Eastern Vagabond

Essays on travel, cities, memory, and the unnoticed textures of the world.

Tag: poetry

  • My Batman

    My batman is not perfect.


    When he comes over to deliver groceries,
    he calls me enthusiastically to the door
    to ramble about his old travels,
    majestic places he’s been to when he was a truck driver
    in the wild west of Pakistan,
    repairs that my old car perpeptually needs,
    or simply to tell me he saw me on my way to office,
    while returning from his night shift,
    with a sparkle in his eyes and a childish smile—
    one that I don’t return, and can’t,

    as if I were his friend and not his boss,
    as if I could ever be anyone’s friend.


    —

    And yet, my batman is flawed.
    Sometimes he borrows and forgets to return,
    fails to clean the house and water the plants when I’m away.
    Sometimes I catch him staring at my wife’s butt
    when she turns in the kitchen or walks away.
    He steals from the refrigerator too—
    a spoonful of leftover kheer or stale rice from the night before.

    But that’s just about the list of his petty crimes.


    —

    The way his eyes crinkle around the corners when he smiles
    reminds me of a childhood that seems so distant now,
    of the days when I could smile and mean it too—
    when I had friends who saw me as a friend,
    before I had drifted into the shelter of solitude.
    Sometimes when he worries that my status might shield me
    from the universal Experience of a common man,
    he shares the simple truths he’s picked up
    on his truck journeys, inn stays and broke days,
    wrapped in exotic tales and queer jokes
    that he delivers with a slap on my thigh.


    —

    On summer afternoons, when he lifts his arm to lean on my door,
    his lack of body spray becomes noticeable,
    and reminds me of the class difference between us,
    making me wonder if it’s all cosmetic—
    if we are indeed the same beneath our clothes and perfumes,
    and spend so much and entire lives to forget that.


    —

    His ability to see me as a person before his boss,
    and his courage to entertain the possibility
    of so much as a friendship between us,
    is something I deeply admire,

    because it’s something I lost long ago.


    —

    My batman is not perfect. But maybe I never was, either.

  • Surreal

    Partly because the sleeping beauty resting in the snowcapped mountains looked stunning in her new white wardrobe, partly because the low hanging clouds huddled together to look like a giant fluff of cotton candy from the cockpit, partly because the piercing though strangely welcome cold was vaguely reminiscent of all the places I could have been and partly because the dome-shaped Gol Canteen’s hearty breakfast of anda channa and creamy tea with rainbow-colored froth warmed me up to the cold outside, I descended into a reflective, almost meditative mood after landing in Quetta and felt the urge to write. Sitting in the heated room with a vase-shaped lamp lit up dimly in a corner and an expansive window overlooking the dark, overcast day and a giant mountain just standing grimly and letting gray clouds float above it, I feel a mix of many emotions which, were they to be defined in a word, could be summed up in nothing short of ‘gratitude’.

    Strange how an encounter with Beauty makes one want to worship or at least, be grateful to some higher entity that afforded that encounter. It’s almost an involuntary reaction, as swift and natural as scrambling for balance when falling or crossing your arms when cold. I know the excitement is going to wane in my weeks of staying here, the welcoming cold would start to bite, the snow-capped mountains would become drab, and the sleeping beauty and her outfit would no longer look stunning, if I still trace her figure in the mountains at all.

    In fleeting moments like these, when there is no rush to get anywhere, the cognition of the surrounding beauty is overpowering, my mind is not drifting elsewhere and I don’t desire anyone or anything that’s not right before me, that I truly feel in the moment right where I actually am. I hope as the years go by, this blog entry reminds me of my early enchantment with the wintery Quetta and helps to preserve it for a little longer.

  • A Conversation on Love

    Just wanted to post a tiny snippet of a conversation I had with my grandmother today. It may look like a trivial thing but quality conversation is so rare these days that I really cherish and try to preserve it when I have one.

    We were listening to Jagjit Singh’s ghazal,

    ہوش والوں کو خبر کیا بےخودی کیا چیز ہے

    عشق کیجئے پھر سمجھیے زندگی کیا چیز ہے

    “The sensible will never grasp the state of ecstasy;
    Dive into love, and learn what life can be.”

    when she exclaimed how volumes of timeless poetry had been written by men head over heels in love but when some of the same men eventually found or married their love, they were unable to live up to the romanticized unions of their own poems.

    I agreed with her acute observation and marveled at her ability to note such an objective point while listening to, and appreciating, the lyrical rendition of Nida Fazli’s celebrated poem. I responded,

    Women and men make classic, tantalizing milestones in each others’ journey of Love. The destination of Love continues to be someplace else though. In a higher calling than flesh and blood.

    She fell quiet for a moment then responded aptly with the following verse of Iqbal:

    متاع بے بہا ہے درد و سوز آرزو مندی

    مقام بندگی دے کر نہ لوں شان خداوندی

    “The true treasure glows in longing’s secret blaze;
    I spurn the loftiest rank, preferring humble ways.”

    I think all great poets and philosophers have pondered upon the remarkably evident thirst that women and men fail to satisfy in each other in the name of love. Love, like unquenched fire burning in the very center of one’s being, demands desperate action. Iqbal, in this verse, holds this suffering dearer than any material or spiritual wealth. Knowing its subject (God, woman, etc.) though cannot alleviate the pain, it can certainly impart the sense of it being worthwhile thus, making it more tolerable, and even, enjoyable for some as it’s in the case of Iqbal.

  • The Lake

    The Lake

    My mother-in-law had been pining for a trip to the lake since the day she had arrived so we finally decided to drive her up there and spend a night by the lakeside this weekend. It had been a while since I and Fatima had visited the lake anyway so I pushed my workout up from the usual afternoon to early morning and planned to set off after the Friday prayers.

    I like to keep my travel prep simple. The ritual involves going over three things: book, clothes and dress. The perk of traveling with my wife (apart from her cherishable company, of course) is that she takes care of everything else so I only have to worry about the first – a book that would go with the clear lake and skies, in this case. My bookshelf here is in a bit of a crisis since I’ve been lending out more books lately than I’m buying so it was to be a challenge to pick something uniquely suited to the occasion. But I soon realized I was mistaken when I noticed The Sheldon Book of Verse, an anthology of poems, tucked away in a dusty corner for God-knows-how-many years. I plucked out the paperback and took a moment to appreciate its handiness and vintage aesthetic appeal. Published in 1957, no wonder it was a relic from the past.

    As I drove down the M-9, the scenic Kirthar Mountains appeared on the driver’s side. It’s hard to ignore the distinctive mesas (i.e. flat-topped hills) standing solemnly in the barren wilderness. While I saw their distant figures behind the haze of smog every day while commuting back from work, it was a totally different experience to see them up close by the roadside. Ancient vagabonds riveted in space but traveling through time, I thought. For some reason unknown to me, the sight of these mountains in particular, and nature in general, is immensely liberating and awe-inspiring to me, offering a sense of humility and freedom from all that’s trivial. I rolled down my car window to take in the fresh winter afternoon.

    Stock photo of Kirthar Mountains

    Soon the wind turbines were visible on the passenger side. Hashir would be excited to see them but he was already asleep in his grandfather’s lap. As I got off the motorway and headed towards Jhampir, we realized we were snaking through the vast fields of wind turbines on both sides, their blades and towers now too imposing to take in a single glance. It took some five minutes of gentle patting on Hashir’s face to wake him up from the slumber he had drifted into during the past half hour, but the surprised smile that plastered itself on his dazed, still-sleepy face once he saw the giant structures made it worth the effort.

    The link road leading to Jhampir had several cattle farms belonging to Palari and Jakro tribes. A shrine (مزار شریف) would pop up every few kilometers reminding me of what M. A. Yusufi wrote about the shrines of sham saints in Sindh in his book, Aab-e-Gum:

    ان سے متعلق ہر چیز شریف ہے سواۓ صاحب مزار کے

    The road is surprisingly fine compared to what you expect a link road in interior Sindh to be like. But it gets deceptive further ahead as you find suspicious speed breakers in the middle of nowhere that can cause serious damage to your car if you aren’t vigilant. The link road culminates at a bridge over the railway crossing at Jhampir station. We were even able to show Hashir his first train up close while stopping by the same bridge on our way back.

    From there on, it’s a narrow 6 km road to the motel. The road is lined on both sides by acacia and sometimes, date-palm trees particularly as you head closer to the lake. Parchoon shops set up in tiny cabins and manned by stout, thick-mustached Sindhis donning traditional Sindhi caps make for an interesting sight. The peculiar, familiar scent associated with the sea for a Karachiite becomes noticeable much before the lake is even visible. Soon we are driving through the non-descript motel gate. The sun is still well above the horizon. We have managed to reach in time.

    The sun sets opposite the lake which means you can’t photograph the majestic lake sunsets you might have thought to capture on your way here. This can be a bit disappointing until you realize that it also means the sun would rise right above the lake the next morning. After a cup of tea and dinner, and a lot of sky- and lake-watching and mosquito-fighting in between, I snuggled up in bed with my book hoping to wake up to catch the first ray of sun the next day.

    I woke up in the morning twilight an hour before sunrise and headed straight out into the cold in my T-shirt and pajamas, anxious not to miss a single moment of the miracle that is a false dawn. Soon the fishing boats start to appear in distance; fishermen starting their day, rowing and setting up nets. Despite the biting cold none of us was prepared for (except me since my wonderful wife had packed in a hoodie), we gathered on the lawn in anticipation of the sunrise.

    The sun came up slowly and majestically from under the lake. Picture and video credits go to my sister-in-law who is a shutterbug and maintains an impressively artistic social media presence. Everybody basked in the warm sun while I and Fatima made breakfast in the rickety motel kitchen. In just a couple hours, the sun was high up in the sky and the lake began to simmer sending us back to our rooms. With the monumental event of the day over and the temperatures rising steadily, there was little else to do at the motel except pack our bags and get going.

    While the narrative of the story ends, the reflections, too many to recount here, demand a sequel which I will be writing shortly. Until then, Ciao!

  • Paper Boats

    I have four tabs open in Chrome. A Google Slide for a presentation coming up at work next week, a paper on macro-human factors in aviation maintenance that’s going to help me with that, a dense Cambridge university publication exploring the relationship between Marxism and Islamic Mysticism that I might give up reading halfway through, and Ghulam Ali’s rendition of Nasir Kazmi’s ghazal Dil mein ek leher si uthi hai abhi on Youtube; his vocal cords doing justice to the word, leher (wave), in eight different styles sweeping me away as if on eight musical waves.

    It’s already 10.30 pm; this day will end like all others. I just want to remind myself that it was a splendid day. What could be more splendid than a bowlful of Nihari for dinner with all its traditional condiments anyway? And a lovely family who’s visited from across the other side of the country to put some life into your painfully expansive apartment?

    I just wish I had spoken up at work when it mattered. When the self-righteous seniors were decimating the junior first-timer on the rostrum, my appreciation of his presentation could have gone a long way for him. But it was too hard to speak up then. And it’s harder still to forgive myself now for having taken the easier path. I think I’ll remember this pain and do what’s right the next time it matters. The world suffers a lot. Not because of the violence of bad people but because of the silence of good people. If not for myself, then for the world out there. I. Will. Speak. Up.

    I have an early morning speed workout with the boys. The competition will start Dec 2 so we don’t have much time left. Every mile is counting now. I have not been in such great shape in the past 5 years and if I sail through the 10,000m race, which I very much hope to, I am packing my bags for the Naltar marathon coming up in Jan next year. That would be exquisite; the master of all adventures. There are lots of ifs and buts at the moment. That I remain injury-free. That my boss understands what running the highest marathon in the world means to me at this point in time and spares me for the month-long high-altitude training preceding the race. They say when something sounds too good to be true, it usually is. Whatever happens, I have something to look forward to and that should suffice for a good night’s sleep.

  • Quiet

    Lately, I have been running out of things to write. I am drowning in my own daze. It’s almost peaceful, like death. I guess it’s one reason why people drift towards it; one less word at a time. Until their radical thoughts have dumbed and their wildest imaginations cowered into utter silence, or whimpering Yes, sirs. I’m not talking about the physical death here, of course; it’s not a choice anyway. But the death that most of us meet in our lives; that stills us, turns us into observers, into the audience of a fascinating match, of a scrolling screen, of a rolling routine, of a mindless race that never ends before its runners.

    Bukowski’s thundering voice just got me this weekend. Loathing life is, perhaps, not enough of an excuse to stop living it.

    You can’t beat death but

    You can beat death in life, sometimes,

    And the more often you learn to do it,

    The more light there will be.

    So I have decided to write more frequently about anything that catches my attention, intrigues, bores, repels or fascinates me. I’m no longer seeking to write a blockbuster poem or a scholarly essay or a literary piece anymore. It only inhibits the process of expressing which was also the founding idea behind my blog.

    Today, I want to write about Nadir. He works menacing afternoon and night shifts. People are mean to him. He gets plenty of mouthfuls at work. Yet that doesn’t seem to impact the positive energy he carries around him. His cheerfulness has miraculously survived the most discouraging of circumstances. He is original, straightforward, and not afraid to speak the truth. He is a true embodiment of what my grandmother says about happiness, Don’t search for it outside; it springs up from within you.

    Yesterday, I ran into him while his afternoon shift was nearing the end. The sun had long set but he was in his usual high spirits as he greeted me with a powerful, singsong salaam. I could tell it was not like dozens of other loud, constipated salaams that my subordinates had reluctantly showered at me during the day to confirm their servitude. It was a genuine greeting that one extended to someone, one was pleased to meet. After signing off some documents, I asked him what date it was. He said, It’s 6 Oct, sir. My birthday.

    I was startled at his openness. He had turned 31. We were age fellows. I did not tell him that I was surprised to see in him the remarkable positivity a 31 year old, working menial shifts away from home could preserve. He gave me hope in myself and faith in my grandmother’s wisdom. I sent him a cake wishing that he would keep his torch burning in the darkness that engulfed us. Just like the bright half-moon illuminating the sky outside.

  • Cooling Vesuvius

    Having a cup of tea with you

    in a ramshackle dhaba by the road

    reminds me of Frank O’ Hara’s iconic poem,

    ‘Having a Coke with You.’

    The cold dusk has just fallen

    upon the October Himalayan mountains

    casting their shapeless silhouettes against a lavender sky,

    and upon us

    as we hold our cups

    over the glittering city of Muzaffarabad

    and gaze into the darkening cirrus afar,

    a new moon rising above them and the majestic North star,

    reflecting on the beauty of this fleeting moment.

    The gray steam rising from our porcelain cups

    merges in the condensation of our winter breaths

    creating patterns envied by

    jet contrails and shooting stars.

    The metallic road by our side

    snakes up to the shrine of the Saint of Chinasi

    reminding me of a similar road in Naples

    that leads up to Mount Vesuvius’ top

    whose raging volcano once buried

    the debaucherous Pompeii alive.

    Perhaps you think

    that in our three years of togetherness,

    we have slowly cooled off

    just like Vesuvius

    that the bustling Naples

    no longer takes seriously as a threat

    even though the geologists still call it ‘active’.

    What good is an active volcano after all

    that nobody dreads, you might think?

    Likely to blow its top or not, I think

    Vesuvius is still Vesuvius

    towering solemnly over the Naples’ shore

    along the still waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea

    in no need to erupt in ash and flames

    every now and then to prove its power.

    Either that or may be

    you are right after all –

    we have transformed

    from ardent lovers to really good friends.

    I don’t mind if it’s true, in fact,

    I really like it better.

    Don’t you?

  • The Auburn Fall and a Verse

    Here’s another October heralding the onset of perhaps my favourite season i.e. autumn. While taking a leisurely stroll in the front lawn of our apartment building, as I walked over the withering, auburn leaves accompanied by the music of their melodious rustle, I took this photograph to save the beauty and timelessness of the fleeting moment and reflect on the nature’s eternal cycle of life and rejuvenation in the busy coming days as I was soon leaving home yet again for another job assignment that would finish by December.

    Photograph: The Auburn Fall

    I shared the photograph with a friend who commented on it with an Urdu verse which I thought was very apt and when he told me it was his own and he had just come up with it tout de suite, I was almost surprised and fell in love with it.

    یہ تیرا بکھرے پتوں کا ذوق
    میری بکھری زندگی کی داستان

    Your taste for scattered leaves,
    (Explains) the story of my scattered life

    That man has been my friend since early school years and that he had a poetic side to him was never known to me even after our countless conversational night walks through the narrow, partially paved streets of the desert town where we both lived and contemplated the meaning of life and it’s various themes for quite a number of years.

    This just gives me another reason to suspend my judgements in a world full of surprises. Being ephemeral beings, the comfort of the certainty of knowing someone or something completely is simply not for us. Let’s bask in this fundamental limitation of all our knowledge and help create a better, more tolerant world.

    Happy October!

  • 43 Notifications

    There was a time
    when a seductive, blood-red
    Facebook notification
    would trigger in me
    waves of dopamine
    which flooded my bloodstream
    like amiodarone, lidocaine
    and a handful other
    difficult-to-spell drugs
    which i hope
    you never learn to spell,
    as they enter my papa
    through an IV cannula
    while he lies sedated
    amidst beeping, blinking screens
    and a flock of apathetic doctors
    desensitized by
    too much disease
    too less equipment
    and too often death.
    For too long
    I have been addicted
    to that dopamine
    while aching for interactions
    meaningful enough
    for a homosapien
    to carry on
    the futility, monotony
    called modern life.
    But now I ask
    if that really is “enough”.
    If, in my ten days of inactivity,
    43 notifications
    of a virtual book club’s activities,
    of the memes I have been tagged in
    made by sullen,
    self loathing, suicidal teens
    that are ironically intent
    on making their viewers laugh,
    of unreferenced, unverifiable anecdotes
    no better than oldwives tales,
    of pandemic-related quackery
    both religious and secular,
    of birthdays of people
    I haven’t seen in years,
    of friend requests by
    people I don’t recognize,
    really mean anything.
    It’s silly how important
    we think we are,
    when we are nothing
    more than
    43 notifications.

  • Your serpentine curls

    When fresh from the shower

    your black serpentine curls

    fall down to your waist

    like hot Icelandic springs

    And your fragrance spreads

    like Mongols on fire

    When your chapped winter lips

    quiver with sadness

    and you rush to the kitchen

    to hide your tears

    When your shores

    are gently washed

    with waves upon waves

    of musical laughter

    When you speak Urdu

    with an intonation so lovely

    and infinitely Punjabi

    I could listen, captivated,

    for eternities on end

    When you’re strong and ripping apart

    When you’re vulnerable and falling apart

    I fall in love with you

    quietly; like you and I,

    our love cannot be much different

    from us.