Who has to save the girl?

Navigation between pages has always been one of my preferred topics and same was true for today. Nevertheless, for a person like me it was today not a favourite, but one disheartening thing to do. I somehow slipped up on a video shared by certain page which was linked up to a recent incident that took place at Kaaw Mohalla, Khanyar on the eve of Eid-UL-Zuha. One unfortunate incident which too will drop dead in the law books against a thirst for justice and ultimately will result in one futile exercise of hope.


Well, a point here is that what make me write today after a long pause about such incident? I have already written numerous articles about the society’s evils and this too is no exception to them. So, for today what is it that made me once again pour my agony in these scripted lines. It is nothing except the “False show of humanity” that irked me of that video. The journalist is asking a lady who has lost her daughter in one of the heart scissoring incidents, “Tueh paeyth kya chuw mouj waeynken baitaan? (Mother, what is right now happening to you?) , Tueh kya chuw gasaan weayn kenas? (What is happening to you right now?), Tueh kya chuw basaan? (What do you feel about it?) and so on. Come on, Mr. Journalist first you call her mother then you ask her about how she feels of an incident of losing a daughter to the flames of inhumane society? How will you feel when, God forbid, your sister/female parent/daughter will ash down to dust and someone will build a story on how you feel right now about it? Even in a wildest of an imagination of such tragedy will send shivers down the spine. What sort of journalism is this? Disgusting! This is no new narrative, no new crime, ample number of such crimes take place each day, each hour, each second. Forget about getting a space in local dailies they don’t even get a person to mourn. They rest like never existing creatures in the earth full of sorrow.

Hah! This video actually played so bad that I found no better option other than stopping it there and the first 17 seconds have frozen in me. They are pain to watch. Doubtless, this video must have been made to show inhumanity, but while brings down the curtains of shame the discipline of journalism lost its own to “Fake sympathy”.

Offense is constantly clear. It is we who have blindfolded the eyes, it is we who feed it, it is we who actually nourish it and it is we who finally complain about it. It is the S.O.C.I.E.T.Y… even words don’t suit to be merged. Such tragedy!

Let me ask you a few simple questions,

How many times you have uttered when something improper is going on, even in your family or in the neighbourhood or in area around?

Have you ever done anything apart from being a mute spectator? Or being a person who watches and discusses do’s and do not’s at back?

In case you have done your bit, how well your family has supported it?

How many times you have reported wrong? Ever? Or just never?

There are so many questions and so less of an expectance of any right. Change is not one day march that we will shout and the next day it will be served. It is a struggle. It is a freedom from doomed ideology. It is a fire to orthodox ideas, cultural burdens, and above all the light into a deep lesion. To get it, we need to starve for it, else this article is only a burden to trash. In simpler words it is not about “who, when and how will save the girl”, instead it is all about “I will save the girl”.

To the fire

I did surrender myself.

Call it destiny or social iniquity,

But for now,

“I am free”.

No curse, No impudence.

Keep blaming each other

By then I shall return in womb another

I know, all over again,

Everything would be same

Faces will change

While crime will have new name.


P.S: The link to video is here  https://www.facebook.com/umaan/videos/10205806342692161/



My world –

An institution of memoirs,

Reverberates a mellow time.

Spent silently —

Hollow, but full of noise.

The orchestra of life,

Keeps playing pain and joy

Through lone nights in drowsy voice

Commitment and remembrance —

O’ Beloved my choice.



“An Impression Of A Hope.”

Little Bulbul flew too high, worrying and fluttering the wings to reach before the sun will surrender its light to the night. As the sun was leaving the sky was appearing no less than a furnace spreading the waves of hope and a promise to meet again and rise from east. Though the scene was too tempting to resist the flight and watch the sun waving goodbye for one more night but the concern of reaching home in time was drinking the sweat.

Halfway to the destination met the joy, the joy of a time, it spoke for a minute that could save her from an anger of the family but the change in a mood is never predictable, so was true for the clouds travelling through the empty sky. Now with every passing second the sky was being sleeved with the dense dark clouds forming the images of the scary creature never seen before.

Through the day they were calm, nowhere I could spot them, where since they made in, “Bulbul of my town whispering to self”.

Ah! May be I should have not hoped much of the joy out of a little time. Joys! They surely don’t last longer. Fluttering harder to make fast to home before the rain could hit the town.

Thunder! Lightening! Thunder! Thunder! And lightening!  Scared but rushing. Flying underneath the trees, rooftops, sheds and what not.

O’ Rain have some mercy on this very little creature, hopelessly she whispered. And the loud thunderclap! And there after she collapsed to the wall.

bulbul and rain


“How could I forget nature doesn’t obey the wishes all time?”, Said she in a quite low tone hanging her head in a deep anguish. It’s all together independent and rules the way it wishes.

A moment of respite, taking deep breaths, cursing the time and worrying with every tic tac of the seconds passing by. At last, against the odds of the nature decided to fly, fly for the young ones who would be afraid of the unwanted guests, clouds, putting in the sky and would be hungry as the day has passed waiting for the mother, anticipating for food to fill their crop. Flapped her wings, through the angry weeping sky, took an optimistic flight but the swevit kept building on with a sound of the thunder and the lightning flashing up the sky.

She was quite near to the destination when she saw the flares making up to the sky. She snuffed smoke in the air. It smelled livelihood, hope, sweat, and much much more. O’ it smells wood too. This gave her a set back. The tired wings couldn’t now fight against the gush of the air, the body weighed more with a pain, fear and panic gripping the little heart.

“O’ Lord! No more of this day”, the choked voice and the broken words. Even before Bulbul had reached the place she broke, remorse filled the eyes, the unseen tears went mixed in the shower of the rain, hopeless and hapless she flew ahead.

The smoke had caged up the midtown where the tallest tree stood sheltering her young ones and their beautiful nest. The haze made up the scary images, sometimes the burned little ones and sometimes the broken nest flashed on her inward eye. By now all she knew was “Midtown hosted a fire”.


Midtown hosted a fire,
Boots, slippers and naked feet,
Spotless living and the hopeless faces,
Cries, waves, tears and runs,
Scattered all over,
The fruits of abandoned tree.
Water spilled,
Flares dancing,
In the sky, Smoke!
Forming images,
Ashes spinning around,
Leaving bruises behind.
Mini Salt Lakes,
Adding on the rosy faces,
Within no time,
Money, jewel and edifices
All kissing the dust,
No fame but the name,
Speck of hope,
And deeds more,
Sanguine step,
And a life ahead.


Just a meters away she heard a women’s group thanking almighty for the shower. “Yes! It was a blessing indeed”, one of the women said.

How could they say rain is a blessing? Did they forget my children? She kept on troubling herself with questions and cries.

“Hadn’t the rain made in at the right time the whole town would have been ashed down”, another lady added. Surely! The almighty has its own way, said the first lady.

Curiously! “Did you people witness how rain saved the tree? Hadn’t the cloud burst taken place the tree would have been on fire and the whole town would have been lost to flares of misery and the pain.”, added another lady patting the child on the shoulder.

Does this mean my little ones are safe?, the Bulbul said.

“Thank God!”, What more I would have wished.

Beating the wings faster, with the content of joy, she flew through the smoke forgetting everything and finally reached to the destination, to her young ones. Held them tight, fed them, chanted lullaby and made them sleep in peace.

So, the story came to an end and I woke from the dream. This time I wasn’t searching answers but I got the lesson. Lesson for an entire life, “Hopelessness is a sin”.

Now you might be thinking how it turned sin? Right? Well! Bulbul got trapped in calamity, she cursed the rain, the moment but hadn’t the rain been on time she would have lost her young ones.

Joys! They don’t last longer. Well! Actual joy was waiting for her but she turned hopeless even before she could have met the worst.

Never blame the situation. The Almighty Allah plans all well. He doesn’t leave one in a situation which he/she can’t withstand. Thank the Almighty for everything. Say, “Alhumdulil’lah” for everything.





The Silence Of The Mother

O’ Lady you have the patience great,

Youthful days you lost to people with no faith,

The life of you was all lost to someones drink,

Who knew nothing but abuses and kicks.

In the darks and through horrible times,

Your children always wondered for a moment of bliss.

With the unmatched partner you dared to settle down,

Just for to keep the word of your seniors in the town.

Blossoms of his where match to your cells,

You welcomed these ringing hopeful bells.

Life of yours seemed little more than serene,

Blessed you were with respect and honor,

And this was the marrow of the scene.

But who knows faith of the garden,

Whose life the autumn takes.

In a moment it turns to the smoke,

The warmth of which is the winter’s hope.


Again the time turned her insane,

In the torn veil and ragged gown,

She was asked to leave her own town,

This time buds were of the matched age.

Who didn’t care enough but dared,

To weigh her love against the bucks.

The years spent together under one shade,

Were lost in the broken branches,

Brought down with the poison of an odium.

Building in the silence of nerves and eerie of thoughts.            

In the corner alone she settled down,

Dark’s of the night were sinking her ,

The sky was accompanying and she was crying.

Pain, the crank’s voice and,

The Somberness ate away the days bright.

In this world full of the souls too insane.

Neither pleasure Nor gain,

She only hopes for the home and

The loaf of bread in the peace,

Where she could thank the Almighty,

For blessing the life full of the grace.



P.S : On the world poetry day I dedicate this post to the women of the world who at one or another moment have faced the wrong.

And The Peace Deflagrated

Crawling in pain is the silence deep in the heart,
Caged in misery is the frantic voice of the depot.

The flares of excruciation broke me down,
Land went clouded, in tears leaving the midtown.

Flares of heritage when took to the sky,
Steamed went the moods and hearts were seen at cry.

Of the old walls, the redolence of purity whirled around
Icicles condensed through the skin as land mourned.

Footsteps lost their impressions,
Ashes they turned in the chains of questions.

Enthralling Pillars, the tribute to shiny foreheads,
All lost to the tyrant sitting on pavement in seconds.

The smell of dead smoke and water spill over the yards,
Sunken went the knees and nameless went cards.

The hope once again took over to the street,
Out of the gloomy day unity is all that we need.

The Saint never was lost but the four walls,
Teachings never will go mute, encrypted are they in our hearts.

~ A.N