Sometimes, I think of god as a lover of music
listening to the poetry of our lives
listening to the minor falls
and the major lifts
and to those who loved too much.
What a symphony
we shall be.
These matters of mysticism
Ye tirā bayān ‘ġhālib’
These discourses of yours, Ghalib
Tujhe ham valī samajhte
We’d judge you a saint
Jo na bāda-ḳhvār hotā
If you weren’t an alcoholic
Ghalib, Ye na thi hamari qismat ki visal-e-yar hota (It just wasn’t my kismet to meet my lover)
searching for it at night
searching for it in brothels
searching for it in bottles of Murree’s finest on cold winter evenings
searching for it on walks through the city
walking through the humid streets of your childhood
by the park where you first kissed her
behind the queen-of-the-nights;
you will ask for them on your deathbed
to your tired, ravaged mind they will only be
of something you knew, once,
walking through the graveyard
where your grandfather lies
and his father
and his father before him
and you, too, someday
(if you like)
under the big banyan tree
that your grandmother told you was haunted
by a family of djinn
and you’d search for them during the hot afternoons
for three whole summers;
they say every love story is a ghost story
and if that’s true
who will you love?
who will you haunt?
to the mosque by the sea
where you found God one day
found him on the sea breeze
that came in through the broken windowpane
of that poor fishermen’s mosque
and kissed you on the forehead as you knelt
and you kneel again
please, you say,
but there is no breeze tonight
so you sit there
cross-legged on the dusty woven mat
and look through another broken windowpane
at the rising sun
and the fishermen as they row in
from nights spent
on the dark waters
and you see the morning star
and you see the Ursids flash by
and something flutters in your heart, then
and you are alright, then;
what a strange thing you are,
what a strange, strange thing you are.
Shahzéb: “I like 8-bit because 8-bit is to us what we are to God. It’s the closest we can get to touching the mind of the divine. You plug in a game into a beat-up old Nintendo and the little screen lights up with a brand new world of life and light and adventure. And you see a little hero and you watch his little life play out and he evolves over time and, before you know it, you care about the little sprite more than you want to admit. You love him and you root for him and you guide him and you watch him do all the things you can not because you have responsibilities… 8-bit is a distilled essence of our world. It’s forced by the limitations of bits and bytes to build a universe out of a few, small pixels. Like our world — of quantum pixels — built with care and with love and programmed with destiny. But the best part is the feeling you get when you realise how small the 8-bit world is. It has walls. It’s a sandbox that’s too small for all you’ll ever want. And you realise that you feel that here, too. And the 8-bit world is too small because it’s been made by us; us, who’ve seen bigger things. That lingers on in the subconscious of the little sprite-heroes. And it’s the same with us. That’s why we feel a twinge in our hearts every time we look up at the stars. This is why I love 8-bit. Because it reminds me that there is more than… this.”
Yousuf: “Consider teaching philosophy. At least once in your life. And fill it with this stuff. Then write a book. Title it The film of my life.”
Shahzéb: If I do, I’ll call it One Last Sunset.
I kneel in the nights
Before tigers that will not let me be;
What you were
Will not happen again.
The tigers have found me:
And I do not care.
Charles Bukowski, For Jane
WHEN I was younger and religion was more than a word, I would take long walks while they slept, hoping to find something they’d never see. Night after night, I’d stalk the streets in search of something more—past dingy alleys with rabid dogs; past old men whispering sun-kissed songs; past small, warm houses with doors shut tight, a wisp of smoke curling into the darkling sky. And as dawn would break and the world awaken, I would trudge home tired and sleepy and a little broken.
This went on for a while until it seemed that there was nothing left to break and that final night even the dogs gave up their growling out of pity, for what is more pathetic than the one who has lost his beloved? Cold, hungry and a little soul sick, I vowed that that night would be the last and that my journey would finally end, one way or another. I slid a hand into my pocket until it touched steel and, thus resolved, set off towards the bay.
The night was bitterly cold and the desolate stretch of beach held no redemption. The fishermen’s favela was silent and the only lights were at the whorehouse in the distance. I looked out at the taunting waves. The dark waters had no metaphors to offer. A drunk stumbled out of the brothel and collapsed on the sand. I stared at him for a long, long while. Then, without looking back, I ran.
THE old city. I doubled over to catch my breath and coughed twice, sweat dripping onto the cobblestone streets. The revolver dug into my side. This is a good a place as any.
“Are you lost, my son?”
I looked up. Something moved in one of the dark recesses. An old man shuffled out, wearing the garb of a Sufi.
“I am not lost. I am tired.”
“Ah, I see.”
“I don’t think you do, baba.”
“I see that there is much sadness in your eyes.”
“You are a man of God. I do not wish to blasphemy before you.”
“Have you heard of Hallaj?”
“Then speak your mind with ease, and do not use that word ‘blasphemy’ again. It is a word of the ignorant.”
And so it was that a Sinner found God in the dust of an ancient city by the sea.