Of Life And Other Things.

From time to time, I watch a movie that really touches me, it doesn't happen often. I'm not much of a movie buff, I basically just watch them to switch off, to relax, sort of just disappear into myself. So when a movie can make me sit up and take notice, suffice it to say that movie really matters to me, touches some nerve. This time it's a movie by the name of August Rush. Now lets be very honest here, the only reason I really started watching it was because of Jonathan Rhys Meyers, I mean come on, he had an Irish brogue. But after a point, it had nothing to do with him, it became all about the music. That movie probably has the the best soundtrack I've ever heard, it's impossible for me to describe how, which is why I shan't try. But apart from that, it wasn't only about the music, but about the part music can play in everyone's life. Life has a soundtrack, whether you accept that fact or deny it, doesn't matter, it's still there, every minute of everyday. Sort of the way God is supposed to be. And that's ultimately what this movie is about; faith- outside it's traditional references, destiny, intuition and about really listening to what the universe is trying to say. Guess that's why the movie left such an impression on me, those words basically summarize everything that I believe in. I'm still trying to figure out what my path is, what my purpose is, I'm listening closely.

Haw Hai Tauba.

When I talk about Karachi or Pakistan in general, I always seem to be talking about contrasts and clashes, oxymorons and stark differences. I'm always awed but how all these opposites exist side by side in the same small place. Well I've just recently moved to Istanbul, Turkey, and my first real epiphany about the city is how you wouldn't use the word contrast to describe anything here. It's not that it has fewer opposites, it doesn't, in fact it has more then I'd have ever imagined a city to be able to hold. But what it does have is a seamless blend; nothing really stands out, or doesn't fit or doesn't seem to belong, it's a city filled with contrasts, but somehow you'd never describe them as such. And it makes me think that as a nation, that's probably what we're missing, the ability to take all these differences and let them mix together.

We're so focused on provincial differences, political differences, religious differences, ideological differences, and we think that coexisting is synonymous with homogeneity, that the only way to live peacefully is to eradicate the differences. What utter bullshit. We're so shocked when our team receives the loudest cheer at the opening of the commonwealth games in India, or when an entire stadium full of Bangladeshis supports us over the West Indies, in a recent cricket match. We're always so taken aback and pleasantly surprised by these gestures, that people don't hate us, not realizing that it's because most people don't judge others on the basis of ideology or politics, they judge them just as people, with the capacity for both good and bad, innocent until proven guilty, giving them the benefit of the doubt.

We don't get this because it's not how we function, for us it's all about labels and preconceived notions. Everyone who isn't like us is evil or wrong or out to get us. We teach our children to be endlessly wary and suspicious of someone who doesn't fit, to stay away, to stick to our own, and we're not even entirely sure of who our own are. We're hardwired to believe that everything evil is based in everything that we don't agree with, don't understand or just don't believe. And it's bullshit to say that we aren't all like that; take someone who swears to be open minded and non-judgemental and sit them down in a group of people all pointing fingers and haw-hai-ing at what doesn't fit and watch them nod their heads. I've done it and it makes me hate myself every time. That is who we are, and maybe if we just admitted it we'd be able to change it. I'm trying.

Mera Azm Itna Bulund Hae Parae Sholon Se Dar Nahin. Mujhe Dar Hae Tu Atish e Gul Se Hae, Ye Kahin Chaman Ko Jala Na Dein

I am ashamed. Ashamed of my people, ashamed of the hate that is destroying my home from within.

I accept defeat, Pakistan is beyond saving.

The little things that make me so proud and hopeful, are being swept away in this great tide of religious lunacy. Forget education and art and music, there is no humanity left and that is how I know that our nation has lost and those soulless murderers have won. We may be muslim (and that in itself is debatable) but we are no longer human. What we don't realise, I doubt Allah wants creatures like us in paradise.

I cry for my country, for what it will never become. I cry for my children and grandchildren, for what they will never know. I cry for myself, for I will have nothing to call home. And I cry for all those men and women who allow the devil free reign in the name of Allah, igniting their soul instead of filling it with light.

"My Resolve is so strong that I do not fear the flames from without

I fear only the radiance of the flowers, that it may burn my garden down."

For less emotionally charged and disillusioned opinions on this:

http://cafepyala.blogspot.com/2011/01/real-blasphemers.html

http://blog.dawn.com/2011/01/05/death-becomes-his/

We're Not Just Resilient, We're Passionate.

I just had to put this article up here, it's so brilliantly written and exactly what I've been trying to convey for so long, I just needed to share it:

I Heart Karachi- By Samia Khan

http://blogs.tribune.com.pk/story/2357/i-heart-karachi/

I have lived in the United States on and off for almost 10 years. I have married an American man and love all the privileges, freedoms, and opportunities I enjoy in this country. Yet in all these years, I have never been able to call any place but Karachi my home.

I moved to Karachi in 1991. It was a turbulent time for my city. The MQM was at war with the powers that be and the city was constantly on fire. Our weeks were haunted by strikes and many mornings started with a look at the Death File in Newsline magazine—a summary of the killings of the week.

Yet, these facts are not what I remember about being a girl in Karachi. I remember the tight-knit community of my paros—my neighborhood. Every evening, balconies around the neighborhood would fill up with family and friends. As the matriarch of the community, my grandmother would often receive more than five visitors an evening. Some were the children to whom she gave Quran lessons, who in exchange would make phone calls for her and give her the “down low” on what went on in their homes.

My parents did not worry when I walked out of the gate and into my neighbours’ houses to play with other children. Nor would they worry when I walked around the block with my friends and cousins. Those were the days when we, three girls, could walk around the neighborhood without a worry.

Life continued like this for many years and I could fill pages with all the beautiful memories I have of Karachi. Of all the times we spent on Karachi’s favorite pastime—driving aimlessly from Clifton Beach to Mai Kolachi, around Boat Basin and maybe even all the way to Sandspit Beach. Of all the nights spent with friends talking about Karachi—plotting revolutions over a million cups of chai and Dunhill Lights. Of knowing that in Karachi, you’re never alone. Of the shared experiences and awe that bring together 20 million people from all walks of life.

We are Pakhtuns, Sindhis, Afghans, Makranis, Punjabis, Gujratis, Christians, Parsis, Hindus, and Sikhs. But above all, we are Karachiites. We are what makes this megacity, this city that never sleeps, this mammoth of human energy and potential, what it is.

Legend has it that for years, we have been protected from cyclones, tsunamis, and the likes by the spirit of Abdullah Shah Ghazi, the Sufi saint who is credited with bringing Islam to Sindh. Each Thursday night, millions of us flock to his shrine to ask for favours, to keep our loved ones healthy, to bring peace to our lives and to protect us from tragedy. We honor his spirit and the community that has grown up around it through a weekly qawaal—a musical performance dedicated to God. Its location in a wealthy part of town means that by necessity, it is one of the few places where the rich walk side by side with the poor.

The attack on the Abdullah Shah Ghazi Mazar was an attack on who we dare to be. An attack on our definition of Paksitani-ness: a Pakistani-ness that transcends the artificial borders of this country, of a Wahhabi/Deobandi version of Islam; a Pakistani-ness that demands the kind of love of country that will make us celebrate this state.

People have said that Karachi will survive, because its people are resilient. But we’re not just resilient, we’re passionate. We stand up for what we believe in and we believe in nothing more than the magnificence of our city and its way of life. This attack shook us to our very core. But it might have been the wake-up call we needed to realize that it’s not just what we say that counts, but what we do.

In this time of deep despair, I am hopeful. Hopeful that we will be propelled into action because we finally understand that our lives depend on it. Those of us who have been silent behind the walls of Defence, Clifton, KDA, London and New York, must wake from this slumber and take our place in the resistance.

We can’t undo what’s already been done. But we can rebuild, reframe, and re-energize our city with positivity and determination. Together, we can win this battle. We are Karachi—we don’t just survive, we thrive.

Webs Of Delusion I Weaved For Myself.

I read a lot. My only possessions of any real worth to me are the books that I own. I have spent more than half my life living in a figment of someone else's imagination, and I've loved every second of it. The worlds may not be perfect, but good triumphs over evil every time, wrongs are righted, the heroes and heroines are magnificent and noble and brave. Almost every book I have ever read speaks of eternal hope, of how things will always get better. Think about it, how many books have you read that don't end on a happier note? These books, and the web of hope and destiny and eternal goodness that they spin, are my main coping mechanism, my one way of dealing with an unjust and imperfect world. But there are days when real life just comes crashing in, when no amount of make-believe will buffer me from the realities that frighten me. And it is on these days that I wonder whether I wouldn't be better off just burning all my books, so that I may have a snowballs' chance in hell of maybe making it in the real world. But the question is, without my books, would I be able to survive the real world at all? I really don't think I could. Like I said, it's a snowballs' chance in hell; the odds don't really seem to be in my favour.

Songs Of The Earth, Not Heaven.

I had a thought once, an odd, rambling, unanchored thought that I've decided to try and convert into something slightly less ephemeral.

Have you ever noticed how a single instrument can tell us an entire story? It's one of the unique things about classical music, how you can touch souls with just one instrument and no words. The way I see it, different instruments have different characters, hence each prefers to tell a different type of story, but all the stories that a single instrument tells have a similar theme or feel to them. Now I'm going to try and explain that run-on sentence a little better.

I'll begin with the violin; for me the violin is all about passion and tragedy. Sort of what the story of two ill-fated lovers would sound like. Sometimes it's with an underlying sense of hope, other times the swells can be terrifying, talking about unspeakable devastation and sorrow, thrilling you to your core. I always seem to feel the violin in my chest, making my heart beat erratically.

Then there's the piano; Now there's an amazingly versatile instrument. A piano solo can tell almost any story you need it to tell, but all it's stories, again just in my completely non-musical opinion, are essentially soft and sweet. It's stories speak of love, of romance, sometimes of sadness, sometimes of something a little darker, but in my mind it's stories always feel like spring, like the relationship between two birds; their courtship, building a nest together, feeding chicks, weathering storms, that's the kind of story that the piano tells me.

Next there's the sitar; now to be honest the sitar is something that I've discovered only recently. It' also an instrument that I have never quite heard entirely on it's own, in fact I don't think I've ever really heard a subcontinental instrument quite alone. But the sitar is an instrument with a magnetic personality, when it does begin to tell it's story, it always takes centre stage, and all the other instruments always seem to melt away into the background. It's stories always seems to be about the past, about days gone by, about fairytales and magic, about colours and dust and myth.

Then we have the bansuri or bamboo flute; another eastern classical instrument, but one that tugs the heartstrings better than any other. The bansuri's stories are all about heartbreak, about loss, about belief and about beauty. There isn't an instrument more sincere or more moving than the bansuri.

These are just four of my favourite instruments that I've used for examples' sake. I guess my main point would be that all music, no matter what instrument makes it, what genre it belongs to, is about hope and humanity, about simply being human and all the emotions that come with it. Which is why I find people who tell me that music is wrong, or ungodly or haraam, to be so tragic and pitiable and a tad bit irrational. As if they're trying to tell me to rip the rods and cones out of my eyes, or paint over the sky and plants because God never really meant me to see in colour, because it's too distracting. Little do they know that I never remember God more than when I hear music or see art, that that is when I'm most thankful for the life that He's given me; for every human's ability to hear, see, think, feel and create... for making me ashraf-ul-makhluqaat.

Here and There.

Monsoon season is officially here. Karachi got it's first real lashing of rain today, it was amazing. One thing that I've noticed is that when it rains here, things don't really get all grey and gloomy the way rain is generally described. Far from it in fact, everything becomes more intense, as if someone switched the light settings of my brain around, all the colours become deeper, the greens are greener, the reds are redder, whites are whiter, etc. And it feels like a purely Karachi thing, because I remember my time in Kuala Lumpur; it used to rain like crazy there, all year round, and it would get really dark and grey and gloomy, because the cloud cover used to be so thick, all charcoal and menacing, complete with thunder and lightening, the works. I'm guessing Karachi rain is just brighter because we usually get the tail end of the monsoon and the showers are usually short lived , so the clouds are just thinner. But whatever the reason, rain in Karachi is a lot of fun, most of the time.

In other news, there's this french song "Alors on Danse" by Stromae, that's been all over the place; on the radio, on my facebook news feed- posted by a bunch of different friends etc. It's a good song, has an amazing beat obviously, but what I love about it are the lyrics.

So we just dance
So we just dance
So we just dance
When we say study, it means work,
When we say work, it means money,
When we say money, it means spending
When we say credit, it means debt,
When we say debt, it means bailiff,
We agree to being in deep sh*t
When we say love, it means kids,
When we say forever, it means divorce.
When we say family, we say grief, because misfortune never comes alone.
When we say crisis, we talk about the wold, famine and then third world.
When we say tiredness, we talk about waking up still deaf from sleepless night
So we just go out to forget all our problems.
So we just dance… (X9)
So you say that it’s over because the only thing worse would be death.
When you finally think you’ll make it, there’s more and more!
Ecstasy means a problem, problems or just music.
It grabs you by the guts, it takes hold of your head and then you pray for it to end.
But your body is no heaven so you block your ears even more.
And then you yell even louder and it goes on…
So we just sing
Lalalalalala, Lalalalalala,
So we just sing
Lalalalalala, Lalalalalala,
So we just sing
So we just sing
And then only when it’s over, then we dance.
So we just dance (x7)
And well, there’s still more (x5)

The beat and the lyrics, once you translate them, seem so completely disjointed but at the same time they really gel. And on their own, if the translation I found is correct, the lyrics have so many shades, like the writer couldn't make up his mind how he felt about the state of things either. He's equal parts derisive and disenchanted, overall cynical, but with an undertone that I can't seem to find a word for; Resigned? Acquiescent? Fatalistic maybe? I'm not quite sure, but that's exactly why I like it.