Kazi Nazrul's Prophecy

Kazi Nazrul Islam was a great Bengali poet who wrote, more than 50 years ago, on the condition of the Muslims. This is what he wrote in Bengali:

Bish-sho jokhon jach-che chaad-e,
Amra thaki Bosh-ey
Bibi talaaq-er fawta khuji,
Ketab Quran chosh-ey!

What it means, roughly translated, is this:

While the world is reaching for the moon,
We remain too busy,
Thumbing through the Quran,
Debating fatwas about Talaaq.

Nazrul's poems seem prophetic today, and ironically, even more applicable. Today, India has landed a satellite on the moon. Meanwhile her cousins Pakistan has gone to the dogs and Bangladesh is not far behind.

Pakistan now has Asif Zarderi in charge, which should be argument enough, but Zarderi recently promoted Israrullah Zehri to national cabinet who had this to say about five women buried alive in Baluchistan because they wanted to marry according to their wishes, and not that of their elders:

“These are centuries-old traditions, and I will continue to defend them.” [source]

Bangladesh meanwhile looks headed back to one of the two thieves back in charge: either Khaleda Zia or Sheikh Haseena. If there was ever an argument against women leading a nation these two would be it.

In the end, the following poem of Kazi Nazrul, much more powerful in Bengali, remains sadly true.

Yesterday was feast in the mosque,
A lot of bread and meat
Are left, the mullah is very happy for that.

At this moment a traveler came wearing tattered clothes,
Said, “Sir, I am starving for seven days”
The imam shouted with annoyance, “What a nuisance!
If you are hungry, die at the dumping place.
Do you say your prayer?”

Traveler said, “No, sir.”
Imam shouted, “Then see your own way.”
Taking the bread and meat, locked the mosque.

The traveler goes back
While walking, says
“Eighty years have passed; I didn’t call you, my Lord!
But you didn’t stop my food or hunger!
There is no right of human in mosque and temple,
Priest and devotee locked all the doors of them.”

Where is Ghenghis, Gazni-Mamud? Where is Kalapahar?
Crush the locked doors of those temples.
Who shuts the door of the house of God?
Who locks the house of God?
All the doors of them will be open, use your hammer and crowbar!

Reflections Of The Night

The worry was there on the guys with the clipboard.
The target was high - it was half a million dollars.
The times were tough - it was a recession.
Yet, the speaker wasn't worried.
He knew the mosque wouldn't be let down.
At the end of the evening, the money raised was over a million.
Yes, it is our way.
THEY WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND.

It's just a month.
Is it over yet, they ask.
It's the night of the 27^th.
It's not over, but it feels like it.
It's sad, yet it's a night of bliss.
Yes, it is our way.
THEY WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND.

People's feet are swollen.
They stand all night.
The comfort of the bed beckons,
Yet the voice of the Qari is the one they respond to.
The Quran is over. The Quran is begun anew,
Grown men cry. Why? Silent tears are shed by the women.
Even the mischievous children are quiet.
Something momentous has taken place.
Yes, it is our way.
THEY WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND.

The community is all here.
Men, women, children of all ages.
It feels like Eid. Sweets are distributed.
It's midnight. Soon, the lot is empty.

Then it starts filling up again.
Into the starry sky, the crescent is playing hide and seek.
The 15-year-old is reciting the verses.
"Then which of your Lord's favors will you deny?"
It's almost morning.
The faithful are fed.
The CEO a neighbor of the sweeper, eating on the floor.
That night, the building is full of people.
Yes, it is our way.
THEY WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND.
.
.
.
. [Eid]
.
.
.
A week has passed.
It's the time of the night prayers.
Faithful are called for prayers.
Only a handful have shown up.
Yes, it is also our way.
Perhaps, WE, do not understand.

Depression Is ...

Depression.
Has anyone listed what depression is?
Nazrul wrote a poem "Sritshti Sukher Ullashe", describing happiness,
Yet even he gave Depression a miss.

Depression is the lack of answers,
From the pious who are now taken to task,
The constants that defined the boundaries are gone,
And the sinners – in the halo of piety do they bask.

Depression,
Do tauba and all is forgiven, says our Lord,
What is the use of living good,
When the ticket to heaven is just one word?

Depression is a list of names
That is slowly being crossed,
As you realized each and every one of your friends,
Is closer to truly being bossed.

Depression is the breaking of a heart,
When one is forced to say no,
The slow pause as she takes it all in,
And for the final time types "got to go".

Depression is the sound of a glass, raised in toast, clinking,
It is the sound of the final call for his flight,
Your best friend has a job in another country.
Who will you now call in the middle of the night?

The lack of creativity,
The stifling of productivity,
The rolling back of celebration,
And the all-consuming fire of envy and jealousy.

Depression.
Thy name is the black spot of the heart.


Whenever I feel down, this video is always good for a laugh :-D

A Chuckle, and A "Hmmm"

A couple of chuckle posts before I publish my mega rant that will leave (some) girls fuming (to put it mildly). The mega rant is called Why Desi Guys Go Back 'Home' To Marry. So before I do that (sometime after our halal-now-turning-into-makruh bachelor party), here's something to munch on.

First Chuckle: We bloggers really have too much free time. At least at 12.20 am when the rest of the world is sleeping, a doctor messages a systems analyst online. And this is the result.

Second Chuckle (well, not really but): If you are thinking of marrying an Indian man, you may want to read this.

(Maybe this is why Malaysian women prefer Bangladeshi men and not Indian boys)