Science in Islamic context.

Khalid bin Yazid, the grandson of Mua’wiya, Muhammad’s famous companion and 5th Caliph in Muslim history, is considered to be among the first Muslim alchemists. Tradition has it that he left his home in Damascus at the age of twenty and set out for Alexandria. Here he met his teacher Morienus, a Christian hermit of Jerusalem and learned the art of alchemy from him. Morienus was a protégé of Stephanus of Alexandria, a prominent Greek in the field of alchemy known for his famous work “On the Great and Sacred Art of Making Gold”

An example of the second is Dr. Bashiruddin Mehmood, a Pakistani scientist from country’s prestigious Atomic Energy Commission (PAEC), who argued that as Djins are made of fire as told in the Quran, we should capture them and produce electricity from them. The fact is that no matter how hard people like Dr Mehmood, Hossein Nasar or Ziauddin Sardar try to prove it, Islamic science never existed.

The treatment meted out to these scientists is another point of concern. Muslims of today take pride in these medieval men without knowing how they were treated in their times. They were persecuted, jailed and tortured. They were silenced and rejected, their books were burnt and they were charged with blasphemy, heresy and apostasy. Some were killed. Ideologues like Ghazali, Taj-ad-Din-as-Subki and Ibn-as-Salah were there to provide a quasi-rational justification of this treatment. Hardly any proud Muslim knows the extent of this oppression. The list of ill-treated persons of letters is in no way short. Jamal-ud din Afghani wrote in one of his letters to the French scholar Renan: “AI-Sayuti tells that the Caliph al-Hadi put to death in Baghdad 5,000 philosophers in order to destroy sciences in Muslim countries down to their roots. Admitting that this historian exaggerated the number of victims, it remains nonetheless established that this persecution took place, and it is a bloody stain for the history of a religion as it is for the history of a people”.

The famous physician Al Razi was blinded by the torture he received. Andalusian polymath Ibn-e Rushd was tied to a post outside the central mosque and people were asked to spit on his face [5]. Al- Kindi received 50 lashes before a cheering crowd and Ibn-e-Sina had to spend a major portion of his life in hiding or on the run in order to avoid persecution. A nation with a history of persecuting their freethinkers cannot take pride in these men unless they openly disown and denounce their persecutors. On the contrary, ideological descendents of those persecuting mullahs still dominate the Muslim intellectual arena while heirs to the philosophies of these rationalists are still being hounded and cornered.

Couplets, lines for posterity.

Some lines, some couplets which I want to preserve for posterity.

Rajab Hamid- the forgotten poet.

THREE AND HALF YEARS HAVE PASSED WHEN WE LOST RAJAB HAMID BUT “AFSOOS DUNIYA ” LIVES ON 

In May 1910 this man Rajab Hamid was born in a lower middle class family in a remote village SATOORA in Traal Kashmir .Totally illiterate and devoted to Sufism of Kashmir , Rajab sahib wrote a song that crossed all barriers of time and space . Apart from being echoed in every corner of the Valley , this song has also touched kashmiris in UK , USA, SAUDI ARBIA , MIDDLE EAST and the plains of INDIA. You had the cassettes previously and Now you have the CDs of this song selling in the market ;

Afsoos Duniya, Kainsi Naa Loug Samsaar Seeteey 

Patau Laakun Vuchh Taa Kum Kumm Kumm Mazaar Vaeteey

( Alas ! This world never accompanied any one ,

Behold !How all the Great Men finally landed at the Graveyard.)

He was brought to the world of Sufi Mysticism by a great Sufi saint Abdul Gaffar Tantray of Midoora, Tral. This couplet is a testimony to his association with Gaffar Tantray:

Bae Tsaaran Yaar Nishatan Shalimaran

Su Aousum Tral Midoorai Choorey Roozan.

I searched my guide far and wide

But found him just in the backyard, Midoora.

His another Murshid and guide : Ghulam Rasool Fida, popularly known as Lassa Khan Islamabaadi. Late Ghulam Hassan Sofi popularized his song AFSOOS DUNIYA through his magical voice and would weep bitterly like a child while singing it. I am a witness to this fact . I am informed by friends that he also wept bitterly while recording it for the first time . 

Alas !This great poet too faced absolute indifference from his people. He died in a state of abandonment and abject poverty. His family continues to reel under this poverty. No institution came forward to help him when he was alive, or his family, after his death.. Rajab Sahib has a lot of unpublished work.. Let some institution like our cultural academy take it upon itself to preserve at least his art for our posterity . Rajab sahib loved his Hubble Bubble ( Hukka ) and lived a simple life of a Dervish .He left this world on 2nd April 2008.Peace be to his soul

( Autar Mota )


Shakeel Badyani

Jab hua zikar zamanay mai mohobbat ka Shakeel

Mujh ko apnay dilay nakaam pe rona aya.

Meri zindagi pe na muskara mujhe zindagi

ka allum nahi

Jisse tere gham se ho waasta 

Woh khizaan bahaar se kam nahin

Wahi karwaan wahi raaste wahi zindagi wahi marhale

Magar apne apne muqaam par kabhi

Tum nahi Kabhi hum nahi.

Some poetry; different poets.

Mujhse mat pooch mere dil ki kahaani ae humdum

Iss mai kuch pardanasheeno ke bhi naam aate hai

lagta hai ab yunnhein kaate gi zindagi ae humdum

aise khayaal kabhi akele mai tou kabhi sareaam aate hai…

Yeh kahan ki dosti hai jo bane hai dost naaseh

Koi chaarsaaz hota, koi ghum-guzaar hota.

Yeh tera tasawuff Ghalib, yeh tera bayaan ghalib

tujhe hum wali samajhte jo na bad-khwaar hota.

vahum-o-guma se door door

yakeen ki hadd ke pass pass

dil ko yeh barham hogaya

unnko humse pyaar hai.

Ameer-e-shehr ghareebon ko loot leta hae,,,,,

Kabhi ba heela-e-mazhab,kabhi ba naam-e-watan- Ahmed Faraz

Ye daagh daagh ujaalaa, ye shab-gaziida sahar,
Vo intizaar thaa jis-kaa, ye vo sahar to nahiiN- Faiz Ahmed Faiz.

Dil Na-Ummeed To Nahi, Na-Kaam Hi To Hai 

Lambi Hai Gham Ki Shaam, Magar Shaam Hi To Hai- Faiz

Yoonhi hamesha ulajhti rahi hai zulm se khalq

Na unki rass'm nayee hai na apni reet nayee....

Nisaar main teri galiyon peh ai watan, kay jahan

Chali hai rasm ki koi na sar utha keh chale

Jo koi chahane wala tawaaf ko nikale

Nazar chura keh chale, Jismo-jan bacha keh chale

Woh jin ke siwa sab kaafir hain

Jo deen ka harf-e-aakhir hain

Inn jhuutay aur makaaroon se

Mazhab ke theke daaroon se

Mein baghi hoon mein baghi hoon

Chala jaata hoon hansta kehlta mauj-e-hawadish se 

Agar aasaaniyan ho zindagi dushwaar ho jaaye - Jigar Moradabadi

Nazar wo hai ke jo kauno makan ke paar ho jaaye 

Magar jab ruh-e-taaban par pade bekaar ho jaaye- Jigar

Hai zakhm-e-qayinat jo hai hindu inn dino

Hai daag-e-zindagi jo musalman hai aj kal- Jigar

Dunyaa Ne Teri Yaad Se Begaana Kar Diya;
Tujh Se Bhi Dil-Fareb Hain Gham Rozgaar Ke- Faiz.

Niyat e shauq bhar na jaaye kahin
Tu bhi dil se utarna jaaye kahin- Unknown

http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/06/29/the-great-divide-books-dalrymple

http://www.halalmonk.com/ziauddin-sardar-critical-muslims-transmodern-tradition

Cricket's Rebels, 1983.

The first rebel flight that took off from the tarmac of Barbados airport in 1983 turned 17 men into instant demons - to the point that some of them could never return back to their homes. If some did, they had to withstand to the wrath of the Bajans. It is said that, the then rebel side of WI could have beaten any test XI. The team boasted of brilliant players such as Kallicharan, L Rowe, Collis King, Colin Croft, Franklyn Stephenson, Ezra Moseley and others. Franklyn Stephenson is regarded as the best all-rounder who never played a test match. Ezra Moseley even by West Indian standards was fiercely quick. The 17 villains of their times were publicly scorned by everyone in Caribbean. Some called them traitors, some money leeches. Clive Lloyd denounced them too. West Indian board banned them for life, even when the plane was mid-air, meandering over Pacific ocean, whose waters had engulfed thousands of their ancestors during slave trade, when the Afrikaans were shipped to the sugarcane fields of the Caribbean, in barbaric conditions by their imperialistic masters.

Cricket however, had a different flavor to add in that summer of the southern hemisphere. WI not only won the test series and the one-days, but they won the hearts of South-African public. The blacks saw in them heroes. The whites were in awe. Cricket transcended color. The test matches saw record attendances. Their delightful outlook to cricket and natural flair caught the imagination of young South-Africans, who were under the cloud of apartheid.

This phase in their history is less talked about. But technically it was the most significant development of those times. And remains till now.

P.S: This post was written on 7th October 2012, the day WI won T20 World Cup.

A half asleep woman

Give me a woman who rolls here eyes
half asleep, shrouded and draped

Her eyes drowsy
this early morning
I see a thousand mountains
and tiny alleys
Faces of caution and some passion.

Divine, supple I'm drawn to her close
I cannot let her go, enveloped in sleep
are great bards and minstrels
They refuse to wake her at the hiss of any man but me.

I brace myself effectively
when she says something that pierces me
and then those three words that she spoke
counting on stars and sailing in sea
I shall avow that moment forever,
while I turn immortal in those seconds.

Give me a woman
half asleep.

Safdar Hashmi- Natak Jaari Hai

Art is at the center of any political or social upheaval. This is the assertion with which some of the greatest artists of 20th century did set on their journey. One such artist was Safdar Hashmi.

New Delhi, January 4th 1989:

That winter day witnessed a sea of artists, intellectuals and workers joining hands. What was so on this cold January day that brought them together? It was the incident 3 days back at Jhandapur on the outskirts of Delhi that shook an entire nation. Safdar Hashmi was the conveyor of Janam- a theatre group that performed on streets. From rising inflation to workers plight from American President's visits to police violence- Safdar's plays, some drew inferences from Bretch- were varied and touched a milieu of such crisis. Safdar's endeavor at the heart of it, was to start a cultural awakening. It was a movement which sought to make arts as a means of expression for freedom, economic and social justice.

New Delhi, January 1st 1989:

On a day when Delhi haze had quietly settled over its smoke throwing chimneys, in the Industrial area of Jhandapur, Janam was supposed to perform its street play 'Halla Bol' in support of trade union demands; when their adversary Mukul Sharma- a political thug from ruling Congress(I) confronted Safdar and his comrades. He along with his group of men assaulted the actors. They fled. Over a settling sun Safdar and his troupe ran for their lives, but only till Mukul Sharma found them. Safdar Hashmi was ferociously beaten by hockey sticks and cricket bats. He received many blows on his head. Next day, Safdar, as his comrades called him, succumbed to his injuries in a Delhi hospital.

It stunned everyone. Recounting the incident Javed Akhter says that it wasn't that this was one of the first such brazen attacks on artists, but it is just that we couldn't take it any longer. There had to be an outburst. Enough was enough.

On January 4, over fifteen thousand people gathered to bury Safdar. The funeral procession was nine miles long. Every artist, every intellectual, every worker – it was a sight to behold.

Janam returned to Jhandapur, the same day, to finish what they had begun. Dressed in their trademark black, solemn and angry, the players threw themselves into their art and their activism. Among them was Moloyashree Hashmi, Safdar's wife. Reflecting on that moment, Moloyashree wrote several years later.

"We are often asked what made us perform in Jhandapur that day. Why did we go there a day after Safdar died? Was it difficult? And so on. At that time, it seemed the most natural thing for us to do; I don't think it was carefully planned. Was it an emotional response? Perhaps it was – we had lost a dear friend, comrade, companion. But I don't think it was merely an emotional response. We were doing what we had been doing for so many years: performing among the people. And as performers, we felt very strongly, as we do till date, that we should never leave a performance incomplete. The 4 January performance was also Janam's salute to Safdar, the people's artist. And there was also the political context: we had to assert that people's art cannot be crushed by brute force."

It may be of some interest that Safdar Hashmi taught in Kashmir University in mid 70s, right after he completed his M.A from St. Stephen's Delhi.

In solidarity with the organisers of Gallery One, who put a fight against the system. For art shall prevail.

'Safdar Tu Zinda Hai.'

A documentary ‘Natak Jaari hai’ on this episode and the larger message that Safdar wanted to carry forward, directed by Lalit Vachani can be purchased online on the below URL:

http://magiclanternmovies.in/film/natak-jari-hai

This piece was carried in Greater Kashmir's March 6th 2015 edition.

Abba: Growing around an Idealist Grandfather

On sunny summer days, Abba would hold our fingers and walk towards the Grand Mosque every Sunday without a fail. While on the way from our home in Anzimar Khanyar, Abba would ensure to carry corn for pigeons and city doves, from a shop near Khwaje Bazar. Later in the large span of Jamia Masjid’s Bunyanesque gardens, that immediately transmute you into some medieval grandeur of royals, Abba would call the pigeons and feed them. In times, when Father was posted in Anantnag, Abba would take us for long walks over the bund, which ran the span of our ancient river Jhelum, while serpentining deviously through the breezy town. Laden with willow trees that ran thick and dense at some places, while its branches dropped carrying dry hay from a fresh harvest, Abba would ask us to sit and listen to the chirping of birds.  Listening to the songs, hearts of migratory birds that carried, from far off lands, some parts of land whose stories Abba read and lived with him forever. The wind carries music for those who listen, as goes an Arab saying.

It's been 10 years since he left us on a sombre March day. Yet his values and principles stay with us like a fresh spring shower: forever emanating its kindness and love. For a fairly young guy, I used to have long conversations with Abba. Seeing my interest in cricket he would translate some articles written in Urdu into English for me; encouraging us always to read. Abba was an avid reader himself.

He read lot of Russian literature during his formative years which perhaps explained his bent towards Marxist ideology. Few months back, piqued by Abba's interesting intellectual life, I got around talking to one of his old friend- Khwaja Salah-ud-din, who had migrated to Pakistan in '48 and later worked for Voice of America. He is currently based in Washington, USA.

Their memories relate to an era which in the 21st century medium could appropriately be described as ancient because they were still yoked to the colonial rule and their minds were full of romantic dreams, about a society emancipated and wedded to the ideal of the uplift of the underdog. These were the dreams that Abbad and his comrades shared with each other when they would assemble at our house, joined by Khwaja Qalander usually, as well as during the very long walk that they had to take every day to and from  Amar Singh college. That was the time when subcontinent was going through an uneasy transition, preparing to shed its colonial shackles and embark on the realisation of the dreams kindled by the defeat of the monster of Fascism at the hands of the allied forces, says Mr Salah-ud-din. "We were mightily impressed by the decisive role played in this Pyrrhic Allied victory in World War II by the Soviet forces, who routed no less than three hundred Panzer divisions compared to mere eighty that the West had to tackle. This enormous military feat reinforced our admiration for the Soviet system and also became an inspiration for the teaming millions of the newly emerging nations. Socialism thus became a burning topic among the educated class and our group was no exception. The Progressive Writers movement was very popular and we savoured the verse and prose that it generated, particularly favorites like Krishin Chander, Ismat Chughtai, Manto, Faiz and the like. Mikhail Shelakhov, among the Modern Soviet novelist was a favorite too as were his predecessors like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky."

In his later years partly disillusioned with what socialism could never transpire into, through its personality cult figurative ideas, step by step eliminated almost the entire Bolshevik leadership cultivated by Lenin.

Abba believed in equal rights. His generosity was completely unbiased. He dotted on domestic helps, always regarding them as part of the family. Abba would insist them to share their meals on the same dastarkhaan with the rest of the family. There are countless such small gestures and values that Abba without an effort instilled in us. For someone of his times, when women liberation was rarely given a thought in our part of the woods, Abba on his part, always believed that true development of a society lied in how we treat women.  

Religious bigotry and extremism were things Abba always opposed.   Like most of the teenagers with an impressionable mind, I got buoyed and carried away with September 11 attacks, hailing Osama and his ultras as heroes. The obsession was starting to take devious turns, when Abba pulled me back. He would jokingly call me a ‘Foolish Fanatic’.

Everything necessary to understand Abba lies between two stories: the story of a generous man and the story of a man who defied what death brings. These stories run like parallel rivers, amidst a maze of everything that life throws at me- the deceit, the ugliness, utter breakdown of faith in humanity. Of lives we live without love; selfishly. Abba died quietly on that early spring day, walking gracefully into death, accepting death like he accepted life and its fallacies with a smile and hope. He lives in us. Forever. 

Art and its relevance.

Why do we write? For that matter what is the use of any form of art? To earn name and fame? To have our names spoken about in literary events? To gain praise? Or is it what goes around us,  a soul stirring experience leading to a reaction, that we open out on paper, in theatre, in a performance. So much is going around actually: rotten politics, injustice, cynicism and apathy of politicians towards public and in turn the indifference of public towards politics. It angers one. You feel like giving a jerk to people- wake up, don’t pretend to sleep. But it will go in vain. It could be called a propaganda. The vice is deep in us. So what does one do in this helplessness? You resort to writing! Scribbling down whatever disturbs you. For few moments all the lava that is growing inside, you let it out. You feel lighter, momentarily. In certain cases we may see it as a moral obligation towards the society we come from. 

But then the question remains: how far social and political commitment can be merged with literature together? Or should they be merged at all. Shouldn’t we keep them apart. Literature is bigger than politics, it out grows everything, Amitav Ghosh had told Sameer- an editor friend with Khaleej times here, when he met him few weeks back. 

It feels odd when someone Marxist by ideology criticizes the general public for its ordinary tastes. For its lack of understanding, involvement, engagement. When we see injustice around us, and we have cases and stories right from Kunanpushpora to Pathribal to more recent killing of 3 young men in Budgam- we do want to take a moral stand on it. Right? As a human, yes. As an artist? Well lets dissect it further. As an artist one may be averse to such events. That in actual fact means, one man will have two sets of moral commitments. And that is fallible on its own. Good art can only be made, while being honest to oneself, because the soul and the artist ultimately will search for the answer. A decision perhaps has to made at some point of time: To live as an artist or as a human.

In my opinion any form of art: novel, poetry, drama or even movies through which you are able to sympathize with the public opinion, is a weapon in social or political struggle. Art can never be separated from politics. If you observe, Government of every country is using or curbing art to establish its rule. To bring a fundamental change art is an essential and inseparable form. If an artist isn’t politically committed, then his art becomes irrelevant. The choice is artist’s, he can remain neutral, no two questions about it. But the fact also remains, good art and literature especially from 20th century onwards is born under some form of protest. Whether the protest is only political, social or philosophical, is difficult to divulge into and irrelevant too, but in the mind of the artist the power of protest and revolt has been very strong. We’ve number of examples. Garcia Lorca- a poet, theatre director- gave his life fighting against the right wing bourgeois in the Spanish civil war. He wrote: "Outside of Madrid, the theatre, which is in its very essence a part of the life of the people, is almost dead, and the people suffer accordingly, as they would if they had lost their two eyes, or ears, or a sense of taste. We are going to give it back to them.”

In a historic moment when many artists join together, a special type of consciousness and sensibility is born, leading to a movement which will reach the common man’s heart and soul. 

Long live the revolution.