Walli – In The Name of M.

There was a problem. He was sure what to write but he was not sure how.

Should he write about her as M.? He talked about her as M.

With time, and with a never-ending state of separation, he started to talk about her a little openly. Daughter. His daughter.

And then, with the continuation of the separation, he talked a little more. Revealed a little more.

MARYAM. Maryam.

His M. His daughter. His Maryam.

Even before she was born, there was a connection. There was a strong connection through dreams. Through light. Through beautifully alone sleepless nights.

But of course there were some prerequisites to be fulfilled to meet her in reality. A marriage. A marriage destined to be doomed from the beginning.


She arrived on a beautiful sunny day. On April 9th 2014. Lahore.

That was the day he realized why the Prophet Muhammad SAW used to stand up for His daughter. With utmost love and respect.

Like the trials of all the philosophies before they were theorized by the great scholars of different times, this story was to be trialed as well.

He had to drink the poisonous water like Socrates.

He had to be insulted in the city like Mansur Al Haj.

He had to bear the crumbling pain in his brain-eating-itself like Nietzsche.

He had to witness the strange eyes of his own people like Hussain.

He had to be killed again and again so as to be given life every time to rise through the stages of suffering until the final resurrection.

Like the Divine Comedy of Dante. From inferno to purgatory to heaven…

However, the inferno isn’t ending since forever. The tunnel ahead looks dark up to infinity.

But even in the inferno, dreams are not forbidden. You can call them nightmares but they are the only meeting points for him and his daughter.

August 6th 2014 was the day of separation. December 14th 2015 was the re-union day. 496 days. In the Family Court.

These 496 days were the longest time period that he had had to survive. And he survived. With dreams. With nightmares. With hope. With struggle. The court allowed him 4 hours twice a month. A total of 8 hours a month. This was considered as a big relief as every lawyer told him.

Women must have been victims of patriarchy outside the court. But inside the court, particularly in family courts, men are the biggest victims you can imagine. Fathers have to struggle for months and years for the first glimpse of their kids. Thousands of Rupees are spent monthly to make the meetings possible. Bribery and begging is compulsory as well. Sometimes, fathers are beaten up too and there is no one to rescue them.

His meetings, visitations to be precise, continued for 6 months. Then the same old story was repeated and he was deprived of that too.

The story of separation started in the same tunnel of darkness.

He heard a lot of love stories. He saw them. People waiting hours to get a glimpse of their loved ones. People waiting to meet. People waiting to be united. Waiting and waiting and waiting. He never faced such waits all his life. Maybe he was needed to be taught how to wait for a loved one.

He is waiting. And he is doing it pretty well.

Everything that has a beginning has an end. This shall end too. He will see. We shall see.

While drinking the poisoned hemlock, Socrates saw his face in the reflection of the water for one last time. The dark incurious eyes. The face without any expression of sorrow or joy. The clean forehead with some wrinkles. His uncombed hair. His last reflection. Just before sipping the hemlock, his lips smiled a little. Everyone around who hurt him all his life were going to die and be forgotten in the ashes of history while he was going to live forever. Just before sipping the eternal grief and pain of his life, he was relieved of all his pains.

And that is when the tunnel is going to take a dangerous and darkest turn towards the perpetual happiness.


In the Name of Zainabs – Our Daughters

There was a Zainab before. A blind girl.

In the times of Zia.

She was raped. Gang-raped.

But as she was blind and couldn’t identify the culprits, she was stoned.

Stoned to death for adultery.

The so-called “sharia” by Zia was imposed.

Just walk through the corridors of government or private organizations and you will find corruption at every corner of this country. Employees at lower grades are as corrupt as employees at top hierarchy.

Clerks are the ones that keep the pain alive. Employees in the field are the ones keeping the bribe system blooming. Shopkeepers, section officers, businessmen… almost everyone is corrupt. We have to verify a zillion times before making any purchase in this country.

Our kids, our generation, the innocent beings, are also not safe from our corruption. We feed them with impure milk. We raise them with bigotry and complexes. We trust strangers for their development. We send them to unsafe madrassahs and schools. We use them for our gains.

Most of the people, when asked about their kids, reply that they will help them in old age. That is it. Selfishness.

Lower the income bracket, higher the number of pregnancies. The only flourishing indicator of this country. And then they are left to face the miseries of life. Which is why they get into the wrong hands.
A Basic Health Unit (BHU) is given a minimum target of 60 deliveries per month. If less, an inquiry is held. Such is the ugly state of our “population control”.

Anyway, there is a question. Questions. What to do? How to keep our kids safe? Apparently the best solution is to take contraceptives. Let the kids stay in the heavens. But our selfish nature will not allow us to do that. Then what to do?

Schools are not safe. Madrassahs are not safe. Streets are not safe. Even relatives are not safe. What to do? There is no answer. There is only selfishness and misery. And misery will prevail for long. Because we see, we shout, and we become normal. Until we are jolted again.

Young Zainab’s father said that the head of JIT should be a Muslim. His consciousness is amazing. The rapist and killer of his daughter would most probably be a Muslim. The men behind child sexual abuse scandal of (2006-2014) were also Muslims. The state should be rid of this religion card by now. Our security, our existence, and our future is as stake; but we keep this card alive for personal benefits.

People are angry. There are episodes of anger.
Political parties are playing their political card.
Religious parties are playing their game.
The father of the unfortunate Zainab is also speaking in favour of the religious card.
Everyone is playing except those who are beyond the tags of conservative, liberal, Muslim, and non-Muslim “clichés”.


Away from all these conspiracy theories reside our mothers.

The mothers who send their kids to schools even when they know they aren’t as safe as they were once.

Over a hundred mothers saw their little kids for the last time when they went to school on 16th December 2014.

There are mothers who are embracing the dead bodies of their young sons; in police uniform, military uniform, and also in no uniform; on a daily basis.

There are mothers who see their sons dying daily in the desperation of meeting the basics.

These mother get hurt daily.

Yet they never ceased the process of reproduction.

They give hope at the breakfast table and clean wounds at dinner.

Perhaps we inherited it from the fearless mother Fatima Jinnah.

Now I know why mothers in Palestine never stopped having kids.

It is not about death.

It is about life.

A Man, A Woman, & A Daughter

He saw the sleeping woman along with her daughter.

12 noon. June. Ugly weather.

Like others, he moved ahead. But that voice, the inner voice, that echoes in his brain like shrieks, didn’t let him move.

He had to come back from a mile.

He stopped his car.


Who is looking at him?

He called the woman. Why is she here? Why not at home?

The typical questions people with homes ask people without homes.

She told a typical story. A story such people usually tell. Liars. Lazy.

He gave her money and requested her to go where she lives. Then more money. He requested her to not do that to her daughter. She asked for a lift to a nearby stop.

All this happened because of a three year old daughter of hers. Or his.

That little girl. Playing around her sleeping mother. Clenched his heart. His moves. His time. His whole day.

His whole life.

And during all this, he didn’t dare look at the young girl. He couldn’t. He tried to look in the rearview mirror, but he was not that brave. He was a coward after all.

He remembers the whole episode. The words. The scene. The area. The temperature. The embarrassment. The time.

He remembers the feeling of being well-off equalizing the feeling of a sinner.

He remembers when the two worlds collide.

But he doesn’t remember the face of the protagonist of this episode. He couldn’t.

He is a coward.

He was afraid of seeing “her” instead of “her”.

Her. Who?

Truth & Lies


Lie another time

and again,

your lie will become the truth;

misshapen into grotesque images

of an alternate reality,

believed by some

and swallowed by all

as the lies you spin

spiral out of control

How long do

you think

this charade will last?

One day soon, the dominoes will fall

The threads that

hold your lies together











an unbridled ocean of


dissolving the concoction

of your woven deceit.

The control will shatter

and with it,

your mind

Your own tongue will

string together


to articulate the truth,

emerging from the grave,

rising from a coffin

the façade will be broken,

and it will be easy to see

beyond the smoke and mirrors.

You will burn in the


you kindled

dwelling there and

eating your own tail

forever and ever,

till you are charred

beyond recognition.

You will die

and live

a thousand times

till the trumpet sounds

for the final time.

And truth

shall prevail,

as it does.

In this world

and the next,

when all is said and done

truth will triumph,

for truth is God.

It may be obscured,

yet it cannot be



(Edited by: F.H.M)

Painting A Dream In A Nightmare…

He was different. But not a psycho.
He was quiet. But never abusive.
He was more responsible than the other men around.
He stood on his heels for four days straight for his first-born.
He spent every penny to make things better.
He changed himself however and whenever he could. But he wasn’t a Prophet.
He was a man.
He was a father.

Then came the day of accusations.
He was called every name in the book.
He was called mentally sick.
Lies were thrown at his face, but he didn’t deviate.

He took a stand that day. But he didn’t plan anything awful.
He took a stand because there are things you shouldn’t apologize for.

You should not apologize for taking a stand… for speaking the truth… for respecting yourself… and for ending a toxic relationship…

Even after that, he didn’t run away from his responsibility of fatherhood.
He begged. He ran to courts. He went to people.

He asked God.

Things became messier and messier.

Then one day, after 1.5 years, he saw his flesh and blood. It was an extraordinary reunion at court.

Things got better for awhile.
Then again a struggle started. A war of nerves. He was threatened to be killed again. The same things with which he was threatened during the relationship and after the relationship.

Somewhere a bullet may be waiting to be entered into his skull.

That doesn’t bother him; in this so-called life, he dies daily. Yet, he forces himself to live.

What he imagines is a future: a garden full of flowers where he is giggling and running with his daughter without any fear of the unknown.

Walli – I am Hussain too

Story of Hussain and Yazid is an inspiration. It is a story of incredible power. It gives me strength to stand again and again. Just when I am about to fall, to seize, and to fail, Hussain gives me new passion.
My story is a small one. It is not a story of a Hussain standing against a cruel ruler.
My story is of Hussain standing against no one but one being. For the sake of Allah. For the sake of a future. For the sake of a generation to come.
Just like Hussain, my story is not of revenge or punishment. My story is not of a war. My story is against my own self. To make me stand again. For “her”.
Hussain was in Karbala. I am in Karbala too.
Hussain was thirsty. I am thirsty too.
Hussain was for upcoming generations. I am too.
But Hussain was from Family of Prophet. I am just an ordinary follower with an ordinary creed.
But my struggle is extraordinary.
My pain is extraordinary.
My love is extraordinary.
I am Hussain. In a different age. In a different time. Against a different cruelty.

Walli – An Extraordinary Love Story Demands An Extraordinary Sacrifice

An extraordinary love story has an extraordinary journey to travel. Only an ordinary love has an ordinary story.

He met the girl of his dreams and married her, is ordinary.

She loved her brother and lived in peace, is ordinary.

But the life of Wali was extraordinary. Just like his life, his love was extraordinary too. It wasn’t a love story like Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal. That would be too mundane.

His story was not of an ordinary love where the two fall in love and marry, or they commit suicide, or one of them dies.


Wali’s story was of his love for his daughter. For whom he travelled the universe. For whom he passed 4,000 years of the human race just to be here today. Just to be here in the 21st century to meet his daughter.

But it was exceptional even after 4,000 years. He didn’t know there would be laws, courts, hate, contempt, fraud, cheating… He was in pursuit of his daughter only and on his way he realized the ingredients of love.

Normal people hide their love. Wali doesn’t. He shows it to the world because he cannot hide it. How can you hide your eyes? It is all in there.

People know Wali because of his love. Oh Wali! There is no hiding.

Wali has been cheated. The whole 21st century cheated on him. He, the Saladin of his times, has been cheated by his own people.

But Wali is on his way. Wali never gets tired. He resurrects every time he goes down. He was not meant to fail in his quest of love.

And Wali lives on.

His love lives forever.

His heart beats forever.

The tale has not ended.

It’s just the beginning.

And the tale of this love is extraordinary.

q teri cheezian urdu poetry

Father’s Love

If a child is drowning and both his parents are around, who will jump into the lake without thinking? The father
If a child is sick and needs a blood donation, who would be the first one to have his blood group checked? The father
Who is the person who listens to the bullshit of his boss and tolerates workforce injustices to keep things going on at home? The father
Which is the most underrated love in the world? A father’s love.
There is quite a lot of poetry full of mother’s love. But the one who cries secretly, who earns day and night, who only has a relaxed time on the weekend, who is only happy at the success of his children, and who would jump in the lake without any swimming experience just to save his child or to die with him, is only a father.
Have you ever been to a Guardian Court?
You must visit.
It is just like an ICU; there is no blood, but blood relations. There are the strongest of emotions. There are fathers spending thousands of Rupees just to visit their children for a couple of hours a month.
They bring gifts. They bring toys. They bring money. Yet they are treated harshly by the law and by the judges. They are treated badly by the mothers of their children. They are abused verbally and physically. Yet they don’t give up. They keep standing like a tree in the worst storm.
A mother’s love can be expressed in words, that is why there are poems and quotes on it.
A father’s love is beyond that. Words cannot do justice to it. You may try but it won’t be able to cover a fraction of the love behind.
Do you know the strongest relation made by Allah in this world? It is between a father and his daughter.

Walli – The Verdict

Finally, the day had come. The judge asked him to speak. As the other party never showed up in their defense, it was an open and shut case. And it was finally his time to speak.
And he spoke.
He spoke for 20 minutes.
He said all those things. He told all the truth.
Not a single lie. No fabrication.
The judge was mute the whole time. He didn’t know what to say.
It was a unique case for the judge, for the lawyer, and for the people sitting around the court room.
In family courts, the cases are mostly filed by women. They file cases for child support, for monthly payments, for dowry misuse and for physical abuse.
This was a case where a guy pleaded to be allowed legally to pay for his kid, to be allowed to have custody, or at least regular visitations enforced by law, and for all expenditures of his kid to be directed to him.
This was strange. Court rooms don’t see things like that.
And he spoke. The whole court room listened. He couldn’t be bothered about who was listening.
He made rare eye contact with the judge.
His frequent eye contact was with a smiling picture behind the judge.
The picture that had told him to stay strong, be patient, and fight for the right cause till death for the last 1 year. He did.
That picture was the only sane voice that he had heard at courtrooms in all those hearings.
The man in the picture was Jinnah .
He stood like Jinnah, he waited like Jinnah, and that day, he spoke like Jinnah.
Jinnah stood for a whole nation. He stood for his whole world.

The last thing of the day was that the judge gave the verdict. A verdict like Jinnah.