I am an Amateur and ramble I will. (Continuation: For, you were Iqbal and Rumi's silent pride.)

Is it just me?

Or do your hearts still weep?

 Has the day passed?

Or does it signal perils unsurpassed?

Stand up and look down to your feet!

The earth is still there, Pakistan remains here.

How long will it be?

               Till you and Earth are one?

Don’t grow weary yet, my friends

                We need more words, at least I for one.

I need more chaos, he says.

Let all be ordinary, she says.

The silent guide smiles by my side.

While I pen this down,

                  With a vision in my eye.

Enough rambling. Get to the point!

Wasting the readers’ and your time!

Time is of the essence…

Pluck not the Rose, while still it grows…

I am an Amateur and ramble  I will.

Have patience my silent guide.

You are from me, why would you then deem me mad?

                 Look at me and hear me, because I am here… just for that! (Rumi)

Take your time. Take your time; signals the silent guide.

I’ve been here since the birth of time.

You too junaid, like many others, will pass unheard of

          Into a world your heart yearns for.

For, you were Iqbal and Rumi’s silent pride.

22.9.2012

You pierce the ageing heart of mine

Physically damaging it, is an on-going act of thine;

Whenever you raise your hand on your Muslim brother,

You shatter my world of Islamic perfection.

I write on paper, not machine

Like my predecessors, I hope to achieve,

A moment from your precious life

That which you willingly waste.

I see you, the smiling ones

The humored soul that takes me a joke.

Laugh while you may, at my lament!

Or read  on! And laugh again, you are only dust and smoke.

I have turned from side to side

Looking for answers, searching my mind.

I find no Iqbal penning his thoughts

Nor Rumi spinning in love.

Wait! Blur not my eye. You assembling tear.

I am to write words, and write them again.

While Iqbal may rest in his grave

Junaid yet burns within, and burns again.

What must I do? O silent guide?

Do poems move them or prose?

Is it the flute Rumi yearned for?

Or the words of a Qari reciting the Quran?

You must answer, Answer me now!

I seek to inspire not one, nor a thousand

Millions will answer my call, if I pen it right.

If I be the guide. If I be the guide!

But how can the unguided be the guide?

No more mysteries, no more talks in the dreams

I seek not omens, nor mysteries from the Quran!

I will not read, I will not see.

                                  Come whisper it in my ear

                                  Or silently take me away.

                                  The heart weakens day by day.

Why do you people scoff at me? For this?

Why do you people support me? For this?

You disgust me my reader.

For, what you seek, is but with the silent guide.

So come search with me!

Come let’s sit together

Come! Come! We will not talk!

But think and only think together.

And what do you know about the power of thought?

It moves the mountains and fills the sky!

It rises to the Lord Himself

Where His angels cry.

So come! And come again!

                Let us make them weep to oblivion.

Sit among us, my silent guide

                For, you were Iqbal and Rumi’s silent pride. 

Dying to Photograph

Every photographer; amateur, casual or even a professional, comes across this moment at least once in his/her life when you look at a scene, find it exquisite and want to capture it.

But you can’t.

And it could be any reason.

No camera.

No battery.

Driving.

Or it could be that you’re standing at the railway tracks by the airport road and you’ve set up alarms at a military base, just because you wanted to capture the tracks and the clouds in one frame.

KAUN HO TUM?

junaid ali

KIA KARRAY HO?

Tasweer khainch raha hun

CHALO MERAY SATH!

Nahi.

TARUF KARA

……

Theek hai sir aap jaiye,

Yahan photography mana hai.

                          Assalamu Alaikum.

9.11.2012

I’m the one to your left.

Lurking there in the shadows,

Waiting for a chance to strike.

I’m the condescending jerk you want to abuse,

Wearing a sweet smile, I can’t be refused.

Look back, I hide behind your eyes.

Raise your arms to strike,

Or capture me and tame me,

I’ll be the weapon you silently depend upon.

24.8.2012

He just sat there.

Blabbing.

His words did not inspire.

No pulse.

For him, drinking was a sin greater than causing discomfort to another human.

Hey Qari! Stop yelling on the mike! It’s disgraceful for our predecessors and God will not hear you better if you yell louder.

And verily HE alone is aware of what is in the hearts of men, not me.  

23.8.2012

I had my eyes closed and discerned baboons of the higher order jumping and laughing around me. They laughed at each other, at me, at themselves and at those who were not present.

And it troubled me.

I opened my eyes to find men wrapped in the skin of angels, seated about me.

I prayed and looked for a mirror.

The devil smiled back at me.   

Lets Gobble the Whole World

Have you seen the world?

I’m serious.

Have you seen the colors?

The trees? Clouds? Sun? Moon? Mountains? Stars? Birds?

Not all rays of light entering your eyes are reflected back. Some of them do, most of them are absorbed by the eye.

Do you realize you have not only been feasting on this world with your mouth and nose but also with your eyes?

Eating through your eyes the rays of light reflecting back from objects that either have a good or a bad taste for the eye? Leaving the brain to digest all of them.

Why Not?

Is it alright if I take pride in my creative thought? My existence? My superiority over other species?

Is it okay to stand up tall, with one’s head high and a stiff collar? Is it okay to step into the mosque in such a posture?

Why not?

Am I not proud of my faith? Can I not stand tall in front of Allah and claim in praise that: “Look God. You made me and here I am, in gratitude.”

I don’t yet know what exactly the term used to representing such a statement is, but I’m sure someone from among you will.

And I’m sure that there is such a state, a state that is the result of pride and gratitude experienced at the same time.

If not however, then I have severely wronged myself.     

Searching in vain

Steps towards the mike. 

Looks down at his toes. Blur. 

Looks up, switches the mike on.Closes his eyes. “Like Bilal at the time of Muhammad, for Allah”. 

Opens his eyes. Gulps. Inhales. And then it flows. 

Coarse and low. A voice that shakes at first, then learns to hold firm. Trained to deliver. 

The first four words are uttered without a stretch. Simple, straight-forward and steady. 

Two separate, two combined. (Allahu Akbar x 4).

Looks down again. More blur. Empties his lungs, inhales and announces the testimony. 

(Ashado Alla Ilaha Ilallah x2).

(Ashadoanna Muhammadar Rasul Allah x2).

Looks down, blinded now. 

Exhales, quivers. Inhales, smiles.

The next four words, uttered with urgency. The voice holds firm. Visions of desert sand, of Bilal being dragged down the street yelling “Ahad!” and that of a snow capped mountain, poke me to think: what part of the world did this call not reach?

The next two words. Direct as before. Fact. 

The last statement. It crushes. It melts. It is hot and cold at the same time.

It’s burden on the heart, unsurpassed. 

Looks down again.

Did I say everything correct? Were there any errors? 

Switches the mike off. Turns, smiling and grateful. 

Stares at the empty hall of the mosque, its maghrib, all are busy opening their fast. 

Whispers to himself. 

I’m alone.

Blinks his eyes. There they are.

All whom I’ve known. All of them, beaming at me. 

Not a taunt, nor a sneer. No judging.

Happiness from the purity of heart. Happiness for me. 

By those whom I consistently neglect.

A nod of head to everyone. A signal of gratitude to myself for, they are all in my head.

Whispers to himself. 

There is no one here. 

“Happiness only real when shared”, Chritopher McCandless. 

This is not vanity, nor pride. 

Not an act of self-praise or of arrogance.

But a declaration of one who stood alone.

With the memories of all of you,

You who are my very own.

Like fumes of caffeine enlighten the olfactory, 
call me o muazzan, to His mosque.

Have you ever stared at another person’s face? Be it someone you spot on the bus, at the bank or maybe a relative of yours. Have you ever thought of what’s behind that face? That face which, in your eyes; lacks symmetry, seems funny and maybe a little weird? Have you ever considered that there exists a constant stream of consciousness behind that face of funny expressions? Behind every face that lives to breathe? Ever thought of that maybe, just maybe, we humans are identical at, if I may say, the spiritual level?

Thought so. Your ignorance towards man blinds your perception of what man is. You see them as friends, strangers, family, relatives, commoners, presidents, soldiers, mullahs, clients, opportunity.. You think of them as anything but a mere human being, identical to your own inner face.

Man is proud. Control your pride, and step-up to dance with the divine. 

Have you ever had that moment when you’re looking at a simple tree leaf with all its complex array of processing systems or rays of sunlight when they stream out of the clouds in perfect symmetry and all you can do is stare and smile, not even trying to comprehend?

Did your eyes ever tear up at the thought of why such detailed systems are all around us?

A question you already know the answer to… Have your lips ever, on their own, curved to spell Alhamdolilah on such a thought?

I bet you have. No soul is untouched by this intricate beauty around us. No one ever lives without noticing the clouds playing with light or the sun diving into the serene horizon at dusk.

It is in this moment, that we truly believe in God. 

The Melodious Bang

A burden. Certain Guilt.
And your hands are chained.
You take in, slowly.
Smiling. Laughing.
Yet, you keep taking it all in.
Watching it all balloon inside you.
Watching it stretch its very limits.
Yet you keep on taking in.
You keep on taking in.
Waiting, for the bang,
And the end of it all.
That's when you truly smile and mouth "Fuck You all !".
And leave.

Invisible

One man. Just one among such socially active people at this dhaba, sits in deep thought. He stares straight to the road, scratching his white beard every now and then. His eyes., focused on something absent from the scene. Silent, alone and messed up. Perhaps a laborer, a common worker thinking about how he'll get through the day.
Would the opinion of such a man matter to me?
No.
Why?
He doesn't count. He doesn't matter.

I now understand why corporate fucks and our leaders don't care about the nation or its people. Why they are so inconsiderate. If I, nothing as I am, would regard this commoner as lame, incapable of intellectual thought and unworthy of my attention, Why would they then care about me? After all, I am to them, as this man is to me. Non-existent. 
Our whole nation doesn't count, doesn't matter.

Common man is oppressed. Not by the lack of wealth or any other resources, but merely by the lack of educated thought. Even then, we all think in our mother-tongue.
We all think.
A language by nature.

Organizing these thoughts is vital for efficient thought processes. Then again, efficient thought processes have a different meaning for different people. It is in fact how we perceive. Everything is. 

A requirement, perhaps, at a religious level.

All That and Much More

                                                                                       Abay bill to de day!

Dhaba - Hajj Terminal - Karachi

O Bhenc***!

Such is the talk of ours in the presence of elders, even if they're strangers, does it matter?

The respect, is for age, not connections/affiliations.

Would that we were taught better conduct. All that is focused upon, is the journey to be an earning man. What comes after? You're successful yaar!

Is success defined by what we earn? What designation/rank we are at?

Or is it what Religious fanatics call "aakhirat ki kaamiabi"?

Perhaps we have our own interpretations of the term. Perhaps, its an amalgam of all that mentioned above and much more.

To me, it is nothing but self-awareness. A state of clarity in which you realize clearly and correctly why you are here in this world, while being directly aware of what exists in this world and why? 

This page, exists to be written upon, the pen, to write. 

There is nothing more to it. No deeper meaning. If only we were to understand. 

I only seek independence. For me, independence and freedom , are synonymous.
Let not those who cage you, be the master of you. Enemy, they must be considered.
Interpret in terms of brute force.

To me, James Frey remains (and probably will remain) the very best amongst writers.

Corporate shit infuriates me. Common man dressed up to the chin. The ego of man, holds the key to his practical character. Proud. Robust. Fucks. It is however, our very ego that enforces us to excel in this life. Excellence and professionalism are then interpreted in terms of decisiveness, will-power and whatever that keeps these caffeinated people going.

To master these very skills of professional conduct, one must step down from the satanic pedestal these people step-on to excel (apparently).  Only then, can a man, 'see' what actually is happening around him. Only then, he earns true respect.

I would rather mix with whom you would refer to as a "commoner"!

Again

Ure in a dark room... staring at the wall.. trying to see thru.. trying to find out its faults.. you think how smooth it is.. how finely painted... glowing a shade of dark blue.. yet you notice a hole the size of a fuckin crater right in the centre of it.. the wall's flawless. the wall has a hole in it...u'r frnd nudges u.. hands u sum new shit u've been high upon.. ure pulled back frum that room.. that mental state of your's.. right thru that hole.. right thru the centre of it.. into the present.. slow... all goes slow... ure staring at an image.. two people smile out from the depths of that screen.. u stare deeper.. deeper.. trying to find a way.. a li'll hint of it all.. you fail. you look around.. ure on the road.. ure on the road with a freak-ass friend of yours who just told you he's been tryin to hit on ur ex whom ure still in love with.. u stare at the guys face... u start to wonder whether u'd like to beat him to death or maybe like chop him up and feed him to the sharks at sea or maybe just shove his face up a rhino's ass and pray the rhino farts in his face while ure doing so... still he's there... with you... all alone ..on the road.. just the two of u.... the thought of restraining and control and all that crap passes thru ur mind.. yet u end up beating the guy... u feel every single blow.. each time ur fist touches his body ur heart beats faster to support.. u strike , u smile. u punch u smile... u end up pulling his hair out; nice, long.. well-cared for. then suddenly ure in that room again.. there's shit everywhere. crack, alchohol, rock. ure surrounded by it. ure in the middle of it. right in the middle of it.. you stare at your hands.. they bleed. they bleed real bad..real bad and real slow... you drive away leaving that fuck face lying there.. then ure at ur home, in ur bed. you curl over.. cant get her out of there.. and then you scream ..you scream your throat out.. you scream.. trapped :D ure fuckin trapped :D 

larks from the sea sing in May.. 

Eagles from the mounts cry for you.. 

Have some faith my friends... 

look how they shine for you..

--..--

Yes. It's the Laziness that creeps, seeps in and kills my very plans. Be spontaneous junaid, oh shut it. Its when caffeine fails you, its when nothing actually kicks in to save you, that one realizes his dependence on these common, lowly drugs. Cant we get some adrenaline in little round bottles?

- It stares at me sometimes.

i am the singer, i am the audience and i am the fan.

Remembrance

You're sitting comfortably and listening to some music with your laptop right in front of you, the coffee mug is there just beside your laptop. A blessing in this cold. No sounds violate the calm other than Eddie Vedder's Ukulele and the slight claps of your fingers striking the keyboard.

And then it comes, instantaneously, a sound so loud that you are almost pulled from your position. A thunder that leaves your car alarms ringing and your heart in panic. It's gone, almost as soon as it came; a loud bang.

It is in this moment (especially), that HE expects you to remember HIM.