Wala taqooloo liman yuqtalu feesabeeli Allahi
amwatun bal ahyaon walakinla tashAAuroon (2:154)
Slippers, shoes and a silent prayer
Is all they left for their families
Carrying a corpse of light
In the Caravan of grief and tears
Mourners became the one
The corpse of light
Shot with machine guns
Tomorrow my childhood friend, Tariq is getting married. We grew up in the same neighbourhood. He’s a special person in my life. As kids we used to get into fights with each other. With my strength I always used to allow him to beat me up.Well, not really true.
Most of the time we used to play, day and night to the much annoyance of my parents. Thus my neighbours nicknamed me Awaara- a wanderer.
So we used to spend our time playing cricket mostly. It was our Passion. We were the most wanted players from our generation in the neighbourhood. There used to be a tournament of sorts in the Parade Bagh (An empty field near my house now turned into Garbage Heap) during Strikes and Curfews. Tariq and me were always picked up sooner than others. He was a Batsman, the best one in our neighbourhood. And I was a Fast Bowler (my records speak for myself). So the team we used to be together in, it used to win. And when we played against each other, it used to be an interesting contest. He would hit me for sixes and I would get him out in the next over. Or playing Volleyball or fighting with snowballs or Vish-Amrit or King Queen or just running away from the Orchard where we stole Apples from.
Dear Najib Razak. I am not able to vote in this elections. Since I am not Malaysian and also not a phantom. (Although I always loved Phantom the Cartoon Character)
It has been over two years since I landed in this beautiful country. The Land of the Green blessed with rain. Beauty of Malaysia is matchless. Like its people who love their country. Often you will find old people and youngsters sporting the National Jersey of Malaysian Football Team. Or the Malaysian Flag which you will find flying at the gates of houses. Spirit of Malaysia is very addictive. Thus you’ll see Malaysians backing up Malaysia always. Youngsters that I have talked to always have a hope to make their country prosperous.
Kashmir could also be called ‘The Land Without Cinemas’. There are no movie theaters although Kashmir is a hit location in Indian Film Industry. While Kashmiri Movie making walking on baby foot-steps. It is sure to rise with many youngsters trying to tell their stories. I personally believe that Kashmiri Cinema has all the ingredients to follow the footsteps of our Iranian Cousins. Kashmir in itself has a very indie feel.
Below are some movies from ‘Kashmiri Cinema’ some vintage and some new. Before you start reading the blog, I want you to click on my Kashmiri friend’s upcoming indie Gandukh (meaning Sulfur) set in Kashmir. Looks promising and he needs encouragement. Buffer this till you finish this post.
There was a time when stress was felt when thinking will the teacher beat me with a stick or a steel scale. Or if the front-seat of my school bus was taken by somebody else. Or when Rani used to wake me up and say “Strike Call has been withdrawn” (and I had delayed my homework) Or when I used to think of the reaction of Baba over my 2/10 marks in Maths. Or when I broke the glass pane during cricket.
Those times I wondered how these situations would be easily dealt when I grow up.
Now, all I think of how my childhood issues were much smaller and not even close to what I face today. Life throws us so many arrows to endure and fight to survive. This sure is exciting when you overcome adversities. And it hurts when you stumble.
Learning to pick yourself up not waiting for others or to embrace the hurt with a smile or being compassionate to those who aren’t. Learning and observing how life surrounds you. We adapt, adjust and better ourselves. We become wise.
I would trade all this wisdom for the child that I was before. Scraped knees for sure hurt less than broken hearts. Heavy school-bags seem lighter than a heavy heart.
But then life goes on. I also remember that Allah doesn’t test us more than our capacities to endure them. Sometimes when it gets too much, I tell myself “Wow, Allah thinks I am a Superman.” Maybe I am.
Then every night before I take a heavy sigh, I remember the words that my high school teacher said, “Even this shall pass away”.
P.S: In short. I need a break. I want to go home.
Kashmir…I love you!
I remembered you
Tears couldn’t help holding
But pour out the pain
That i have been living with all my life
Fluttering, trembling with fear or terror and anxious inside the soul. The wind passed by, accompanied by sounds of thunder. Shriveling with the beats of the rain. I am writing in this bitter-sweet pain. I have grown old with all these tormented days and nights. I have lost myself of all the glory that I had once upon a time. I am not even the image of reminiscence of that early spring morn.
I am withering, holding on to dear life. Whirling unspoken words and unseen seasons.