Category: Pakistan

Looks like it’s a typical game of optics on that old chessboard of boys.

Since the current two pawns are showing eyes to each other and not following the directives of the 28th Amendment, boys moved the third pawn, which was apparently stuck in a corner of the board, just to convey a message.

The message: if we can move him that much, we can move him to the end of the board too, to transform it into a queen.

The message must have been delivered, I guess. The Supreme Court, which cannot do anything until told by the adjacent city, will shut up now. Job well done, as directed.

Now the current two pawns will behave. If not, they will suffer. Like the ex-pawns did since the 1950s.

Much ado about nothing. Or maybe something. Who knows! It’s a martial dramatic society named as a country on the map of the world.

Remember that old saying of His Highness? It’s nothing more than Tom & Jerry fighting to rule the same house. Remember Tom & Jerry? We never saw the lady who actually owned the house. We only saw her boots. What a coincidence.

Looney Tunes… continues.

Parents smell their children. They inhale their presence deep into their soul. Maybe it is an addiction. Or affection. Maybe it is the fulfillment of being. Maybe it is because the two are one. Whatever the reason, it is the ultimate form of love and honesty.

Parents breathe in their kids.

And then there are those who sniff kids too. They prey on them. They plan and target and then unleash their ugliness on those who don’t even know what they are being put through.

Just like another incident. Just like the previous one. And the previous one. And the…

A raped kid has raped parents.

A bleeding kid has bleeding parents.

An unstitched kid has unstitched parents.

A dead kid has dead parents.

Just like a special kid has special parents.

Imagine yourself at the other end of the eternal torture. Parents do. They imagine this all the time.

Imagine your kid being raped. Imagine your kid in a coffin. Imagine your kid bleeding. Imagine your kid missing. Imagine your kid being lowered in the ground.

Imagine your kid’s school being live-telecasted with bullet sounds on TV.

Imagine the everyday tragedy of the children of this land.

A missing child. To a raped one. To a dead one.

It’s this society which is dead. It’s stinking. Isn’t it? Utterly grotesque.

This is the rape capital for children.

Welcome!

You can rape kids here. Anywhere. On streets. In shops. In mosques. In schools. At home. Anywhere!

So welcome again!

Again, and again!

To another 100.

To another century.

To another victim.

Everyday.

Twice a day.

Because it is a dead rapists’ society.

From incident to incident to just another incident. From child to child to just another child. From rapist to rapist to just another man.

There needs to be an overhaul of minds. Not just physical punishments. But un-learning and re-learning. With this police force, this bureaucracy, these intelligence agencies, this rotten educational system, overpopulation, and the barbed militarization of the country, Pakistan will keep producing victims. Because it’s the shed that’s breeding such minds and men.

A child in the morning. A poor person at noon. And a woman at night.

And tomorrow shall bring just another day.

Just another incident.

For us. To mourn.

It was January 2019 when a family was gunned down by CTD. Two men, a woman and a 13-year-old were killed. An entire family with two young girls unharmed to mourn for the rest of their lives.

Such tragedies define a state. And ours is crueler than most; it loves to define itself over and over again. Dead bodies don’t hurt its conscience. Only dissent does.

Now we have CCD.

It has recently killed a 9-year-old girl. A different organization. From different political parties. But the same ruthless state. Why? Because it’s the power behind the curtains of civil and un-civil establishments that run the usual and unusual affairs.

After all, it’s a security state. That runs on gunpowder. A state whose violent tentacles are spread all around. A militarized fort with a wall of skulls around it.

A country is for people. People are not for country. This upside-down narrative flourished by nationalism is the foundation of the massive graveyards around the country. As Iqbal said,

ان تازہ خداؤں ميں بڑا سب سے وطن ہے

جو پيرہن اس کا ہے ، وہ مذہب کا کفن ہے

May a country burn to ashes, may it not survive, if its thirst for the blood of its own people never subsides.

CCD has killed and thrashed a lot of innocent people over time. We are reading. Every now and then, an innocent person is gunned down. Because there is no law and order to follow them or to be followed by them.

You cannot bypass the law. Because if you do – even with the right intentions – it will lead to chaos. This land is already a jungle, and wolves are ruling it with wolfish instincts.

We have seen the bloodshed of Rao Anwar. We remember his 444 extrajudicial murders.

No wonder they fight over toilets. Such trash and poop they are. This actually happened. A CSP had a tussle with an MPA’s son over the use of toilet. Initially, MPA tried to cool down the matter. Then he didn’t. in the end, MPA’s poop won over the CSP’s trash. A very competitive match though.

Any organization, action, or team that passes the laws and regulations, is not a relief. It will lead to chaos. If CCD helps tackle crime by bypassing laws and courts, it will haunt us in the end.

As Sir Thomas More said that if you cut down every law to hunt your enemies, what will protect you when power turns and comes for you? Here’s the exact dialogue from the movie “A Man of All Seasons”:

William Roper: So, now you give the Devil the benefit of law!

Sir Thomas More: Yes! What would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?

William Roper: Yes, I’d cut down every law in England to do that!

Sir Thomas More: Oh? And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned ’round on you, where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country is planted thick with laws, from coast to coast, Man’s laws, not God’s! And if you cut them down, and you’re just the man to do it, do you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? Yes, I’d give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety’s sake!

Laws have loopholes. Courts fail too. But that doesn’t mean you make them null and void. You build them. You improve them over time. Gradually. The ways we have adopted are the ways of a jungle. Or perhaps, even jungles have better law and order.

The law is not an obstacle to justice; it is the only thing that makes justice possible.

The moment a state allows its agents to become judge, jury, and executioner, every citizen becomes a potential victim. Today it is a suspected criminal. Tomorrow it is a dissident. The day after, it is an innocent child caught in the crossfire.

No nation can build peace upon fear, nor order upon impunity. If those entrusted to uphold the law are permitted to stand above it, then the greatest threat to society is no longer crime; it is the state itself.

Tyler Durden said, “We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.”

And His Highness thought, “What about the generation of men being raised by maids?”

Oh. Freudian slip. Nip. Sorry. Does that hurt? Oh Father! Forgive… them!

But don’t you see the evolutionary – devolutionary, actually – downfall of the species being laid out through the passport to heaven?

Instead of mending gender roles and taking the corrective path, absolute destruction has been chosen. That is being imposed. Otherwise, there would be labels. This and that. Can’t give examples; would spoil the fun.

Gone are the days of:

!مائے نی میں کنوں آکھاں

Instead, the next generation of poets will eulogize their maids. Motherly maids.

It’s not a generalization. Not a sweeping statement. So, scratch your knees while reading this.

Fathers will remain fathers. Bad, corrupt, lazy, angry… but pretty much the same, with a slight inclination towards betterment. They have modernized themselves. Adopted new roles. Mended their ways. Corrected old mistakes. Buried many of their fathers’ behaviors – to pave a better home for the next generation.

But the thing is, you can’t impose. Just like it’s wrong for men to impose themselves and their wishes, it’s wrong the other way too.

And most importantly, as Ghamidi has clearly mentioned, the single biggest purpose of marriage is to raise the next generation in a protective and safe environment. The rest of the marriage ingredients – love, affection, deep internal regard, and the cringe stuff – are crap. Illogical. Inorganic. Unnatural. By sheer hit-and-trial maybe, some out of hundred work. That too in the short run. In the long run, it’s old age, vested interests, lack of options, dependency, self-image, kids, and impotence.

You’ve heard about daddy issues. Mother issues. Imagine a future of maid issues. Kink.

This will go bad. For sure. And honestly, it should. Please. Be my guest – out.

You all know the story of Umar ibn al-Khattab when he was publicly questioned by a man about the extra piece of cloth the caliph had received. Remember that? Ever thought about who the hero was?

Both were.

Umar, for answering the question and keeping public accountability open and transparent. Without using the typical modes of fear, arrest, subjugation, violence, etc.

But that man who questioned him set an example for the rest.

Your job, even if an Umar is ruling you, is to question him. To criticize the ruler. To keep a thorough check and balance. You must ask questions.

Your job is not to appease them. It never was. If they do something good, applaud; then move on to the next critical question.

Criticism is for the one in power. It’s simple and fundamental.

Right now, Pakistan is into awe. Inspired by something that isn’t going to change the life of common people. Inflation, electricity crisis, declining economy, population challenges, water scarcity, joblessness, anti-people constitutional amendments, rule by fear and violence, extrajudicial abductions and killings, and whatnot.

More than half of the country is territory that even Pakistanis would think twice about traveling to. Yet, all praises. All claps. Like a herd of dumb sheep.

These flatterers, with subtle criticism and consistent comparison with the one in jail, are cunning to the core. Pathetic. Intellectually – if they are – dishonest. They are eulogists, sycophants, and are enjoying their turn in making bucks.

There were some flatterers who made money through the same methodology from 2018-2022. They have been replaced by a new set of flatterers who are making money since 2023. New feces. Same stink. Yet, they believe, and they argue, that they are better and they are different.

Nonetheless, remember that nameless person who asked, “We each got the same cloth. How did you get enough for a full robe?”

You must ask the same questions, even though the difference now is not a piece of cloth but entire generations serving another generations with sweat, blood, butter, and soul.

Remember how he died in the end? Do you see how unlucky he was? You know he never found peace?

Such are the words of losers. Those who can’t do anything, hence they pity the one who should be hated.

Power is when you are alive. It matters till death. With medals and meals. Uniform and prestige.  

After death, you may say whatever you want to say or even piss on the grave or demolish the mansion – the one who ruled over you won’t give a fuck. That whole mess afterwards won’t be anything but just a middle finger for your burning arse.

They are the ones who lived the life. You, who haven’t seen the afterlife, manage to have pity for them. Have you ever thought how pathetic you are?

You become sick and weak with the passing of years. And they! They attain the ultimate powers in sixties. To rule the land they live in. You may say they died a miserable death and blah blah, but you’ll die too. At least they lived like a king, not a ling like you.

Gaddafi died after ruling for over 40 years and had thousands of women in his harem. You betting on 72? Come on!    

Zia died with mangoes, but he lived above all of you for 11 years. Those who were rolling their eyes over his death, are mostly dead themselves. So?

Yahya ruled for 3 years. Those 3 were way better than 30 of others. You still listen to the melodious voice of Noor Jahan, while he, well may they all rest in peace.

Death’s only an excuse. And pity is only a weapon for those who themselves are pitiable.

These men with power – with or without religion as their tool – knew that this is all. Right here right now. Nothing is afterwards. While preaching you afterlife, they kept this life. While narrating you a promised heaven, they had all the liquor, land, and ladies here. Ah! A lot more than 72.

So, they in their 60s and 70s and even 80s. Struggling for power. More legitimacy. More wealth. And more fortune. You may keep on feeling bad but at least remember “Better to live one day as a lion than a thousand days as a jackal.” Yes, you are the jackal as well as the jackass.

Mourn now. Moan later. Doesn’t matter. Do as you please when they die. Right now, try to utter and they will snatch your voice forever.

If I must choose between Buzdar and Maryam… wait – It means I’m the Chief then. The chosen one. Above all the 240 million insects. To deliver the divine message to les misérables. Must be starving.

I’ll choose Nando’s.

With all the disagreements and criticisms you have with AIML or Jinnah – some valid – there is one core aspect of history that we forget and miss out conveniently.

Yes, I know about Lahore Resolution of 1940 and how it was ‘states’ and not ‘state’ and the word ‘Pakistan’ wasn’t even mentioned in the speech, and how the one who presented it, was discarded afterwards. Yes, I know.

But even then, you must remember and acknowledge that Pakistan is one of the rare countries in the world that was born democratically.

It was the provincial elections of 1946 that paved the way for Pakistan. Congress won 923 seats; AIML 425. Bengal, Punjab and Sindh made a clear, categorical case for Pakistan – as that was AIML’s manifesto. After elections, nothing could stop the country from emerging on the world map.

A country literally born from the ballot, not the bullet.

Before 1946, there were the 1937 elections, where AIML lost badly. It was only a blunder by Congress in 1939 when it resigned from ministries and Jinnah took over the moment to campaign in a different direction to eventually seal Independence.

Ah, a side note: remember who else did a similar blunder like Congress? Yes. Those who never read and learn from history. PTI in 2023 – resigning from Punjab and KP assemblies. Never miss history and never miss a chance to point out historical idiots. You may sound cool, look good, but a fool remains a fool.

Anyway. This country, this land – with all the misery its own children have bestowed upon it, is a land of democratic mystery. It wasn’t born out of war. Or a military conquest. Or even a revolution.

It was an evolution. It was a democratically won independent country.

Ironically, since its democratic birth, it hasn’t seen democracy. Only boots, barracks, barrel, and guns. Blood, violence, dead bodies, and coffins.

Yet, its DNA remains democratic. And it shall snatch that back someday. Democratically. Or not so democratically.  

You: May your soul rest in peace, sir.

Jinnah: It won’t.

You: Sir?

Jinnah: You people have failed the dream.

You: Yes, we have.

Jinnah: This country was not made to experiment with radicalism, be it religious or non-religious. It was not made to experiment with different forms of dictatorships and martial laws. I told you categorically that it would be a democracy. A state of the people, by the people, for the people – under complete civil order.

You: Yes sir.

Jinnah: Look what you have made? A mess. Everyone is enforcing on everyone else. Through guns, powder and power – without reason. We got this Pakistan on table with reasoning. Just dialects. Not force or war or battle. What’s this nonsense going around now? Killing and forcing your own fellow Pakistanis? Everyone in the pecking order spitting the one below him.

You: I have no answer sir.

Jinnah: You are the answer.

You: I am not. I am just a speck. I see hopelessness. When your sister couldn’t do it, none of us can.

Jinnah: Yes, you can. Together.

You: There is no we sir.

Jinnah: Then organize.

You: How?

Jinnah: By words. By dialects. By convincing. Not by force but by awareness through reasoning and dialogues. It will take decades; but every decade will be better than the previous one and it will not be like now where you are all living in a constant state of disgust, misery, and fear. Fatima was too old and too tired for military and its guns.

You: I agree sir. But she had a base. Here we are scattered and divided. People are abducted and killed. Others don’t even feel the pain until their own doors are knocked and knocked down.

Jinnah: Initiate struggle.

You: How can I struggle when I don’t see hope?

Jinnah: Imagine, write, convey, and convince. Hope will show a path. Paddle, and you will swim towards the shore.

You: I will drown like all others.

Jinnah: No, you will not drown before raising a generation to rise further but this will take time. Forty years for the Prophet to receive the first call – Iqra, ‘Read’. Twenty-three years for the Quran to be revealed – Walyatalattaf, ‘Handle with kindness and deliberation’. Forty years for Moses and his people to wander in the desert. About two decades for Christ to work in obscurity before his divine mission. Fourteen years for Rama’s exile in the Ramayana. Even Beethoven’s Ninth took over thirty years and Taj Mahal twenty-two. Just begin. It took me from 1906 to 1940 to conclude that a separate homeland was the solution, not separate electorates. When I saw hopelessness in one path, I found another: Pakistan. I know there are ifs and buts even in the way this country was conceived and in my own actions. Fine. Speak of that too. Criticize me. Question all your elders. Then reach a consensus of disagreements. Bury us and write your own constitution.

You: I am sorry sir.

Jinnah: No, don’t be. Just take the first step. Begin.

You: Will it be worth a struggle?

Jinnah: Absolutely.

You: Will you witness that?

Jinnah: [He smirks, turns to the round table where over a hundred sit smiling] Why not?

Every day has been a new short story in Lahore’s monsoon. July has been blessed and seduced to an extent that it has been wet for over two weeks now.

It’s evening in noon. Again. Other times, it’s dark days and thundering nights. Last night’s drive in the rain was scary to hell, but it was too seducing to be spent at home.

Imagine a short story in a dark day.

Stuck on a flooded road and there’s this small woman in a small car. Smiling and talking to herself – a little confused but unable to leave Lahore on its own. Short curly hair. Large eyeglasses with a thin frame. Thin lips. Fairly fair. And then you don’t mind being stuck.

In fact, you carry the short story slowly without being annoyed anymore of being late for something very, very… unimportant. Then, at one most significant moment of the monsoon day in Lahore, she looks at you, smiles, and gestures as if to say “We’re stuck”.

“Yes, we are,” he smirks and thinks and then he thinks to be stuck for a little longer.

Nothing seems important after that unknown woman. And your day goes on beautifully – without a future, promise, conflict, judgement, or separation.

A complete short story is the incomplete one.  

I know. Frustrating. The narrator is ignorant and blasphemous. Fine.

Imagine the monsoon in Lahore again. The whole season being spent with the one. In one’s arm. Hand in hand, waiting for the rain to fall so they can hug without this city’s judgement. Driving in the rain toward unknown destinations. Hand in hand.

The first rain and the first gesture.

Another one with a hug.

Another one with a kiss.

Another rain, another love, still with the same one.

Then comes frustration.

What’s more? How to get more? Possession!

Then comes the conflict – another rain, and the first argument.

Then the first fight with no contact for the three rainless days when the city tried to took a break, though the sun didn’t shine either.

Then what? More rains and more fights.

More arguments.

Both wanting more from each other. Hence, frustration.

And then, before the last spell of the monsoon… it ends. The novel ended before the season did. The divorce lasted longer than the marriage. In fact, the divorce came without a marriage.

Such a shame.

Come back to the short story. The girl with a curly hair, no dragon tattoo, one small gesture, a wide thin smile, and that was that – the end. Perverts.  

Like this rain ended without an epilogue in Lahore.

For another rain to fall.

For another short story to be written.

For another eternity to be marked.

Whatever. Lahore is a whore even without the monsoon. This city is that whore of Manto that cannot be ignored and that cannot be left ever.