I’m in the throes of such exhaustion At all of this deception This shameless commandeering Of the resources of our nation This unbridalled corruption This lewd and shameless arrogance This swagger, this ostentation Like a monstrous pile of steaming Shit!
I feel so much frustration Such griping exasperation At this propaganda, misinformation At our barefaced prostration To the lords of subjugation. At our global commoditisation At all this brazen exploitation Like the hapless one who’s used to hearing Checkmate!
I’m looking out through my balcony door The glass gleaming - I never miss that That sheen itself is a pleasure to see The gloss, the shine makes my heart glad
Then I look outside at the city lights Some glimmering others sunny bright I look beyond at the skyline that now Boasts a few high rises above the eighth floor
My mind telescopes into some homes But please hold that thought, don’t let it roam! It’s not a voyeuristic enterprise of the mind It’s reading the drive behind the grind
What makes that man who lives alone In a one room apartment on the third floor Wake up day after day after day? What makes him go out his front door?
What special dreams has he woven with time? Which ones has he decided to leave behind? Is the light in his eyes still glowing bright Or is he just stolidly marking time?
That woman who is holding down Two jobs in two different parts of town What is she hurrying and scouring for? What makes her oblivious to her aches and her sores?
That young boy barely into his teens His moustache is yet to take place of state On his young, adolescent face What is he doing out on the steets so late?
The young girl who sits up late by herself Stitching joras* that must go on the shelf Of an elite boutique. Do her dreams still speak? Or are they now mute wraiths of themselves?
In the pit of my stomach lies a spot of guilt The quickening of my heart tells me the truth Of the relentless grind, the killer odds But I tell myself - what can you possibly do …
The gleaming door now to my back I look over my balcony railing this time Beyond is a world that is dusty and raw My own pleasure wanes in the shadows of night-time
* Jora: In Urdu, a set of clothes, usually shalwar kameeze.
I’m in Karachi after two and a half years of Pandemic gridlocks, and it’s been a whirlwind of a homecoming. Besides grappling with the major and minor curveballs that my micro and macro environments tend to throw at me off and on, I have also been able to indulge in some nostalgia: found my little book in which I’ve put down a few poems that I’d written in my teens. Even at that tender age, external stimuli hit hard! 😅 Below is one of my verses from my adolescent days.
I was walking through the woods one day With my thoughts in a turmoil Oblivious to nature was I - To the trees and the grass and the soil
I was attempting to decipher The meaning of strife and war Was it political agitation For the enforcement of a law?
Or was it as I believed the cause Of a moment’s disarray Of a value old as age itself - The simple Human Way
Where was the compassion that Bespoke the worth of one? Had the shield of dignity and love Been replaced by the gun?
Where was the pride in good deeds Where was the humility? Was everything really shrouded by The veil of frailty?
Frailty of causes And frailty of sense Had the once true noble values Become a mere pretence?
I was looking for the answers I was seeking a refuge From the grief and the confusion that Had overcome me like a deluge
It was then that I heard whispering The soil, the grass, the trees “You already have the answers Now you only have to see
When man was made a brother Unto the other one The moulding of a sacred Tradition had begun
So when war threatens to break this bond Their spirit shall hold them fast For that was always meant to be Unto the very last”.
I feel a rage It’s not the flaming, blazing kind Nor is it the hating kind It’s disappointment mixed with hurt A betrayal mixed with cheerlessness It’s a whipping, bruising buffeting It’s a faded, jaded trustfulness It’s a crashing and a burning Without smoke, without fire It’s the turning into ash Of something held so close Of something tender and so dear Of a precious, precious thing Of a pearl old as the years.
I feel a rage But in its manifestation There is no acid hotness Only a painful heaviness That sits mostly in my throat Huddled there, straining to emerge In tears or in words I’m capable of neither. Even as it squeezes me Choking, asphyxiating me In its throttling stranglehold I’m hoping for some peace and grace Hoping even in the throes Of this weary, bleary rage.
The Roaming Desi 