An emotional detour.

A year passed by so quickly that I only realized this when I saw the news & newspapers today. Everything had Benazir Bhutto's picture in it- articles, newspapers, TV, posters, banners, you name it- the Bhutto element was so omnipresent. December 27, 2007 was surely a very pivotal day for the whole world. I remember it was one of my classmate Aly's birthday, the day my dad was coming back from his Hajj duty, the day when one of my friend's cousin was getting married and it was the day she died. I remember how I was so very bored that day. I kept myself glued to the couch in front of the TV and lazily munched on a bag of crisps by my side. Nothing interested me. I was sick of the same breaking news after each minute issued Geo about Benazir's upcoming rally. I left the TV on and went to my room to doodle about a bit. After a long time, I heard the signature music of Geo channel's breaking news session. Something had happened, I felt it. I ran towards the lounge, which happened to be at the opposite end of our flat. There was firing and a blast at Liaqatbagh at BB's rally. I screwed my face up. This had happened before on October 18 too, but she was safe. She must have survived this too, she had so much security around her. After a ten to fifteen minutes, Babar Awan publicly announced to the reporters gathered around General Hospital that BB was no more. I remember the pounding in my chest, I also remember forgetting how to blink. I was never an avid supporter of the PPPP or BB in person, but I too felt her loss. I thought about her children, how hard it is to lose a mother, that too to a suicide attack. I spent the whole day camping in front of the TV, watching news channels blare out second-to-second updates about her possible cause of death, her planned autopsy and her funeral. I listened to Zardari's grief-stricken voice in a telephonic interview to a news channel. I still couldn't believe she had died. Maybe she'll pop up again from a corner, from behind a banner and start chanting "Girti huwi deewar ko aik dhakka aur do! Go Musharraf, Go!"..[Give another push to a crumbling wall]...I wasn't ready to face her absence in the media or in the political scenes. As I watched TV all day long and heard people from all over the world commend her as a person and prime minister, I was forced to go into an in-depth search about her. My internet history would bear witness to the thousands of pages I visited to read up on BB. Not that she was new name to me, I just felt that I had to know more about her. I wanted to know whether she had really looted the country's money and built luxurious houses for herself abroad. I had burning questions in my mind about her suspected involvement in Murtaza Bhutto's murder and other such charges. She didn't look greedy or deprived. So why so many accusations? Why so many controversies? I looked up through massive series of text online, each article changing my opinion towards one way or the other. But my sentiments remained the same- I actually missed BB. This summer instead of totally sacrificing myself over studying for the MCAT, I got the chance to read "Daughter of the East", which was an autobiography written by BB herself. I remember my dad saying, "I know that now that you've gotten your hands on this book, you won't be studying with the same vigor."...Yes, he was so very right. I'd find myself cutting short my study sessions just to get the chance to read a page or two from the book and instead spend an hour literally glued to the pages. As I read, most of my relatives kept telling me "What use is it to read a biased account?"...If you really want to know, ask those who suffered or experienced the brunt of all those money laundering cases. I still read on...I wasn't in love with BB, I wasn't rallying for PPP, I was just showing respect for an international woman. As a consequence of her death and watching to so many of her speeches and documentaries, a new spirit of patriotism grew in me. Before I even realized, I had written "Flames", a poem that I published earlier on my blog about the condition of my country. I engaged in debates on groups online, trying to convince people that a new government will bring change if given the proper chance. All this was around end of 2007 and beginning 2008- a year old now. Today as I watched TV, skimmed through Dawn and looked around me outside, all I saw was Bhutto. So much love, so much respect, so much of charisma- this wasn't something everyone could easily acquire. I sometimes secretly wish that when I die, I want to be remembered like that. Logos, newspapers, magazines, etc. In a GOOD way though. Allah, you know best. I'm not even going to say anything else 'cause I don't what's right to say and what isn't. Allah, just do whatever's in our best interest, You know best. Whenever I hear chants of "Zinda hai BB, Zinda hai", I end up getting so emotional and it's funny 'cause I don't know just why my emotions run so high. I feel split about how to feel towards her. Should I like her 'cause she suffered so many personal losses in the course of making Pakistan a better country? Or should I hate her based on the many accusations on her, some of them even proven? Sometimes, it can become so hard to decide what to feel for another person. Sighs.

Flames.

I wrote this poem during a very emotional and topsy turvy time. I wrote it around Benazir Bhutto's assasination last year. I published it on facebook and on my other blog before I closed it. I just wanted to share it in here as her death anniversary comes closer. However, I want to make clear that I support no political party and I am in no way affiliated with any of them. I support facts, not people. Thanks.



i watch as my country burns in ashes,
the fumes blurring my eyes,
as i see the pages of history,
smother the flames.
those dirty politicians
playing their dirty games,
Jinnah, Allama Iqbal and other forgotten names,
burn in the rubble.
Oh there goes a Sindhi?
a Punjabi? a Balochi? There's a Pathan.
Where's the concept of a united Pakistan?
Buried alive under the plague of corruption,
impossible to lead lives without military interception.
Is this what we got out of 60 years?
Remorse, regret and bloody tears?
Some NRO and some PCO,
doing nothing, just worsening status quo.
Bhutto bagging bags of cash,
Sharif cowardly evading a political clash,
Musharraf ruling us with a lash.
Jihad, jihad, mullahs scream,
Is a stable Pakistan just a dream?
The hollow promises of a prosperous Pakistan,
where nobody would be crying?!
Labelled as militants, innocent people who are dying,
Cutting out parts of our own,
and rejoicing at the blood,
why do we only unite,
during an earthquake or a flood?
The green and white flag,
that we once held high,
seems so dead and sullen,
all of sudden, why oh why?
They sleep as our land bleeds,
mines where there were once cotton seeds.
The mills now churning out bombs,
the air filled with cries and sobs.
the gun, the knife, the fire,
becoming a necessity,
is this true patriotism?
no, this is HYPROCRISY.
Not a single law you could pass,
to protect young girls from abuse,
just pass laws to make the national treasury,
only open for political and personal use.
education suffers, so does infrastructure,
then you blame it on the public,
calling them lazy vultures?
you grapple on the funds,
and eat from our plates,
build palaces abroad,
and fly luxurious planes.
YOU are the culprits who we need to catch,
the evil you commit has no earthly match!
This nation has been looted,
plundered and destroyed!
We will not let you do this,
with this country you toyed.
Killing millions everyday,
following the American Dream?
Shutting your ears to all cries and screams!?
Sacking the CJ
and claiming democracy?
this is nothing, but pure tyranny!
8 years of consistency,
and 80 years of oppression,
800 years of no law and order,
and 8000 years of tears,
this is what YOU have brought!
YOu have left this land to rot.
While you sit and sign papers with a Parker,
there are those who suffer from hunger,
those who inject poison into veins to live,
what do you have for them to give?
you have made us a FAILED state,
manipulated with our country's fate!?
foreign accounts and foreign currency,
imposing unwanted emergency?
lapdog to the States, yes, that's you,
Hail Bush, that's religion to you.

Colors at War.

Roaring pinks, bright burgundies, bloody reds, tantalizing yellows, exotic blues, and grotesque greens. It was all a blur. The flashy lights twinkled furiously- yellow, bright yellow, orange, even flaming red at times. All around me I could hear Pathan cloth vendors yelling out to potential customers, trying to lure them to their respective shops or stalls. In spite of it being after seven in the evening, the bazaar was a little world in its own. Pools of silk, chiffon, cotton and the finest materials adorned the streets, yards of cloth scattered around added to the festivity in the air… everything looked magical.

Circles and swirls,
Rounds and curls,
Colors and magic,
Some happy, some tragic,
Glowing faces,
Twinkling eyes,
Only smiles,
No more cries.
Sounds and light,
And Gleeful sights!


As Ramadan was coming to an end and Eid-ul-Fitr drew closer, shopping places became the ultimate resort for most people, especially shopaholics. In the humidity and heat of September, people still mustered up the courage to head towards open bazaars, like Aurega in Gulberg. A typical Friday evening shopping spree held so much in store for the people of Lahore, this was quite evident looking at the blazing lights, the rush, the traffic and the explosive colors of cloth attacking peoples’ eyes from all directions. As our car inched towards the parking area, my eyes were wide open, trying to absorb all the energy around me. I stepped out of the car, totally stupefied at the amount of hub dub around me. This was the first time I was spending Ramadan and Eid in Pakistan. This was also a first when it came to Eid shopping in the very Lahori style. I made my way through the crowds of people, trying my best to save my toes from the heavy pounding of various feet. I tried to stop at each stall to look at the clothes and feel them with my fingers to guess what the intricate pattern of threads suggested the material was. I wasn’t an expert, so I couldn’t distinguish cotton from linen. I witnessed an explosion of colors as each shopkeeper unrolled his lot of cloth. Cloth came reeling out of spools, screaming out different colors, each more appealing than the one before. It was really hard for me to keep up with the amount of color pouring out of each end of the street. It was as if the colors were at war- each crevice of the bazaar, a new battlefield. A blood red velvet provoked a glorious green. The green silk, gliding smoothly out of its roll, responded equivocally. Lavender linens tried to assert their presence too, as they fell back into a neat pile at the feet of the vendor. Black chiffons traveled in streamlined motion between the thumb and index finger of the keeper. The air rang with Pushto-accented Urdu and the rickety-rackety sounds of rickshaws as if tempting the colors to burst out into a war song. Beggars lined the streets, feigning physical and mental disabilities to gain sympathies of passer-bys. No matter how haggard and shabby they looked by face, their faces glowed under the searing fairy lights around. Street vendors walked from car to car, each of them selling bizarre goods- sunglasses, magic toys, hosiery, rosaries, table cloths, and watches. I wiped off the beads of sweat settled on my brow and looked around. I saw different people with their friends and families, some trying to bargain with the keeper, some scolding their naughty kids, some stopping by to munch on some popcorn. I saw people dressed in abayas, in jeans, in shalwar kameez, the diversity overwhelmed me. Huge billboards with pretty models with flashy grins endorsed cellular services, toothpastes, tea, or shampoos. It seemed as if they too were enjoying the amount of activity going on around them in that bazaar that day. My eyes feasted on the swirls of colors, energies, and patterns around myself. It felt like Eid already. I couldn’t help smiling at the diversity around me. Today, I finally realized that, yes, diversity is the spice of life.