Friday, July 30, 2010

Shooting Pain On The Streets

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who is he
what is his
life story
you nor i will
ever know
pain is a cactus
that needs only
pain to grow
living at other
peoples door
older than
the story
of man
is pain
as it clings
like a body sore
killing him softly softly
he cant even say no more
pain the only commodity
you get it free as you
hit the floor pain
a whimper and a roar
pain a painful musical score
in a picture or in real life
pain relived as before

In Defense of the Hijab

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My late mother Shamim Shakir wore the chador .

My maternal grand mother Nazmi Begum widow of Daroga Nabban Saab wore the burkha.My maternal grandmother hardly left her house at Pata Nala Lucknow .Her husband Daroga Nabban Saab was related to poet Mir Anis and was himself a poet too
My grand mother was his second wife.

My paternal grand mother Khurshed Baji was a Shia Momin she married a Sunni wealthy vinegar merchant who not only left his house and his wealth but became a Shia too.
We are offshoots of his Faith in Humanity we call it Shiasm.
My paternal grand mother was from Vazir Ganj and remained unmarried when her husband predeceased her His name was Bashir Hussain.
My grand mother wore the burkha.
Her companion Chanda Begum wore the chador.

My daughter in laws wear the burkha my wife wears the Chador and the Hijab sometimes she wears the fully covered hijab too I have to shoot her one day.

So I have been literally been bought up on the hijab.. and I think it has a right to live it is a symbol of peace and our Womanhood of Islam.

My grand daughter Marziya Shakir wears the head scarf and the hijab too and she is two and a half years old.

So I defend the hijab poetically spiritually and morally too.

I do it for both my grand mothers my mother my wife and my women folk.

Go Take A Hike

135,613 items / 1,042,351 views

a muslim woman
wears a dress
of the hijab
you dont like
my reply to you
go take a hike
she need not
dress like you
your atrocious
revealing dress sense
her soul does not strike
wearing the hijab
the muslim womans
collective ethos
a universality
a solidarity
of her womanhood
to look alike

Wading Through Memories Of The Past

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cloudy hopes
the memories
of the past
billowing winds
a paper boat
without a mast
as it flows
into the gutters
of despair
the die is cast
best friends
all gone away
the soul
of solitude
long last
at dawn
only time
the soul
of humanity
will outlast
only your
your corner stone
will give evidence
of your wealth
you had greedily
into another mans
they have passed
even the worms
that are eating
your flesh and bones
treat you
like an outcast
when you
lived the music
revelry good times
the blast
you have now
come to terms
with your
'true self at last
within the soul
of a wet soggy

Mumbai Rains

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The Arabs Middle Eastern folks were the first foreigners in modern times who discovered the Mumbai rains , for us Mumbaikars we are Mumbaikars now earlier we were Bombayites , it did not matter much we were quite used to the vagaries of monsoonal showers in our city.

The Arabs who stayed at the seedy lodges Grants building Kamla Mansions at Arthur Bunder Road loved the rains the buggy rides and once they got tired humping the local whores at Slip Disc it was the rains that caught their fancy.

They made love to the rains drenched to the bones eating Bhutta Seng channa hounded by a colorful crowd at Gateway of India, the snake and mongoose performer, the roadside photowallah, the quintessential Mereweather road pimp , who stood outside the Salvation army Hostel he supplied drugs too and was part time money changer we jovially called Abdul Kanya.

The Arabs were misers and you cant blame them they were always preyed and conned at Colaba Causway the thieves paradise , they hung around the lane behind Taj Mahal hotel and had their meals at Baghdadi Hotel or at Olympia close to Cafe Leopold.

They loved to tipple at Gables or Wales where I too drank beers and ate Goan food at the next door restaurant.

Most of the Arabs in the 70s came for treatment and the most famous was Dr Waghela at Mohini Mansions Strand cinema where we stayed even his compounder started speaking Arabic and such was his change in personality that he would greet me in Arabic too,I had recently returned from Muscat .

Colaba was the Arab haunt you could never miss them at the Colaba Fish market buying prawns that they asked their hotel guys to cook and promfrets too.

So many guest houses had only Arab clientele Gulmohar Guest house and they were all around you with their burka clad women in tow.

Outside Arthur Bunder Road they had their portrait hand drawn and painted ..before the Internet era.

My dad had a shop at Grants building Smart Wear Tailors and they would come to make safaris and kanduras.

They ate a lot of fruits , seekh kababs at Sindhi Kabab corner at Strand House and would taste the Sindhi pan sellers sweet pan too.

And Raj Sippy Romu Sippy and their dad , the famous Sippys who were incorrigible foodies ate at the Sindih Kabab corner watched them bemusedly ..a little ahead Rehman Saab Guru Dutts favorite actor helped the poor and the needy with his wife later he died of throat cancer..

Ekta Kapoors mom Shobhaji stayed at Anjali Apartments ..

And her dad Jeetendra in his struggling days stayed at Usha Sadan , Mr Prem Chopra is a Usha Sadan guy too.

Near the 5 NO Bus stop opposite the church at Colaba stayed Nutanji and her family.

Mohnesh was a good friend as Kimi Katkar his ex flame stayed near my house at Strand.

Erwin Vaz Philip Vaz sons of Chic Choc lit stayed in the next building next to Mohneshs house.

And so sitting in this ricksha on a rainy day in Mumbai I was thrown into a world of the past vignettes I share with you.

Did You Let My Blogs Out?

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The only place in Bandra visited by people of all caste color or community is this service road which touches one end of Bazar road to another road of Bazar Road , and the poor mans Jesus lives here on a gutter without complaining without making a hue and cry..

Most of the time the gutter that houses the collective shit of humanity overflows , but Jesus carries on with a faint smile on his lips as I narrate his worldly woes.

I shoot the overflowing gutters because as a human being it hurts me seeing this apathy , this laid back attitude of people concerned.

But now let me tell you there has been a change recently , the gutter the one in front of Jesus feet has been regularly cleaned and a new concrete cover replaced , the old one was stolen by some drug addicts called gardulas in our colloquial lingo.

I pass this way nowadays instead of the slum path I took to go to my workplace or took Marziya to school..I stopped going through the slum path completely.

This service path is private property perhaps I dont know but only two wheelers and pedestrians are allowed.

In common parlance it is a short cut for the common man the middle rich class.. without a car.

And me I dont know what I should call myself I walk I have no car never needed one , once I sold my car to pay the deficit on my home loan..I never bought a car and never will the reason is a crazy one I dream I am running over the producers who got work done by me and never paid me till date ..and it is a scary horror dream..and being locked up in an Anda cell ...for pre mediated murder with intent to kill.

So such is a poets life on a slow track..the internet destroyed me completely and worse was being a fall guy , poets fall continuously in and out of love on the Internet.

So sometimes I seem to agree with dear Lucky Ali one woman is not enough in a single mans life and I say this without my wife overhearing it she is fast asleep.

Love on the internet made me a wordsmith cobbled up words as poetry, made me vociferously vocal in terms of blogging

Buzznet the old one not the new one made me a Blogger and Biz Stone when he was at Blogspot now he is full time Twitter..

Biz Stone sent me a message he is keen on coming to India to meet the Bollywood seniors and brats.and last but not the least own own Indian micro blogging pride Mr Shahsi Tharoor..
Biz Stone cant stop talking about Shashiji.

Who let the Blogs out by Biz Stone was my bible as a newbie blogger and I will now tell you all it was none but Biz Stone who made me incombustible blogger fire no brimstone.

So this is a blog it has no purpose it is a writing tool it gets you out into the open no reject slips or editorial embarrassments fuck grammar and syntax.,..and you know the guy reading you does not even read English he only loves your pictures.

And the only person who calls me a lousy photographer is my wife a burkha clad woman and all my poems in defense of the burkha are my tribute to her for 33 years of our married life.

The Silhouette of my marital sanity in the silhouette of a hijab..and I must tell you Jesus likes me too as all my stuff poetically written about him comes from my genre I call Jesus Poetry.

Back to my wife my simple humble one in a million wife ..

Her complaints go like this first why dont I make money like other photographers do..

Where will all this blogging slogging take you , you are still where you are shooting the same things over and over and over and over again...

When I tell her if ever now I dont, that I am going to shoot Mount Mary , she blurts out with stupid quizzical corny kind of face look , did you not shoot it last week, I nod my head , the week before that I nod my head , she continues did you not shoot it last year I dont nod my head I simply bang the door and go out and shoot Mother Mary for the n th time of my life on earth.

Than the other problem she tells me why dont your pictures come in the newspapers do you really have to mow down a producer to have your picture on the first page ..I keep solemnly silent.
Than with a rolling stick in hand she tells me instead of photography why did you not learn driving you could take me to La Vassa , Amboli Waterfalls ..Than she threw the rolling pin at me when I said she should learn photography we could both be shooting pictures of the same thing over and over and over and over again.

Does this happen to you or is this a bloggers rant /?

Only Friar Tuck my old mate from Woolongong could answer this.

And now I will get serious I have in this 6 years of my blogging shelf life seen , that I have great quality friends on the internet , I have never met or may not even meet , friends that have stood by me commented on my stuff and in spite of a gaping distant I still cling to the for life..

My oldest friends on the Internet without them I could have never become a blogger are my Buzznet friends the best of the best..and we are not Buzznet Refugees we are Flickr mates and die hard Facebook friends.

So this post is dedicated to Marc Brown Azzie Anthony Batt Steve Haldane Buzznet Founders.
Yorrik Friar Dread Heading Mahayani Aljie Bernie Benn Silver Bell Duck, Pax Romana Waza Drunk Xris Taylor Funksteena Wild Orbit Artsy SF Tom Andrews Jamieshaef Obqupunx 13 and so many others I have lost track with.

Why Jesus Came To India

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was sick and tired
of the western way
so he traveled
through the himalayas
through the ganges
made his home
here to stay
he liked india
the indian ethos
in every way
the people here
kind human
not astray
jesus in
is not
the jesus
hung as statue
in a church
they say
he is on the streets
giving succor
to people
makes them ok
jesus is a spirit
of humanity
in india
color or creed
to whichever
god you may pray
here in my
jesus is talking
to the common man
no he is not sachin tichkule
listening to his pain
as they pass his way
jesus loves children
but not in the same way
by cassocked men
in a lustful way
destroying his name
his preachings
his mission
on a rock
he built
on hope
rough winds
have blown away
jesus is mother theresa
who passed away
jesus is a helping hand
at the end of the day
jesus is love
have to find
to find
his way
if not today

A Poets Pain

135,608 items / 1,041,271 views

i sleep
i wake up
with the
of a dagger
on my throat
a poet
in the garb
of a sacrificial goat
to smote
finally when
the hour comes
will be remembered
for the losing
he fought
in a world
of the bank note
a poets life
a sorrow bound
to a lyrical
lost note
he memorized
it by rote
to a blog
a straw
kept him

Humanity On The Soul of Salman

135,606 items / 1,041,217 views

feeling the pain
of the poor
the needy
the helpless
the homeless
on the soul
of salman
be human
showing light
to the blind man
lodged in the
heart of a galaxy
son of salma
salim khan
he gives
he gives
much as he can
sweeping away a
tear from
the crying
eyes of a man
women children
pray for him
a long life
early marriage
innumerable kids
no family plan
his children
their children
in a crooked world
their savior
a straight man
the promo
of dabbang
with arbaz sohail
in his vanity van

Racism On The Soul of The Hijab

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Collective fear stimulates herd instinct, and tends to produce ferocity toward those who are not regarded as members of the herd. ~
Bertrand Russel

~ Racism does not limit itself to biology or economics or psychology or metaphysics; it attacks along many fronts and in many forms, deploying whatever is at hand, and even what is not, inventing when the need arises. ~ Albert Memm

~ Be nice to whites, they need you to rediscover their humanity. ~
Desmond Tutu

~ Racism is man's gravest threat to man - the maximum of hatred for a minimum of reason. ~
Abraham J. Heschel

the white man
the white governments
hate the hijab
for reasons
they wrongly toe
attacks on the hijab
is nothing
but racism
on the soul of Islam
as it grows
making the hijab
a mass weapon
of destruction
its no 1 foe
says the bigot
burn it
bury it
but dont let
it resurrect itself
after a death blow
but fortunately
the hijab lives
the only fact
a life after death
the maker
on the hijab
from one generation
to the next generation
it flowed the beauty of
garment of modesty
the silhouette of the hijab
the do not know

The Cassock the Nuns Habit Are Not Religious Symbols

135,603 items / 1,041,170 views

The Silhouette of Of Pain on the Soul of the Hijab

It is dangerous to be right when the government is wrong

a nuns habit
a priests cassock
are not religious symbols
the holy popes vestments
by god they were ordained
on rock of hope sartorially
remained its a different
matter altogether
to the church
they were chained
its only when the
peaceful muslim
woman wears the hijab
the entire white world
is pained racism
in reality on the soul
of humanity
french philosophy
by Sarkozy explained