Saki Nama

Suicide is a cowardly act. Until I, or someone very close to me, commits it.

We are the strong ones – men and women. We don’t fall. Not just because we don’t have an option to, but because we can’t. We are invincible. Unstoppable. And we roar like a tiger in our inner jungles – where we rule.

With materials around us, success on our badges, trophies in the cupboards, degrees in the drawers, and a sexy profile picture liked by hundreds – we are the warriors.

But we are the losers too and only we know that. Dancing and singing crap of the world. Our bank accounts. Vehicles driven by us. Tyler Durden…

Another CSP officer commits suicide only to tell you that CSS is not the end of the world. It can be the end of life too. But that’s not the point.

The point is: suicide – a beautiful way of leaving the world, but not the ideal one. I know.

Once upon a time, I wrote an application to my higher ups – a chain of CSP idiots. That application became a joke. The reference to the suicide of Bilal Pasha in that application became a laughter, and they all giggled, even made things harder for me for daring to question the ugly rotten system.

WhatsApp has ruined employment. Bosses keep a 24/7 tag on you. They text you anytime of the day and weekend, and they expect a swift response. They don’t care about you, your family, your mental health, your personal time. Nothing. They only care about the

And what does this 24/7 check achieve? Nothing. It’s like the civil secretariat of any province. Everyone is running, everywhere are meetings, and nothing is happening. That woman, yes, the one sitting on the bench in the shade of the British Raj’s tree, came from Rahim Yar Khan for creation of an OSD post of her dead husband. Yes, she took a loan to buy her ticket to Lahore. And yes, sahib ji is not available, and she may have to wait for eternity.

The applicant – His Highness, mind you – got reflected as “emotionally unstable being” on the ACR by the officer who was known as scum in the civil services among his own fraternity of scums.

Imagine how ugly and toxic these people with government provided car, petrol, chefs, servants, homes, electricity, etc. turn out to become in the end. For them, death of Bilal Pasha was nothing more than a joke – though they cried out loud on their social media and public gatherings.

Now come to civilians. Like you. Like me. And suicides that are young. Too young to be employed and gagged before burial.

Abdullah from Jamshoro committed suicide just like that 15-year-old boy from Chakwal – probably named Shaheer – who decided to depart this world on his own terms. Both were tired. Both had their own philosophies, which by any means were neither ordinary nor apologetic. Those words could be blasphemous for you, but they were sweet. They could be rebellious but peaceful. They had queries, anger, struggle, and nothingness. A void where they departed on their own terms.

I only wish they had lived longer so that they could’ve contributed in this rotten society by their words and poetry – and may have caused some damages for the betterment.

I don’t hate suicide. I can’t condemn it – even though it leaves painful relatives behind. Sometimes, the only cure is death. And committing it yourself is a victory over life in itself. Can’t condemn it. Can’t feel bad about it. Can’t empathize with it either.

How can you beat cancer? How can you beat leukemia? How to live forty years of your life on dialysis? Sclerosis. Parkinson’s. Arthritis. Weak heart. One leg.

Or.

The demons inside. Schizophrenia. Bipolar disorder. Nightmares. Anxiety. Trauma. Personality disorder. Insomnia. Mental masturbation. Blasphemy.

There are some glitches in humans that everyone around you knows that you don’t know. Like the beautiful souls with down syndrome. It’s fine.

Then there are some glitches inside that you know but others don’t. And sometimes, they get out of your hand. The rope slips under your skin, and your hands are torn, and the pain kills your guts, yet you can’t cry.

In such a scenario, there’s this option of death – by choice. Why to live on knees for decades than to die on your own terms? Why not?

[Half of the passage is deleted here. Apologies for that. I can’t make sense, and you can deliver verdicts instantly.]

I know. You disagree. I know nothing. You know everything. But let me try one more time with some old words of mine:

‘My Lord! You don’t know how much I’m going to love You and You cannot imagine the passionate sajdah that I will offer right on that moment of reunion… that sajdah which is better than a thousand nights of worship.

With all due respect my Lord! You cannot imagine it because you are not me.

Because you are not a human being

Because you are not in pain

Because you are not me, like I’m not You.

This is a relation between You and I

I ask,

I bear,

I cry,

I serve,

I accept,

I bleed,

I weep.

And You?

You give,

And forgive.

Just give me!

And forgive me!’

If that’s that, that’s fine. If that’s not that, then let me take what’s mine.

#SakiNama

“You complete me.”

You may recall this iconic line from Jerry Maguire (1996), when Tom Cruise says it to Renee Zellweger. Second only to “you had me at hello” from that movie.

That was its romantic side: one person completing another, emotionally and spiritually.

This same iconic line returned with an impact when Joker (Heath Ledger) said it to Batman (Christian Bale) in The Dark Knight (2008) – in a completely opposite setting. A villain to a hero. A devil to a savior.

And so it is. In one way or the other: your best human and your worst enemy, both complete you. Equally. Your pain and your comfort. Your dreams and your nightmares. Your misery and your happiness. Your love and your hate.

The one who hugs you, and the one who pushes you over.

The one who holds you, and the one who lets you go.

Both complete you.

Words define us. Actions follow, but words lead.

Law, constitution, pledges, relationships, love, hate, marriage, divorce, disagreement, praise, criticism – are all words.

Since writing began, words have shaped the world. Religions, scriptures, myths, gospels, miracles – are all words.

Your social norms, acceptable behavior, ethos, pathos, logos, morality, absurdity, immorality – are all words. Words defining words through words to make sense of this chaos – that is life.

That is why literature is important. Literature defines you and everything around you. It impacts you even when you don’t read because someone around you is a reader. And the one who reads has a better way to express. Has a better way to impact and shape.

Now comes the recent post on ‘Maala’ by Nemrah Ahmed. Any writer / author – even if you disagree with him / her absolutely, is someone who can / could write. And that must be appreciated no matter what.

Nemrah Ahmed (read only Maala of hers) and Umera Ahmed (read 2-3 books of hers) are pretty much. A character who is as intelligent as Sherlock Holmes. Sexy. Fair. Religious (if not early on, then by the end for sure), to the point, rich, successful, and everything that a man wants to be, or a woman wants her man to be. A lead woman in their novels is also the same: beautiful, intelligent, fair, slim, religious, independent yet submissive, longing for the man mentioned above for about 500 pages.

Having said that, remember, this is not the downfall of our literature. There’s a huge fan following of these two, particularly women. They want such content. They want such TV dramas. They rarely read or watch anything different.

Urdu literature’s real collapse came much earlier.

Do you even know the story of Hafeez Jalandhari – the man who wrote our national anthem? A beautiful national anthem, no doubt. But he was an establishment’s writer and wrote their tunes. If not, then you need to read the story of Josh Malihabadi in this context who stood against him and the entire establishment throughout his life.

Jalandhari and Josh hated each other, and reasons were obvious. Jalandhari was director of the Writers’ Guild when Josh died in 1982. He ridiculed him by featuring an article in Nawa-i-waqt. He tried to defined Josh with following verse of Ghalib right after his death:

ہوئے مر کے ہم جو رسوا ہوئے کیوں نہ غرق دریا

نہ کبھی جنازہ اٹھتا نہ کہیں مزار ہوتا

That was the ridicule and hate fierce writers (true to their words) had to face from establishment’s writers in Pakistan.

But then came a group of writers that changed the entire landscape of literature.

In the 1980s, there was Qudratullah Shahab who wrote Shahab Nama – one of the most beloved books by civil servants / bureaucrats, an obvious reason why the suited-booted idiots have messed every single civil institution here.

He was Ayub Khan’s right-hand man when Fatima Jinnah was labeled as an Indian agent. He was there when political parties were banned, and water resources were compromised.

Just when he took the pen to write about himself, a new Shahab was born. The right man in all the wrong situations. A Sufi. A mystic. A divine Deputy Commissioner.

Shahab has authored a few books out of which Shahab Nama stands out because of its content and writing style. The “ninety” tale is dubious yet believed because he wrote it. He was one of those who schemed against Fatima Jinnah in support of Ayub Khan. He also supported martial law for a long time and made some constitutional damages as well. His books are in contrast to how he lived.

His book “Ya Khuda” (short stories) is a gem in Urdu literature.

But truth resists silence. The biggest supporters of status quo in Pakistan include Qudrat Ullah Shahab, as well as Ashfaq Ahmad and his entire gang of “Chad Yar Tehreek”.

Ashfaq Ahmad’s wisdom and teachings always brought peace of mind. He wrote nothing wrong. He never ignited anyone towards crime. But deep down, in all his words, he asked the reader to accept what is happening, wait for the promised future, and work on your own without indulging outside.

Ashfaq Ahmed, his wife Bano Qudsiya, and Mumtaz Mufti – they extensively wrote about Shahab. They made him larger than life. They all considered him their mentor. They even cut his toenails out of utmost respect.

Mumtaz Mufti differed though. He questioned religion, God, partition, everything; but even he didn’t question the state and the atrocities that were happening right there and then. He remained apolitical but was a swift supporter of asking questions, even blasphemous ones. He never asked to settle like the rest. His words focused on khudi. But sometimes, he also resonated words like: wait and have patience and one day Pakistan’s nod will be UN’s nod. The exact message of Ashfaq Ahmad.  

Among them, Mufti’s work in Urdu literature ranks exceptional. ‘Alipur Ka Aili’ and its sequel ‘Alakh Nagri’ are exceptionally beautifully written books. First part is about his own early life, and second part is about his spiritual journey with Ashfaq Ahmad and Shahab.

Mumtaz Mufti’s other books (Labbaik, Talash, Asmarain, etc.) are all worth reading. Jewel of Urdu literature.

They all lived in luxury and had government jobs. Government, Radio Pakistan, and PTV supported them. They kept the majority of the population numb with their words and the state propagated their books because they kept the readers calm. Look inward, not outward.

Remember: all of them were exceptional writers. Not undermining their writing skills. Their contribution to Urdu literature is unmatched and cannot be challenged. The contributions of Ashfaq Ahmed for PTV was extraordinary.

And what they did, didn’t die ever after their deaths. Came Baba Yahya Khan. His books are fine, and his way of writing is nice. However, his claims on having supernatural powers is something very annoying. In “Piya Rang Kala” he wrote:

جس کا نکاح میں پڑھا دوں نا تو اس کو طلاق ہوتی ہے اور پہلے سال ہی اولادِ نَرینہ عطا ہوتی ہے۔

He is considered as a baba gee and has a lot followers. Bano Qudsiya wrote about his books as “a good work of fiction”. Concluded it fine. But she never concluded like that for Shahab. Anyway.

Now flip the coin and you will find poor and untidy Manto. Always poor. In court. Being dragged for immorality. And what not. Stated tried to mute him. But even then, he kept on shining. And today, he is far more popular than any other Urdu writer ever. Because he was not a hypocrite. He wrote how he lived. He didn’t ask his readers to do anything different. Same goes for Krishan Chandar, Chughtai, Mushtaq Ahmed Yousufi, and Intezar Hussain.

By the way, in my view, Intezar Hussain is Urdu’s finest short story writer. Period.

The judgments I have passed can be mistaken. You can disagree with them and even criticize them. But I have read their works and words. I have read all the books of Ashfaq Ahmad, Bano Qudsiya, Mumtaz Mufti, Shahab, Ibn-e-Insha (excluding poetry), Prem Chand, Rahim Gul, Manto, and Patras Bukhari (because he wrote only one book).

I have also read Allama Rashid-ul-Khairi (his Subh-e-Zindagi, Sham-e-Zindagi, Shab-e-Zindagi, Noha-e-Zindagi, Fasana-e-Sayeed, Nala-e-Zaar), Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi, Ghulam Abbas, Krishan Chander, Naseem Hijazi (yes, around15-20 books), Tariq Ismaeil Saghir (even romanticized ‘Poonam’ in ‘Main Aik Jasoos Tha’), Abdul Haleem Sharar, Ibn-e-Safi, Shafeeq-ur-Rehman, Baba Yahya Khan, Rajindar Singh Bedi, Ismat Chughati and others.

Mustansar Hussain Tarar – read only one book: Raakh. That is one of the boldest books ever written on Pakistan. Fiction based on history. Events of 1971, Dhaka, military violence, etc. beautiful covered. If you people are into reading Urdu literature, you must read it. (Thank you again to the one who recommended it.)

Syed Imtiaz Ali Taj – his drama ‘ Anarkali’ is a must read for those who are into cringe dramas on our TV channels today. Small book to be read in a single day.

Ghulam Abbas – any book of his is a delightful read.

Ibn-e-Insha – to read travelogues, he’s best. But what he wrote is now outdated.

Writers should be taken as writers. Making them spiritual figurehead is not wise when they were not. Bulleh Shah, Bahu, Farid, etc. were spiritual poets. By the way, who can beat Bulleh Shah?

We are unlucky ones in Urdu literature. We had rebel poets like Habib Jalib, Bulleh Shah, Faiz, Josh, and some others. And rebel writers like Manto, Ismat Chughtai, Krishan Chander, and some others. Rest, we had the same genre of same writers. Same thing to written, read, and fed over and over again. To keep the mass population numb and dumb.

Both male and female writers wrote about patience. About accepting fate. About changing yourself and not the outer world. Big female writers romanticized ideas of misogyny and patriarchy indirectly if not directly – including Bano Qudsiya, Nemrah Ahmed, and Umera Ahmed.

Almost no one challenged the state. None dared to make a fictional story out of tragedies incurred by military, judges, etc. The whole Urdu literature is like a straight line.

That’s why Urdu reading was left long ago. May have read 4-5 books at max in last one decade.

With that, I rest my case. You cannot compare our literature with other literatures in the world. Leave the great classic writers aside, we don’t even have Gabriel Garcia Marquez of Colombia, Paulo Coelho of Brazil, or Milan Kundera of Czech. None of them is an English writer yet they are read all over the world because they wrote differently. They sided with the people, not the states. And they wrote what people actually felt or thought – unlike our ones who told the readers what to feel and think about.

Literature is an art. And art is responsibility.

You may disagree with every single word I wrote here. But unlearn validation. And seek invalidation.