The more I try, the more I fail
Keep pushing, I, my heart with force
It bleeds in pain, it goes so frail
Have been like lord
Lasheth who his slave -
To the point he cries, to the point he faints.
Its still no good, there's still a wave
The more I try, the more I fail
I keep the promise, its hard to keep
Inhuman too, is it not insane?
How will I swim? Will I survive?
No pulse i hear, no wind to sail
Ask I myself, is it a crime?
A cime that cruel? A crime that grave?
Which needs a promise - so hard to keep?
Still I try - I know I'll fail
To keep the promise, so hard to keep.
What is it, that haunts you dear?
No angel I am and no monster
Am just someone whose wisheth to fall
Fall they may call, but Rise as I see
To Rise in your love, to Rise with thee
And break this promise - so hard to keep
To get back a life, to find a new world
To take back my right -
Right to live and to die
A right to smile
And a right to weep
And break this promise - so hard to keep
But what of I'm sure is but one tiny thing
That I love you more, than all that I need
Will dig up my heart and and get rid of it
Will not think of you and take up the pain
But wont be a fool - one who wants to rise
And more I will try and try not to fail
And keep up the promise - so hard to keep
And more I will try and try not to fail.
~<171120081306>
Monday, November 17, 2008
My Princess
Seldom you speak, o little princess,
Seldom you hear what commoners may say;
You walk innocent through the dreams you weave,
And what you care? They may think what they may;
But when you laugh n sing and play them around,
All they can do is - just adore you and pray;
Pray for your smile and pray for your dream,
Pray for your song and pray just for thee.
Monday, August 25, 2008
A short story ...
The Wanderer Prince
He stood there, engulfed in deep thought. The sea wasn't calm at all. Waves randomly rose and jumped over his feet like a pack of wild snakes, sometimes hurting his toes with their velocity and force. But he was too busy to care about them. He was completely in union with nature, leaning against the cliff and watching the vast bluish green ocean in hope and confidence, as if trying to tell the world beyond these waters that – "lo and behold, here I come for you". The wind was chilling and sharp and blew his long dark brown locks of hair here and now on his face, blessed with chiseled sharp features. He seemed quite determined and his big black eyes looked focused. The man was tall and handsome and his tanned well built body, though covered only with a couple of modest holy unstitched clothes, confirmed his royal genre. The reflection of dusk sun on his skin, along with the hue of his saffron outfit, gave him a divine aura. A short but kind smile played on his thin dark lips. It was hard to say whether he was an invincible god or a mortal human, but one thing was certain – he was not someone ordinary.
Suddenly his concentration was disrupted by a thunder bolt as loud as a battle conch and as bright as a brand new sword. Perhaps Indra, the king of gods, was delighted and wanted to wish him good luck. He first looked up at the crimson sky that was now turning dark grey with all those monsoon clouds piling up and then he turned around slowly and looked towards the shore. He could clearly see an assorted army of various peoples, smart and young, busy with their daily drill in front of the numerous camps they had set up along the sea shore. All the camps, without exception, were decorated with huge dancing saffron flags – symbols of devotion, valor and unity. An expression of love and gratitude ran across his face. He closed his eyes and chanted a few sacred mantras from the holy samhitas in order to thank the gods for their blessings and guidance. He was clearly pleased to have experienced this day of achievement. The story of his long and eventful journey was coming alive in front of his eyes - the amazing lands he had visited, the wonderful people he had met, the strange customs he had witnessed and the numerous wise teachings he had learnt, all these years. How could the princes of Manu be so ignorant and suspicious of all these peoples whom they never hesitate to call dasyus and danavas? How could the millions of these lives be so distanced from civilization and awareness? How could the great rishis, munis and other revered sages, who devote their lives for the upliftment of these unfortunate men of Aryavarta, be not protected and supported by our so called Aryan kingdoms? He wondered.
He wondered why no Suryavanshi prince of the Ikshvaku dynasty ever cared to cross the great Vindhyachalas and visit the beautiful lands of Madhya and Dakshina? Was he the first Raaghava to have experienced the waters of Narmada, Tungabhadra, Krishna and Kaveri? Was he the first kshatriya to have worshipped the van-devas of the Aravalis & Nilgiris and the kul-devis residing in the hills of Megha and Tripura? Was he the first Manava to have visited the astounding cities of Yakshas, Gandharvas, Suparnas and Nagas and also the far flung villages belonging to the aadivasi tribes? Was he the first Aryan who had brought the message of the shrutis and smritis to the tribes of nishaads, bheels, munds, kols and gonds and also to the clans of 'the divine monkey' and 'the great bear'?
Maybe yes. Maybe he was the first Aryan prince to have walked throughout the vast rugged landscape that lay to the south of the great plain so thoroughly. Though a prince by birth & right and by karma & varna he chose to live and walk among the so called lesser peoples. It is hard to estimate how many villages he visited or how many forests and rivers he crossed. It is difficult to say how many million lives he touched or how many thousand friends and followers he made. But he came on each one of them as a messiah and a messenger. He showered his unconditional love on all of them. He broke the barriers of jaatis, varnas, and gender and demolished the walls of languages and customs. He taught them the higher ways of living and thinking. He gave them the concept of family and its values and ideals. He gave them sanskaars and gyanam. He made them the superior ones.
He would politely refuse to take the daughters of the tribal chiefs as his wives as he was already married. He would accepte the widely revered deva pashupatinath and matrudevi and would worship them as he would worship his own gods - indra, varuna, agni, maruts and ashwins. He would establish hundreds of ashrams and gurukuls across this land and would train the tribal youth in the contemporary aryan warfare to protect these small yet powerful building blocks of civilization. He would teach them developed ways of agriculture which the aryan people had been practicing in the northern plains of sindhu and saraswati for centuries. He would make them aware of the existence and expanse of their land – their own land of Aryavarta and would in turn get himself enlightened about the diversity of the cultures here. Many a violent chiefs of barbaric danava and daitya tribes would be killed - the repenting spared and the sober ones be protected thence.
It was a revolution - a revolution of civilization, awakening and awareness – a revolution of bringing the neglected dasyus into the mainstream and making them Aryans. It was hardly surprising that his message spread to the farthest lands within a short span of 14 years of his journey and this land to the south of the great Himalayas and to the north of the great ocean actually became Aryavarta in true sense.
The royal one took a deep breath and relaxed his muscles. A sense of satisfaction showed in his kind eyes as he stood on the cliff braving the fierce monsoon showers, looking at his army of a hundred tribal chiefs with their thousands of innocent yet brave young men, quickly moving around, making logistic arrangements to appropriate the sudden monsoon. They revered and loved him like a god and father and he was, today, proud of his devotees. How well had they come together to help their master and mentor in this hour of distress and difficulty. How meticulously had they planned and built this huge structure just out of their devotion and affection for him. He once again looked at the ferocious ocean dancing tandava to the tune of monsoon and then gradually turned towards that unending long coral and rock bridge that stood steadily in the wild ocean, running down south to connect Dhanushkoti with the golden island.
A hand quietly touched and surprised his shoulder. He swiftly looked back. It was none other that his younger brother Saumitra Lakshmana. "The sethu is ready respected brother, in all ways". "Well then dear Lakshamana", replied he in a polite yet stern voice, "Ask Maharaja Sugreeva, Mahabali Jamvant and dear Pavanputra to get our men ready. We shall proceed tomorrow, as soon as the morning gets into its fourth hour. The gods will protect us indeed."
"And let us prepare ourselves for the greatest battle ever – a battle that shall be fought among best of men on earth. A battle that shall bring back the pride of Aryavarta – a battle that shall bring back Devi Sita……..my Sita……"
The wanderer prince was now looking straight in the eyes of his beloved brother with his voice choked and the tears of grief and love rolling down his royal divine cheeks.
~ Atri Joshi
<070720082300>
He stood there, engulfed in deep thought. The sea wasn't calm at all. Waves randomly rose and jumped over his feet like a pack of wild snakes, sometimes hurting his toes with their velocity and force. But he was too busy to care about them. He was completely in union with nature, leaning against the cliff and watching the vast bluish green ocean in hope and confidence, as if trying to tell the world beyond these waters that – "lo and behold, here I come for you". The wind was chilling and sharp and blew his long dark brown locks of hair here and now on his face, blessed with chiseled sharp features. He seemed quite determined and his big black eyes looked focused. The man was tall and handsome and his tanned well built body, though covered only with a couple of modest holy unstitched clothes, confirmed his royal genre. The reflection of dusk sun on his skin, along with the hue of his saffron outfit, gave him a divine aura. A short but kind smile played on his thin dark lips. It was hard to say whether he was an invincible god or a mortal human, but one thing was certain – he was not someone ordinary.
Suddenly his concentration was disrupted by a thunder bolt as loud as a battle conch and as bright as a brand new sword. Perhaps Indra, the king of gods, was delighted and wanted to wish him good luck. He first looked up at the crimson sky that was now turning dark grey with all those monsoon clouds piling up and then he turned around slowly and looked towards the shore. He could clearly see an assorted army of various peoples, smart and young, busy with their daily drill in front of the numerous camps they had set up along the sea shore. All the camps, without exception, were decorated with huge dancing saffron flags – symbols of devotion, valor and unity. An expression of love and gratitude ran across his face. He closed his eyes and chanted a few sacred mantras from the holy samhitas in order to thank the gods for their blessings and guidance. He was clearly pleased to have experienced this day of achievement. The story of his long and eventful journey was coming alive in front of his eyes - the amazing lands he had visited, the wonderful people he had met, the strange customs he had witnessed and the numerous wise teachings he had learnt, all these years. How could the princes of Manu be so ignorant and suspicious of all these peoples whom they never hesitate to call dasyus and danavas? How could the millions of these lives be so distanced from civilization and awareness? How could the great rishis, munis and other revered sages, who devote their lives for the upliftment of these unfortunate men of Aryavarta, be not protected and supported by our so called Aryan kingdoms? He wondered.
He wondered why no Suryavanshi prince of the Ikshvaku dynasty ever cared to cross the great Vindhyachalas and visit the beautiful lands of Madhya and Dakshina? Was he the first Raaghava to have experienced the waters of Narmada, Tungabhadra, Krishna and Kaveri? Was he the first kshatriya to have worshipped the van-devas of the Aravalis & Nilgiris and the kul-devis residing in the hills of Megha and Tripura? Was he the first Manava to have visited the astounding cities of Yakshas, Gandharvas, Suparnas and Nagas and also the far flung villages belonging to the aadivasi tribes? Was he the first Aryan who had brought the message of the shrutis and smritis to the tribes of nishaads, bheels, munds, kols and gonds and also to the clans of 'the divine monkey' and 'the great bear'?
Maybe yes. Maybe he was the first Aryan prince to have walked throughout the vast rugged landscape that lay to the south of the great plain so thoroughly. Though a prince by birth & right and by karma & varna he chose to live and walk among the so called lesser peoples. It is hard to estimate how many villages he visited or how many forests and rivers he crossed. It is difficult to say how many million lives he touched or how many thousand friends and followers he made. But he came on each one of them as a messiah and a messenger. He showered his unconditional love on all of them. He broke the barriers of jaatis, varnas, and gender and demolished the walls of languages and customs. He taught them the higher ways of living and thinking. He gave them the concept of family and its values and ideals. He gave them sanskaars and gyanam. He made them the superior ones.
He would politely refuse to take the daughters of the tribal chiefs as his wives as he was already married. He would accepte the widely revered deva pashupatinath and matrudevi and would worship them as he would worship his own gods - indra, varuna, agni, maruts and ashwins. He would establish hundreds of ashrams and gurukuls across this land and would train the tribal youth in the contemporary aryan warfare to protect these small yet powerful building blocks of civilization. He would teach them developed ways of agriculture which the aryan people had been practicing in the northern plains of sindhu and saraswati for centuries. He would make them aware of the existence and expanse of their land – their own land of Aryavarta and would in turn get himself enlightened about the diversity of the cultures here. Many a violent chiefs of barbaric danava and daitya tribes would be killed - the repenting spared and the sober ones be protected thence.
It was a revolution - a revolution of civilization, awakening and awareness – a revolution of bringing the neglected dasyus into the mainstream and making them Aryans. It was hardly surprising that his message spread to the farthest lands within a short span of 14 years of his journey and this land to the south of the great Himalayas and to the north of the great ocean actually became Aryavarta in true sense.
The royal one took a deep breath and relaxed his muscles. A sense of satisfaction showed in his kind eyes as he stood on the cliff braving the fierce monsoon showers, looking at his army of a hundred tribal chiefs with their thousands of innocent yet brave young men, quickly moving around, making logistic arrangements to appropriate the sudden monsoon. They revered and loved him like a god and father and he was, today, proud of his devotees. How well had they come together to help their master and mentor in this hour of distress and difficulty. How meticulously had they planned and built this huge structure just out of their devotion and affection for him. He once again looked at the ferocious ocean dancing tandava to the tune of monsoon and then gradually turned towards that unending long coral and rock bridge that stood steadily in the wild ocean, running down south to connect Dhanushkoti with the golden island.
A hand quietly touched and surprised his shoulder. He swiftly looked back. It was none other that his younger brother Saumitra Lakshmana. "The sethu is ready respected brother, in all ways". "Well then dear Lakshamana", replied he in a polite yet stern voice, "Ask Maharaja Sugreeva, Mahabali Jamvant and dear Pavanputra to get our men ready. We shall proceed tomorrow, as soon as the morning gets into its fourth hour. The gods will protect us indeed."
"And let us prepare ourselves for the greatest battle ever – a battle that shall be fought among best of men on earth. A battle that shall bring back the pride of Aryavarta – a battle that shall bring back Devi Sita……..my Sita……"
The wanderer prince was now looking straight in the eyes of his beloved brother with his voice choked and the tears of grief and love rolling down his royal divine cheeks.
~ Atri Joshi
<070720082300>
Saturday, March 29, 2008
A short story
The Vengeance
It was just another morning for Taufiq bhai. For others in the community it was a special weekly event. It was the auspicious day of jumma. Taufiq bhai was feeling too lazy to get out of his “bed” – a chaotic arrangement of rugs and rags on mud plastered floor in the backyard of his two room “house”. Like the other houses of the mohallah, his house too was a typical muslim house – a couple of rooms enclosed within a rough, partially broken boundary wall and a clumsy jute curtain thrown carelessly at the entrance. A few goats tied in the verandah and a dozen chickens all over the place.
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
The morning azaan had commenced.
“Damn this rogue. Can’t he let me sleep a little more?” Taufiq bhai was not at all pleased with the shrieking high pitched voice of Munne khan – the son of “khoosat” imam or “the diseased” imam – as he was fondly called by many. It was not because of his habit of waking people up so early that he was hated so much but because of his liaisons with the corrupt politicians and his dirty ways of luring and convincing people away to vote for “hand” or “cycle” or “elephant” or any other symbol during the elections. The rumour said that he demanded thousands of rupees for a single vote from the mohallah.
“L’aa-i-l’aaaaha i’llaaaah…… muhammaad-ul-rasooool allaaaah…….”
-
The azaan was not stopping. Neither was it supposed to.
“May Allah curse you and your entire family, you son of the diseased one… damn you!” Taufiq bahi stood up stretching his arms in air and despair. Although he seemed quite disturbed by the morning call yet he had no choice but to get ready and head towards the Lal masjid before it was too late and before the sun showed up. Afterall, it was the day of Jumma. He quickly wore his baniyaan, tied up his tehmat, got into his chappals and grabbed his white prayer cap before rushing towards the street in anger.
Even in the early morning hours the narrow cobbled street was as crowded as it got during the day. Everybody was rushing towards the masjid - the old and the young, fathers and sons, friends and foes, the rich and the poor – everybody. It was indeed the day of jumma. One could hear all sorts of sounds - people talking to each other, children laughing, old men coughing and boys whispering. It seemed like a piece of fast bollywood number with the chattering of chappals rendering a rhythm to the whole thing.
As Taufiq bhai approached the masjid, the voice of Munne khan in the old disfigured loudspeaker got stronger and stronger. He was reciting the same old verses from the Quran which Taufiq bhai had been listening for forty, maybe, fifty years altogether, since his childhood – the verses in Arabic he could hardly understand. But surprisingly Munne Khan’s voice was fresh and young and his pronunciation profound, unlike the khoosat imam, though he shrieked twice as much as his father. It was for the first time that Munne was guiding the jumma prayers since his homecoming. Taufiq bhai had heard that he was a bright lad and that is why he could make it to Deoband to graduate as a maulvi. They said it was after years that a maulvi from Agra had graduated from Deoband. Taufiq bhai though knew in his heart that it was more of his father’s influence and precious contacts with a bonus of his capability to pay the hefty donations, that had helped Munne graduate in this fancy manner. A passing thought ran through his mind – could he ever do the same for any of his sons? The answer was simple.
Lal Masjid could now be seen clearly on the opposite side of Chauranga road, where Taufiq bhai had finally reached through the snaking narrow brick lane of the mohallah. It was one of the busiest roads of Agra and housed numerous shops and small workshops on the either side. Taufiq bhai too worked in one of these auto workshops. He was lucky enough to work with Naveen bhai, a Hindu. Naveen bhai’s workshop was quite renowned and there was no dearth of work. And Naveen bhai himself was a nice man. He would never shout at anyone and was gentle enough to grant paid leaves to his workers, nearly all of them Muslims, during the holy month of ramzaan. But most importantly, he had a special regard for Taufiq bhai given their long association and good faith. Taufiq bhai paused for a minute and looked around at the road. The market was closed and the road was choked with hundreds of heads, all covered in white circular prayer caps. There were some cows lying beside the garbage heaps munching their find. Loudspeaker was at its worst and it had started irritating Taufiq bhai even more.
“May Allah curse you, the evil one!” he whispered, maybe a bit loudly.
-
“Whom are you cursing Taufiq bhai?” A soft sarcastic voice came from behind.
Damn! Was he overheard?
Taufiq bhai turned around and found wicked Naseem, his neighbour grinning at him.
“Umm… nobody Naseem bhai…..just these cows….the beasts are blocking the way of our brethren...” Taufiq bhai made it up quickly.
“Hahahaha… you are absolutely right my brother…” Naseem laughed back.
“I wonder why are these bloody cows sitting here when they can serve the appetite of our entire mohallah for a week? Isn’t it stupid to watch your dinner up so close and still not have the power to eat it?” Naseem was serious this time.
“But isn’t it illegal to kill a cow?” Taufiq bhai retaliated.
“Arrrgh! Who made these laws? These kaafirs? I don’t abide to these stupid laws. I only believe in the laws of Quran Sharif. You know, we regularly make a cow halaal at my place. What does it take? Just a hundred rupee note for that Hindu constable? And it’s worth it my brother. You don’t know what sort of treat you are missing.” Naseem walked on.
Taufiq bhai stood, thinking.
“No… no... it’s not worth it…” He thought. “Why upset the Hindus when we can survive over the meat of buffalo? I am sure it tastes the same…. and this Naseem? He is an evil man…. Everybody knows this isn’t it?” He muttered in a consoling tone.
The sun had started shining brightly on the masjid, exposing its cheap red colour and un-plastered tall minaret - crowned with a big old shrieking loudspeaker. The masjid was small yet powerful and its power reflected not only in the numerous long prayer queues on the Chauranga Road but also in the hearts of the hundreds who had joined in on jumma, as a reassurance of faith, unity and brotherhood. Taufiq bhai too joined the ranks like a drop in the ocean though a bit unwillingly. He never liked this long tiresome ritual.
“L’aa-i-l’aaaaha i’llaaaah…… muhammaad-ul-rasooool allaaaah…….”
-
Munne khan guided the people of faith through the entire ritual of jumma prayers with utmost confidence and serenity. His words were heavy but clear and his voice fresh, as it should have been. He delivered the Arabic verses in such a sophisticated manner that one could have easily passed his speech as an Arab’s. They could feel the depth of faith and honesty in his voice and many a men were so impressed that they imagined it coming straight from the holy prophet himself. Such was an impact of Munne khan on his first day as an imam. Surprisingly, Taufiq bhai too, who would take the jumma prayer as a horrible formality, was mesmerized by Munne khan.
“Peace be upon our prophet Hazrat Muhammad, sallallaaaho-w’aalai-wassallam”
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
As the long ritual of prayers came to an end, it was time for the weekly sermon. Everybody eagerly waited to hear what the new imam had to say on his first day.
“Bismillaah-ur-rahmaan-ar-raheem….”
“Brethren, by the grace of Allah, I have, today – for the first time, an opportunity to speak to you and share the golden words of Quran-e-paak and Hadees. And share with you what our prophet had expected of us when he had bestowed upon us the faith of Islam and the wish of Allah, and also what have we become today. I want to share with you the facts, of which, you are most certainly unaware, for, if you were aware of those, you would not just sit idle in your homes or serve the kaafirs all day, but would unite and fight for your rights – the rights gifted to you by none other than the holy prophet himself through the numerous verses in the holy book.”
Munne khan’s explosive words had already charged up the atmosphere and everybody without exception had their ears fixed on his voice.
“Have you ever thought my brethren, who you really are? Are you a pathan or a husseini? Are you a shia or a sunni? Are you a bareilvi or a dakkhini? Who are you my brother? Lest you are confused, let me remind you – you are nobody, mind me, nobody, except a mussalmaan! And that is because you were born at Allah’s will and so will you die. And if you know this fact then you must also know that Allah has mercy on every mussalmaan and also that if you are not a mussalmaan first, then you are a kaafir, just like many who throng this land of Hindustan today like untamed cattle. And do I need to remind you about the fate of kaafirs, my dear ones?”
Munne khan roared like a lion. The kid was indeed gifted.
“This land of Hindustan that was once ruled by our forefathers has now been taken over by the kaafirs, can’t you see? Can’t you see how these kaafirs, who had been conquered over and destroyed by our mighty Mughal ancestors, have once again stolen the riches and nobility befooling you, using their old filthy ways? If anyone among you has read the holy Quran, he must know what the verse five of the chapter nine says. And because it seems to me that none of you has indeed read our holy book with seriousness, let me quote – then, when the sacred months have passed, slay the kaafirs wherever you find them, and capture them and besiege them, and prepare for them each and every ambush – but if they repent and accept Islam, then leave their way free. Verily, Allah is most forgiving, most merciful”
“L’aa-i-l’aaaaha i’llaaaah…… muhammaad-ul-rasooool allaaaah…….”
“Remember, o my brethren, we exist today because our forefathers fought for our tanzeem, for our Islam, for our honour, for us! It was them who brought this land of kaafirs under Daarul-Islam. It was them who conquered and killed a hundred thousand kaafir kings and showed the way of Islam to their hundred million subjects. It was them who ruled this land for a thousand years. And look what has happened to the might of Islam today. Look!”
“You slave all day for a Hindu baniya who throws some pieces of bread at you and you eat it like a dog. What has come upon you my brethren? What is it that has turned you Mussalmans into cowards of no soul?
Visibly, a wave of anger, disgust and guilt swept through masses and a hundred heads covered with white prayer caps shook in disbelief.
“Do you have a slightest idea what these kaafirs are doing to our people? If no, then let me remind you about the martyrdom of our beloved Baabri masjid. They destroyed it in front of our eyes and what could we do? They killed thousands of our mussalmaan brothers and raped thousands of our mothers and sisters in Gujarat and Kashmir and elsewhere and what could we do? If you can’t hear their cries and can’t feel their pain, you have no right to live! You have no right to live if you don’t have power to avenge. And you will never have power to avenge if you don’t rule this land and believe me brethren, you will never be able to rule this land unless you dream of it, unless you dream of our land, the land of Islam, the land of Mughalstan!!”
Mughalstan! Mughalstan? A brief pause gave way to the whispers of curiosity.
“Yes Mughalstan!!!!”
The voice thundered and words exploded like a killing bolt of lightening.
“Our brothers took Pakistan fifty years back and five years hence, we will take Mughalstan – our destined land! Kashmir, Himachal, Haryana, Dilli, Punjab, UP, Bihar and Bengal will be taken and will be governed by us, in the name of shariya, in the name of Allah, the most merciful. The entire land will belong to us – to our tanzeem. We will connect Pakistan to Bangladesh, inshallah! Once again we will rule this land, bringing an end to our filthy exploitation. None of us shall remain deprived. None of our brother shall be killed by the kaafirs and none of our sister shall weep. And to achieve this, we must unite. We must consolidate our efforts and energies. And if need be we shall kill every single of these treacherous kaafirs for, as we all know, a muslim life is more precious than a million kaafir lives put together. They shall be eliminated sans mercy if they dare touch any of our brother!”
“Don’t worry my fellows, everything is ready and everything has been planned. Accurately.”
“Aameen…”
-
“Aameen…”
-
“Aameen…”
-
Many a fists rose in air. And a thousand angry passionate voices screamed and echoed on the road like an approaching hurricane.
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
“Mughalstan Zindabaad….”
-
“Mughalstan Zindabaad….”
-
The dream ran through their minds like an English action movie. Their eyes twinkled with zest of revenge and hatred. Many a bodies trembled with excitement and many a souls lost the fear of death. They could smell victory in their numbers and terror in their smiles. They started dispersing quickly repeating the name of the holy prophet, only to come back in far greater numbers, the next jumma.
-
“….how on earth could I be so naïve? Isn’t he absolutely correct? Haven’t these Hindus turned us into beggars? Look at Naveen. He lives in a kothi. And look at me who lives in a jhuggi. I toil all day and he keeps all the profit. And worse, he is a bloody kaafir, born to serve and I am a Mussalmaan, born to rule. Isn’t that an irony! But praises to Allah, this is going to change soon.”
“Naveen bhai, be prepared to pay for your misdeeds because the day is not far when I will have your shop and your kothi and you shall be driven away to hell…hahahahah…”
Taufiq bahi was feeling a new energy in his heart and a new strength in his limbs as he walked chuckling to himself. The passion of youth overtook the aging body. It was a rebirth, or maybe, the real birth.
-
“And you, the sacred one, see you today at Naseem’s place….”
He muttered, smiled sarcastically and greedily… and kicked the cow that had blocked his way.
Atri Joshi
<230320081230>
It was just another morning for Taufiq bhai. For others in the community it was a special weekly event. It was the auspicious day of jumma. Taufiq bhai was feeling too lazy to get out of his “bed” – a chaotic arrangement of rugs and rags on mud plastered floor in the backyard of his two room “house”. Like the other houses of the mohallah, his house too was a typical muslim house – a couple of rooms enclosed within a rough, partially broken boundary wall and a clumsy jute curtain thrown carelessly at the entrance. A few goats tied in the verandah and a dozen chickens all over the place.
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
The morning azaan had commenced.
“Damn this rogue. Can’t he let me sleep a little more?” Taufiq bhai was not at all pleased with the shrieking high pitched voice of Munne khan – the son of “khoosat” imam or “the diseased” imam – as he was fondly called by many. It was not because of his habit of waking people up so early that he was hated so much but because of his liaisons with the corrupt politicians and his dirty ways of luring and convincing people away to vote for “hand” or “cycle” or “elephant” or any other symbol during the elections. The rumour said that he demanded thousands of rupees for a single vote from the mohallah.
“L’aa-i-l’aaaaha i’llaaaah…… muhammaad-ul-rasooool allaaaah…….”
-
The azaan was not stopping. Neither was it supposed to.
“May Allah curse you and your entire family, you son of the diseased one… damn you!” Taufiq bahi stood up stretching his arms in air and despair. Although he seemed quite disturbed by the morning call yet he had no choice but to get ready and head towards the Lal masjid before it was too late and before the sun showed up. Afterall, it was the day of Jumma. He quickly wore his baniyaan, tied up his tehmat, got into his chappals and grabbed his white prayer cap before rushing towards the street in anger.
Even in the early morning hours the narrow cobbled street was as crowded as it got during the day. Everybody was rushing towards the masjid - the old and the young, fathers and sons, friends and foes, the rich and the poor – everybody. It was indeed the day of jumma. One could hear all sorts of sounds - people talking to each other, children laughing, old men coughing and boys whispering. It seemed like a piece of fast bollywood number with the chattering of chappals rendering a rhythm to the whole thing.
As Taufiq bhai approached the masjid, the voice of Munne khan in the old disfigured loudspeaker got stronger and stronger. He was reciting the same old verses from the Quran which Taufiq bhai had been listening for forty, maybe, fifty years altogether, since his childhood – the verses in Arabic he could hardly understand. But surprisingly Munne Khan’s voice was fresh and young and his pronunciation profound, unlike the khoosat imam, though he shrieked twice as much as his father. It was for the first time that Munne was guiding the jumma prayers since his homecoming. Taufiq bhai had heard that he was a bright lad and that is why he could make it to Deoband to graduate as a maulvi. They said it was after years that a maulvi from Agra had graduated from Deoband. Taufiq bhai though knew in his heart that it was more of his father’s influence and precious contacts with a bonus of his capability to pay the hefty donations, that had helped Munne graduate in this fancy manner. A passing thought ran through his mind – could he ever do the same for any of his sons? The answer was simple.
Lal Masjid could now be seen clearly on the opposite side of Chauranga road, where Taufiq bhai had finally reached through the snaking narrow brick lane of the mohallah. It was one of the busiest roads of Agra and housed numerous shops and small workshops on the either side. Taufiq bhai too worked in one of these auto workshops. He was lucky enough to work with Naveen bhai, a Hindu. Naveen bhai’s workshop was quite renowned and there was no dearth of work. And Naveen bhai himself was a nice man. He would never shout at anyone and was gentle enough to grant paid leaves to his workers, nearly all of them Muslims, during the holy month of ramzaan. But most importantly, he had a special regard for Taufiq bhai given their long association and good faith. Taufiq bhai paused for a minute and looked around at the road. The market was closed and the road was choked with hundreds of heads, all covered in white circular prayer caps. There were some cows lying beside the garbage heaps munching their find. Loudspeaker was at its worst and it had started irritating Taufiq bhai even more.
“May Allah curse you, the evil one!” he whispered, maybe a bit loudly.
-
“Whom are you cursing Taufiq bhai?” A soft sarcastic voice came from behind.
Damn! Was he overheard?
Taufiq bhai turned around and found wicked Naseem, his neighbour grinning at him.
“Umm… nobody Naseem bhai…..just these cows….the beasts are blocking the way of our brethren...” Taufiq bhai made it up quickly.
“Hahahaha… you are absolutely right my brother…” Naseem laughed back.
“I wonder why are these bloody cows sitting here when they can serve the appetite of our entire mohallah for a week? Isn’t it stupid to watch your dinner up so close and still not have the power to eat it?” Naseem was serious this time.
“But isn’t it illegal to kill a cow?” Taufiq bhai retaliated.
“Arrrgh! Who made these laws? These kaafirs? I don’t abide to these stupid laws. I only believe in the laws of Quran Sharif. You know, we regularly make a cow halaal at my place. What does it take? Just a hundred rupee note for that Hindu constable? And it’s worth it my brother. You don’t know what sort of treat you are missing.” Naseem walked on.
Taufiq bhai stood, thinking.
“No… no... it’s not worth it…” He thought. “Why upset the Hindus when we can survive over the meat of buffalo? I am sure it tastes the same…. and this Naseem? He is an evil man…. Everybody knows this isn’t it?” He muttered in a consoling tone.
The sun had started shining brightly on the masjid, exposing its cheap red colour and un-plastered tall minaret - crowned with a big old shrieking loudspeaker. The masjid was small yet powerful and its power reflected not only in the numerous long prayer queues on the Chauranga Road but also in the hearts of the hundreds who had joined in on jumma, as a reassurance of faith, unity and brotherhood. Taufiq bhai too joined the ranks like a drop in the ocean though a bit unwillingly. He never liked this long tiresome ritual.
“L’aa-i-l’aaaaha i’llaaaah…… muhammaad-ul-rasooool allaaaah…….”
-
Munne khan guided the people of faith through the entire ritual of jumma prayers with utmost confidence and serenity. His words were heavy but clear and his voice fresh, as it should have been. He delivered the Arabic verses in such a sophisticated manner that one could have easily passed his speech as an Arab’s. They could feel the depth of faith and honesty in his voice and many a men were so impressed that they imagined it coming straight from the holy prophet himself. Such was an impact of Munne khan on his first day as an imam. Surprisingly, Taufiq bhai too, who would take the jumma prayer as a horrible formality, was mesmerized by Munne khan.
“Peace be upon our prophet Hazrat Muhammad, sallallaaaho-w’aalai-wassallam”
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
As the long ritual of prayers came to an end, it was time for the weekly sermon. Everybody eagerly waited to hear what the new imam had to say on his first day.
“Bismillaah-ur-rahmaan-ar-raheem….”
“Brethren, by the grace of Allah, I have, today – for the first time, an opportunity to speak to you and share the golden words of Quran-e-paak and Hadees. And share with you what our prophet had expected of us when he had bestowed upon us the faith of Islam and the wish of Allah, and also what have we become today. I want to share with you the facts, of which, you are most certainly unaware, for, if you were aware of those, you would not just sit idle in your homes or serve the kaafirs all day, but would unite and fight for your rights – the rights gifted to you by none other than the holy prophet himself through the numerous verses in the holy book.”
Munne khan’s explosive words had already charged up the atmosphere and everybody without exception had their ears fixed on his voice.
“Have you ever thought my brethren, who you really are? Are you a pathan or a husseini? Are you a shia or a sunni? Are you a bareilvi or a dakkhini? Who are you my brother? Lest you are confused, let me remind you – you are nobody, mind me, nobody, except a mussalmaan! And that is because you were born at Allah’s will and so will you die. And if you know this fact then you must also know that Allah has mercy on every mussalmaan and also that if you are not a mussalmaan first, then you are a kaafir, just like many who throng this land of Hindustan today like untamed cattle. And do I need to remind you about the fate of kaafirs, my dear ones?”
Munne khan roared like a lion. The kid was indeed gifted.
“This land of Hindustan that was once ruled by our forefathers has now been taken over by the kaafirs, can’t you see? Can’t you see how these kaafirs, who had been conquered over and destroyed by our mighty Mughal ancestors, have once again stolen the riches and nobility befooling you, using their old filthy ways? If anyone among you has read the holy Quran, he must know what the verse five of the chapter nine says. And because it seems to me that none of you has indeed read our holy book with seriousness, let me quote – then, when the sacred months have passed, slay the kaafirs wherever you find them, and capture them and besiege them, and prepare for them each and every ambush – but if they repent and accept Islam, then leave their way free. Verily, Allah is most forgiving, most merciful”
“L’aa-i-l’aaaaha i’llaaaah…… muhammaad-ul-rasooool allaaaah…….”
“Remember, o my brethren, we exist today because our forefathers fought for our tanzeem, for our Islam, for our honour, for us! It was them who brought this land of kaafirs under Daarul-Islam. It was them who conquered and killed a hundred thousand kaafir kings and showed the way of Islam to their hundred million subjects. It was them who ruled this land for a thousand years. And look what has happened to the might of Islam today. Look!”
“You slave all day for a Hindu baniya who throws some pieces of bread at you and you eat it like a dog. What has come upon you my brethren? What is it that has turned you Mussalmans into cowards of no soul?
Visibly, a wave of anger, disgust and guilt swept through masses and a hundred heads covered with white prayer caps shook in disbelief.
“Do you have a slightest idea what these kaafirs are doing to our people? If no, then let me remind you about the martyrdom of our beloved Baabri masjid. They destroyed it in front of our eyes and what could we do? They killed thousands of our mussalmaan brothers and raped thousands of our mothers and sisters in Gujarat and Kashmir and elsewhere and what could we do? If you can’t hear their cries and can’t feel their pain, you have no right to live! You have no right to live if you don’t have power to avenge. And you will never have power to avenge if you don’t rule this land and believe me brethren, you will never be able to rule this land unless you dream of it, unless you dream of our land, the land of Islam, the land of Mughalstan!!”
Mughalstan! Mughalstan? A brief pause gave way to the whispers of curiosity.
“Yes Mughalstan!!!!”
The voice thundered and words exploded like a killing bolt of lightening.
“Our brothers took Pakistan fifty years back and five years hence, we will take Mughalstan – our destined land! Kashmir, Himachal, Haryana, Dilli, Punjab, UP, Bihar and Bengal will be taken and will be governed by us, in the name of shariya, in the name of Allah, the most merciful. The entire land will belong to us – to our tanzeem. We will connect Pakistan to Bangladesh, inshallah! Once again we will rule this land, bringing an end to our filthy exploitation. None of us shall remain deprived. None of our brother shall be killed by the kaafirs and none of our sister shall weep. And to achieve this, we must unite. We must consolidate our efforts and energies. And if need be we shall kill every single of these treacherous kaafirs for, as we all know, a muslim life is more precious than a million kaafir lives put together. They shall be eliminated sans mercy if they dare touch any of our brother!”
“Don’t worry my fellows, everything is ready and everything has been planned. Accurately.”
“Aameen…”
-
“Aameen…”
-
“Aameen…”
-
Many a fists rose in air. And a thousand angry passionate voices screamed and echoed on the road like an approaching hurricane.
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
“Allaaaah-o-akbaaar……”
-
“Mughalstan Zindabaad….”
-
“Mughalstan Zindabaad….”
-
The dream ran through their minds like an English action movie. Their eyes twinkled with zest of revenge and hatred. Many a bodies trembled with excitement and many a souls lost the fear of death. They could smell victory in their numbers and terror in their smiles. They started dispersing quickly repeating the name of the holy prophet, only to come back in far greater numbers, the next jumma.
-
“….how on earth could I be so naïve? Isn’t he absolutely correct? Haven’t these Hindus turned us into beggars? Look at Naveen. He lives in a kothi. And look at me who lives in a jhuggi. I toil all day and he keeps all the profit. And worse, he is a bloody kaafir, born to serve and I am a Mussalmaan, born to rule. Isn’t that an irony! But praises to Allah, this is going to change soon.”
“Naveen bhai, be prepared to pay for your misdeeds because the day is not far when I will have your shop and your kothi and you shall be driven away to hell…hahahahah…”
Taufiq bahi was feeling a new energy in his heart and a new strength in his limbs as he walked chuckling to himself. The passion of youth overtook the aging body. It was a rebirth, or maybe, the real birth.
-
“And you, the sacred one, see you today at Naseem’s place….”
He muttered, smiled sarcastically and greedily… and kicked the cow that had blocked his way.
Atri Joshi
<230320081230>
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Pain
Maybe this is why I do not stay at home. It provokes me to think. To think about myself. Today when I was trying to make a list of courses I "want" to apply for, i suddenly realized that this is not something I "want" to do, but some thing I "should" do. Fuck! What the hell was I doing? What the hell was I doing for the last some months? I was not being myself. I was betraying myself. I was acting like a good boy. I was acting as a responsible person. And in the process I was killing myself. I was trying to adapt to a world of corporate sharks. I was negating my hard earned 5 years which made me what I am today. Why was I running towards hell? No answer. Its just that this is what one must do. I do shit all day at my office and call it management. I abuse people on my way back home and call it a necessity. I feel like drinking to get over the ugly day and I want to try smoking. What the fuck?? Whats wrong? I keep telling myself that I must do all this to earn and support my home. I must stay with my father because he needs me. Is this true? Is it okay to kill oneself everyday to "support" his home? I dont know. But what I know that when I was weeping and crying for help today and when i was desperate to talk to an angel, I found none. I scanned them and I found that I mean no more that an iota to them.
I found myself alone. I am not sure what I want in life. But I know what I enjoying doing? One thing that I have realized over months is that I am an architect. I cant kill the architect in me. And I want to use my skills NOT for myself but for those whom I dont know. Who live a struggling life yet manage to laugh. For those who expect nothing from me but who shed a tear or two when they can trust me. There are many who need me and whom I need. I, however, do not need these selfish bunch of people around me.
I believe in you God. Please forgive me and show me the way. I trust you and love you. Protect me form these sharks God. You sent me here. You will protect me and my people I know. Take the fear out of me o God. I pray.
I found myself alone. I am not sure what I want in life. But I know what I enjoying doing? One thing that I have realized over months is that I am an architect. I cant kill the architect in me. And I want to use my skills NOT for myself but for those whom I dont know. Who live a struggling life yet manage to laugh. For those who expect nothing from me but who shed a tear or two when they can trust me. There are many who need me and whom I need. I, however, do not need these selfish bunch of people around me.
I believe in you God. Please forgive me and show me the way. I trust you and love you. Protect me form these sharks God. You sent me here. You will protect me and my people I know. Take the fear out of me o God. I pray.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
