The Reckoning

They say that the strongest steel is forged in the hottest flames...

... I've just been pushed into an inferno

The Fraying Thread

There were never too many to begin with
and yet you slowly wear them all away
these threads that hold me to you
and entitle you to some degree
of my forced respect

cut them. I am the one who hurts
you are the one that is free
but someday you will find
that in this life
you were the one that was just floating
and i am the one
who learned to fly by falling.

Structure and Coherence? Meh.

For the past few years, I've found myself to be rather fascinated by
eastern poetry and literature. Tagore and Gibran enrapture and humble
me. Bulleh Shah and Omer Khayyam lighten my spirit and mood. Faiz and
Ghalib make me smile in their sweet bitterness. Rumi reminds me how
large my smallness is.
Life for the past year or so has been hectic. When I'm not under
chronic surveilance at work, I'm either working on getting my own
business rolling or sweating it out at the gym. Needless to say, the
current 18 hour workday, six days a week doesn't leave too much room
for intellectual stimulation.
I find myself thirsting for my muse, and my muse finds herself
thirsting for inspiration. And my heart lusts for a little alone-time
that coincides with free-time.
Xeb once recognized that there is far too much Urdu/punjabi literature
that us bit accessable to people like me dye to the language barrier.
The biggest names are mostly available, but there are many other
amazing writers that are either too recent or too obscure (when
compared to the likes of the above-mentioned writers) to warrant a
retired brigadier's or caucasion linguist's attention.
This is not fair. Not fair at all.
Punjabi, with all of it's rustic and charming proverbs and expressions
is largely regarded as a dying language.
This is strange since the language has millions of speakers as well as
an established (and from what I've heard- vibrant) department in the
country's largest university.
To go off on a tangent, academia largely ignores it's ability to
influence the present in significant and immediate terms. Despite the
fact that business and engineering universities are working more
actively towards establishing a mechanism between themselves and
industry, where is art and literature? Why are there no attempts to
make the work of these writers available in the world's most
widespread language?
Economics and commercialism may be the muscle of a country, but art is
the soul.
We are a people who almost invariably want to dance wildly in the
rain, who express love and pleasure with expressions of coolness
rather than warmth. We, who have poets that move mountains in four-
line couplets and create characters who face hell for a moments
peace... That is part of who we are.
When we forget that, we become just another homogenous product. A can
of coke or a big mac that tastes exactly the same whether you're in
New York or the Old City of Lahore.
I speak not of ethnocentrism or xenophobia, but of having something to
contribute in this beautiful process of cultural mingling.
I speak of having an identity to share.

This is profound.

Breath, Until Your Lungs Are Empty

How do you feel, now that you have turned this place into a sanctuary
of your longing?

You have tamed a hurricane by surrounding it with emptiness.

Khanapoori

Drowning men reach
for floating planks
adrift in the sea

Falling men grasp
blades of hardy grass
At the edge of a cliff

Burning men roll
Upon dry earth
Hoping to quench the flames

Sick men swallow
Multicolored pills
Bitter candies fortified hope

Lost men search
For signs of the familiar
And in this Tumutluous sea
Of change
You are all I know.

Gran Torino by Jamie Cullum

So tenderly
Your story is
Nothing more
Than what you see
Or
What you've done
Or will become
Standing strong
Do you belong
In your skin
Just wondering

Gentle now
The tender breeze
Blows
Whispers through
My Gran Torino
Whistling another
Tired song

Engine humms
And bitter dreams
Grow heart locked
In a Gran Torino
It beats
A lonely rhythm
All night long
It beats
A lonely rhythm
All night long
It beats
A lonely rhythm
All night long

Realign all
The stars
Above my head
Warning signs
Travel far
I drink instead
On my own
Oh,how I've known
The battle scars
And worn out beds

Gentle now
A tender breeze
Blows
Whispers through
A Gran Torino
Whistling another
Tired song

Engines humm
And bitter dreams
Grow
Heart locked
In a Gran Torino
It beats
A lonely rhythm
All night long

These streets
Are old
They shine
With the things
I've known
And breaks
Through
The trees
Their sparkling

Your world
Is nothing more
Than all
The tiny things
You've left
Behind

So tenderly
Your story is
Nothing more
Than what you see
Or
What you've done
Or will become
Standing strong
Do you belong
In your skin
Just wondering

Gentle now
A tender breeze
Blows
Whispers through
The Gran Torino
Whistling another
Tired song
Engines humm
And bitter dreams
Grow
A heart locked
In a Gran Torino
It beats
A lonely rhythm
All night long

May I be
So bold and stay
I need someone
To hold
That shudders
My skin
Their sparkling

Your world
Is nothing more
Than all
The tiny things
You've left
Behind

So realign
All the stars
Above my head
Warning signs
Travel far
I drink instead
On my own
Oh
How i've known
The battle scars
And worn out beds

Gentle now
A tender breeze
Blows
Whispers through
The Gran Torino
Whistling another
Tired song
Engines humm
And better dreams
Grow
Heart locked
In a Gran Torino
It beats
A lonely rhythm
All night long
It beats
A lonely rhythm
All night long
It beats
A lonely rhythm
All night long

Fishing in a Sea of Words

'I love you' were the three words that only you could pull from my lips.
'I miss you' have become the only three words you can't.

Friday morning during winter at the Darbar (Haiku)

Cold winds blow
away, scented air.
Awaken.

Boy With a Coin

I loves.

Somewhere in a country
That you've never heard of
A young man
Whose name you can't pronounce
Felt it too.
Feels exactly the same way.

Iftari k baad hi parhna.

Perfection is a broken mirror
That seems solid because
Your eyes are broken too
In exactly the same way

You capture the essence but
Are you so foolish as to think
You have the whole?
You see a few tears and call it
Sorrow
Hold a few petals and call it a
Flower
Take my heart and think it just
Love?

Then let this be my flaw
That I can't talk to you
Without reminding you of
what we were

Let this be my curse
That your love
is the only love
That I can remember

Let it be my sin
That I am still yours
And that I still
Make you mine

Let it be my truth
That my love for you
Was always sweetened
By my lust for you

Your lips are the
only lips I thirst for
Your nectar, the only nectar
I wish to taste

Your soft arms
Your scented neck
The glow of your eyes
The sound of your smile
Their memories
Resonate within me still.

I won't stop loving you. I won't stop talking to you. I know that
hurts you, but I'm sorry. I need to know that I live there still. At
least sometimes.

Sent from my iPhone

A Visit From Wisdom by Khalil Gibran

In the stillness of night Wisdom came and stood
By my bed. She gazed upon me like a tender mother
And wiped away my tears, and said : 'I have heard
The cry of your spirit and I am come to comfort it.
Open your heart to me and I shall fill it with light.
Ask of me and I shall show you the way of truth.'

And I said : 'Who am I, Wisdom, and how came
I to this frightening place? What manner of things
Are these mighty hopes and these many books and
Strange patterns ? What are these thoughts that pass
As doves in flight? And these words composed by
Desire and sung by delight, what are they? What are
These conclusions, grievous and joyous, that embrace
My spirit and envelop my heart? And those
Eyes which look at me seeing into my depths and
Fleeing from my sorrows ? And those voices mourning
My days and chanting my littleness, what are they ?

'What is this youth that plays with my desires
And mocks at my longings, forgetful of yesterday's
Deeds, rejoicing in paltry things of the moment,
Scornful of the morrow's coming?

'What is this world that leads me whither I know
Not, standing with me in despising? And this earth
That opens wide its mouth to swallow bodies and
Lets evil things to dwell on its breast? What is this
Creature that is satisfied with the love of fortune,
Whilst beyond its union is the pit? Who seeks Life's
Kiss whilst Death does smite him, and brings the
Pleasure of a minute with a year of repentance, and
Gives himself to slumber the while dreams call him?
What is he who flows with the rivers of folly to the
Sea of darkness? O Wisdom, what manner of things
Are these?'

And she answered, saying :
'You would see, human creature, this world
Through the eyes of a god. And you would seek to
Know the secrets of the hereafter with the thinking
Of men. Yet in truth is this the height of folly.
'Go you to the wild places and you shall find
There the bee above the flowers and behold the eagle
Swooping down on his prey. Go you into your neighbor's
House and see then the child blinking at the
Firelight and his mother busied at her household
Tasks. Be you like the bee and spend not the days of
Spring looking on the eagle's doing. Be as the child
And rejoice in the firelight and heed not your Mother's affairs. All
that you see with your eyes was And is for your sake.

'The many books and the strange patterns and
Beautiful thoughts are the shades of those spirits
That came ere you were come. The words that you
Do weave are a bond between you and your brothers.
The conclusions, grievous and joyous, are the
Seeds that the past did scatter in the field of the
Spirit to be reaped by the future. That youth who
Plays with your desires is he who will open the door
Of your heart to let enter the light. This earth with
The ever open mouth is the savior of your spirit from
The body's slavery. This world which walks with
You is your heart; and your heart is all that you
Think that world. This creature whom you see as
Ignorant and small is the same who has come from
God's side to learn pity through sadness, and knowledge
By way of darkness.'

Then Wisdom put her hand on my burning brow
And said:
'Go then forward and do not tarry, for beforeWwalks Perfection. Go,
and have not fear of thorns
On the path, for they deem naught lawful save Corrupted blood.'

Khalil Gibran

Sent from my iPhone

Heh.

E-Distance

Slightly more than
A hundred kilometers
Nothing more than
A few button pushes
That aren't really there
on a touch-screen
A dozen keystrokes
Soft, silent. Familiar.
A pale blue pop-up window and
An ascending alert tone
Away.

Millions of miles,
They are.

Sent from my iPhone

Crash

Lives and dreams die every day. Hopes and love and constantly
birthed. Every day is a tragedy for someone, and a miracle for
someone else.

Pray for everyone. Remember them. Value them. Understand what you need
to do. And remember that you only feel, what you feel right now,
because the death that pervades life crashed just a little too close
to home.

Remember that it's always there. And be thankful for what you have.

A forwarded email. Lol!

Ten Thoughts to Ponder

Number 10
Life is sexually transmitted.

Number 9
Good health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die.

Number 8
Men have two emotions: Hungry and Horny.
If you see him without an erection, make him a sandwich ..

Number 7
Give a person a fish and you feed them for a day,
teach a person to use the Internet and they won't bother you for weeks.

Number 6
Some people are like a Slinky ... not really good for anything, but
you still can't help but smile when you shove them down the stairs.

Number 5
Health nuts are going to feel stupid someday, lying in hospitals,
dying of nothing.

Number 4
All of us could take a lesson from the weather. It pays no attention
to criticism.

Number 3
Why does a slight tax increase cost you $200.00, and a substantial tax
cut saves you $30.00?

Number 2
In the 60's, people took acid to make the world weird.
Now the world is weird and people take Prozac to make it normal.

And The Number 1 Thought
Life is like a jar of Jalapeno peppers; what you do today, might burn
your ass tomorrow.

- - - and as someone recently said to me: "Don't worry about old age;
it doesn't last long.

It's amazing how quickly this place can break down my self esteem.
This psuedo-superiority-complex is what I hold on to for the sake of
sanity.

It's a hard battle when everything you do seems to turn out wrong.

Cutting
Is nothing more than
Ripping politely

I'm pathetic, but I refuse to let you know that I'm pathetic.

Ok fine, I refuse to let you know HOW pathetic I am. Sheesh.

My New Bling?

To buy or not to buy?

My New Bling?

To buy or not to buy?

I HATE feeling needy. And I do this FAR too much.

If you gave me, but a speck of your infinity...

...I'd have everything.

Sent from my iPhone

The End?

To be honest, I'm just not too sure of this blog anymore. My muse
seems to be utterly, completely dead. Poetry just doesn't come to me
anymore. Even when I try, it comes out stunted. Forced. It used to
force itself out of it's own accord, almost beyond my rational control.

On another level, this is where I've often come for self confession.
It's been my reflecting pool of sorts. But now, I realize that the
things that I want to write about here have become things that I'm
ashamed of. Parts of me that I'm growing to deeply revile.

I guess I'm just not open like I used to be. In the words of monidipa,
a highly talented friend; 'what is it that I cannot break into flowers
anymore'.

Sent from my iPhone

This is kinda mean and immature and all, but I thought this was a
funny picture. :-p

Khaansi.... Fishum

I miss you
Intensely.
And yet words completely elude me
All that I reminisce about
Is the sound of you smiling
And the sight of your thoughts
Smooth cheeks on stubble
Cool, tiny hands in my long-fingered grasp
Dark corner tables and double-apple sheeshas
Scented necks and purring kisses
I lose myself in them until the bad thoughts go away

Bhabhi-e-Qaum

Isn't this the single PAINDOO-EST card you've EVER seen?

In their defence, I have it on good authority that the design wasn't
approved by the couple. Heh.

*evil laugh*

>

Vivid Red Rose Petal on the Grey Sidewalk

Everyday is just another day
The same cycle all over again
Yet I try to make every day special
Every day important
So that I have something to tell you.

Holistic Art

An artist knows where to start the stroke of his paintbrush. He know
just the right angles and the right pressure needed to create the
energy and texture he desires upon the canvas. He knows how to
carefully select and mix his hues to add warmth or coolness or passion
or indifference. He works with a meticulous calm and unerringly
patient precision. He knows all the shapes that belong because only he
can see where they fit. And how.

But a true artist... A true artist simply dances and let's the beauty
flow forth of its own accord. A true artist knows that he does not
create beauty- he is merely it's conduit. A true artist paints not in
strokes, but in 'wholes'.

But most of all- a true artist knows when the painting is finished. He
knows where to stop the brush. He knows when his work is whole.

Sometimes a title just doesn't do it

There are things that I'm bursting to say to you precious. But the
time for saying has past. And certain beautiful parts of me are lost
and barren.

Can you know what I need to say without me saying it? It would take a
bit of eternity for me to say it all.

You've always been the one that embraced my shadows and basked when I
would glow. You were the one privy to every deep fear, all my
thundering rages, you were my light in my blackest moods.

You are so much more than you profess to be, precious. So much more
than what you know you are. So few women are as hilariously glib, as
evenly balanced, as obviously intelligent as you are, doe-eyes. And no
one. No. One. Has your warrior spirit. Your strength.

Few, at the same time, are as horribly biased in my case. You know its
true. :-)

He: Have you ever been pissed, frustrated, and extremely amused at the
same time?

She: Of course I have. I have you, remember?

God broke the mold when he made you, beautiful. You're one of a kind.

Random death splurge.

I am naught but dust
And to dust I have returned
Yet you cover me with
The saffron of my sins
And hang around me
The tinsel that
Littered my room
What is there in these colors
That you find so beautiful?
light combined is white
And thus white is the only truth.

BlackSandDragon

It rears its head like a dragon made of nothingness. An incarnation of
emptiness. It is the abyss given form.
Sometimes you push it down firmly with a steady hand, remembering all
that you've done- all your triumphs, all your struggles, all that
you've learned.
Sometimes, it seeps through your fingers and you see that its not the
dragon rising up, but yourself sinking into it like black quicksand
and the more you struggle, the more you sink.
Where is your elation now? Where is you buoyancy, who weilds your
branch?
These questions are most poignant against a backdrop of self doubt.

On Sisters

There are times when I REALLY wish I had a big sister. Sisters are
empathetic (relevant even?) in a way that mothers often aren't and at
the same time (since they're often in the same situation or among the
same ppl as you when it comes to problems of the familial variety)
much more intimately familiar with your constraints and 'the
situation' than a friend or even lover could be.
I wish I had a sister. But, I'm glad I dont have one because I know
what she'd have had to go through in this country and in this
'khandaan'.
Allah always does what's best. But dammit, sometimes I could sure use
one!

The Devil's Reject

Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, I always end up making friends
that my family doesn't seem to approve of. :-/

Mind over Matter

I've heard that Allam Iqbal once said that had Nietzche believed in
God, he'd be a Walli-Ullah.

-----------

Allah Hoo
Allah Hoo
Allah Hoo
Cried the cleric
Intoxication abound in the chant filled air. Arms swaying, eyes
ablaze, voice ringing harsh and husky with ill-contained fervour.

Vocal communication is phonetic in nature. What is speech but a series
of vocal pattern discerned and decoded by our brains into abstract and
concrete ideas and concepts? Ideas and concepts based on social mores.

Yet sometimes, when caught in a seemingly random idiosyncratic moment,
when peripheral details disappear leaving the silhouettes of essence
plain to your detached, slightly blinded sight...

... those mores, all our mental, social, conditioning disappear. A new
facet to our consciousness emerges. Some call it a sixth sense, others
a third eyes. To some its a moment of Annihilation, to others,
Assimilation.

In these moments, reality blurs and twists, metamorphs into something
that is essentially surreal due to its intense real-ness.

---------

Allah Hoo!
Allah Hoo!
Allah Hoo!
Allah Hoo!
The bearded-turbaned cleric chanted, feverishly absorbed.

Allah Who?
Allah Who?
Allah Who?
Allah Who?
Heard the jeans-and-t-shirt clad young man coldly absolved.

This foolish writer believes that a wise man would wonder... Which of
the two is searching for enlightenment, and which one is deluded?

Affection in Relativity

Echoing steps in empty alleyways
Do they draw pictures for you?
What would seem like
The harsh slapping of leather
To you and me
Are caresses to the cobblestones

Rekindled

A candle
In pitch black darkness
Burns unbelievably bright
(There is just that much
Of infinity lying
Between something
And nothing)

-------------

Men in frozen lands
Will tell you
That ice is colder than snow
What do you know,
dweller beneath the tropical sun?
There is love
And there is Love.
There is hope
And there is
Hope.

[Apparent] Recovery is sweet.

Shattered.

Things have been spiraling rapidly downwards for me this year. My
once vaunted sense of steady confidence lies in shards at my feet and
I am utterly unequipped to pick things up and put them back together.
My greatest flaw has always been an easy slip into the realm of
complacency. The glaring exceptions lie in spheres where my enthusiasm
and passion are piqued, where you'll see me intense, fiery,
aggressive, obsessive. That part of me has died.

I've become what I've always loathed. The spoiled, entitled child of
wealthy parents. I have not the arms to lift, nor the legs to run, nor
the mind to scheme. All I'd probably be good at being is an
imaginative and grammatically correct clerk. Nothing more.

Now, I'm silent. Absent. My eyes are glazed on a daily basis and I'm
utterly useless. Nothing appeals to me expect escapism. Novels, video
games. That's where I want to live.

There is a difference between life in school/college and actually
working. I was respected there. Even successful sometimes.

But it has now become woefully apparent to me how hopelessly lost I
am, how insufficient my mind and heart are. I feel like a Suzuki
racing in the grand prix.

I hope my parents have something planned out. I hope my brother is a
better son than I am, a stronger man. More able and sharp and
assertive. He's the only hope now.

I can't do this.

TwoFace

.

Sometimes you're too stubborn to lose.

...and sometimes you're just too stubborn to win.

Verbose

Dear Everything-in-Existance,

Fuck you. Have a nice day.

-Ali

Phase.

I'm getting significant and sudden urges to break things nowadays.
There's a vicious cycle in my head that only I can break but I need
patience and strength and I don't have either.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Twosome Lonesome (edited)

The Tamarind trees talk
Of whispering white wisps
And of Dreams dreamt during
Daylight's dawning

Simple-sandaled streets
Laugh at lovers lost
They see serrations
in the subtlety of our
fate-symhpony
And we bare our benevolence
by bearing
blood soaked breasts.

What do you want, oh wanderer?
We keep all our concrete concretely connected
Every laugh and lick is littered
With loss

Leave us to ourselves.

Unicorns and Gummy Bears

I dont think I'm cut out for this, I'm just not wired to take all of
this. For some reason this seemingly culturally inherent sense of
common sense eludes me completely and I find myself falling flat on my
face when charged with even the simplest of tasks.
I have often complained about being underestimated by the people I
work with, people I should be proud to call family. It is there
playing field, their rules, their game, and they have strength in both
skills and numbers.
I dream dreams of being a David to their Goliath. I dream dreams where
I am silent, competent, and able to manipulate events with minute but
precisley placed nuances. I am not this weak, emotion-racked wreck. I
am not this Quixote. I am not this.

But this is what I am.

Llamas With Hats! :-D