Lucifer’s Angel

I wrote this for the college magazine's guest column. So ignore the cheek.

“Hah! I am a thorn in His heart, Gabriel, always with Him. You go on, chant His name in vain, He thinks of me more than He ever will of you.”

So well, Satan, before he became the cool (or the burning hot?) commander-in-chief of hell, was an angel like others. Obedient, shiny, translucent and generally sad. And then he refused to bow before the mound of earth that was to become Adam, and was kicked out of heaven. So he vowed to make sure man turned against heaven. And he did well, Forbidden stuff being done, and man learning what was good and what wasn’t.
Imagine all the things you want today, all lust, all covetousness, all are offspring of the Original Sin. All awesomeness, everything desirable is it. Without Satan’s effort “I want you to draw me like one of your French girls, Jack” wouldn’t have happened. Neither would have the king of good times been born. No happy hours. No LAN. No grudge against people with LAN equipped hostels. No KFC.

No tank tops. No eight pack abs.

And no Batman.

Imagine a world without competition and pride. (Sorry for depressing you further, but we need to fill printing space here so bear with me). A world without passion. No difference between the righteous and the wicked, for there are no wicked. Our lives would have been an obnoxious shade of bright white. Do we really want a world devoid of all sin? No!

A species without knowledge of good and evil would have been a dull species (actually, I am not sure if it should be called a species, given that the art of making progeny wouldn’t have been known to it). Most things that we love most in the world are direct consequences of sinful states of mind.

We are so weird. We like indulgence, we love it actually, and yet we scream our lungs out against it. We probably like to tell ourselves that we are pure innocent beings. We like to constantly believe that we love being chaste, diligent and docile. But we also like blaming Satan for all our faecal matter. We made him sound so bad that we ended up making him the epitome of all that we like doing but shouldn’t. It’s time we came to terms with the fact that we are in general, a bad species. And really, there’s nothing we can do about it. We like being bad, but we don’t like believing it.

We owe our very existence to Satan, for without him, Adam and Eve wouldn’t even have looked at each other!

Sin is good. Indulge.

One post long overdue.

I am currently reading Amartya Sen's The Argumentative Indian, one book I think everyone interested in India should read. It taught me so many new things, beginning with how ancient Indian texts are all filled with argumentative conversations and skepticism. Most surprising was this excerpt from the Song of Creation, in the opening chapter of the Rigveda, which goes:

Who really knows? Who will here proclaim it? Whence was it produced? Whence is this creation? The gods came afterwards, with the creation of this universe. Who then knows whence it has arisen?


Whence this creation has arisen perhaps it formed itself, or perhaps it did not the one who looks down on it, in the highest heaven, only he knows or perhaps he does not know.

The Rigveda is one of the most revered texts in Hinduism, many claim that Hinduism finds its origins in it. How beautiful and rational a picture it paints, questioning the existence of an almighty whose presence is taken for granted by most Hindus. This is the problem with us, as Sen observes. Nobody bothers to look beyond the severely politicized versions of religious history which are so prominent in India. Everybody wants to translate and interpret religions in ways that pay off in the best way possible. The same is with Islam. How many times have you heard of Muslim fanatics blaming kafirs(non believers) for all the suffering and pain and general trouble in the world? I myself have been told to be vary of all those who have strayed away from the path of 'righteousness'. Nice to know though, that the Prophet mentions in the last verses of the Quran, in Surat al-Kafiroon, or "The Chapter on Non-believers" as follows:

O disbelievers, I do not worship that which you worship, nor do you worship the One whom I worship. And neither I am going to worship that which you have worshipped, nor will you worship the One whom I worship. For you is your faith, and for me, my faith.

Where did all the idiocy about conversions to Islam and hatred of non Muslims come up? Why did Hindutva gain prominence over Hinduism? Why did the rational, skeptic views of our religions die and the cruel, sectarian versions flourish? Almost all wars in recorded history were fought in the name of religion.

Momin's couplet makes me laugh:
~
Umr to saari kati ishq-e-butaan mein 'Momin'
Aakhri waqt mein kya khaaq musalmaan honge?
~

I'll post more on this topic as I make progress with Sen's wonderful book.

Murda-parast sukhan nawaaz.

"There, by the side of that pink building. Go straight.", said one old chacha, not looking up from his newspaper. He looked annoyed, probably because he thought my broken Urdu didn't go well with the long hair and backpack and camera.
Delhi was scorching hot. After an hour long metro ride, rickshaws and a couple of kilometers on foot, I reached an intensely mosquito infested alley, lined on one side with kabab stalls, innumerable travel agencies and the other side with mud, crap and people. It was not even remotely close to how I thought the last resting place of such a genius would be like. The rickshaw-walah dropped me on the highway, loosely indicating where my destination was. Paying him off I started walking in the direction his finger pointed to.
As I reached the pink building, there were at least a hundred people buying flowers to pay back to some really famous Pir baba who was buried right next to the compound that housed Ghalib's remains.Not surprisingly, no one went to Ghalib's grave. As I entered the compound, an old flower seller shouted out from his seat behind the cart, "Mirza se milne khaali haath jaoge?" I laughed at him politely. "Mirza ko pasand nahin hai apni mazaar, pareshaan ho jayenge bewajah!" He looked at me, probably praying to God to forgive my sinful tongue.
I entered, and his famous couplet greeted me, etched on a tall white marble column with its translation
~

Na tha kuchh to khuda tha, kuchh na hota to khuda hota;
    Duboya mujh ko honey ne, na hota main to kya hota?
~

I went up to the grave. (I'll put up a photograph here soon) There were a few dried rose petals and wax from a candle someone placed long back. The guard at the entrance, making no effort to contain his contempt, screamed at the top of his voice, "Kam se kam joote toh neeche utaar do sahab, kya zamaana aa gaya hai..." I did as told and went to walk around in the compound, looking at other graves scattered everywhere.
Notwithstanding the dingy lane, and the rude guard, or my water deprived throat, or spinning head, there was something about the place that made it worth all the pain I took. I went back, murmuring Ghalib's couplets, and in awe. Awe not of the place or the monument, there was nothing grand about it, but of the weird excitement dead remains of great men bring up in me. Is it a common feeling? Do most people think like this when they visit a grave or a mausoleum? I know graves are just solid sand through and through, Mirza's bones must have decayed to nothing long before I was even born. I want to visit more graves soon.
Boring post, I know. But there are not a lot of people who'd like to hear about this uneventful trip, and so my poor blog suffers.
~
Hazaaron khwahishen aisi, ki har khwahish pe dum nikle;
    Bahut nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle.
~ 

Messiah.

~
Baad marne ke meri qabr pe aaya wo 'Mir'
Yaad aai mere Isa ko dawa mere baad
~
No translations for this one. i will ruin it if I translate.

On death.

Scary title, yes. Some of the most beautiful couplets have been written about life and death.
~
Gham-e-hasti ka Asad kisse ho juz marg ilaaj?
    Shama har rang mein jalti hai sehar hone tak.
~ 
Translates to:
The pain of existence cannot be cured but with death, Asad. A flame burns with every hue till it dies.

Another one, again Ghalib's goes like,
~
Qaid-e-hayaat-o-band-e-gham, asl mein dono ek hain,
    Maut se pehle aadmee gham se nijaat paaye kyun?
Dil hi to hai, na sang-o-khisht, 
    Dard se bhar na aaye kyun?
~
Means: Life is just a collection of concealed sorrows, and why should someone find comfort before death? It's only your heart, not an idol carved in stone. It'll fill with sorrow, why should it not?

Any talk of Ghalib's take on death isn't complete without the mention of these epic lines:
~
Huey mar ke hum jo ruswa, huey kyun na gharq-e-dariya?
    Na kahin janaaza uthta, na kahin mazaar hota
~
Ghalib says here,  "I wish I drowned in the ocean and died. At least I would be spared of coffins and tombs in death".

Faiz thinks of death as something that cleanses the self and those affected by it the most:
~
Jo hum pe guzri so guzri magar shab-e-hijran,
    Hamare ashq teri aaqebat sanwaar chale
~
This isn't really about death though. He says, "What I suffered I did no doubt, but on the eve of judgement, my tears will prepare you for your next life".

Zauq has a simpleton's view though:
~
Layee hayaat aaye, qazaa le chali chale,
    Apni khushi na aaye, na apni khushi chale
~
It goes: "Life brought me here, I followed. Death took me back I went. Reluctantly I came, reluctantly I left".

I don't want to sound like a pessimist/I am not depressed in life. These couplets are generally beautiful are they not? Mirza Nausha is a genius.

Divine Intervention?

I wrote the above post sitting on my bed. As soon as I published it, someone called my name and knocked on the door. I greeted them. My first reaction seeing their attire, was “Salaam!”. They asked if they could borrow some time, I obliged. They came in and started speaking in flawless Urdu. This gives me a terrible complex every single time something like this happens. Yes, and then they asked me if I was a believer. I said yes, although I’m not even remotely close to being religious. (In fact, a physical characteristic aside, Eid I think is the only thing that keeps me close to the Prophet).

Then they asked me what the most fundamental aim of my life was. I suppressed a laugh. Then shook my head. I don’t know, really. They said that the fundamental aim of my life (They knew the most fundamental aim of my life!) was to ensure that my life after death was a happy one. This life, they say, is transient, irrelevant. What matters is what comes after it. In their words, "What if we’re sent to hell? God forbid."

 They looked like nice innocent people though. They meant no harm whatsoever. They were doing their bit to secure box level seats in heaven, I don’t mind that. What I mind is the way they think my name is all there is to my identity. Isn’t it plain wrong? Stereotyping begins with names everywhere. I shouldn’t talk about stereotyping myself though, am I not the one who’s hinting at extremism at the hands of those who came to me today? For all I know, they could be peaceful people who just want another one they think belongs to them to come share the friendliness their gatherings have. Why do I look at them with suspicion, I wonder?

I get nauseous thinking of how they found me. They must have a list of names of my hostel inmates. They segregated similar sounding names of their interest out of the list and happily ran on the path of righteousness and came to me. After around 8 minutes of incomprehensible crap, they left me in peace. I told them I was an ardent worshipper and loved everything about my religion. (I wanted to show them the post I had just published).  Such a wonderful coincidence, I’m visited by the most profound believers on the same day that I write my first super blasphemous posts on the www.

~

Mir ke deen-o-mazhab ko kya poochhte ho unney to,
    Kashka khaincha, der mein baiTha, kab ka tark Islam kiya.

~

kashka=tilak, der=temple, tark=give up, deen-o-mazhab=religion, essentially. 

You must be thinking I like belonging to the elite group of those master poets who renounced their faith and realized how all of it was hoccum. 

I do. 

But this couplet came to my mind just like that. I don’t want to be Mir.

First post!

I hate hello world posts so I won't write one. Anyways this blog doesn't have much of a 'world' of people. :P
I recalled this couplet a moment ago, my father told me about it. We've tried our hardest but we couldn't trace the poet. If I find him, he'll be on my list of favorites immediately. Here's the couplet, if it rings any bells, please let me know:

Dekh in guzrey huey waqt ki mehraaboN mein, 
    Sar-nagooN baithey hain Aadam ke hazaaroN maabood;
Zehen-e-taskeeN magar de na saka, 
    Maramar-o-choub ke nakaara khudaon ka wujood.
~
Here, in the arches of the bygone era, sit headstones of humanities' numerous almighties. Alas, none of them could put our minds to rest, none of them useless and inefficient marble granite gods.
~

My posts will reek of blasphemy generally I think. I hope He does forgive me.

Milegi Sheikh ko jannat humein dozakh ata'a hoga?
    Bas itni si baat ke liye mehshar bapa hoga?

dozakh=hell, mehshar= the day of judgement
Poet unknown for this one too, sorry!