Category Archives: Poetry

‘And…’ A dedication to Prof. Kausar Bashir Ahmad


Dedicated to my late father, Prof. Kausar Bashir Ahmad – a visionary, educationist, architect, artist, poet and gentle soul who left us for his eternal abode on this day, five years ago. May Allah grant him the highest of places in Heaven and bless him in every way.

For more on his life and work, please visit: http://kausarba.wordpress.com

And it will be November again.

The evening chill reminds me

That I have but little time

Before the shadows of the past bestir me

And take me on that incline

Where progress is slow.

 

And it will be November again,

When dark corridors take on meanings anew,

When footsteps dwell in places small

And life begins to ebb and stall.

Bitter sweet, sour,

I dream of the summer sky instead.

 

And it will be November again,

When the eyes will search and rue – .

A life fulfilled, the bonds outcast

And the Earth out spins what’s due.

Yet that not there will be untold

And November, Daddy, will stretch again.

 

 

8:00 P.M

Sunday, 25th October 2009

To Farah


If joy could fill a tear

your tinkling laughter

would shatter the cloudy cocoon above

and be radiant in cat’s eyes.

 

Aspirations unknown

between the patterned mosaic

of life that ebbed

before the tide at dawn.

 

The heart not healed

but meant to heal

the ripples of a shadowed moonlit bed

of promising buds.

 

Rest in peace cherub

of the twinkling eyes.

Your oyster shell

remains unopened.

02/07/2011 Dedicated to my student Farah Sadia who passed away today at dawn.  May Allah bless her and give strength to all her family members and friends to bear with the loss.

N.B. The name Farah ‘joy’ or ‘happiness’. She was a good student, the proud owner of nearly 20 cats and a cherished friend for those who knew her. May her soul rest in peace.

Defining the Sufi – Heart and Soul


Intoxicated by the Wine of Love.

From each a mystic silence Love demands.

What do all seek so earnestly? ‘Tis Love.

What do they whisper to each other? Love.

Love is the subject of their inmost thoughts.

In Love no longer ‘thou’ and ‘I’ exist,

For Self has passed away in the Beloved.

Now will I draw aside the veil from Love,

And in the temple of mine inmost soul,

Behold the Friend; Incomparable Love.

He who would know the secret of both worlds,

Will find the secret of them both, is Love.

Fariduddin Attar – Translation by Margaret Smith

In the beginning there was Love.

Love, light, longing and the dearly Beloved – the Friend of all. All those who love Him. Sufism enshrines itself as a form of expressing an ancient Covenant: the  Sufis being friends of Allah who strive to leave worldly desires behind and show loyalty to their beloved by engaging in perpetual ‘remembrance’ and ‘zikr’. Synonymous with the ideals of higher ecstatic ‘states’ or ‘ahwal’, the heart of the Sufi longs for final ‘survival’ that is ‘baq’a’ of his ideals.

Sufism is not a simple word to define. Its forms are culturally determined while its traditions have undergone transformations through the centuries and the various nations who came in contact with it. Perhaps it would be simpler to say what it is not.

It is not a form of Islam or a derivative of the Holy Qura’an but there is no doubt that it was an important means of bringing the masses closer to Islam in early days. Sufis were initially approached with something between awe, curiosity and ridicule and later as their influence grew, they managed to capture more than just attention. They captured and captivated hearts.

Sufism cannot even be defined as a religion. Unlike structured religions, while it has a ‘pathway’ or ‘tariqa’ it does not have a single rigid doctrine. Its followers have their own brotherhoods and while they are divided in spirit and practices, their object is the same – the love of Allah.

It is also not a ‘union with God’ as many sources claim, as it gives the idea of ‘the  realization of God’s uniqueness’ rather than a blending or forging. Most Sufis reject the idea of finding Allah within oneself. They rather view the contemplation and appreciation of His beautiful creations as a means of reaching Him.

Some sources have shown the influence of Christian, Hindu practices on Sufism and said that it is an evolution of the desire to mould the oft viewed stern Islamic practices and provide a softer outlook. Yet, there is a major difference. The historical context shows that while the Sufis may have indulged in seemingly libertine practices, they never were dubbed as clergy, or believed in the trinity or in incarnation. Much has been lost in translation. Julian Baldick, the author of several books on Comparative Religion refers to the word ‘Saint’ which, according to him, has been liberally used in translation by British writers for Muslim mystics. While the term has a completely different connotation of heroic piety in Christianity, the closest counterpart is ‘Wali Allah’ which means ‘friend of Allah’ and the patron of those at a lower level of contemplation of His supremacy.

Another reference looks at the etymological roots of the word Sufi, calling it the Islamic continuation of Greek philosophy or the Sophists. There is incidentally quite a bit in common between both Sophists and Sufis. Both strove to teach and were elitist in nature. However, that is where the similarity ends. While Sophists  never tried to reach the masses and remained in minority, rejecting the common’ man, the Sufis did just the opposite by making sure that their message was  comprehensible to all.

An offshoot sometimes confused with the Sufis, takes the form of a Hellenized Islamic Philosophy and is called ‘Hikmat al Ishraq’ or the wisdom of Oriental Illumination. Here the contextual difference is vast. The Sufis, immersed in their ideal of togetherness or a strong bond with the Creator and lacking interest in worldly affairs, have no desire for immediate escape either. The other side lacks interest in attaining the love of the Creator and instead focuses on an ordered perception of the Universe dominated by a mysterious Angel. Their escapist ideology, of ascension and integration into space by means of purifying their thought to gain heights of Spiritual mastery not apparent to other mortals, deviates far from simplistic Sufi notions of life.

So then, what is Sufism and what do the Sufis themselves have to offer as an explanation. The answer lies in the metaphorical content of their sayings and  writings. Sufism is a mystical tradition that has been taken as one of the highest forms of living the ideal of a life filled with ‘tasawwuf’. Tasawwuf – literally ‘wearing wool’ was a term initially used to pinpoint those who were not interested in the material world. Wool in its raw rough form being used to  fashion a rather crude basic tunic or garment known more for its resilience than its comfort. According to the historian Ibn e Khaldun, “This knowledge (Tasawwuf) is a branch of the sciences of Sacred Law that originated within the Umma. From the first, the way of such people had also been considered the path of truth and guidance by the early Muslim community and its notables, of the Companions of the Prophet (Allah bless him and give him peace), those who were taught by them, and those who came after them.” Another connotation lies with the term of ‘As’hab e Sufah’ or the companions of the Prophet Muhammad (S.A.W.) who led simple lives and spent their time learning from him and in prayer.

Hence, Sufism has its leanings towards dedication with a pure heart. Be it the soulful stirrings of poetry sublimated in ‘ishq e ilaahi’ and the ‘love of Allah’, deliberate self abasement in the slightest wrongdoing or even a bid to give up all worldly distractions, Sufism binds the Sufi heart and soul with his Maker. A bond that is only strengthened with time and the only definition it needs is ‘belief’ and ‘intent’.

References

Baldick, J. (2000) Mystical Islam – An Introduction to Sufism.  Tauris Parke Paperbacks. London, New York.

Keller, N. H. M. (1995) The Place of Tasawwuf in Traditional  Islamic Sciences. Retrieved from http://www.masud.co.uk/ISLAM/nuh/sufitlk.htm

Sieny, M.E. (1989) Muslim Heroes. International Islamic Publishers Ltd. Karachi, Pakistan.

Wahiduddin. Intoxicated by the wine of love. Retrieved from http://wahiduddin.net/sufi/sufi_poetry.htm

The Fifth Day of Power Failure


 

Ramazan in the eyes of a four year old:

oozing jalebis, tangy samosas and chilled red blood,

that he likes and doesn’t.

Call of the muezzin; the call for lights off

and such sweetness are memories made of…

 

Shadows that lengthen.

The scenes fade away.

And all that remain are the spoils of that day.

 

Gathering dust, storm clouds flit to the north.

Barren rocks do not empty bellies fill but

will lightning leave its stormy drill?

The earth has treasures and so does the sky…

 

Leg shackled to the pole of power

will he look up or down?

That clot, that blot, that mortal wretch

who fifth day of loss with tearless eyes

faces the winds of change.

 

The lights go off in those selfless eyes

and he stands with shoulders bent.

The burden of a fiery spirit

chained in bliss of solitude

that has never led the feet astray.

He stays where chained,

he stays where put.

The rubber burns, the smoke rises,

the chains fall down,

he …

 

Where is he?

 

10:00 pm

24/06/2011

 

Karachi – Our Mega-Village.


DHA Karachi by twilight

I wrote a short poem titled ‘Our mega-village’ way back in 1998. I had recently found out back then that Karachi is actually technically known as a mega city in line with others like Mumbai, London, Paris and New York etc. 14 million people approximately in 1998 = mega city. It is 2011 now. Irony: My words written back then ring true more than ever today.

Case in point: My area in Karachi has been without electricity for the past 36 hours and counting… KESC (Karachi Electric Supply Corporation) workers who are happily on a strike have ‘unofficially’agreed to fix the ‘tranformers’ ‘PMTs” for Rs 200 per house. DHA (Defence Housing Authority/Society) area is the worst struck. Known as one of the ‘poshest’ areas of the city, it calls for greater attention ‘ofcourse’ as the revenue through bribery is expected to be higher than any of the others. Hence while other areas of the city function as normal – with occasional loadshedding thrown in to remind residents of the power (all pun intended), DHA residents boil in the heat. No electricity or lack of generators equals lack of water in tanks. In some areas the rates are Rs 1000 per house and Rs 20,000 per lane. Even after payment the power supply has not been resumed. Hence we have a bleary eyed me posting this page from the past of 1998 coupled with regret and a resounding echo in 2011…

In a bygone era it was a novelty,

for people who went to stay in villages,

without water, gas or electricity.

But now we can enjoy that very same state

just by living in this mega-city!

23/06/2011 Update: 52 hours and counting and no sign of electricity supply as yet. Freezer items have perished yet surprisingly enough, Man’s resilience shines through. We have learnt to co-exist. The cool sea breeze is helping as well after days and days of blistering heat as Nature seems to be taking sides here.

A colleague reported that Rs 20,000 was the price for getting the PMT in her area fixed. Even then, power supply was restored after 48 hours. Another friend reported interesting scenes outside the KESC office where all bearded and cloth-above- the-ankle workers were seen lined up for a hunger strike with another line of lemonade (nimbu pani) and rooh afza (local sherbet) selling pushcarts right beside them. If beards are an emblem of humility and God fearing attributes, I wonder why we are being told that police protection is necessary for those who want to help and fix PMT (transformers) in the vicinity?

I hear menial workers making fun of the educated, sophisticated sufferers for their stupidity in not being daring enough to step out of their homes, bash up KESC workers and set fire to tyres on main roads. If that defines ‘daring’ in this country now, I wonder what will become of the word ‘tolerance’… ?

 

Update at 23/06/2011 (10:30 pm) from the dark. A kescwala affirms that other ousted kesc workers attack those who come to fix things.

A friend from PECHS congratulates me on suffering only for 4 days now as she got electricity back after 5 days… I’m actually lucky for once. Wow!

Meanwhile things look bleak in DHA especially in Phase VII where despite repeated promises, KESC or the Darakhshan police have always managed to miss each others’ timings. Residents in the meanwhile have turned it into a war situation leaving the menfolk in some houses at the forefront and the women and children being shunted off to the cooler climes of other relatives with light. Meatless days… lightless days. All in the same boat.

To Zenia


When from the rosy cheeks of morn
sunlight beams in heaven’s eyes,
I think, I pray, with all my might
that the earth beneath my feet
glowing with the warm blush of youth
makes you feel all I want to say
of love, of innocence and friendship deep.

When the tints from twilight burn
like hot tears onto feverish skin,
I know that what I feel within
is duskier than my living dust
and heavier than your spirit free.

When darkness drifts in grassy plots,
the carefree skip along
till in the gloom they trip and fall; their petals plucked away,

Flowers no more to be.

(This poem, written in 2003 is dedicated to the memory of a childhood friend “Zenia’ who passed away in a fatal road accident in Karachi, Pakistan.)

29-01-2003
11.45 A.M

Caged


 

I saw from within the cell of my being.

Forbidden freedom came knocking one day.

I peeped out at the sudden interruption

and saw…

But what was there to see?

My eyes clothed in their earthly apparel

strove in vain for a blessed glimpse –

A glimmer of light; a sparkle of silver

as dust falling onto a sunlit ledge

but all in vain; I was blind.

I tried to feel; grope on in the dark

and felt…

But what was there to feel?

A clammy coldness of the heart

from reaching out in the balmy air

to feel something that was not there?!

Finally I tried to hear

and heard…

the beating of my heart,

loud and clear, like a soldier’s march

trudging back to camp with footsteps weary.

I strained to hear something more

but does silence have a voice?

O freedom, if you come next time,

bring your Identity card along.

How else can one know someone

Not seen, not heard, nor felt?

Maybe, just maybe

The address to which you came was wrong.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_EPSrbhYaM

* This poem has been written and presented by me at the Foundation of Saarc Writers and Literature Conference in New Delhi, India in March 2011. Click the link  to view a video recording of the proceedings. For improvement in audio quality use headphones.

* Illustration created by the author.