, give your favourite a go.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall Humpty Dumpty had a great thought: What if all the kings horses And all the kings men, Danced a nice foxtrot Across Goblin’s Glen!
Hello, I’m the Humpty that didn’t have a great fall
This is A sequel to my earlier verse “Ravaged”. This piece looks at the complicated nuances of nurture and upbringing, as opposed to the static all-out denunciation of the individual perpetrating familial rape. This piece of writing attempts to highlight the grotesque patriarachy which we have allowed to perpetuate and which has damaged generations of both, our girls and our boys, in its terrible wake.
I am Harris Jan Saleem, the son of Owais Jan Saleem I am the scion of the Saleem ___ family I have been raised like all the men in my family: To hold my dreams high and my head higher I have been taught that nothing bends that proud bearing. Nothing.
I was 8 when I first saw my father. In Asma apa’s room. Asma apa is my cousin; my father’s sister’s daughter. She is 4 years older than me. I saw him many times; he saw me see him many times. I learnt tacitly like so much is at home. Nothing needs to be said for it to be understood and emulated. “It” was a dutiful visit to Asma apa
I was 20 when i too knew that I had to pay a dutiful visit to a woman of the family She was a feisty one; too independent-minded for her own good. Her mother said so. I was going to teach her. I was going to teach her to be Good. To ensure no harm came to our family honour if she got out of hand. She was 11; she was old enough.
I first visited Sophia on a rainy monsoon afternoon. The family was surrounded by a haze of food-satiated, heat-fomented stupor; Each in their own space in the sprawling ancestral home. That I knew was the congruous ground for the undertaking of such obligations She was a handful. I almost came away without fulfilling the onus on me of safeguarding the family honour. But I persisted - it took a chokehold (and I don’t generally believe in inflicting violence on women). She ceded. I learnt that the chokehold was a necessary evil. Every time. (I also realized with time that it wasn’t really violence since I was doing my duty towards upholding the family honour). There are a slew of such behavioural nuances no one tells you about; which you have to learn on your own. All of which you perform for upholding the family honour.
One day my father saw me visiting Sophia Like i had seen him for so many years, visiting Asma apa. This time he looked at me - with a wisdom of the ages. And i knew then that we are the MEN of the family. We are expected to know; to be versed in the DNA prescription passed down in virtuous silence along the patriarchal line. I felt i had been let into an ancient, sacred secret. I felt an inexplicable pride in being a Man of the Saleem Jan family
It’s my wedding day today; I’m to wed Sophia When I was asked if I would marry her, I had said yes. Although she was ... tainted. But I was a male scion of the family; a custodian of my family honour. I was expected to bear that burden of protecting, of upholding the family name.
But I have been deprived of the consummaiton of my marriage.
Today her sister is coming to stay with us, For the summer. She is 10 and I think already very much like my wife, in her waywardness ... Tomorrow I will do my duty to protect my family name In whatever way i need to - Tomorrow, and for as long as i live.
I sit here, encircled in my routine, My safety net spread around me like a bright yellow blanket. The sameness, the everydayness keeping it close, gently embracing. I’ve gulped down the first half of my mug of coffee So now I’m surrounded also, by a warm cloak of caffeine. I stretch inwardly with the languidness of a just-fed, just-loved cat.
I look outside at the recently blue sky Where the clouds have now gathered in heavy eskers of grey The suddenness of the assailment, the eclipsing of the sun, Breaking the spell of my Constancy Ritual. I sip on the second half of my mug of coffee, rhythmically bolstering my caffeine haze Even as the sudden coolness of the breeze loosens my other subliminal layers of warmth.
Then the rain begins to fall. Free, fluid, gleaming, Skipping down the sidewalk; dancing in eddying pools on the street below. And i stand up and stretch with the lustiness of the Alive and the Kicking. I reach out and catch the falling raindrops in the trough of my open palm; I reach out and seize the day.
Mahvash Mohtadullah 