ملیر کی گلیاں - زینت حسام

sorry, don't feel like translating it now. Maybe later:

taken from:

http://www.urduseek.com/node/2663

the streets of Maleer by Zeenat Hissaam

ملیر کی گلیاں
Posted Thu, 2008-02-14 19:10 by Anonymous
ملیر کی یادوں کے ساتھ ہرے بھرے پیڑ وابستہ ہیں: امرود، آم، انار، نیم، گلاب، چمبیلی، موتیا۔
ہم بچے نانی کے گھر ہر ہفتے جایا کرتے۔ نانا اور ماموں کے کوارٹر ملے ہوئے تھے۔ ہر کوارٹر میں ایک کمرہ اور ایک بڑا سا آنگن تھا۔ نانا، نانی کے ساتھ خالہ رہتی تھیں اور ماموں، ممانی اور ان کے تین بیٹے ایک ساتھ۔ دونوں کوارٹروں کی درمیانی دیوار نہ تھی لہذا یہ ایک بڑا سا گھر نظر آتا۔ نانی کے آنگن میں امرود کے تین چار پیڑ قطار سے لگے ہوئے تھے اور ایک انار کا درخت تھا۔ ماموں کی طرف ایک بڑا سا نیم کا پیڑ اور موتیا، چمبیلی، اور گلاب کی جھاڑیاں تھیں۔
چھٹیوں کی دوپہر ہم بچے درختوں پر چڑھتے، امرود توڑ توڑ کر کھاتے، آنکھ مچولی کھیلتے۔ شام کو سڑک کے اس پار ملیر ریلوے اسٹیشن کی سیر کو جاتے۔ اور اسٹیشن کے باہر ریل کی پٹریوں کے نیچے بنی پلیاؤں کے اندر بیٹھ کر اوپر سے جاتی ہوئی ٹرین کی آواز سنتے۔ رات کو نانی چار پائیوں پر صاف ستھرے بستر لگاتیں اور ہمیں کہانیاں سناتیں۔ اور ہم تاروں بھرے آسمان کو تکتے تکتے سوجاتے۔ یہ ۱۹۶۰ کی دہائی کی بات ہے۔


تب ملیر کے ہر کوارٹر میں آنگن اور پیڑ ہوتے تھے اور گلیاں صاف ستھری۔ ہواؤں میں امرود کی مہک اور چمبیلی کی
خوشبو بسی ہوتی۔ رفتہ رفتہ لوگوں نے پیڑوں کو کاٹ کر اضافی کمرے بنانے شروع کیے۔ کچے آنگن پکے ہوتے گئے۔ پیڑوں کی تعداد گھٹتی گئی۔ گلاب اور چمبیلی کی جھاڑیاں بھی بتدریج کم ہوتی گئیں۔ کمروں کے باہر ٹین کے شیڈ ڈال کر برآمدے بنائے گئے۔ یہ ۱۹۷۰ کے عشرے کا ذکر ہے۔
آبادی بڑھتی رہی۔ ۸۰ مربع گز پر بنے ہوا دار اور روشن گھر گھٹے ہوئے چھوٹی چھوٹی کھڑکیوں والے تاریک، ایک منزلہ، دو منزلہ بدصورت مکانوں میں تبدیل ہو گئے۔ گلیوں کی چوڑائی کم ہو گئی کیونکہ لوگوں نے گھروں کے باہر ناجائز احاطے تعمیر کر لیے اور سیاہ آہنی گیٹ لگا لیے تھے۔ پیڑوں کی شاخوں کی جگہ اب ٹی وی اینٹینے، سیاسی جماعتوں کے رنگ برنگے جھنڈوں اور ٹیلی فون کے بے ہنگم تاروں نے لے لی تھی۔ یہ ملیر کالونی تھی ۱۹۸۰ کی دہائی میں۔
اور آج، اپریل ۱۹۹۵ کی ایک صبح، میں ملیر کی ایک پکی سڑک پر چلتے ہوئے اس حصے پر قدم رکھتی ہوں جو کلاشنکوف کی گولیوں کے چھوٹے چھوٹے سوراخوں سے چھلنی اور ایک انسان کے خون سے سیاہ ہے۔۔۔ وہ انسان جسے آج سے پندرہ دن قبل سڑک کے اسی حصے پر سفاکی سے قتل کیا گیا۔ میں ان تبدیلیوں کو گرفت میں لانے کی کوشش کرتی ہوں جو گزشتہ تین دہائیوں میں اس زمین، اور اس زمین کے باسیوں کی روح میں در آئی ہیں۔ کتنی گمھبیر تبدیلیاں ہیں یہ۔ اور کتنا مسخ کردیا ہے انھو ں نے ، ملیر کو، جو کبھی ایک سرسبز اور پر امن وادی تھی، اور اس کے مکینوں کی روح کو، وہ سادہ لوح ، مہمان نواز مکیں جو پیڑوں، پھلوں، پھولوں، سبک ہواؤں اور ز ندگی سے محبت کرتے تھے۔

اس منظر کا تصور میرے ذہن کے دریچے میں ثبت ہو کر رہ گیا ہے: دوپہر کا وقت ہے۔ زندگی کا کاروبار جاری ہے۔ سڑک کے کنارے بنی چھوٹی چھوٹی دکانوں میں گاہک کھڑے اشیاء صرف کی خریداری میں مصروف ہیں۔ بچے گلیوں میں کھیل رہے ہیں اور عورتیں گھروں کی دہلیز پر کھڑی ایک دوسرے سے باتیں کر رہی ہیں۔ ایک کار سڑک پر رکتی ہے۔ سامنے حلوائی اور ڈرائی کلینر کی دکانیں ہیں۔ گاڑی میں سے تین مسلح آدمی اترتے ہیں، ڈکی کھولتے ہیں۔ ایک ادھ موئے، نیم جان، کمر تک ننگے آدمی کو نکالتے ہیں جس کے ہاتھ پشت پر بندھے ہوئے ہیں، اور اسے تپتی ہوئی تارکول کی سڑک پر پھینکتے ہیں، اس پر کلاشنکوف سے گولیوں کی بوچھاڑ کرتے ہیں، پھر اس کے چہرے پر ٹھوکر مار کر یقین کرتے ہیں کہ وہ مرچکا ہے یا نہیں۔ اور جب اس کا خون آلود ساکت چہرہ ایک طرف ڈھلک جاتا ہے تو گاڑی کا دروازہ کھول کر اطمینان سے بیٹھتے ہیں اور گاڑی آہستہ خرامی سے سڑک پر چلتی ہوئی لوگوں کی نظروں سے اوجھل ہو جاتی ہے۔
لاش تین گھنٹے خون کے تالاب میں ڈوبی پڑی رہی۔ وہ ایک تنومند، گھبرو جوان تھا۔ کوئی لاش کے قریب نہ پھٹکا۔ سڑک پر زندگی کا کاروبار جاری رہا۔ البتہ ایک وحشت ناک خاموشی پھیل چکی تھی۔ لوگ سرگوشیوں میں باتیں کر رہے تھے۔ وہ اپنے کام جلدی جلدی نمٹا رہے تھے اور لاش کو کن اکھیوں سے دیکھ رہے تھے۔ آخرکار تین گھنٹے بعد ایدھی کی ایمبولیس پہنچی اور لاش اٹھا کر لے کر گئی۔ "ہفتہ بھر وہ لاش مردہ خانے میں پڑی رہی۔ پھر کہیں جا کے اس کی شناخت ہوئی۔ پتہ چلا وہ فوجی تھا،" سفید بالوں اور جھریوں بھرے چہرے والی بزرگ خاتون موضوع سخن سے ہٹ چلی ھیں۔ میں ملیر کے اس گھر میں بیٹھی ان کے نوجوان بھتیجے کے بارے میں بات کرنا چاہ رہی ہوں جو چند ماہ پہلے اس گھر کے اندر قتل ہوا۔
"خدا رحم کرے ہم سب پر۔ ہمیں کیا ہوگیا؟ کیا ہمارے اندر شیطان حلول کر گیا ہے؟" مقتول نوجوان کی پھوپھی، تسبیح ہلاتی ہوئی، تیز تیز بولے جا رہی ھیں۔ مقتول کی ماں کسی سوئم میں گئی ہوئی ہیں اور میں گھر کی عورتوں سے بات کر رہی ہوں۔
"لوگوں اتنے بےدرد، اتنے بےرحم ہو گئے ہیں۔ اس طرح ایک دوسرے کو قتل کر رہے ہیں کہ بھیڑ بکریوں کو بھی ایسے ذبح نہیں کیا جاتا۔۔۔" مقتول کی چچی تاسف سے سر ہلاتے ہوئے کہہ رہی ہیں۔ "ساتواں روزہ تھا۔ میں ظہر کی نماز کے بعد تسبیح پڑھ رہی تھی۔ ریحان دوسرے کمرے میں نماز پڑھ رہا تھا۔ ریحان کی ماں بھی نماز پڑھ رہی تھیں۔ دودھ والا دودھ دے کر پلٹا تھا اور میں دودھ کی تھیلی ہاتھ میں لیے باورچی خانے کی طرف مڑی ہی تھی کہ اتنے میں ایک سفید کار گھر کے گیٹ پر رکی، تین آدمی بڑی بڑی بندوقیں لیے دراتے ہوئے اندر آگئے اور چلا کر پوچھا ُریحان ہے؟ُ انھوں نے جواب کا انتظار بھی نہ کیا اور سیدھے اندر چلے گئے۔ ہمارے گھر کے ساتھ والا مکان ریحان کا ہے اور اندر سے ایک چھوٹا سا راستہ جو دونوں گھروں کو ملاتا ہے۔ بس وہ سیدھے اس راستے سے ہوتے ہوئے اندر چلے گئے۔ ریحان ظہر کی نماز پڑھ رہا تھا"، چچی ایک دم سے خاموشی ہو گئیں۔ پھوپھی، ماں اور چچی کی چیخوں اور بچوں کی خوف زدہ ہو کر رونے کی آوازوں کے درمیان قاتلوں نے کمرے میں داخل ہو کر گولیوں کی باڑھ ماری۔ "ریحان کے ہاتھ نماز کے لیے بندھے ہوئے تھے۔ سینے پہ بندھے ہاتھوں کے ساتھ کوئی آواز نکالے بغیر گر گیا۔ بائیس گولیاں نکلی تھیں جسم سے"، وہ مجھے بتا رہی ہیں۔
"یہ سب کچھ منٹوں میں ہو گیا اور قاتل جس راستے سے آئے اسی راستے واپس ہو گئے۔ دو کے منہ پر ڈھاٹے بندھے ہوئے تھے اور ایک جو درمیانی راستہ پر جم کر کھڑا ہوا نقاب نہیں پہنے تھا"، چچی نے بتایا۔ شاید آپ اسے پہچان سکیں؟ میں سوالیہ
"میں؟ نہیں۔ نہیں۔" وہ گبھرا سی گئیں "مجھے اس کی شکل بالکل یاد نہیں۔ ہوش وحواس میں کہاں تھی تب۔"
"اگر پہچان بھی لے تو کیا ریحان ہمیں واپس مل جائے گا؟ جانے والا تو گیا،" پھوپھی جلدی سے بولیں۔
پھوپھی مجھے وہ کمرہ دکھانے لے جاتی ہیں جہاں وہ قتل ہوا۔ یہ ایک بہت تنگ سا کمرہ ہے۔ جس میں صرف ایک صوفہ سیٹ ہے جو تین دیواروں کے ساتھ لگا ہوا ہے۔ صوفے کی وسطی میز کو چوتھی دیوار کے ساتھ لگا کر رکھا گیا ہے اور کمرے کے وسط میں دری بچھی ہوئی ہے جس پر جائے نماز بچھائی جا سکتی ہے۔ چاروں دیواریں، اور صوفہ سیٹ گولیوں سے چھلنی ہیں۔ میں صوفے پر بیٹھی ہوں۔ ریحان کی چچی ہمارے لیے چائے لے کر آتی ہیں۔
ستائیس سالہ ریحان سات بھائیوں اور ایک بہن میں سب سے بڑا تھا۔ ریحان کے باپ تیرہ سال پہلے طویل بیماری کے بعد فوت ہوئے۔ ریحان اس وقت آٹھویں میں تھا۔ اس نے پڑھائی جاری رکھی اور لیاقت مارکیٹ میں اپنے ماموں کی دکان میں بطور سیلز مین کام شروع کیا۔ بی۔کام کرنے کے بعد اس نے ڈوپٹوں کی دکان لگائی۔ دو چھوٹے بھائی اس کی مدد سے جمعہ بازار میں اسٹال لگاتے۔ پورے گھر کی ذمہ دار اس پر تھی۔
"ریحان کے قتل کے بعد سب کچھ ختم ہوگیا۔ بھائیوں نے تین ماہ سے جمعہ بازار میں اسٹال نہیں لگایا ہے۔ ایک چھوٹے بھائی کی ذہنی حالت بگڑ گئی۔ عجیب بہکی بہکی باتیں کرنے لگا ہے۔ پنڈی بھیج دیا تھا رشتے کے چچا کے پاس۔ لیکن کوئی خاص فرق نہیں پڑا ہے۔ گھنٹوں چپ چاپ بیٹھا رہتا ہے۔ خلا میں تکتا رہتا ہے۔ ہاتھ کھڑے کھڑے سینے پر باندھ لیتا ہے جیسے نماز پڑھ رہا ہو اور بڑبڑانے لگتا ہے: ُمیرا بھائی ستائیس سال کا تھا۔ اس کی شادی ہونے والی تھیُ۔ اور پتہ نہیں کیا کیا،" پھوپھی کہہ رہی ہیں۔
کیا ریحان کسی سیاسی پارٹی سے وابسطہ تھا؟
پھوپھی اور چچی خاموش ہو جاتی ہیں۔
"ہمیں کچھ زیادہ معلوم نہیں۔ آپ اس کی ماں سے بات کریں آ کر۔ وہ بتائیں گی سب"۔
ریحان کا تعلق MQM سے تھا۔ محلے کے لوگوں سے معلوم ہوا۔ تین سال پہلے ریحان کو اغوا کر لیا گیا تھا۔ اٹھارہ دن بعد واپس آیا۔ "ان دنوں اس نے ایک جگہ نوکری شروع کی تھی اغوا کے بعد اس نے ہمیں کبھی کچھ نہ بتایا۔ لیکن اس کے بعد سے مہینوں وہ دہشت زدہ رہا۔ ہفتوں کھانا نہ کھا سکا۔ نوالہ ہی نہیں نگلا جاتا تھا۔ ایسا خوف، ایسی دہشت تھی کہ ہم نے کچھ پوچھنے کی ہمت نہ کی۔ ماں اور پھوپھی کے بیچ میں لیٹ کر سوتا۔ راتوں کو گھبرا کر اٹھ بیٹھتا۔ بس کچھ نہ پوچھو کیسا کڑا وقت تھا۔ لیکن ایک تسلی تھی، کہ زندہ سلامت تو ہے۔ اب تو سب کچھ ختم ہو گیا۔ یاد ہی رہ گئی ہے۔

ملیر : اے۔ون ایریا
دیواریں میں لکھے نعروں سے اندازہ ہوتا ہے یہاں MQM حقیقی کا راج ہے۔ ۱۹۷۰ کے عشرے تک یہ علاقہ ایک کھلے وسیع میدان پر مشتمل تھا جس کے کنارے بیرکوں کی صرف ایک قطار تھی۔ یہ بیرکیں شیڈ کے نام سے مشہور تھیں۔ شیڈ کے آس پاس کچھ جھگیاں تھیں اور بھینسوں کے باڑے۔ یہاں پنجابی، سندھی اور مہاجروں کی ملی جلی آبادی تھی۔ ۱۹۸۰ کی دہائی کے اوائل میں یہ علاقہ دلالوں کے ہاتھ میں آیا جو علاقے میں جلد ہونے والی قانونی پلاٹنگ کے منتظر تھے۔ دیکھتے ہی دیکھتے یہاں کچے گھروں کی قطاریں کھڑی ہو گئیں۔ ۸۰ کے وسط میں ساٹھ مربع گز کے پلاٹوں کی حد بندی شروع ہوئی۔ شیڈوں کو منہدم کیا گیا اور پرانے مکینوں کو نئے پلاٹ الاٹ ہوئے۔ لیکن ان گنت پلاٹ دلالوں کے ذریعے کراچی کے دوسرے علاقوں سے آنے والے لوگوں کے ہاتھوں فروخت کیے گئے اور یوں اے ون ایریا ۱۹۸۰ کی دہائی کے تین خطرناک عناصر ہتھیار، ہیروئن اور MQM کی پناہگاہ بن گیا۔ ۱۹۹۲ کے وسط میں ہونے والے واقعات۔۔۔آپریشن کلین اپ اور حقیقی کی پیدائش۔۔۔۔ نے بارود کا کام کیا۔
"ہم ملیر میں ۳۵ سال سے ہیں لیکن ایسے حالات نہیں دیکھے۔ یہ MQM کی دھڑےبندی تھی جو ہم سب کی بربادی کا باعث بنی۔ لالوکھیت، کورنگی اور دوسرے علاقوں سے MQM کے لڑکے چھپنے کے لیے یہاں اٹھ آئے۔ چھپنے چھپانے والوں نے ہمارے علاقے کا ستیاناس کیا۔ اب یہ لڑکے بندوقیں لٹکائیں گلیوں میں دندناتے پھرتے ہیں اور کوئی پوچھنے والا نہیں۔ ڈاکے ڈالتے ہیں، بھتہ لیتے ہیں۔"
"سب سے زیادہ دکھ کی بات یہ ہے کہ یہاں انسانوں کی کوئی عزت نہیں رہی۔ ہماری گلی میں ایک بوڑھا، سفید کچھڑی بال، سبزی کا ٹھیلہ لگاتا ہے۔ اسے ان لڑکوں سے التجا کرنی پڑتی ہے۔ ہاتھ باندھ کے وہ ان اٹھارہ اٹھارہ برس کے لڑکوں سے کہتا ہے، ُسر جی، پھیری لگا لوںُ۔ ایک ہفتہ ہوا، ان لڑکوں نے پنساری کی دکان لوٹ لی۔ گلی کے بچوں میں لوٹی ہوئی ٹوفیاں اور دو دو روپے تقسیم کیے اور کہا، ُبولو، حقیقی زندہ بادُ۔ ہمارے دودھ والے نے میرے میاں کو بتایا کہ لڑکے اس سے دس ہزار مانگ رہے ہیں کہ اسلحہ خریدنا ہے۔ غریب دودھ والا دس ہزار کہاں سے لاتا۔ بیچارہ، یہ علاقہ چھوڑ گیا۔ خدا جانے اب کہاں دودھ بیچاتا ہوگا۔
"تو یہ حال ہے ہمارے علاقے کا۔ یہ غنڈے بدمعاش جن کے منہ سے ابھی دودھ کی بو آتی ہے، نہ صرف یہ کہ بھتہ مانگتے ہیں بلکہ تمہارے منہ پر کہتے ہیں کہ اسلحہ ختم ہو گیا ہے، بندوقیں لانی ہے، گولیاں خریدنی ہیں،" سکینہ، عمر پچپن کے لگ بھگ، مادری زبان پنجابی، سانس لیے بغیر بول رہی ہیں۔ تین سال کے عرصے میں سکینہ نے اس علاقہ کا جو اخلاقی اور معاشرتی زوال دیکھا ہے، اس نے ان کا سر چکرا دیا ہے۔
میں ان کے گھر میں اپنی خالہ کے ساتھ ان کے بیٹے کا حال پوچھنے آئی ہوں جو گلی میں چلنی والی گولیوں سے شدید زخمی ہوا تھا۔ میری خالہ گورنمنٹ کے ایک ادارے سے وابستہ ہیں اور اپنے شوہر اور بچوں کے ساتھ اس علاقے میں رہتی ہیں۔
"اس دن بہت فائرنگ ہو رہی تھی۔ احمد نے ہم سب کو اندرونی کمرے میں جانے کو کہا اور برآمدے میں آیا کہ گیٹ بند کر لے۔ خدا جانے اس کے دل میں کیا سمائی کہ اس نے گیٹ ذرا سا کھول کر باہر جھانک لیا۔ ایک گولی اس کی دائیں آنکھ کے اوپر لگی اور وہ وہیں گر پڑا۔ باہر لڑکوں کی آوازیں آنا شروع ہوئیں، ُاحمد بھائی کے گولی لگ گئی، فائرنگ بند کرو، فائرنگ بند کروُ۔ فائرنگ بند ہوگئی۔ چند لڑکے ہماری مدد کو آئے اور احمد کو جناح اسپتال پہنچایا گیا۔ دوسرے دن دو تین لڑکے میرے پاس آئے اور کہنے لگے، ُخالہ معاف کرنا۔ لیکن یہ ہماری گولی نہیں تھی جو احمد بھائی کو لگیُ۔ ذرا دیکھو، ان کی ہمت۔ اور ہماری بےبسی! کیا کرسکتے تھے ہم۔ اگر وہ لڑکا بھی، جس کی بندوق سے چلی ہوئی گولی احمد کو لگی، ہمارے پاس آجاتا تو ہم کیا بگاڑ سکتے تھے اس کا؟ کیسا زمانہ آگیا ہے۔ کوئی ظلم کے خلاف آواز نہیں اٹھاتا۔ اور اٹھائے بھی کیسے؟ کوئی دو لفظ بول دے تو جان سلامت نہیں،" سکینہ کہ رہی ہیں، ؛ہر حال میں جیئے جانے کی ہوس نے ہمیں کہیں کا نہ رکھا۔۔۔" وہ چپ ہوجاتی ہیں۔
"جس دن میرے بھائی کو گولی لگی جی چاہتا تھا پورے اے ون ایریا کو جلا کر خاکستر کر دوں،" احمد کی چھوٹی بہن کی آواز غصے سے کپکپاتی ہے۔ وہ بی۔اے پاس ہے اور ایک دواؤں کی کمپنی میں کام کرتی ہے۔ اس کی دو چھوٹی بہنیں سامنے دری پر بیٹھی مٹر کی پھلیاں چھیل رہی ہیں۔
یہ چھ بہنیں اور تین بھائی ہیں۔ احمد سب سے بڑا ہے۔ دو بہنیں نوکری کرتی ہیں۔ باپ کبھی فوج میں سپاہی تھے اب معمولی پینشن ملتی ہے۔ احمد ایک فیکٹری میں کام کرتا تھا۔ پھر اسے فیکٹری سے نکال دیا گیا۔ فیکٹری نقصان میں جا رہی تھی لہذا تیس آدمیوں کی چھٹی ہوئی۔ "ایک دفعہ احمد نے باہر جانے کی کوشش کی۔ آٹھ ہزار مانگ تانگ کر کسی ایجنٹ کو دیئے۔ لیکن یونان والوں نے پکڑ کر واپس بھیج دیا۔" احمد دو سال سے بےروزگار ہے۔
میں خالہ کے ساتھ ملیر کی گلیوں سے گزر رہی ہوں۔ "اس علاقے میں بہت اسلحہ ہے۔ چند ایک خالی گھر ہیں جہاں لڑکوں نے قبضہ کیا ہوا ہے۔ یہ گھر اسلحہ ڈپو بنے ہوئے ہیں۔ کبھی ان گھروں کے دروازے کھلے ہوتے ہیں اور قطار سے لگی ہوئی بندوقیں، کلاشنکوفیں اور گولیوں کی پیٹیاں ہر آنے جانے والے کو صاف نظر آتی ہیں۔ بندوقیں لٹکائیں یہ لڑکے گولیوں کی پیٹیاں ادھر سے ادھر پہنچاتے رہتے ہیں۔ آج کل البتہ یہ لڑکے روپوش ہیں۔ جب سے دو امریکی مارے گئے ہیں، تب سے زرا سکون ہے۔
"یہاں دو بدنام ترین لڑکے ہیں حقیقی کے۔ ایک کو تو پولیس گرفتار کر کے لے گئی تھی۔ محلے والوں نے سکون کا سانس لیا کہ چلو ایک تو کم ہوا۔ لیکن ایک ہفتے بعد وہ لڑکا واپس گلیوں میں گھوم رہا تھا اور فخریہ انداز میں لوگوں کو بتا رہا تھا، "دو لاکھ روپے دیئے ہیں"۔ ان لڑکوں نے کمسن بچوں کو تنخواہ پر رکھا ہوا ہے جو پولیس یا دوسرے گروپ کے لڑکوں کے آنے کی اطلاع انھیں وقت پر پہنچاتے رہتے ہیں۔ یہ بچے بڑے ہوکر کیا کرسکیں گے؟ ہمارے محلے میں الطاف گروپ سے کسی کو کوئی ہمدردی نہیں ہے۔ لیکن حقیقی والے ان سے بھی بدتر ثابت ہوئے ہیں"۔
ہم ایک گھر میں داخل ہوتے ہیں جس کا سربراہ، ایک ادھیڑ عمر کا آدمی، پانچ بیٹوں اور پانچ بیٹیوں کا باپ، دو ماہ پہلے فائرنگ میں ہلاک ہوا ہے۔ بیوہ کسی کام سے باہر گئی ہوئی ھیں۔ میں لڑکیوں سے بات چیت کر رہی ہوں۔ سب سے بڑی لڑکی ۲۰ سال کی ہے۔ "اس دن ابا سہ پہر میں گلی کی نکڑ پر مکینک کی دکان سے اپنی اسکوٹر ٹھیک کروا رہے تھے کہ کچھ مسلحہ افراد گاڑی میں آئے اور گولیاں برسا کر چلے گئے۔ مکنیک تو اسی وقت ختم ہو گیا۔ ابا زخمی حالت میں سڑک پر پڑے رہے۔ کوئی اٹھانے نہیں آیا۔ اتفاق سے میرے بھائی نے اس دن فیکٹری سے چھٹی کی تھی۔ جب گولیاں چلنی بند ہوئی تو وہ باہر نکلا۔ دیکھا ابا سڑک پر پڑے ہوئے تھے۔ بہت خون بہہ گیا تھا۔ اسپتال جاتے وقت راستے میں ختم ہو گئے۔
"میرے ابا اور بھائیوں کا کسی بھی پارٹی سے تعلق نہیں رہا لیکن ابا کی موت کے بعد MQM اور حقیقی دونوں تنظیموں نے دعوہ کیا کہ ابا ان کے پارٹی کے ہمدرد تھے۔ یہ جھوٹ تھا۔ بعد میں جب اخبار سے لوگ آئے تو بھائی نے کسی سے بات نہ کی۔ کیا فائدہ ان سب باتوں کا۔ الٹا نقصان ہی پہنچ سکتا ہے۔ ایک آدمی نے کہا میں دستاویزی فلم بنا رہا ہوں۔ دنیا بھر میں دکھانے کے لیے کہ کتنا ظلم ڈھایا جا رہا ہے۔ لیکن میرے بھائیوں نے منع کر دیا"۔
ہم چار پائی پر بیٹھے ہیں اور بچے ہمارے گرد گھیرا ڈالے کھڑے خاموشی سے ہماری باتیں سن رہے ہیں۔
"ابا موٹر سائیکل میں دکانوں کو مال سپلائی کیا کرتے تھے،" وہ مجھے ب تا رہی ہے۔ اب گیارہ افراد پر مشتمل اس خاندان میں دو کمانے والے ہیں۔
"جب بھی فائرنگ ہوتی تھی ابا کہتے دروازہ بند کر لو، باہر نہ نکلو۔ بہت ڈرتے تھے۔ ہنگاموں سے دور رہتے تھے۔ دو دن پہلے ہی کہا تھا کہ کھڑکیوں، دروازوں میں لوہے کی جالی لگوا لیں گے۔ بہت وارداتیں ہو رہی ہیں۔ کسی کو کیا معلوم تھا خود ہی واردات کا شکار ہو جائیں گے"۔
کیا حکومت کی طرف سے کوئی معاوضہ وغیرہ ملا؟
"ہمیں صرف FIR کی کاپی ملی جو پولیس نے خود درج کی تھی۔ اور ابا کی موت کا سرٹیفکٹ، جو اسپتال والوں نے دیا۔"
"لیاقت آباد میں بہت برا حال ہے۔ جہاں میں رہتی ہوں۔ لیکن یہاں کے حالات تو بہت ہی خراب ہیں،" ایک بوڑھی خاتون جو گھر میں مہمان آئی ھیں بتانے لگیں۔ "دو مہینے پہلے میں یہاں آئی تھی۔ بس سے اتر کر گلی میں داخل ہوئی۔ میری نظریں اتنی کمزور ہیں کہ میں صرف زمین کی جانب نظریں جمائے رکھتی ہوں کہ کسی پتھر سے ٹھوکر نہ کھاؤں۔ ادھر ادھر تو دیکھتی نہیں ۔۔" انھوں نے موٹے موٹے شیشوں والا چشمہ درست کیا، اور بولیں، "میں جب گلی میں داخل ہوئی اور نظر اٹھائی تو دیکھا تین لڑکے یہ لمبی لمبی بندوقیں کندھوں پر لٹکائے کھڑے ہیں۔ میں وہیں بت بن گئی۔ مجھ سے اگلا قدم اٹھائے نہ اٹھے۔ خوف تھا کہ ہلی اور ان لڑکوں نے گولی چلائی۔ ایک لڑکے نے میرے سفید گال اور جھکی ہوئی کمر کو دیکھتے ہوئے کہا ُاماں ڈر گئیں؟ُ میں بولی ُبیٹا، ڈروں کیسے نہیں؟ بندوق جو اٹھائے ہوئے ہوُ۔ بولا ُاماں، تم تو خود مری ہوئی ہو۔ تمہیں کیا ماریں!ُ
ہم تنگ گلیوں سے گزر کر خالہ کے گھر واپس لوٹتے ہیں۔ "یہاں منشیات کا مسئلہ بھی ہے،" خالہ کہتی ہیں۔ ایک مکان کے باہر بنے ہوئے چبوترے پر ایک آدمی بیٹھا ہے۔ سرخ آنکھیں، گالوں کی ہڈیاں نکلی ہوئی، خالی الزہن، خلا میں گھورتا ہوا۔
"کچھ لوگ کھلم کھلا بیچتے ہیں ہیروئن۔ ایک پکڑا بھی گیا تھا۔ لیکن چھوٹ کے آگیا۔ اس کا بھائی وکیل ہے۔"
میری خالہ کو حالات سے باخبر رہنا پڑتا ہے۔ ان کے بچے چھوٹے ہیں اور اسکول کالجوں میں پڑھ رہے ہیں۔ بڑی بیٹی کراچی یونیورسٹی میں زیر تعلیم ہے۔ دو لڑکوں نے تکنیکی ڈپلومے لیے ہیں اور اب ٹیکسٹائل ڈیزائن کا کام شروع کیا ہے۔ خالہ کی زندگی جدوجہد کی داستان ہے۔ خالو کی مسلسل بیماری کی وجہ سے گھر بار کا پورا بوجھ ہمیشہ خالہ پر ہی رہا۔
"اور اب میں سوچنے لگی تھی کہ چلو بچوں کی تعلیم ختم ہونے کو آ رہی ہے اور وہ برسر روز گار ہونے لگے ہیں۔ سکون سے بقیہ دن گزر سکیں گے۔ لیکن اب یہ گھر ہے، اور ہم،" خالہ ہرے بھرے گملوں پر نظر ڈالتی ہیں۔ برآمدے میں سیمنٹ کی چادر ڈلوا کر لوہے کی جالی لگوائی ہے۔ سفید پینٹ تازہ ہے۔ "اور یہ محلہ۔۔۔ جو تیزی سے تباہی کے گڑھے میں گر رہا ہے۔ کبھی کبھی مجھے یوں لگتا ہے کہ جیسے میں دلدل پہ چل رہی ہوں۔ بس ایک تسلی ہے، اگر اسی تسلی کہہ لو،کہ میں تنہا نہیں ہوں۔ ہم سب ہی اس دلدل میں دھنستے جا رہے ہیں۔ لیکن شاید آگے دلدل ختم ہو جائے اور زمین مضبوط، کون جانے۔۔۔"، خالہ کے چہرے پہ ایک موہوم سی مسکراہٹ ہے۔
**
زینت حسام

The boy who would be President

I guess there are many such boys who dream of being President. I am going to talk of one such boy, like I talked, in a previous post, of a girl who lost everything. On the surface she possesses everything one could desire. In reality she has lost the most precious possession of hers.

Same is the case with this boy. He was born in a family of established earlier immigrants to a country where there was farmland aplenty, and the population was thin. In those days, there was a lot of immigration from the Middle East to this country - Jews, Christians and Muslims. The country was Christian. All these immigrants identified themselves as Arabs. This changed later. The Muslims thought the deen would take care of itself, and provided rudimentary Islamic education to their children at home. Many of these children fell victim to society, and became Christians. Some still remained Muslim.

A second wave of Muslim immigration from the Middle East took place a hundred years later. This time there were some religious preachers among them. They realized the importance of organized teaching, and Islamic atmosphere, and they set up mosques and Islamic centers.

One such center was set up by this boy's childhood friend's father. So this boy and his friend often attended Islamic classes together. They did together what boys do. This boy wanted to be President. He was a born leader. He took up law because he thought his way to the top lay through the Congress. He practiced it, and joined a populist political party. He ran for governorship, and was elected. Then there was a coup by the military, and his party's government was overthrown. He was arrested and tortured. He came out a more determined and knowledgeable man.

He had learnt that his country's constitution prohibited non-Christians from running for Presidency. It is then that unhappiness started creeping in. He wanted to be President. He thought he had it in him to solve his country's problems or so he confided in his childhood friend.

Eventually he made his choice. He became a Christian, together with his family. And he won the Presidential election, not once but twice. He did well, and turned the economy around. When he wanted to become President for a third term. There was an internal revolt in his party, and he had to give up the idea.

He lived an ostentatious life. He made money and influential friends. He put his country on the map of the world. He lived among celebrities, and like a celebrity.

Unfortunately, he too had opted for this world rather than the next.

This too was a deal of loss.

The girl who lost everything - probably:

Why probably, will become clear at the end, I hope.

Well, she won't agree with you at all that she has lost anything worthwhile. She will insist that, on the contrary, she has gained a lot.

In fact, she may not even waste any time on you if you suggest something like that to her.

She won't be ignoring you out of snobbery, for she isn't a snob. She is a very sensible, down to Earth person, with her feet firmly on the ground. She has always been like that - from childhood. The reason for ignoring you would be because she does not want to take part in arguments and bickering. She had enough of those when she made the most important decision of her life, as a teenager.

But if she were giving one of her rare interviews, and you were the interviewer, she will give you a reply, very softly, and she would tell you what she thinks is the truth. She won't lie and she won't refuse an answer, for she is a person of principles, and she does not lie.

She may or may not also point out to you something that I definitely must, to be honest to her. That something is her successful career, and how she had risen very fast in that very competitive, catty profession, where at any one time no more than 25 girls occupy the top slots, to reach the very top in only three years.

If she does mention her success, she will do so with a disarming smile and a matching attitude that she isn't special, just lucky. "There were and are thousands of girls who could be doing what I was doing", she will say. She will also tell you that her success is due to those unsung heroes who work in the background to make girls like her successful. She will name their professions, she may even name the persons who helped her become what she did become - a household name and recognized face in Europe and the United States, from the most humble and overworked floor-scrubbing housewives to the elite, including the Royalty.

She would be right of course, for she is sensible and never lies, but it is humility that makes her dismissive of her own talent and hard work that she put in her profession. Without that, she would not have been the unique success that she was. She made it look so easy, so natural, that people forget there is hard work behind it all.

That would show you success in her career. Out of humility she won't mention that her annual income was in the millions, but you can easily search the net to find out what the top earners in her profession were getting.

She will point to her husband, and her daughter, for she is in a happy marriage, and is totally devoted to her adorable daughter and very successful husband, who is equally and visibly in love with his wife.

When she retired from her career for marriage and looking after her daughter, she had tens, if not hundreds of millions of dollars. She had apartments in New York and Florida, and maybe in Paris. The man she married, had an order of magnitude more money than her.

Of course, if you are the interviewer, she is most likely to invite you over to her house. Don't be surprised at her New York home in an exclusive suburb with lush gardens and private swimming pool. Nor should you raise your eyebrows at the three SUV's parked there. Hers is a very sensible living. What she has and why she has invited you to her home, is not to show off her success, as she is a very private person. She is no longer in the news, but that is because of her own choosing. She has successfully and on purpose left public exposure. This does not mean she doesn't do anything which is not in the public's interest, but more of that later. If you do get invited to her house, and I sincerely hope you do, since you are doing the interview, ask her to show you her wardrobe. You will be pleasantly surprised at her selection. It comes from the finest and the most expensive brands, as do other things in her house. And it is all in very good taste, or maybe it is just her. Everything looks just superb when she is around.

The assets I have outlined above is for her day-to-day living. She has villas and apartments in other exclusive places, too, like Israel, for example. Her husband is a shrewd investor and real estate lawyer. Among his exclusive projects, he has invested in development of real estate for the wealthy in Israel, and she has wisely entrusted her financial matters to her husband, like all Jewish sensible women do. They look after the house, and leave the money decisions in their husband's hands. They are secure. And despite the fact that women from her profession often find their marriages do not last, hers is likely to do "till death do them part", and maybe even beyond death. If you are familiar with the prices of luxury apartments in previously run-down slums of Jaffa, that have been bought by the not so insignificant Israelis and Americans, you will marvel at the business acumen of her husband.

If you were to mention the loss of accommodation and livelihood to those who were living in those slums, she may give you a convincing lecture on the benefits of capitalism. She has a degree in Business Administration, and her own life proves that capitalism has made the American Dream come true for her, and for some others. She may list for you some of the many professions that have grown out of her own, thus creating work for many. She may then list for you the many others, that her husband, as a real estate investor and lawyer, has helped grow.

When her husband and his brother are known to be involved in a deal, the other parties get cold feet. If they are wise, they would simply leave the field for them. These brothers have taken on governments like that of the Philippines and the city of New York, potentates like the King of Saudi Arabia and the Emir of Kuwait, magnates like the owner of Harrods, international wheeler-dealers like Adnan Khashoggi, and a host of other super-rich and super-powerful. And they have come out the winners in each case.

Now let me ask you, if that isn't success, what is. The girl we are talking of, has made a wise choice, although she married for love. She always had a wise head. It came to her by associating with people older than her.

She will say she is just lucky. I will of course, dispute that as I dispute the wisdom of her choice, but we will leave that disputation for later. Oh sure, most people in the world, most specialists of worldly affairs, will agree that she has been lucky in that sense of the word. But I prefer to be in the minority. I do not base my analysis on democracy or specialist opinion.

She wasn't always so lucky. Her father struggled to give his family a middle class living, and she always found people who had more, much more, than her. Her father took her to Dislneyland, Florida, when she expressed a desire for this, but then she wanted a yacht, a holiday in the Bermudas, a swimming pool in her home, designer clothes, and much more. She was born to a mixed-culture and mixed-ethnicity couple in a bi-lingual city, and she learnt at least two more languages - the native tongues of her father and mother and she can read another one as well.

Her mother felt the husband was neglecting her and the daughter. He wasn't, but the wife wanted all time in the evening to the family. So her childhood saw fights between her parents, who divorced when she was nine.

She was the odd one in the whole school. She inherited a beautiful body from her mother, and the color of her skin from her father, and that made her stand out. Cross-ethnic children are often very attractive, but the children do not know it. That also made her peers make fun of her, and to shun her. After many unsuccessful attempts at getting into their circle, she learnt to keep her thoughts to herself. She started hanging out with quite children older than her. And she became mature much earlier - mature and worldly wise. She saw what the others were doing, and what they were having, a good time, wine and dancing and exposing the skin, and friends of the opposite sex, and she wanted that. When you are a teen, you want that. I don't blame her. I too wanted the same. I have seen some who didn't, but they are in a very small minority. Most of us want a good life in this world. Don't you?

What is wrong with that?

Nothing, I suppose, for those with a different outlook on life. But again what was wrong may become clear later. Let us continue with her story.

In her mid-teens she became a rebel. Perhaps many teenagers think of rebellion and where they can, they do so. She started dressing and making up like a rebel. She was working as a waitress in her mid-teens when she was spotted by a talent hunter who saw her walk by. He tried to persuade her into a career for which he thought she was eminently suited. This career had been suggested by her mature friends as well, but she had laughed it off. Now the talent scout wouldn't let go of her until she said yes. Her parents were not happy with this. Although divorced, nd from different cultures, they disapproved of such careers as they thought these were unhealthy from the moral point of view.

She had been resisting the demands of the talent scout on her own. Now that her parents were against it, her rebellious nature came to the fore, and she decided to give that career a try.

Arguments and fights followed. She had to stay late or even out of town. Her father couldn't put up with it. His standing in his community had gone down. His leadership was in question. He would lose it soon. She wanted to do whatever she liked, without any religious or moral restraints. The differences came to a head. Neither the father nor the daughter have revealed what happened, but one day she stormed out of her father's house to go to New York, never to go back again.

Some will say this is the best thing that has happened to her, for her career took off from that day, and what a career it is! No one like her has been seen before or likely to be seen since. She was unique in her chosen career. No one has been able to reproduce the strange combination of disdain and invitation in her. From a purely artistic critique, her performance has been brilliant throughout her career.

So she was a success in her performance, and that brought her fame and fortune. She was commanding millions of dollars in annual earnings within two years of that move to New York.

She was sensible. Success did not go to her head. No scandals are associated with her. She did not do drugs. She did not hang out with that crowd. Instead her boyfriends were established and moneyed Jewish lawyers and professional people - all very straight, all who would become the pillars of society. The paparazzi did chase her, but gave up, there was no juice to report.

She was careful with her money. She did not throw it away on whims and toys. She invested it wisely, and her Jewish friends helped her. On of these friends became her steady lover and fathered her daughter. After the daughter was born, and not before that, she married her boyfriend. Generally once a woman is pregnant by a steady boyfriend, they marry before the child is born. Not in this case. I wonder why.

However, it has been a successful marriage. She has devoted herself to her husband, her daughter, and her husband's circle. She also demonstrates her social conscience by raising money for charity and environmental causes. She is no longer seen or heard of in her previous profession, although many long for her to return. Both husband and wife are Democrats. Both have donated $2300 each to the Democratic Elections this year (2008).

She is not a feminist. She has dropped her father's surname, and taken on her husband's, signifying that her rebellion was against her father.

The world will say: All in all a successful life, and she is only 37 at the moment. Plenty more time to go, and achieve more.

Why then did I title the post:

"The girl who lost everything"

Unfortunately, the girl traded in her deen for all this that she has today.

Initially all she asked was to be allowed to model. The parents objected, as this was against haya, and would eventually lead to a morally corrupt life. She insisted, but it seems that she knew what she was getting into. Later, when she had become successful in her career, she said in an interview, almost mocking her father, that when she had made known her decision, her father went to her agent in her city, asking that his daughter should not be given lingerie modeling jobs. She laughs at this, saying: "It is funny, really funny". It sure would look funny to her here in this world; for she was modeling see-through underwear; she was photographed baring nipples of her breasts; she was photographs topless, and even totally naked in one internet shot.

She started drinking, dancing, having boyfriends to enjoy life including sleeping with, and eventually she also made at least one sex video.

It isn't that she did not know better. Her father took her for Hajj, in her early teens, and she toyed with the idea of leading a religious, pious life. Again at an interview she said: "(My father said:) I (i.e the daughter) am a Muslim. Islam does not allow one to drink alcohol, dance, mix with the opposite sex, show skin - all that I am doing now. I am putting him in jeopardy (this is a reference to the criticism he was facing for not being able to bring his daughter in line). It was all very dramatic". This was said in a mocking tone. And this: "I do what I am. This is what I like. This is what I am."

So, what her father said was dramatic to her,; something to joke about; something to make fun of.

What does she imply: that she has given up Islam.

The parents were right. Modeling leads to corruption.

When she dies, if she dies unrepentant, she will find the trade was one of severe loss for her.

Would you also make a deal with Satan, to give you this world, trading in your faith?

Oh, you can be liberal, we will let you have a social conscience, subject to the interests of the Israeli security, of course.

Let us hope and pray she comes back to the deen.

Why me-ism and why not me-ism

Most people I have met have voiced this question (why me?) or a variation:

Why not me?

It seems the typical human is a saint, and is being perpetually wronged. Disaster after disaster befalls him. Merit is not rewarded. The "others" are hounding him. All he wants is something simple and achievable like … which every Tom, Dick and Harry is getting, but he is being denied his right.

○ The teacher doesn't know the subject. He gave me less marks because I am brilliant, and he is jealous.

○ I did not get the job because they received a phone call from a general/ federal secretary/chairman

○ I belong to a different ethnic background/sect, and they are very prejudiced

And so on …

So one says "Why me?" when he perceives a wrong to him, and "why not me?" when he sees someone else with something his heart desires, like a palatial house, a BMZ, glittering jewelry, well-behaved and brilliant children, etc.

Today I applied the reverse:

A young man who is one of those who has hounded me often to take money from me, came again with his tales of woes. I have decided to be a little more strict, as I too have to live within a budget, so I told him off, and came back inside.

Then I asked: "Why not me?" I mean, why aren't I the one going begging. It made me feel so grateful to Allah that I had been spared this fate. Then I recollected many more such people. Orphans who live in orphanages, and at one time were sent out to beg for themselves and the orphanage.

Why not me? I mean wasn't it a tremendous blessing that I lived with my family who catered for all my problems, and when I left, I still get looked after, and also receive duas, totally undeserved duas at that.

Some years ago, when my sister was buying a house in Karachi, I was there, so I was asked to check it make suggestions for alteration. As I was going into the house, a man, about my age, was pushing a vegetable cart. He was a vegetable seller. He said:

"Seth, Allah has given you so much. I am your age, but I cannot even arrange a place to sell my vegetables. If I could afford a small shop, I would not have to push this cart".

Now, I could have answered with the truth: that I am not a seth; I am a worker. Neither me, nor my sister can afford to set up a shop for you. But I stopped short; gave him some money, and went about my business.

Why wasn't it me who was pushing that cart?

Something to ponder about.

So next time you feel like "Why me?", ask yourself: "Why not me?".

And if you feel like: "Why not me?", Then ask: "Why me?"

Book of Fables

Book of Fables

Table of Contents

Little Red-Riding-Hood
The Goose That Laid Golden Eggs
The Dog in the Manger
The Fox and the Grapes
Little One Eye, Little Two Eyes, Little Three Eyes
The Wind and the Sun
The Crow and the Pitcher
The Boys and the Frogs
A Country Fellow and the River
Puss in Boots
The Farmer's Sons
The Lion and the Bear
The Lion and the Mouse
The Elves and the Shoemaker
The Stag and the Lion
The Star-Gazer
The Fox and the Lion
The Farmer and the Stork
The Dog and the Wolf
The Fox in the Well
The Two Packs
The Dog and His Image
The Fox and the Stork
The Spendthrift and the Swallow
Jack and the Bean-Stalk
The Frog and the Ox
The Miller, His Son, and Their Ass
Cinderella, or the Glass Slipper
The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing
The Arab and His Camel
Tom Thumb
The Tortoise and the Hare
The Country Mouse and the Town Mouse
The Gnat and the Bull
The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood
The Ant and the Grasshopper
The Lion and the Fox
Dick Whittington and His Cat
The Cat, the Monkey, and the Chestnuts
The Lark and Her Young Ones
The Flies and the Pot of Honey
Beauty and the Beast
The Wolf and the Lamb
The Travelers and the Bear
The Tortoise and the Eagle
The White Cat
The Lion, the Ass, and the Fox
The Jackdaw and the Doves
The Four Bulls and the Lion
The Country Maid and Her Milk-Pail
The Cat, the Weasel, and the Young Rabbit
The Traveling Musicians
Belling the Cat
The Wolf and the Crane
The Wolf and the Shepherd
The Frogs Ask for a King

Little Zohra's lesson to her father

:salam:

Here is a little sample from my novel. At this rate, it will take a long time to write it, but sometimes it is the effort that counts.

________________________________________________

Zohra ran excitedly alongside her father and younger sister. She always had to walk rather hurriedly to keep pace with father long strides. The younger one was in father's arms, prattling as he walked.

She had two sisters older than her, and another between her and the one presently enjoying the trip out with her. When abba had asked his six year old if she was ready to go for a walk with him, she had wanted to take her gurriya along with her.

When this younger sister was about to be born, Zohra's mother had told her they were getting her a gurriya. Since then she had considered the newly born baby as her doll. She cherished her gurriya, and as soon as she was able to, she started looking after whatever needs she could. While she would allow others to hold her gurriya, it wouldn't be for long, and gurriya slept with her, period.

A walk with abba was always a pleasure for all the girls. He was so kind and gentle, He worked very hard, but tried to take at least one evening off in a week, to be with his family. The girls were learning not to make demands on him. They were good learners. He, however, tried to give them a small treat whenever he took one of them out. And he balanced his walks with his daughters so that everyone received an almost equal number of time.

Zohra was the favorite, though. Her mother showed her favoritism by loading her with responsibility, or maybe it was just a necessity. A six year old girl can carry an awful lot of responsibility in poverty stricken parts of the world, and she was mother's assistant. The older ones also helped, but somehow she would soon act as a mother to her younger sisters, and administrator to the older ones. Amman, with so many kids to look after, needed help, and when her third daughter started helping her, she naturally landed the job.

She did not mind it. Children don't. They think it is play.

Abba tried to hide his favoritism, for he loved his other daughters equally well, but this one was special. They were all pretty, some more than the others, but all had inherited their mother's looks and proportions, not their father's. The latter would have been a disaster, or maybe not - depends on what you think disaster is.

As they walked past the confectionary shop displaying a proud large sign: "AK Sweet House", on Frere Road, she glanced at it, stopped just that little while, as her eyes caught sight of the sweets displayed. She started moving again, but kept looking back, even when they had gone a long distance forward. Her father had noticed that hesitation in front of the shop, and the longing in her glances, and he asked:

"Do you want to eat a sweet or something?"

Zohra said, "No, abba".

Abba knew. She wanted to eat sweets, but had learnt to control her wants. His heart went out to her, and he said:

"Come, let me buy you something."

Zohra did not refuse any more; instead she said happily: "OK, abba", and they turned back. She had forgotten her restraint. After all, she was only six.

As they entered the shop, abba took his two daughters to a corner and seated them facing the road. They could watch the Neon signs and flashing lights on other shops, and see the busy rickshaws and the tram over the heads of the pedestrians who were themselves a treat to watch.

"What will you eat?" asked abba, "Rasgullas, Chum Chum, Imartee, Ghulab Jaman, or what?"

"What will you eat gurriya?", Zohra asked her sister in turn.

"rush goola", said the gurriya, in her broken tongue, and Zohra broke into a smile, which turned into a happy grin. She loved to listen to her sister - she talked so cute. She hugged her gurriya.

So rasgulla it was.

Abba went to the counter to place the order, and stayed there to talk to the owner. A waiter brought a plate of rasgullas to the kids. When abba had finished with his exchange of views with the owner of the shop, he looked in their direction to make sure they had eaten. Then he signaled them to come to him. He made his payment, and they came out of the shop. After walking some distance, he asked the girls if they had liked the rasgullas.

"Yes", both said happily.

"How many did you eat?"

"We both ate from one. Gurriya has such a small stomach. I had to force her to eat a little" , informed Zohra.

"But I paid for six", said abba, a little upset at the waste of five rasgullas. That was a substantial amount in his book.

Zohra thought very, very quickly, on her feet at it were. "Abba, we left them for the sisters. We can go back, and get them in a shopping bag".

They did that, and on the way back, abba thought of his responsible and loving daughter, and made a silent prayer for her.

He had learnt a lesson.

From that time onwards, whenever he bought a child something, he did the same for other children as well.

_____________________________________________________

copyright (c) timbuktu-at-gawab.com

The prayer that changed my life!

December 1976: a restaurant at the edge of an industrial town in Ontario, Canada.

It has been ages since I did anything Islamic. I used to think of myself as a Muslim because I abstained from forbidden things, but gradually it has been lost, too. I am not praying the Salah. I am not reading the Quran. I do not fast. I take a gin and tonic every day. At parties, I drink whatever alcoholic beverages are available, but in moderation. When I dine out, I know what wines to select with what course. I do not myself ask girls to dance, but if a girl asks me twice, I do oblige her. My reluctance is because I do not want to commit myself, not because it is forbidden. I have reasoned that the world has been unfair to me, my family and my country, so why should I pray,. When I had landed at Toronto, I had been received by friends of a department mate, and during the conversation I had said that I was an apostate. This was how angry I was with Allah (swt).

As I look out the window of that restaurant with my daily glass of gin and tonic, I feel sorry for myself. The highway I am travelling on is taking me to Hell, and I do not want to go there. How come I am on this path? Could it not have been different? Then, as I find no answer to my predicament, even though I had said I do not believe, a dua comes to my heart. In those days, I seldom moved my lips when making dua or reading/reciting the Quran. I call out to Allah in my heart:

O Allah!

Is this what You have created me for?

Is this really? That I should roam the West in search of a job which would give me just enough to survive on, and at the same time lose my deen?

I know this path is taking me to Hell. I do not want to go there, but I have no other road to travel. Why have other roads been blocked for me? Where is the Straight Path - the path of those You have rewarded? Why am I on the road to punishment?

Have You created me for Hell?

Have You really?

Why have you given me this education, if there is nowhere to use it?

Am I to struggle only for the economic benefit of kufr?

Is there not a place in Your huge world where I can come back to Islam?

Is there no work in Your scheme of things for me to strive for the benefit of the Ummah?

O Allah!

I have no one to turn to. I turn to You. Give me something to work for Islam and Muslims. Take away these afflictions which are incapacitating me. Save me from Hellfire, and admit me to Jannatul Firdaws.

And, despite my earlier declaration of kufr, Allah listened, alHamdulillah.

On one of the next few days, as I again sit in the restaurant, I see at a great distance, a cloud of white dust. I suddenly have visions of a snow blizzard. Although when I venture outside, I have ample covers to meet any cold, a blizzard can bury one alive, and I would not stand a chance of coming out alive after such a burial. My mind is made up. I do not want to live here at all.

That same December, I take a flight to London. While transferring to another plane at New York, I stand for a while and think: maybe I shouldn't take this flight, and instead take a plane to California. The weather would suit me. There are things to see in California: tar pits and petrified trees. I would have a better chance of finding work in this economy than in Britain.

Then I think: if I settle in the US, how will I come back to Islam, when all my effort will be to survive in this rat race. Mother is so many thousands of miles away. There will be a vast ocean to the west and lots of countries, while towards the east mainland US as well as another vast ocean to cross as well. Most likely I won't ever go back to see my mother, because I hate to take so much trouble. Would it be worth it? What have I given her that I should deny her the possibility of seeing her son ever in this world as well.

I take that plane to London. I stand a better chance of returning to Islam, and it will take me closer to mother, and my siblings.

In London I get a temporary R & D assignment. When the project comes to an end three months later, I hand in my report, and take some time off, as the asthma hasn't gone away. Here too, I am staying with a friend, whose wife does the cooking and even washing of my clothes as well. I feel guilty, but there is nothing I can do. A year later, I decide to go to Karachi, to meet my mother. Then before departure, I tell my friend: the €600 in a joint account I have opened with him, is for him. Buy bhabi a washing machine and a dryer. He refuses, but I am adamant. "Maybe I won't come back. The money is for you, and I will be happy if you buy bhabi a washing machine."

Karachi: January 1978: It is nice to see one's family, and to be fussed over, but I am beginning to wonder what I am doing here. What should I do now? Nearly a month has passed, and I see no suitable jobs in the newspapers advertisements. My asthma keeps bothering me.

Then, out of the blue, I receive a call:

Do you remember saying you would be willing to work for Pakistan, if Pakistan needed you.

Yes, I do.

Do you still hold that commitment?

Yes, if there is work, and if Pakistan needs me.

There is work, and Pakistan needs you.

Then I am ready.

Can you come tomorrow.

Where?

Islamabad.

OK, I will take the flight tomorrow to Islamabad.

The next day I was in Islamabad. As I was driven for interview, I noticed my asthma had vanished. When I entered the interview building, the people looked all very dedicated and Islamic. At the interview, after satisfying themselves I was their material, they asked me:

What pay do you want?

Whatever is sufficient. I do not know the taxes and the cost of living here.

What post or designation do you want?

That is not important to me. The work is. Do you really have work for me?

We have work. When can you join?

Depends upon you. If you want, I can go back, and you can call me from the UK. If you want I can join you without going back, managing my affairs there through mail.

We want you to join as soon as possible.

Then I will join you from the 1st of next month. I will need accommodation.

OK. We have guest houses. You can have a room there until you find a house.

I want to go to Wah, to meet a friend.

The official car will take you to the bus stop for Wah.

On the way to Wah. I noticed that not only my asthma, but also my travel sickness had vanished.

Allah had listened to me.

For the next five years, my breathing was fine.

The problems returned, but that is another story, to be told later, when the time is ripe.

A mother's dream fulfilled

We went to school, and good ones at that. Only we gave up on things that needed money.

For years, I wore hand-me-downs, and never felt anything. I just did not observe what others had. What they had was theirs, and it had nothing to do with me. Even looking at what they had made me think I was invading their privacy and property, and that was an improper thing to do.

The only time I started seeing consumer goods was when I had spent many years in the West. I still did not see what others had. I went to Regent and Oxford Streets in London, and window-shopped, only to appreciate the beauty of these consumer items.

I am glad the cycle breakers and the NGOs weren't around when we were at school. They would have broken us, instead of the cycle.

The problem is too big. It requires a revolution. If not a bloody one, then one in thinking, and unfortunately the world hasn't given up on the American Nightmare. I am sorry, but this is what I think the American Dream actually is.

It requires Islam to be practiced in toto, and again unfortunately, this needs a revolution in thought, of the elite and the masses.

--------------

P.S.: I remember now how my mother made ends meet. She sold her jewelery, bit by bit, and she had loads of it. Then when the jewelry was gone, she sold her brass and bronze utensils and flower pots with intricate designs, huge and heavy trays called "seenee", and huge copper utensils. And heavy curtains, those you see only at palaces. Those were her dowry things she sold. When these were gone, I don't know how she managed. She worked very hard, and she prayed, even the tahajjud. She did her wazaif as well.

My mother and her elder sister were the two most wonderful people in this world.

Mother had a dream - that her children would be educated, and Allah (swt) fulfilled her dream, alhamdulillah. All her nine children, except one, who was prone to accidents in the head and lost quite a lot of blood that way, have had education upto masters at least. All own their own houses. All have their own cars. And all practice Islam.

I did not fulfill my own dream: to take a doctorate in Chemistry under Linus Pauling in California, I do have a doctorate - in Chemical Engineering. And although I did not get a Nobel Prize in Chemistry, (as my teachers at Dacca University thought I would), I hope that my work, however humble and however unpublished, will be rewarded in the Hereafter. That is what I want, most of all, to be summoned on the Day of Judgement, and told by Allah He is pleased, and He has reserved His reward for me in the Hereafter.

masha`Allah to all that follows here: One of my brothers became a Chartered Company Secretary. That is a very respectable and very paying profession. One of my sisters fulfilled my father's dream. She is an FRCP from the UK, and one of the most sought after medical consultants in Karachi. The youngest of my sisters is very well placed in the Pakistani branch of one of the topmost international NGOs. I won't mention which, for I do not want to give away the identity of my family. She has been offered a place abroad by the said NGO, but has declined, for mother doesn't want her to leave Pakistan for good. The brother who did not progress beyond Matriculation because of his head injuries, has one of the finest collection of books - in English as well as Urdu.

All my siblings have the tenacity and perseverance of my mother. I am the exception. Somewhere along my life (at age 20, I think) I developed an attitude of "it isn't worth the trouble", but I still asked Allah (swt), and He has looked after me very well indeed. The story of that, the story of my own life, is a story of miracle after miracle, and maybe it is due to my mother's duas, for after age 20 at least, I did nothing to deserve what I have.

It, of course, is worth the trouble. One should ask Allah (swt) for everything, even what looks unachievable, for He can create the conditions to give you what you want. I asked for some such things when I was in Canada, and I did it when I was a non-practicing Muslim, or maybe I had stopped being a Muslim, but I still asked Him. It is amazing how He fulfilled these. Only I did not ask Him to fulfill my dream in Chemistry. I relied on my own brilliance. And that is where I went wrong. There is a couplet in Urdu:

Tu hee nadaan chand kalyon peh qana`at kar gaya
warna chaman mein elaje tangiye damaan bhee tha

You, stupid one, yourself stopped short with a few buds
Otherwise, in the garden there was cure for a short shirt as well


(when you are collecting buds and flowers in bulk, you use your shirt to collect these, if you do not have a basket).

Child labour, the truth

If poor people would stop having children, then they wouldn't be exploited. Only problem is that sometimes when people have children, they are not poor, but later in their lives, poverty sets in. Then the choice in the third world is either to go hungry and die because of it, or to beg, or to have the whole family work. The least that happens is malnutrition.

There was a time when me and my siblings worked to wind silk threads into small lots, to earn a few annas. It was piece work from a friend of my aunt - said friend's husband had a silk industry. They were very rich, but my mother refused to accept monetary help from them.

We would often walk long distances, to save a few paisas. The school bus charged Rs. 30/= per child. With private buses, we could save Rs. 5/= per month per child. That meant a lot to us, even though we had to get up at 4:00 in the morning, and take the first bus to school at 5:00, and walk at least 4 kilometers as well. We were the first people at school, before 7:00 am, earlier than even the sweepers. The school started at 8:00 am. We didn't take any lunch. It would have been too expensive. On the way back, we had to walk even longer distances, because the buses were full. We never reached home earlier than 4:00 pm. When I reached home, I was hungry, and sleepy. Often the sleep would take precedence over hunger.

My father had been very unwell. His business had run into problems. He no longer had any income. When he became ill, his partners ransacked the business premises in Karachi and everything of value was lifted. In India, my grandfather had a lot of property and a lot of money, but his eldest son wouldn't let him help us, for my father had taken a principled stand against interest. My uncle was very annoyed with him for this, and wanted to teach him a lesson for being so principled.

When we left India in 1947, my father had businesses in Delhi and Calcutta. My mother's house and my father's business premises in India were taken over by the Indian Refugee Board. We couldn't go to live in India with our grandfather as according to the Govt. of India rules, we had been declared enemy absconders. We could visit him, but for a few months only, and the visit would cost money.

In desperation, my mother wrote a letter to my grandfather, telling him he could disown her, but how could he live with the knowledge that his grandchildren were going hungry.

My grandfather had a showdown with his eldest son, and a princely sum of Rs. 500/= per month started coming to my mother.

It wasn't enough, and our uncle stopped the stipend when my brothers left College to start supplementing the stipend. They used to go to the prestigious Aetcheson College in Lahore. The Principal asked my brother to stay on. He would give him a scholarship. My brother was brilliant, but his scholarship would only cover the cost of his education and keep. He wouldn't be able to help mother, so he refused. Later on, when he got married, though, his wife made sure all his income went into her hands, and they started living away from us, so after my father became ill, mother did not have an easy life, until well into her seventies.

Mother wanted us all to have the best education. There was'nt enough even for food or rent, let alone fees for the English medium schools my mother wanted us to go to. My uncle was opposed to us having any education, least of all in English medium schools. To this day I wonder how my mother made ends meet, and sent us all to missionary schools where the fees per child, after brother concession, was Rs 25/= per month. We, as children, were aware of how short money was. I remember never asking for anything. At school, I decided not to participate in any activity that needed money, and almost every activity needed that.

When I graduated from the Uni of B'ham, I looked at the price tag for attending the convocation. It was ten pounds. I decided to save that money. It would help my mother. That is why I do not have a picture of me in the graduation gown. I don't regret it. Just mentioning what one's priorities become.

I remember in my childhood, mother cutting and cooking stalks of spinach and similar vegtables for us. Nowhere else have I seen these being cooked. There were times when we even ate our rotis only with chutney made from mint leaves and green chillies, things the grocer gave away for free with vegetables.

In those days the butchers used to throw away chicken heads, liver and other chicken parts. A woman that used to help my mother with housework (we were still middle class, no one knew how we made ends meet), had a husband who was a butcher's helper. He used to take all those parts home, and sometimes my mother's helper would bring a portion of these to my mother, who would give her a small sum for these. Apparently even that small sum was too much for my mother, for even that treat wasn't often. That comprised our protein intake.

I loved what my mother cooked, and I know now why she was the last to eat, alone.

My brother went to a roadside quack for a serious operation. He almost died.

Some of the health problems we have faced are probably due to malnutrition at that age.It would have been worse without the extra income from our child labour. I am glad that friend of my aunt gave us work. It helped.

Would you rather we starved!

____________________

P.S.: The helper with housework was only for a short period. Perhaps my mother was pregnant or just had a delivery. and maybe the protein intake stopped when she stopped coming.

I asked my mother why we had that lovely dish of chicken heads only for a short time, and why she hadn't taught this dish to my wife or my sisters, as I had it only for that brief period. And then the story came out. Until then, mother had kept the full extent of our family's financial problems from me, at least. And it hadn't occurred to me that "chicken heads" was a "poor person's food".

Noor Inayat Khan: courage & self-sacrifice

I wrote this on Eid night.

October 1st, 2008 Chaand Raat of Eid-ul-Fitr.

I won't be writing about Eid day. It will be tonight- Chand Raat, Eid night.

It is Eid night here, and I cannot sleep …

My son is coming on Eid day in the evening, and I will be glad to see him and the bahu (d-i-L), but that is not the reason for loss of sleep.

Previously I lost sleep when I saw on TV, the US bombing of a civilian shelter in Baghdad with one of its smart missiles. What the rescue workers took out were charred bodies of women and children.

This continues to be the US mode of operation in Afghanistan and Pakistan as well.

The videos of the Bosnian and Kashmiri suffering also caused me insomnia.

Have you read Spy Princess by Shrabani Basu?

On Monday 29th September, I leafed through this interesting book at a bookstore. Initially I did not want to buy the book because of its price, but the story is so captivating, that I bought it.

I am glad that I did, for it dispelled some of the misconceptions I had developed on the leafing through.

I sat down to write a gist of the book with some comments of my own, but I cannot leave much out, and I feel very, very depressed as I go through this story.

Shrabani's narration is the most accurate so far, as it is the only one that also draws on classified War Office papers that were declassified in 2003.

Nur-un-Nisa (Noor) Inayat Khan, alias Nora Baker alias Madeleine (1914-1944), was the eldest child of Pir Inayat Khan. She was the grand-daughter of Tipu Sultan's great-great grand-daughter. Tipu was the last Muslim king of Mysore, who was martyred when fighting British soldiers of the East India Company. Noor was born at Moscow on 1st Jan 1914 to her American mother Ora Ray Baker, who had met her father when he visited the United States. Ora was a distant cousin of the woman who was the founder of the Christian Science movement. She was under age, and her guardian was in favor of her marrying Inayat, so she waited until she ocame of age. Inayat had, meanwhile had came to Europe. Ora joined him, and changed her name to Sharda Amina Begum.

Noor's father, Inayat Khan had started out as a Sufi Chishti Shaykh, who had been sent to the West for spreading Islam. Discovering prejudice against Islam, he had instead formed a new Sufi Order Universal Sufism, that regarded all religions as from God. Islam teaches that, too, but it says that the other religions are now corrupted versions of the original message. Inayat preached wahadatul wujood . In special prayer sessions, extracts from texts of holy books of different religions were read). The Movement has its own Temples, just like the Bahais. Its development, infighting for control and breakup into subsidiary Orders that are still joined together, are interesting studies as well, but we will focus on Noor here.

Inayat was a successful music teacher and performer (together with his brothers) in Moscow at the time of Noor's birth. He had become friends with Leo Tolstoy's son. WW-I began on 28th July 1914, Noor's family moved to London in August of the same year, and then to Paris in 1920.

At school, the Inayat children had to bear with considerable teasing, due to not being fluent in French (they spoke English at home), and being darker colored than their peers. Noor bore all this with good humor and a smile. She learnt to keep her thoughts to herself, and yet won friends by being sweet and helpful under all that teasing.

If Inayat were a Muslim, Sufi or not, he may have taught Noor and his other children how to gain inner strength from meditation on the Almighty. The memebrs of the Sufi Movement do Dhikr, remembrance of Allah by reciting Allah's names in original Arabic.

Noor's father visited India in 1927, was shown around Nizamuddin Auliya's dargah, became seriously ill and died there, then buried in the dargah. Her mother, overcome with grief, became ill and indisposed for the rest of her life. So Noor had to take care of her younger siblings from the age of 13. She would compose poems, in English, French and Urdu (she wrote them in Roman Urdu, as she did not know the Urdu script. She made cards by hand and illustrated them delicately with flowers and drawings of animals. She loved her family. Who does not, but her devotion and love were extraordinary.

Noor had to attend school herself, and look after the household at the same time, on an allowance that can best be described as frugal.

She joined Ecole Normal de Musique for studying Music in 1931, and fell in love with a fellow Jewish student from a working class background. They became engaged to be married. This was an unfortunate choice, as he was grossly demanding and overbearing. He was rejected by her family and its circle of friends. She, nevertheless, persevered with the engagement in the hope the family would come round. Her family, however, saw that it wasn't love but her nature of wanting to help those with handicaps that was responsible for this liaison.

She had absorbed her father's thesis (actually, an old one), that all religions led to the same Almighty, and hence got close to that fellow student. She wanted to end the engagement earlier, but he threatened her with suicide if she did not marry him. So she kept the relationship alive. But the conflict within her made her ill, and eventually she saw that she had to break the engagement.

Noor studied child psychology at Sorbonne University. Later she studied languages, and became proficient in German and Spanish. However, upon graduation, she could not apply for a job as her family was Royalty, albeit on hard times. Family traditions dictated that women got married and stayed home. She couldn't take a job, period.

A very eligible young man in the same Sufi Order, had been paying her attention for marriage, but she had not considered it because she had already been engaged. He went to India on a lucrative post, and her brother convinced her that they should follow him and she should marry him. The problem was they had no money. They went to his aunt who had helped the Order in the past. She was glad of their plans but failed to realise they needed financial help, and they were too shy to mention it, so that possibility petered out.

She started writing stories for children for Le Figaro in November 1938. She was asked to write a book for children into French. She chose Buddhist tales, and her book "20 Jataka tales" was published in the summer of 1939. She was also asked to read her stories on French radio for children's programs. A career as a writer and radio broadcaster for children's programs began to develop. This also gave her a much needed independence from her uncles and other members of the family.

She had previously liked to wear Indian dresses, but as she gained this independence, she increasingly became more European in her dress and manners. Her sister even changed her name to Claire from Khairun-Nisa, in order to fit in with the society they lived in. Amina Begum did not like this, as she had adopted the Indian dress, and was never seen without her dupatta or hijab, but tolerance was the name of the game in this Sufi order, so she kept her peace.

Noor perhaps saw herself as an Internationalist. Born in Moscow to an Indian Muslim father, and an American white mother, raised in a circle of religious tolerance, fluent in English through mother tongue, French through early schooling and living most of her life in Paris, Spanish and German through language school, Urdu and Hindi (although not the script). She wrote Urdu and Hindi poetry in Roman script. She was also an anti-Imperialist.





When the Nazis occupied France, the family decided to do whatever they could to fight them. It wasn't their war, but they could not see the Nazis deport Jews to concentration camps, and sit silently.

The mother and children, except the youngest son Hidayat, moved to London on 5th June 1940. Hidayat was married and went to the South of France for spying on the Germans. Noor and Vilayat went to the War Office in London. On 14th June 1942, Noor's "The Fairy and the Hare" was broadcast on BBC Radio's "Children's "Hour."

Noor attended RAF Commission's interview on 28th August 1942. She had a British passport, as her father was Indian, and India was the jewel in the British crown. Vilayat was rejected for the RAF, but accepted in the Royal Navy after getting a maritime certificate. Noor was accepted in the WAAF. Noor, after seeing the problems faced by the recruiting clerk in spelling Vilayat (he had entered Vialayat as Vic, and without asking his religion as Church of England), told the clerk her name was Nora Baker, and religion Church of England. Hence when living as a trainee, she attended CoE services with the other girls. To all intents and purposes, she became Nora Baker from now on in her outwardly appearance and behavior. According to her father's teachings the outward practices did not matter.

She spent a few months in WAAF, before the SOE sent for her to be interviewed in November 1942. They had been looking for recruits. Someone noticed the comment "excellent French" after her name. In her interview, she said she would remain loyal to the British as long as the war was on, but then she would return to India to fight for India's Independence. This shows her political awareness, commitment and a rare maturity. Most interviewers and testers thought she would break down under torture, as her build was slight, and her comment about India indicated an excess of emotion. She also, couldn’t lie, and what use is an agent who cannot lie to the enemy.

She was very good with the wireless, so the SOE's F-section chief wanted her. He brought her to the master codesman Leo Marks for special tuition and advice. Marks thought she was too refined and loving. "Oh, Noor, what are you doing in the SOE?", he thought. He wanted her to fail the tests, so she would stay in safer Britain, rather than behind enemy lines. However, she was the best of wireless operators he had trained and tested. He, like other interviewers, found that she could not lie, and was a little careless. He gave her advice on care, which she heeded to her last. He told her to be immaculate in her filing, which she did, and also kept copies of messages she sent, as she thought she had been told to maintain these in a file, taking the literal meaning of "filing" to her heart. As for lying, try as she might, she just couldn't. Marks told her if she couldn't lie, she would jeopardize not only herself, her mission, but also the lives of all those in contact with her or known to her in France. She thought for a while and said: "what if I say nothing".

When she came back from her incomplete training, she had a smirk on her face. she told her mother she had a job with the WAAF (Women's auxiliary Air Force) that might entail her going abroad. She also mentioned that she had become engaged to someone at the War Office, but she gave no further information. She had been so unsuccessful in her romances, that she did not want to tempt fate by telling much. No one discovered who the mysterious fiancé was, and he never came forward.

Noor remained unmarried until her death.

This is not to say she did not have a love life.

In all probability, she had sex with her fiancés - the Jewish student and the unknown man at the War Office. Antelme, a British citizen of Franco-Mauritian descent, interacted with her as with others. Her colleagues are also sure she had sex with her fellow spy, France Antelme. The details of the colleagues and their statements are not given in the book "Spy Princess". The two were even reported to be planning marriage after returning to Britain.

The lady who rented her the apartment however, thought Antelme only had a paternal interest in her. This is unlikely, Antelme was in his forties, and Noor was thirty. He may have thought initially he was showing a paternal interest, Although Noor had her fiancé back in England, and Antelme already had a French girlfriend, they had been placed together in very trying circumstances. It is possible that their mutual liking and predicament may have turned into seeking solace in sex, and exploring the possibility of spending the rest of their lives together. In such times, the existence of fiancés back home is irrelevant. All the author Shriabni says lamely is something to the effect that in the presence of fiancés back home, they could not have discussed mutual marriage plans.

Did Noor say Salah: in all probability,: no.

Did she observe the dietary rules of Islam: no

The SOE was very short of wireless field personnel, so she was sent into the field before her training was complete. When finally saying goodbye to her trainer Vera Atkins, she pointed at a book on the shelf about "Extraordinary women", remarking "men like reading about extraordinary women".

She had signed the Official Secrets Act on February 1943, and she, the first woman wireless operator to be sent abroad, was dropped in France on 16/17 June, 1943.

Her group, the Physicians Group or Prosper, had already been compromised before she joined. Most of its members were arrested within ten days of her arrival back in France. She was the only free wireless operator left in her circle, and she frantically sent information (20 messages) to London while dodging the Germans. Once she was nearly caught by two German soldiers with her radio but she said it was a home cine equipment, and they believed her.

Unfortunately for them, Antelme already had a French girlfriend in the same Resistance circle as her. Naturally the jilted girlfriend resented losing Antelme's attentions to Noor, and became jealous of her.

When the group had been broken up by the Germans and most of her circle arrested, the British recalled their operators in that circle, as it was now very dangerous to operate there. Antelme went back. Noor refused. She (the only radio operator left in the field) was the only existing contact with the British, and thus the lifeline of the French Resistance groups. So she stayed and continued to relay important messages which saved more than 30 (thirty) Allied airmen's lives who had been shot down over France.

Not surprisingly, she was betrayed by Antelme's ex-girlfriend for 100,000 Francs.

If I were a spy chief, I would emphasize that my agents avoid liaisons like these, for the risk of treachery due to jealousy is very great.

Noor was arrested by the Gestapo on 13th Septemvber 1943, and interrogated over the next month at the Paris HQ of the Gestapo.

She was pretty, petite, and delicate. Her zeal for Indian freedom was misinterpreted by her interviewers as her being too emotional. They felt she was not suitable for a spying job, and would break down under torture. However, her French was excellent. Her skin coloue, not white, not blach, but café a la crème, made her look like a Creole, and that wouldn't raise any suspicions. She was also very good with the wireless, and the Chief selector was very impressed with her. She was sent as a spy.

Under torture or psychological blackmail, she did not break down, and never revealed anything. This was testified by her prison officials later at a trial. Her interrogators were equally impressed with her integrity, perseverance, tolerance and tenacity.

She made one mistake, though, and that should be thought of as perfect attachment to what she had been told, or rather what she understood she had been told. She had kept a record of all the messages she had sent. It was against the rules of espionage. This was due to unclear instructions. She was told to be immaculate in her filing. What this meant was that she should not make mistakes in filing a report, and should be on time. That she was, but she also took it literally in maintaining a complete and accurate file of all messages she had sent. She was told by a visiting fellow agent that this was dangerous, and she should destroy that notebook containing her messages. She, however, continued to act according to what she had understood from Marks, the master cryptographer for the SOE. This misunderstanding allowed the Germans to break her code, and to relay false information that resulted in the sending and capture of more agents, including Antelme and two others, one a woman, who would die with Noor. All three were among the best spies of the British.

The concerned British authorities are to be blamed, They knew that the messages lacked a confirmation signal. Furthermore they knew that the resistance ring their agents were to be dropped into, had fallen in German hands, and was being operated by them. In fact, despite this certain knowledge, Alterme volunteered to go over to France. Maybe he was missing Noor and was feeling guilty at leaving her alone in danger. As mentioned above he, too, was captured, tortured, and executed. He too, did not divulge any information under torture.

There is evidence that the British deliberately sacrificed their agents in the field to keep the Germans off the trail of more important plans, including the Normandy landings. That they did bungle up, is without any doubt, for had they paid heed to the hidden tests of genuine transmissions, they would have understood that Noor had been captured. They also sent Noor unnecessarily to meet the Gestapo agents, who got a good look at her, and thus agent Madeleine could be recognised anywhere,

Noor even managed to escape three times. The first one on the very day she was captured where she tried to escape through the window of the lavatory she had said she was allowed to take a bath in. The second was when she persuaded two male prisoners to join her in an attempt of the building she was being kept in, but was recaptured due to heightened security through removing the bars on the skylights in their rooms. They might have succeeded had British airplanes not started bombardment of the locality. After They were asked to sign a declaration that she wouldn't try to escape again. She and another prisoner refused. Both were sent to German prisons. She to Pforzheim on 13th October 1943.

Noor was singled out for special treatment, maybe because her skin color was darker. Maybe because she did not bow to Nazi pressure, and replied with dignity to abuses. She fought her captors fiercely. She was described as dangerous and kept manacled to the wall and in solitary confinement for most of her time in captivity. Both of her legs were bound together by chains, both hands similarly, and then, hands and feet tied together by another chain, so that she cannot stand up. And what is more, she wasn't even free to move with her chains. She could not go to the toilet. She could not clean or eat herself. A cleaning woman came to clean her and her cell. Imagine if one has to answer the call of nature in the semi-nude clothing she was wearing, and in the same place she was chained to, and to put up with the filth until the cleaning woman came, and one's indignation and anger is sky high. Note too, that this was a woman just thirty. She had menstrual periods, which means involuntary secretions and smelly flows from the body from days every month. She must also have been taunted on her nudity, her smelly body, her skin colour. How she endured all this degradation, is beyond imagination, but endure she did, with her head held high, and without giving the Nazis any information.

She was allowed to wear very scanty clothes, which were insufficient to protect against the cold.

When eventually she was given some exercise, it was also in isolation, and she was taken every day an the afternoon for no more than 45 minutes. She used this time to go by doing gymnastic exercises. Her soft nature can be seen in that she profusely thanked the officer who let her out for this brief respite from the chains, although he was only doing what he was told to do.

Even the scant clothes she could wear, were removed to degrade her further, and she was left naked. She found a sackcloth, with which to hide her nudity, and to come out for a walk at the appointed time. She was given one bowl of potato peel soup per day. She was severely tortured by beatings. She was abused verbally and maybe sexually. All this was to break her spirit and to keep her weak. She was beaten, stripped naked, and had to hide her body in a sack for exercise. Once the soldiers heard some other female prisoners go by her cell singing the news of Allied victories to her. They were told off, but Noor was taken to the basement and beaten harshly (maybe even raped) . Her cries could be heard by the other prisoners. When alone in her cell, she gave vent to her anger and pain by sobbing, which could be heard by the other prisoners, but they could do nothing to ease her suffering.

Four women, Eliane Plewman, Madeleine Damerment, Yolande Beekman and Nora Baker (Noor) were discharged from the Pforzheim prison on 11th September, and transferred to Dachau and lodged in separate cells. On the night of 12th September 1944, Pirzadi Noor Inayat Khan was given a specially hard time: "with full works", as described by some. She was kicked by the German soldiers with their heavy boots, raped repeatedly, and in the morning of the 13th, when she lay in a bloody mess, was told to kneel as she was going to be shot in the head. Her last word was "liberté". The other three girls were simply shot in the head. They, mercifully, did not receive the "full treatment". Bodies of the four women agents were then cremated.

The Nazis had broken her body, but not her spirit.

A plaque now marks her resting place at Dachau. Seven months later Dachau was liberated, but it was too late. She was thirty years and nine months old when she was murdered.

The French celebrate her as a national heroine. Posthumously, the French awarded her the Croix de Guerre. She was given the George Cross and made an MBE by Britain.

Do awards in this world matter?

Some of her contemporaries described her as idealist, dreamy, clairvoyant The dreamy bit may be due to her idealism, which turns out to be practical. We see that she looks after her siblings when she is herself a child and her mother is in ill-health. She uses her knowledge of child psychology by writing stories for children, and by doing radio shows for them. She shows her love for humanity by joining the War as a spy against the Nazis. That courage in putting her life at stake, of braving the possibility of torture and early death, is breathtaking.

It is Eid night here, and I cannot sleep …

Then a prayer comes to my heart, not to my lips. I seldom vocalize my prayers.

"O Allah! You are free from all blemish. Whatever happened, happened with your knowledge. O Allah! cleanse Noor of all sins, forgive her, give her permanent abode in Jannat-ul-Firdaws."

true story 003 - grab, grab, grab.....

Grab, grab, grab.....



This is what the world is all about :(

The prophet (saw) said something like: if a person grabs hold of a piece of land belonging to someone else, that piece of land will be made into a tauq (yoke) and put around the grabber’s neck, and he will have to go around with it.









There was a time when people had a sense of what is theirs, and what is not, and they were careful not to touch what did not belong to them, but alas, no more. Now people want to grab, grab, grab.....









This is a little story of how me, one weak and frail person, fought not just the high and mighty in the land but almost everyone else to restore some land rights to the common man. True story, of course.



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I was reasonably happy.









I had a government job, which paid me enough for a respectable living. Although the atmosphere at work was more of persecution, I had determined that this was the best place for me. I lived in rented accommodation with 4000 square feet covered area on a 500 sq. yard plot. The house was much larger than my needs, in an elite locality, where most people were educated officers. The area was clean; at the front there was no construction, so there was greenery around me. From the verandah on my house’s first floor the hills were visible, and they were hardly 2.5 km away. Any problems with utilities like electric or gas supply breakdowns, telephones, etc, were immediately attended to. My wife and I did not earn enough to live lavishly, not even enough to visit my mother on a yearly basis, but my life was comfortable. I had a new small car, bought on installments. I was married, and we had two kids. While my wife also worked, my mother-in-law also lived with us, and took care of the kids during the day until my wife returned home.









When there was load-shedding of electricity, I made an alternative 12-volt system for my kids, so while the rest of Pakistan suffered mosquito bites and heat, my children slept peacefully through electricity blackouts.









Then one day, after eight years of living in that rented accommodation, my landlord asked me to vacate the house.









“But why?” I asked, “you told me I can live in this house for the rest of my life”.





“You believed me!” the landlord exclaimed in disbelief.





What could I say? I speak the truth, and I mean what I say, and I expect others to be the same. Here was someone telling me he did not mean what he had said!





“But why, what have we done to incur your displeasure?” I asked again.







“Oh, you are a perfect tenant. I wouldn’t normally want you to leave but the market rent for this house is now double what you pay, and I know you are already paying more than you can afford. You cannot afford the rent”, came the reply.







He was right.







“Give me time”, I asked; and as he was a gentleman, he agreed.







So my wife and I went house hunting. I had been spoilt. I have always lived in clean localities, with large open spaces but with all municipal facilities. So I looked for similar accommodation in residential sectors that were newly being built, where the rents were likely to be lower.









Those experiences are also worth relating, but maybe some other time, insha’Allah. What I learnt was that these houses were also out of reach for me.









One day while worried about where to go, I passed by the chief of my organisation, and he asked what was wrong with me. So I explained that I was about to be evicted, and the rents had now gone too high in the localities where people like me would prefer to live.









“Why don’t you get a house of your own? You can get a loan from us. Bring me an application, and I will sanction your loan”, he said.







That was very kind of him, I thought. I immediately went to my office, wrote an application for a house-building loan, took it to the chief for sanctioning, and got it signed. That evening, my landlord came to ask about when was I going to vacate the house. I told him excitedly that a loan had been sanctioned to me, and I will buy a house and move. He didn’t respond with any happiness or excitement. Instead he asked, “how much money has been sanctioned to you?”







I told him the amount.







He shook his head; “You won’t be able to buy a reasonably sized plot even in the new sectors with this money, let alone a house.”







And then he told me to go check the market for plots/houses on sale. I did that for the next few days, and my heart sank.







My wife looked at me one evening, and said, “ask your father-in-law for a loan”.







That was a thought. Before my marriage, I had it conveyed to my father-in-law that from our side there was no demand for dowry. This was unusual, as generally in the settled areas of the Indo-Pak subcontinent, the bride’s side gives a lot of dowry to the bride, and that can include a car, a house, cash etc. which is of course made use of by the bridegroom.







Totally unIslamic, but a custom from the Hindus, and I had broken that custom so that my marriage would be more Islamic.







I was still hesitant, so my wife said, “Shall I ask?” I told my wife to go ahead.







She did and came back with the requirement that I submit a feasibility study and repayment schedules.







F-in-L had been the Finance Director of a large industrial cum commercial empire, and so I understood his requirement. All through his life he had dealt with feasibility studies and payment schedules! So I prepared and submitted the feasibility with a schedule of repayments. The loan was promptly sanctioned, :) and the money transferred to my wife’s account.







Armed with this money, I went into the market to buy a house. There I discovered that I had to lower my expectations, and even then all the money I had been able to muster was somewhat short of the price, which was climbing literally every day. Then my neighbor, who was in the same boat as me, told me that with the same money we could buy a plot jointly, subdivide it, and build our houses on the subdivided plot.







The experiences of that will be related some other time, insha’Allah. Let us fast forward to the topic of this story.







This new sector where I built my house, was soon flooded with people with a lot of money. They were feudal lords, who do not pay taxes, instead collecting from the government, benefiting from every government scheme, and being at the forefront of all politics, democratic or otherwise. Or they were very highly placed bureaucrats, similarly benefiting from government schemes. The children of this elite have no respect for the law, and would fly their four-wheel drive Pajeros on the roads.







Normally, when you have housing schemes in the developed world, all facilities and amenities are in place before the owners are expected to take up residence. In the third world, generally facilities follow the residents. A sector for development is opened up, and there is a very poorly constructed narrow road. When the sector is nearly fully populated, and people press for facilities and if they are influential, those facilities are provided. Fortunately, in my sector, electricity and gas were available from the start and telephone followed shortly, and the roads were also paved properly, three years after I had moved in.







Even the President built a house in my area. He was the chief of a very large tribe.









At the side of the paved roads there is land which house owners are required to maintain, without restricting its public nature. However, I found that almost everyone had encroached upon this land, grabbing it upto the edge of the paved road, and erecting fences or even walls, thereby leaving the pedestrians no space to walk. This I saw happening all over the place, and could do nothing. Then one day the owner of the corner house being built at my street’s junction with the main road also put a fence around the land meant for pedestrians.







That was a serious traffic hazard. So I asked people if a vehicle breaks down where would the other vehicles go?







Or if there is need for a lot of vehicles to be parked in our street, where would these be parked?







Or if a pedestrian tries to save himself from a flying vehicle, how would he do it? In fact, while going for walks, three times I had nearly been run down by vehicles at that junction.







I discovered that there are laws and directions governing this land, and how the owners can make use of it to beautify the surroundings of their houses, without restricting the public’s right to use it.







I approached the offending gentleman, who simply refused to remove that encroachment, instead relating how he had been shortchanged by the system. If he had complaints against the system why was he punishing us, I asked. He did not consider this question worthy of reply.











I asked my neighbors on the street, and they agreed with my objection to that particular gentleman, but no more. They weren’t prepared to remove the encroachments they had themselves made, or make a representation against that particular encroachment, or even talk to the gentleman about the traffic hazard he had created.







I asked my colleagues and friends, and their responses were similar.









My family was upset with me for being so civics minded, and for making enemies in the neighbourhood. You are making it difficult for us to live here, my family told me. Why don’t you mind your own business, every one said?







But this was my business, I protested!







I went to the municipal authorities, and they agreed with me, yet expressed helplessness at this breach of the law. The high and mighty were doing it, and it would be wiser for me to join them, rather than make any protests. Many of their Directors were also doing the same.









One of my colleagues got angry with me: “First get the President to remove his encroachment, and then maybe I will listen to you”, he said. Great, I thought, everyone here thinks he is above even the President.









I wrote a letter to the editor of a newspaper, and it was published. I mentioned this issue to the Executive Director of a think-tank, who told me I was wasting my time on small worries. I should be concentrating on changing the government. Apparently that is the issue this think tank specialised in. Change the government, and everything will be all right. They had struggled all their lives to make governments fall, and had succeeded umpteen times. Yet I could not see any improvement in the conditions of this nation. So, I did not agree with the approach of that think-tank. To the Executive Director, however, I was a friend who had helped him in the past, and he hoped to keep me interested in his own organisation, so he gave me some practical advice. He told me one letter wouldn’t do. There had to be many letters, and in many newspapers, for any notice to be taken.







When everyone else was opposed to any activism who would write letters in my support, I wondered?









Still I asked around for help, and got refusals. I then asked if I could use names and addresses, and fortunately, from those who weren’t owners themselves, but were resident tenants, that permission was granted. My friend in the think tank also provided me with a list of his supporters and sympathisers, whose permission to use their names for writing letters had already been obtained by his organisation.









So I wrote many letters from my relatives and friends to the newspapers, as much as twenty-five letters a day to five daily newspapers. Soon it looked as if the thinking population of this city was grossly upset with encroachments.









All this must have worried the municipal authorities. They eventually moved in the face of such a campaign. They first issued notices to house owners to do these themselves by a certain time. When there was no compliance, the authorities began to remove the encroachments from the city. Everyday I looked, and was happy with the results. Soon it would be my street’s turn. I waited with pleasure. Ramadan was coming, and the authorities were near my street, and then the work stopped.







I asked why, and they said they would renew their campaign after Ramadan.







Ramadan came and went, and I waited.







Eid-ud-duha came and went, and nothing happened.







I asked again, and was told yes, it would soon start. But how soon is soon? Eight months passed after Ramadan, and no activity.







I learnt that just the day before the encroachments were to be removed from my street, one of the employees of the authorities had been murdered in a commercial market while removing the encroachments, so the unions wouldn’t let the authorities begin their drive again, or the authorities wouldn’t do it themselves.









I was stuck with the encroachments on my street, and the rest of the city.









Then one day, in desperation, I wrote a letter to the Federal Ombudsman. I received a very courteous reply that my complaint had been registered, and had been allotted a complaint number, which I should use in future correspondence. Soon my complaint would be looked into.









After nearly a month, I received a letter again from the Ombudsman. Enclosed was a letter from the local municipal authorities. That letter explained that the authorities were alive to such violations, and had been taking steps. It pointed out how the authorities had started a campaign nearly a year ago, etc. etc. - basically singing laurels of the authorities.







It was a very standard sort of reply. I wrote back to the Ombudsman that the campaign had stopped in the middle, before it reached my street, whereas I was one of the earliest complainants, and I enclosed copies of newspapers cuttings with my letters on this subject.









The Ombudsman again sent my letter on to the authorities and intimated to me what he had done.









In due course, I received a letter again from the Ombudsman, with an enclosure, which was another letter from the municipal authority, detailing how civic that body was, and how alive it was to the needs of the residents, and it would be doing something about the issue.









I waited, and then asked for a time frame, and the letters flew back and forth through the good offices of the Ombudsman. This went on for another year, until I sat down and reviewed the entire correspondence, and got very angry.









So I wrote a very nice and courteous letter to the Ombudsman, asking him if he was supposed to act as a glorified post office, or was his function to see that the complaints of a citizen, if genuine, are attended to. Here, I pointed out, the authorities were taking us in a merry-go-round.









I think the sarcasm got him. Any way, the Ombudsman’s office called the municipal authorities and me to his court – he had the powers of a Federal Supreme Court Judge. I was a little apprehensive, because of the sarcastic language I had used. The authority sent an inexperienced deputy director to represent its case. The poor guy could offer no defense of his organisation’s procrastination, instead almost weeping at not having any authority himself. He propmptly got rebuked for his employers sins. He said he had no manpower to do the job. He was told by the Ombudsman to hire daily wage laborers and do the job. Or to hire a contractor and get it done to the complainant’s satisfaction. And to get it done within a fortnight, although it was hardly a day’s job. This extra time was being given to him as a grace, the Ombudsman added.







That gentleman whose fence was the straw that broke the camel’s back, noticed that I had reactivated my attempts to get the street cleared of encroachments. One day he came to my house and threatened me of dire consequences. I told him to go to the law, as what I was doing was trying to get his usurpation of public land redressed through the law. He said unmentionable things about the law, about the Ombudsman, etc. and threatened that he would abduct my family, mentioning that his tribe had just become famous for the notorious activities of some of its members in politics and bureaucracy. That was true, so I worried about it. I said the ayatul kursi, and asked Allah (swt) for help, putting my family in His care. Then I sought links in the law-enforcement department, and told them of this threat. I was told not to worry.









The gentleman received a visit from the said law-enforcing department. It must have been quite a visit :), for after that he became very subdued, and although he kept complaining about the removal of his encroachment, never issued any more threats, or even come to me.









The job was done, and reported to the Ombudsman who wrote to me to verify that it was satisfactory. I wrote back that it wasn’t, because the contractor had dumped the earth by another main road, which had become an eyesore. The authority received another rebuke, and that eyesore was also removed.

:)))

This is how a meek, frightened weak person had his city cleared of encroachments despite opposition from the President of the country down to his own family.

btw, the encroachments are coming back, and I don't have the energy or strength for another campaign.

Anyone wants to renew or restart this campaign?

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