Sunday, 18 March 2012
सौवां सौ
आखिर कार सचिन को अल्लाह ताला ने कामयाब कर ही दिया। उस ने भी कोशिश जारी रखी और उस को सिला मिला। इस रिकॉर्ड को बराबर करना बहोत ही मुश्किल हो गा। लेकिन टीम इंडिया भी खूब है। मैं ने पहले भी यह देखा था और इस बार भी यह ही हुआ। सचिन सेंचुरी बनाते हैं और टीम हार जाती है। यह कई बार हुआ है। खैर आगे देखिये क्या होता है। सचिन को बहुत बहुत मुबारक हो। अगर कोई यह सोचे के बंगला देश के खिलाफ १०० बनाना आसान था तो यह भी देखो के उन की टीम से टीम इंडिया हार भी गयी। इस लिए वोह आसान कहाँ हुए?
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
A PRISONER ESCAPING THE DESERT TOWN
A wonderful piece of witing, from literature. You can feel as if you are watching a movie, NAY, as if you are THERE yourself. For your taste buds......
Paul Bowles
“The Sheltering Sky”
pp. 180
When she finished eating she went to the room and lighted the lamp. … A few minutes later she took up her coat and went out in to the courtyard.Then she climbed to the roof.
The roof of the fort was a great, flat, irregularly shaped mud terrace whose varying heights were a projection, as it were, of the uneven ground below. The ramps of the staircases between the different wings were hard to see in the dark. And although there was a low wall around the outer edge, the innumerable courtyards were merely open wells to be skirted with caution. The stars gave enough light to protect her against mishaps. She breathed deeply, feeling rather as if she were on shipboard. The town below was invisible- not a light showed - but to the north dimly glimmered the white edge, the vast ocean of sand with its frozen swirling crests, its unmoving silence. She turned slowly about, scanning the horizon. The air doubly still now after the departure of the wind, was like something paralysed. Whichever way she looked, the night’s landscape suggested only one thing to her: negation of movement, suspension of continuity. But as she stood there, momentarily a part of the void she had created, little by little doubt slipped in to her mind, the sensation came to her, first faint, then sure, that some part of the landscape was moving even as she looked at it. She glanced up and grimaced. The whole, monstrous star - filled sky was turning sideways before her eyes. It looked still as death, yet it moved. Every second an invisible star edged above the earth’s line on that side, and another fell below on the opposite side. She coughed consciously, and started to walk again, trying to remember how much she disliked Captain Broussard. He had not even offered her a pack of cigarettes, in spite of overt remark. ’Oh God’, she said aloud, wishing she had not finished her last Players in Bou Noura.
As she paced back and forth on the roof, two things happened at once. On one side the large moon swiftly rose above the edge of the plateau, and on the other, in the distant air, an almost imperceptible humming sound became audible, was lost, became audible again. She listened: now it was gone, now it was a little stronger. And so it continued for long time, disappearing, and coming back always a bit nearer. Now, even though it was still far away, the sound was quite recognizable as that of a motor. She could hear the shifts of speed as it climbed a slope and reached level ground again. Twenty kilometres down the trail, they had told her, you can hear a truck coming. She waited. Finally, when it seemed that the vehicle must already be in town, she saw a tiny portion of rock far out on the hammada being swept by the head lights as the truck made a curve in its descent towards the oasis. A moment later she saw the two points of light. Then they were lost for a while behind the rocks, but the motor grew ever louder. With the moon casting more light each minute, and the truck bringing people to town, even if people were anonymous figures in white robes, the world moved back into the realm of the possible. Suddenly she wanted to be present at the arrival down in the market. She hurried below, tiptoed through the courtyards, managed to open the heavy gate, and began to run down the side of the hill toward the town. The truck was making a racket as it went along between the high walls of the oasis; as she came opposite the mosque it nosed above the last rise on its way up into the town. There were a few ragged men standing at the entrance of the market place. When the big vehicle roared in and stopped, the silence that followed lasted only a second before the excited voices began, all at once.
She stood back and watched the laborious getting- down of the natives and leisurely unloading of their possessions: camel saddles that shone in the moon light, great formless bundles done up in stripped blankets, coffers and sacks, and two gigantic women so fat that they could barely walk, their bosoms, arms and legs weighted down with pounds of massive silver ornaments. And all these possessions, with their owners, presently disappeared behind the dark arcades and went out of hearing. She moved around so she could see the front end of the truck, where the chauffeur and mechanic and a few other men stood in the glare of the head lights talking. She heard French being spoken --, bad French -- as well as Arabic. The chauffeur reached in and switched of the lights; the men began to walk slowly up into the market place. No one seemed to have noticed her. She stood still a moment, listening.
She cried: “Turner!”
(she would escape with him presently)
Paul Bowles
“The Sheltering Sky”
pp. 180
When she finished eating she went to the room and lighted the lamp. … A few minutes later she took up her coat and went out in to the courtyard.Then she climbed to the roof.
The roof of the fort was a great, flat, irregularly shaped mud terrace whose varying heights were a projection, as it were, of the uneven ground below. The ramps of the staircases between the different wings were hard to see in the dark. And although there was a low wall around the outer edge, the innumerable courtyards were merely open wells to be skirted with caution. The stars gave enough light to protect her against mishaps. She breathed deeply, feeling rather as if she were on shipboard. The town below was invisible- not a light showed - but to the north dimly glimmered the white edge, the vast ocean of sand with its frozen swirling crests, its unmoving silence. She turned slowly about, scanning the horizon. The air doubly still now after the departure of the wind, was like something paralysed. Whichever way she looked, the night’s landscape suggested only one thing to her: negation of movement, suspension of continuity. But as she stood there, momentarily a part of the void she had created, little by little doubt slipped in to her mind, the sensation came to her, first faint, then sure, that some part of the landscape was moving even as she looked at it. She glanced up and grimaced. The whole, monstrous star - filled sky was turning sideways before her eyes. It looked still as death, yet it moved. Every second an invisible star edged above the earth’s line on that side, and another fell below on the opposite side. She coughed consciously, and started to walk again, trying to remember how much she disliked Captain Broussard. He had not even offered her a pack of cigarettes, in spite of overt remark. ’Oh God’, she said aloud, wishing she had not finished her last Players in Bou Noura.
As she paced back and forth on the roof, two things happened at once. On one side the large moon swiftly rose above the edge of the plateau, and on the other, in the distant air, an almost imperceptible humming sound became audible, was lost, became audible again. She listened: now it was gone, now it was a little stronger. And so it continued for long time, disappearing, and coming back always a bit nearer. Now, even though it was still far away, the sound was quite recognizable as that of a motor. She could hear the shifts of speed as it climbed a slope and reached level ground again. Twenty kilometres down the trail, they had told her, you can hear a truck coming. She waited. Finally, when it seemed that the vehicle must already be in town, she saw a tiny portion of rock far out on the hammada being swept by the head lights as the truck made a curve in its descent towards the oasis. A moment later she saw the two points of light. Then they were lost for a while behind the rocks, but the motor grew ever louder. With the moon casting more light each minute, and the truck bringing people to town, even if people were anonymous figures in white robes, the world moved back into the realm of the possible. Suddenly she wanted to be present at the arrival down in the market. She hurried below, tiptoed through the courtyards, managed to open the heavy gate, and began to run down the side of the hill toward the town. The truck was making a racket as it went along between the high walls of the oasis; as she came opposite the mosque it nosed above the last rise on its way up into the town. There were a few ragged men standing at the entrance of the market place. When the big vehicle roared in and stopped, the silence that followed lasted only a second before the excited voices began, all at once.
She stood back and watched the laborious getting- down of the natives and leisurely unloading of their possessions: camel saddles that shone in the moon light, great formless bundles done up in stripped blankets, coffers and sacks, and two gigantic women so fat that they could barely walk, their bosoms, arms and legs weighted down with pounds of massive silver ornaments. And all these possessions, with their owners, presently disappeared behind the dark arcades and went out of hearing. She moved around so she could see the front end of the truck, where the chauffeur and mechanic and a few other men stood in the glare of the head lights talking. She heard French being spoken --, bad French -- as well as Arabic. The chauffeur reached in and switched of the lights; the men began to walk slowly up into the market place. No one seemed to have noticed her. She stood still a moment, listening.
She cried: “Turner!”
(she would escape with him presently)
Monday, 13 February 2012
DREAM SPEECH
A short speech I was asked to give at the occasion of Walima Dinner for my son Roofi (Ahmad Jamil Akhtar) and his wife Dara( Darakhshan) on 11 Jan 2011. I thought I should share it with my esteemed readers.
Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, Assalamo alekum and good evening. I welcome you to this important gathering.
I will begin with saying something about dreams.
I have a dream, I have a dream, said Dr Martin Luther King. He died for saying this. His dreams though are now slowly but surely being realized in stages and in measures. For me I am not worried if my dreams do not come true, because my nightmares also do not come true. Even so, I cannot help dreaming. I had a dream I shall have children. I had a dream I shall have grown up children. I had a dream I shall have wonderful, educated, and happily married children. All of these most important dreams have now come true by the grace of Allah (SWT). I also dreamt that I shall have grand children. Allah gave me wonderful ones so that my back when they try to ride me playing horse proves to be too small. Now my next dream is that this my back shall soon experience further shrinkage. Because there will be insha Allah about half a dozen more.
I must say a few words about Roofi who is having, alhamdolillah, his most important and hilarious moments. The Father said to the child," Hold my hand so we can cross the river". "No", said the child, "YOU hold my hand". "What is the difference?" asked the Father. The child said, "If I hold, I may loose the grip when the current is strong. But if you hold my hand I am sure you will never let it go no matter how strong the currents". Here I have been holding Roofi's hand and we have reached to this point by the grace of Almighty Allah. But lately I have a feeling that Roofi is exchanging hands.
There are examples when a son may start getting grey hair while his father is still around. Such a son sent his first grey hair to his father with a note: Dad here is my first grey hair for you. The father replied: Son, thanks, but this is not the first grey hair you have given me. ....But my Roofi cannot be blamed for even one of my grey hair, he has been such a great son. I can never do justice if I start praising him. Suffice will be to say that I am proud to be known as Roofi's father, as indeed I am to be known by my other two children. Actually when these three are together, they form an example where the sum total of the parts gets greater than the whole.
Naturally, Roofi is like me in many ways. Like me he knows the pleasure one feels when one finds unexpectedly something long thought lost when one was looking for something else. This pleasure is unknown to those who are very tidy and organized. Like me he is fond of postponing things to the last minute, when further delay is impossible, before acting, and acting decisively. The relaxation you feel in this is foreign to those who do today what could be left for tomorrow. His sincerity and love is from his mother, dedication from his sisters, but devotion to the family is all from me. I must take this opportunity to register my sincere thanks to Yazdana for being such a great mother and for raising the children so beautifully.
I wish Roofi and Dara a very happy life.
I thank you for being patient and for bearing with me so far.
Thanks again.
Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, Assalamo alekum and good evening. I welcome you to this important gathering.
I will begin with saying something about dreams.
I have a dream, I have a dream, said Dr Martin Luther King. He died for saying this. His dreams though are now slowly but surely being realized in stages and in measures. For me I am not worried if my dreams do not come true, because my nightmares also do not come true. Even so, I cannot help dreaming. I had a dream I shall have children. I had a dream I shall have grown up children. I had a dream I shall have wonderful, educated, and happily married children. All of these most important dreams have now come true by the grace of Allah (SWT). I also dreamt that I shall have grand children. Allah gave me wonderful ones so that my back when they try to ride me playing horse proves to be too small. Now my next dream is that this my back shall soon experience further shrinkage. Because there will be insha Allah about half a dozen more.
I must say a few words about Roofi who is having, alhamdolillah, his most important and hilarious moments. The Father said to the child," Hold my hand so we can cross the river". "No", said the child, "YOU hold my hand". "What is the difference?" asked the Father. The child said, "If I hold, I may loose the grip when the current is strong. But if you hold my hand I am sure you will never let it go no matter how strong the currents". Here I have been holding Roofi's hand and we have reached to this point by the grace of Almighty Allah. But lately I have a feeling that Roofi is exchanging hands.
There are examples when a son may start getting grey hair while his father is still around. Such a son sent his first grey hair to his father with a note: Dad here is my first grey hair for you. The father replied: Son, thanks, but this is not the first grey hair you have given me. ....But my Roofi cannot be blamed for even one of my grey hair, he has been such a great son. I can never do justice if I start praising him. Suffice will be to say that I am proud to be known as Roofi's father, as indeed I am to be known by my other two children. Actually when these three are together, they form an example where the sum total of the parts gets greater than the whole.
Naturally, Roofi is like me in many ways. Like me he knows the pleasure one feels when one finds unexpectedly something long thought lost when one was looking for something else. This pleasure is unknown to those who are very tidy and organized. Like me he is fond of postponing things to the last minute, when further delay is impossible, before acting, and acting decisively. The relaxation you feel in this is foreign to those who do today what could be left for tomorrow. His sincerity and love is from his mother, dedication from his sisters, but devotion to the family is all from me. I must take this opportunity to register my sincere thanks to Yazdana for being such a great mother and for raising the children so beautifully.
I wish Roofi and Dara a very happy life.
I thank you for being patient and for bearing with me so far.
Thanks again.
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