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poems by Meekaal

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I 

In the grief-struck eyes of the beloved face, 

Kindred of golden dunes and crimson skies. 

Hidden beneath webs of white cotton lace, 

Rests the intoxicating draught of eyes. 

May the Saqi’s drunken eyes remain well, 

And the wine-cups shall be full to the brim.

Who is this whirling drunkard? Who dwells, 

In the streams of tears, and sings Mansur’s hymns. 

This heretic, love-addicted fool says why

One dies enshrined in tipsy eyes of thine: 

“I come from the temple of Magi 

Intoxicated without the passing of wine.”

In this tipsy, loneliness of mine 

My love was unyielding, pure and divine. 

II.

It is on dreadful nights such as tonight, 

That my heart yearns for love’s fiery embrace, 

Full of devotion, prepared for disgrace, 

I seek the crumbling white minaret’s sight.

But find only the preacher’s cold spite, 

No gods, nor angels inhabit this place; 

Heart-sickened, the believer starves for grace,

One goes plying back to the age-old rite. 

Disillusioned heart, like the rebel-lord, 

Returning home after a failed revolt 

Nestles deeply in henna-laden arms, 

Listens once again to the rebec’s chord, 

Suffers, once again, Sinai’s lightning bolt, 

Revolves around Saqi’s flattering charms. 

III.

When in the burning fire of cold

Fever-dreams, I clutch at the melody

Of melancholy, erupting from old

Throats that chant the unending elegy.

That holy, half-a-moment of mortal

Ecstasy, sending tremors down my spine,

Like the moth dancing around the fatal light,

I, too, encompass the beloved’s shrine.

Nay! it is not simple to venture on

This journey unto annihilation.

And so in the desert’s cold, crimson dawn

The majnun cries, in complete elation:

“What else can love be, if not the suicidal

Destruction of the self’s masquerading idol?

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Our Soulful Songstress

Author: Qasim Fareed

 

Allah Rakhi Wasai was born in the city of Bulleh Shah in 1926, who then went on to act on the big stage alongside stars such as Dilip Kumar and Neelo. She was also known as the mother of Shan, sharing an onscreen kiss with the latter in 1959. It comes as a surprise to learn that a girl-on-girl kissing scene was included in a major picture, considering the fits people are throwing now over a make-believe wedding.

Always dressed to the nines adorned in silk saris, the benevolent giggle, copious eyeshadow, highlighted cheekbones, overlined rosy red lips with a gajra in her ever-changing hair was our Madam; one coquettish flicker of her raven lashes is all it would take to have you entranced. Madam’s opulence, both timber and cosmetic, made her a symbol in more ways than one.

Madam Ji was a wild one who lived life to its fullest. Be it her famous and scandalous flings which included a who’s who of actors, an up-and-coming cricketer and the then highest in our land at the time (in more ways than one) General Yahya Khan, who was so smitten by Madam that he once had her sing “Sayeeon ne mera mahi” from Tokyo in his usual state of intoxication while we were amidst the 1971 civil war.

There were numerous accounts about Madam’s generosity regarding philanthropy; through the grapevine, we hear she supported several families in her hometown and was the patron of the lawaris trans-community of Lahore and a symbol of the gay community owing to her decked-out looks.

She was not one to be ordered around. The story goes that she was once called upon for a benefit during the Ayyub regime, where she was given strict orders not to perform any ghazals of the revolutionary Faiz, who was then in the Hyderabad Jail after being convicted of being involved in the attempted coup. But Madam Ji did not give a damn and sang Mujhse Pheli si Mohabbat, which was broadcasted countrywide. After hearing the broadcast on a radio in his jail cell, Faiz Sahab famously relinquished it to Noor Jehan, stating, “Woh geet ab mera kahan, Noor Jehan ka ho gaya hai“.

Much need not be said about her career as one of the most prolific singers the subcontinent has ever produced.

That’s all right, but what’s a playback singer of olde got to do with me and my troupe of followers? Madam Ji is not just an ex-singer/actor who just so happens to be the grandmother of Ahmed Ali Butt. She was a force of nature who, through her geet, touched the hearts of millions, was the role model for the daughters of our nation for literal decades and was the epitome of the “rok sako tou roklo” spirit.

Despite all the scandals, tabloids, and fake news, nothing could taint the image or extinguish the love people had for Madam Ji on both sides of the border, as discerned by the generous reception she received from fellow playback singer Lata Mangeshkar.

In these dark times where most of us can not wait to vacate this burning building and desire that coveted stamp of the Canadian Immigration office, we must reflect on our roots and what

those roots represent. Not the literal soil, but the culture and heritage. It’s all about the people of the land and what they represent.

The next time you think of Pakistan down the road in your abode in whatever part of the world you choose to call home, try and remember the artists like Madam Ji who redefined our culture and raised entire generations, whose voice could not be evaded in any part of the subcontinent from busses in metropoles to dhabas in the rural, from blockbusters in cinema to the ordinary person’s theatre, all the way to your home on both the radio and television. Even during the ‘65 war, you could hear Madam Ji on the radio where her Milli Naghmas were a much-needed pick me up for both the soldiery and citizenry alike.

A songstress like no other, she was an icon for the state and soul.

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Remembering Sania Khan

Author: Abeer Touseef

 

Sania Khan had an innate passion for photography. She was a warm person with infectiously positive energy who spread joy in the world, as said by one of her dear friends. She double majored in women studies and psychology and advocated for the rights of women.

Unfortunately, according to the evidence, her life was taken from her by her ex-husband Raheel Ahmed. In a distressing turn of events, he not only murdered her but then also killed himself, leaving behind a suicide note. As these violent crimes are brought into light, one asks themselves if only they had seen the signs, could they have prevented this tragedy from occurring?

And the answer is yes. The troubling signs were present long before the deed was performed.

In the period of six months, Sania concluded that the man she married was not who he initially seemed to be as he abused her on a regular basis. From lying about his age to showing signs of obsession, Sania faced it all. Instead of tolerating his belligerent behavior, she filed for divorce. Despite knowing the backlash she would face from family and friends, she prioritized herself. For the simple decision of choosing happiness, she was robbed of her radiant future.

Sania had gained a mass following on social media due to her post-divorce struggles. She felt alone and unsupported by her family as they abandoned her after her decision to legally separate from her husband. Even in the 21st century, divorce is taboo for many desi families who advocate for marriage problems to get fixed by themselves — they find staying in an abusive marriage to be more sustainable and convenient than the shame that comes with being branded as a ‘divorcee’.

Her family should have been there for her. They should have held her hand and supported her through her emotional turmoil. They shouldn’t have cast her aside for societal expectations. They shouldn’t have pressured her to stay in a failing marriage. Conversations about sexism, patriarchy and shame have sparked up on social media in the aftermath of Sania’s murder. The intolerant attitude of South Asian families towards divorced women only is troublesome and rewards toxic masculinity.

Sania Khan talked openly about the struggles of dealing with divorce as a brown woman. As posted on her TikTok account, “The way the community labels you, the lack of emotional support you receive, and the pressure to stay with someone because what will people say? It is isolating. It makes it harder for women to leave marriages that they shouldn’t have been in to begin with.”

Unlike Sania, many women who face abusive behavior at the hands of their spouses opt to stay with them. Many of these women are unaware of their rights and continue to sustain their current conditions, fearing tarnishing their honor and bringing shame to their families. This preservation of the family structure at any cost is a defining factor for the high rate of domestic violence in Pakistan.

Pakistan has continuously been rated as the lowest country in the Gender Gap Index in the South Asian region. Gender inequality plays an extreme role in undocumented violence against women behind shut doors.  One must question the ‘happy husband and wife’ narrative and whether it is based on more sinister grounds. The tragic tales of women like Sania Khan and many more serve as a reminder of the fact that women themselves ultimately face the consequences of their abusers’ sins.

Furthermore, the recently overthrown government in Pakistan had no specific measures in place to protect women against patriarchal violence. This is troubling given the influence of charismatic leaders such as Imran Khan who, during his term as prime minister, infamously stated that men are not “robots”. This was not too long after he blamed “fahashi” (vulgarity) for the rise in cases of sexual violence across Pakistan; both cases arguably imply victim-blaming. Similar sentiments regarding the oppression of women are not only supported, but also strengthened after such incidents, as men take these statements as permission to further oppress women. When an authoritative figure condemns violence, nonviolence has the potential to become a widely accepted notion in society.

When will unrealistic societal expectations for women cease? When will the worth of a woman finally be realized and her value understood by society? We must ask ourselves these vital questions to bring justice for the condemned and to save countless others from the same fate.

Although Sania’s life was taken overseas, that does not mean Pakistani culture and society are not to blame. Ahmed could not and would not see her thriving, so he made sure to silence her voice once and for all as well as his own. He escaped justice; however, it is up to us to remember Sania for everything she stood for and be kinder to others and ourselves. For anyone struggling in their personal life, I would like to offer them these solemn words by Sania Khan to let them know they are not alone:

 

‘You are not a failure because your marriage didn’t work out. Be gentle with your heart during this stage. Time heals all things and it will get better.’

 

Source: How to Address the Gender Gap in Pakistan? – PIDE. How To Address The Gender Gap In Pakistan? – PIDE.

Featured photo credit: Social Telecast

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Reflections on the Partition

Author: Hadi Ameer

The road to India is an inconspicuous one, at first. There are khokhas, regular fruit vendors, and the odd bank offices. The sun seems resilient on a warm Lahori afternoon, set against the backdrop of the GT Road’s semi-urban landscape. You drive on. The road gets a little bumpier. Vehicles are replaced by carts, engines by donkeys and mules, brick and mortar by green expansiveness, cacophony by quiet. The urban morphs into the rural.

You finally arrive at a military check-post, park your car and start walking. A stadium-like edifice welcomes you. A loudspeaker crackles, followed by a collective roar from the audience. The road goes through the stadium, ending at a gate. India’s on the other side. There’s something enthralling about the volumes and the sheer scale of the enterprise. These aren’t trained professionals screaming “Pakistan Zindabad” at the top of their voices. They’re just normal people, clamouring to be louder than the other side.

A similar scene is to be witnessed across the gate. This is the Wagah-Attari parade, a flag-lowering ceremony performed by collaboration between the Pakistan Rangers and the Border Security Forces (BSF).

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Pakistan was forged in the traumatic crucible of partition. Partition left us with a convulsion of sentiment; an unseemly concoction of anguish and jubilation. Some rejoiced at the making of the new nation, others were left to tend to their scars. The ceremony at Wahga is a regular reminder of partition: that Pakistan and India are two separate nations that came about from an active re-ordering of geopolitics. But the seventy years between now and partition have impacted the way we understand its legacy. The roaring voices are new. But they have been there for some time. It is easy to forget that they were not always there. The older ones were far less buoyant: the chugging sound of a corpse-filled train coming to halt at the Lahore Railway station, the steady tap tap of feet, both naked and covered as they moved across the designated Radcliffe Line, even the crackle of fire that echoed from where Muslims had danced at Hindu weddings and vice versa; from what had once been friendly neighborhoods.

Standing amidst the frenzy, a scene from Manto’s Toba Tek Singh comes to mind. The inhabitants of the asylum were conflicted. They did not know where to go or what to do. The participants of the ceremony are not. They know who they are. They think they know who they are not. The conviction is unwavering.

Bishan Singh stands at the gate. Manto stands with him. Faiz is there too. They look to their left and to their right, to India and then to Pakistan, negotiating a splintered identity in a no man’s land. In a world where identity is derivative of the nation, these are no-men: inhabitants of the no man’s land, inhabited by a split-self, appalled by a tainted freedom (ye shab-gazida sahar), despondent for what couldn’t be achieved.

In these moments of crisis, it is to these individuals that we can turn to. They challenge the unwavering conviction that the ceremony’s slogans exude and thus question our understanding of the past. Time’s concoction of deliberate forgetfulness and calculated emphasis has structured how we remembered the events that elapsed seventy years ago. Amidst the frenzy of nationalist sentiment, some voices speak to us. They remind us that the silence of partition’s traumas is anything but comfortable.

Much like the thunderous clamour at the Bab-e-Azadi, this silence too is deafening. With both, there is a story to be told.

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Another day of green festivity is upon us. There will be sombre military parades and flashy news bulletins. In a few days, green flags will be hoisted on rooftops, draped over the bonnets of cars, found in the hands of jovial children, their cheeks painted green in the color of the nation, their eyes full of promise. In all these moments of elation, partition seems not a welcome guest at the table of independence. It appears as an oddity, a forlorn anomaly hesitant to enter the conversation. More alarmingly so, we are afraid to let it in. Why ruin the mood? Why soil a festive day with grim, dreary tales of depravity?

In the seven decades that have elapsed since, plenty has transpired. The vacuum of silence, left behind by separation, longing and firaaq has been filled in by the clamorous call to arms and dissociation from what was once ours. Traumas have been left unresolved, identities unfound, and madness unquestioned. Partition’s legacy comprises both new possibilities and its grief-stricken beginnings. Let us not forget that.

 

Featured photo credit: Partition Museum