THE ISTHMUS

THE ISTHMUS (a narrow area of land with the sea on each side, joined to a large land mass at each end)
She could be the isthmus connecting my wishes with the reality. She could be a metaphor for the fragility of the integration of the divine and the physical. She is someone I wish I could call mine.

This is a wish I wish would be granted. At such occasions, I’m reminded that there are other gardens in the world greener than the one before me. I only have to move ahead. I don’t want to move ahead, I don’t want to know greener pastures, I don’t want to know anyone else. In her, I find a divinity that I am doomed to worship. I want to worship her for the will and soul which animate a man through the countless aeonons of his being. The flesh dies, or at least it changes, and its passions pass, but the other passion of the spirit--------the longing for oneness and unity-------is undying in itself. I don’t want to move away from the isthmus, I want to stay here. I want time to pause at this juncture.

The passage of time depresses me. The ruthlessness with which it flows on-----a swift and continuous movement--------it frightens me, but I can only be a mere spectator.

I don’t want to be a mere spectator. I want to barge in and do something concrete. I don’t want time to move ahead. I want time to stay exactly where it has brought me. This is a juncture where the crisis could precipitate into the most beautiful form. The crisis might give way to an extremely unpalatable end.

The unpalatable end would have to be endured by me in whatever form it might be delivered. To be doomed to behold the world through a smoked glass for the rest of one’s life is the worst punishment that one can get. I don’t want to be punished for something that I haven’t done. I’ve been merely struggling against the smoke.

The smoke in the glass has kept me away from my goal. I’ve been struggling against the tides of time and fate. Time and fate have not been very kind to me. Fate was kind to me when it brought me to the isthmus, but time insists on moving ahead. I’m afraid of the future. I don’t want to move ahead. I wish I could hold the flow of time. I don’t want to leave the isthmus.

The isthmus is where I want to pause. I wish time would pause too. I wish I had a magic lamp with a genie. Here is another wish. I will never be satisfied.

THE ATTENTION

THE ATTENTION

I ought to respect the attention that she gives me. Here is someone giving me all the attention that I’ve been yearning for. I’ve been pining for attention as a famished Arab pines for a glass of water. This is in stark contrast to what I get from other quarters.

Others look at me with such contempt and hatred in their eyes that this is a refreshingly different experience. I only fear that this would not last long. The different and yet congruent pieces of the jigsaw puzzle would ultimately fall into place to give way to a final shape to the distorted shape of things. The attention that she gives me shall eventually fade into eternity. The occasional smile, the affection that I see in her eyes, the fond caress of her hands, all this would fade into the ether.

I don’t want this to happen. The end of a beautiful dream cam sometimes be the worst nightmare. To be conscious that the end of the dream is approaching and yet not absolutely come, is one of the most wearisome as well as the most curious stages along the course between the beginning of a passion and its end. I don’t want all this to end. I want time to stay exactly where it has brought me. I don’t want this to be a mere halt in the long journey of life. I want this to be a station.

The station might as well be a figment of my imagination, a creation of my insatiable hunger for attention. This could be a liberated zone, an idealized world, where the laws of life refuse to apply themselves.

Life has dealt with me in a ruthless fashion. Defecting from the stringent and cruel patterns of time and life is just not possible. The joint family of time and life with all their paraphernalia refuse to go different ways. The group is strengthened by the dominating presence of fate and destiny that refuse to part ways with the others.

Fate and destiny have brought matters to the end I find them in today. My destiny brought me face to face with so much attention that I fear losing myself in the ecstasy generated by the collision of events. I never believed that by the evening my coulourless inner world would become as animated as water under a microscope. The attention that she gives me has certainly made me very happy. To be loved to madness---- this is my great desire. Love to me is the one cordial that can drive away the eating loneliness of my life. I seem to long for the abstraction called passionate love more than any particular lover. I sometimes wonder if the affection in her eyes is an answer to my longing for attention. I have always believed that a blaze of love, and extinction, shall be better than a lantern glimmer of the same that should last long years.

The fond affection that I find in her eyes shall certainly not last long. This could be the blaze of love that threatens to become extinct a the slightest hint of consciousness, I always fear that I would not find it in her the next time that I see her, but she remains unchanged. I wish I could preserve these moments for future generations.

Future generations shall always bear testimony to the ecstasy that I shall experience if ever the big fight is won. The truth remains that I don’t want to win, I want the fight to be endless.

If the fight were to end, the reinforcement that I get for fighting would cease. Somehow I know that the attention that I get from her is the reinforcement for the fight. It is immaterial whether I win or lose the fight, I’ve already got the reward.

I want the reward to be with me even after the fight. I fear losing the reward once the fight is over. If I lose the fight, I cannot claim the reward in any manner. The reward seems to be so precious that I want to win the fight.

I badly want to win the fight, I badly want the reward promised to the winner, I want the attention. On second thoughts, I feel that I should let time follow its own course. I should be content with being a fighter.

Being content with the status of a mere fighter is probably not what fate destiny have in store for me. The attention that I find in her eyes forces me to think twice of the future of a mere fighter. Only time can tell the exact composition of my future.

THE FINAL PROBLEM

THE FINAL PROBLEM

For a few of us, these are the last and final few days in the university: in the coming years, we are to embrace a career--- the mere thought of it is exciting and challenging! For most of us, the goals are spelt out quite clearly: the future stands before us with a challenge--- a salaried job, a good source of income, and independence--- sounds fun!

These days are also the last and final days in the hostel. There is the remorse and pain of leaving the hostel, the university, and friends. Student life is certainly the best period of one's life, although it does have its thorns and nettles. In pursuit of knowledge and skill, we spend a considerable portion of our lives in the university, in the hostel. Like the different and yet congruent pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, we form a picture of unity while we are together in the hostel. From the time we are brought into the world, we are taught the lesson of unity. Hostel life further enhances this image. All of us are different--- we hail from different regions, have different cultures, speak different languages, but while we are in Aligarh, we form a complete picture of the jigsaw puzzle--- all of us are Aligarians; when we leave the university, we shall belong to just one creed--- the Aligs. The clouds that shall rise from here shall rain all over the world:: all the Aligs shall excel in their fields.

The hostel and the university signify a lot more to me. When I joined the institution in October, '95, I was completely and miserably broken over past failures and bad luck. I had spent a considerable portion of my life in loneliness and solitude, without any friends. I had almost forgotten what it is like to have friends and peers. Years of solitude and prolonged periods of almost complete isolation had moulded me into a shape that I considered myself a social misfit. My state was that of a soldier who had accepted defeat at the hands of the foe--- time. I did not have the faintest idea of what lay ahead--- I still don't see the future, but the university has given me a new life. It has taught me that the real meaning of life lies in living it. Hostel life has taught me to look at a sunset and imbibe not meditative melancholy, but contemplative pleasure. A sunset does signify decline and death, but it also symbolises the dawn of>another day that it precedes. I am certainly in a better position to appreciate this beautiful secret life. Meeting and parting are 2 facets of the same coin just as>happiness and sorrow are. I am not sure how long I will be here in the university, but I shall certainly miss these days when I was given another chance to live.

THE SANDS OF TIME

THE SANDS OF TIME

Dated: 16th October, 2001

My dear past,

Today is my 25th birthday--- I've left behind 25 years of you. Twenty-five years have elapsed since you came into the world. These were the best and the most awful years endured by me: 25 years of search and hardship ending in soul-shaking wonder, amazement, and, of course, happiness. Although you form an important part of my present, I am quite different from you.

Time has changed since we were together, and so has the world. Some things, like traditions and institutions, that bind us into a community, never change. The Aligarh Muslim University is exactly the same as it was when you were but a visitor to Aligarh. There is the same old Jawaharlal Nehru Medical College, the same old Zakir Husain College of Engineering and Technology, the same building epitomises the University Canteen, nor has there been any change in the University Gymnasium/Skating Rink.

I remember quite well that it was in this skating rink that you learnt to roll on the skates. This was probably the first lesson that the>university gave you: you were not even a student of the university at that time. Things have changed since then, I know.

The change has been for the worse: I am nothing like what you are. I could do nothing but watch as the Vice-Chancellor flagged off the 25 hours non-stop skating marathon. I usually tear myself away from such feats that remind me of you, but this time I let the dagger of time slice through my being. Visualising you on the rink was an easy, but quite painful experience for me. This time, I wanted to feel the sweet pain that visits>me whenever I think of you.

The college canteen in the Jawaharlal Nehru Medical College reminds me of the young lady who introduced herself as 'Rana Saberi'. Today, I call her 'bhabhi'. The smiling, charming, and loving lady, with her introduction of herself as a doctor, had given you a dream. When your dreams come true, it gives you hope; but when they don't, it leaves you with frustration and dissatisfaction.

Dreams, as you are yet to realise, remain dreams unless one is lucky enough. They are like a mirage in a desert--- the more you move towards them, the more they move away from you. Happiness is an emotion that eludes human character in all ways.

It is a sin, the greatest insult you can offer to The Power that created us, to cast back hope, I know--- a crime that may bring with itself worse punishment than any I can dream of; perhaps even the everlasting separation from you, I know.Life has, after all, not been so bad. There have been several bursts of happiness, and these have been the moments when I have really enjoyed myself.

I often walk over to Baab-e-Syed, the gateway to the university. It wasn't there in the times of yore. It is symbolic of the magnificence and the grandeur of the university; whenever I pause to admire its beauty, I wish for another life.

I badly want to live another life: I want another chance. I might be given another chance, another life, but it shall not be mine: I shall not have the power to change its destiny.

The sands of time shall eventually bring the ebb and flow of my heightened emotions to a still one day, But I shall always miss the time when we were together--- we could work miracles, the two of us, but the cruel hands of fate broke the bond that bound the two of us.

My past, you and I can never meet--- I will never be you, nor will you ever be me, I know. I live with considerable happiness today, mourning your loss, seeking an avenue by which you might be found again, but discovering none.

AE ALIGARH TERA SHUKRIYA, TERA SHUKRIYA, TERA SHUKRIYA

It was late in the night, the train was late. The heaviness of the night pervaded the scene, and under its influence, most of the passengers had gone to sleep. I was sitting comfortably on the seat, wondering at the fast pace at which things seemed to whizz by. The rattling of the train drowned all the aural images the night produces; only the rumbling of the coaches against the rails was to be heard, except when the locomotive decided to slow down, or come to a stand still.

I felt a cramp in my leg as the train passed through a tunnel: the train, with the engine and coaches, was stealing away, like Time, under the dark arch, to rumble across the endless track that lay ahead. I thought it would best to take a stroll through the coach. I gave a gentle push to what seemed to be a hold-all. Somebody from the corner let out an oath, but I had trained myself to ignore such syllables. I could feel the cool breeze from the door, and made my way towards it.

I was travelling from Delhi to Lucknow. I hd been in Delhi for three days, and I looked forward to Lucknow now. My course of study in Aligarh had come to an end, and I had gone to Delhi in search of a job. The train was slowing down, and I could discern petty settlements near the track even in the dark. The approaching station was Aligarh. A man was standing with a bag in his hand to hop off the train as soon as it stopped. This reminded me of the days when I used to stand at the door of the coach waiting anxiously for Aligarh junction. I was on a different train, the time did not synchronise, but here was Aligarh.

I never could understand why we made the mad rush to get on or off the trains at Aligarh; the train always left well after we were safely on the platform, or in the coach. I guess this is a tradition that shall never end. The train pulled in at the station. There was no coolie in the dead of the night--- only a few boys making the mad rush to get on the train. Even as I stood at the door of the coach, there was an instinctive impulse to get off. 'This is your station: get down', a voice from within called out. I tried to ignore the voice, but the temptation to get down was great.

I had come to Aligarh a long time back, in 1995. It wasn't my heart's wish to go all the way to Aligarh to study arts. I joined B.A.(Hons) merely because I had no choice; but it was more of a revolt. It was a revolt against the serenity and mirthlessness of the life I had been living in Lucknow, a revolt against the solitude and loneliness I had experienced. I was very happy to bid goodbye to all this, at least for a while.

Besides equipping me with an honours in English literature, and a masters in Linguistics, Aligarh introduced me to the world. I realised that life is after all not to be wasted in the useless pursuits I had been after. The platform I had been contemplating to get off at had introduced me to myself: Aligarh introduced me to the talent in me.

As I looked into the darkness, the platform came to life. I hopped on the platform and felt I was home. Aligarh had been a home to me for seven years: no other place, I am sure, can ever match this. Men on the platform, women in their homes, boys and girls in the hostels, all of them were, I am sure, waiting for me.I could see the Faculty of Arts before me with its usual commotion of boys and girls. The faculty had given me knowledge: I shall always remember it for its gift. At just a few paces is Sulaiman Hall, my hostel. I wish I could tell it that I owe a lot more to it than the seven years it gave me. Here was life: I met my peers, and realised that life is worth all the trouble it is if you are in the company of friends. I sometimes wonder why student life had to end. I wonder if there will ever be a time better than those days. Things have never been easy, nor will they ever be, but this was a time I really miss. Somewhere on the walls of the faculty, invisible to the wayfarer who isn't familiar with the area, are chalked the names of the boys and girls, the alphabets half rubbed out and corrected, who used to meet here with a flame burning in their hearts. There are also chalked in the same place rows and columns of figures, representing the calculations, the youthful ciphering studies that were carried out to deduce the date of matrimony. Many of them have found eternal bliss in each other's company, while most must be mourning over their incomplete love-stories.

Aligarh brought me face to face with an important facet of life---love! I had a first hand experience with love while in Aligarh. Though I have experienced the joys and perils of adolescent infatuation ever since I was twelve, yet it was in Aligarh that I encountered 'love'. I am still not sure whether it was love of infatuation, but the attraction was certainly the strongest--- thank you Aligarh! It has been an experience that I shall cherish for the rest of my life.

There was a clatter of wheels against the rails, and a hoot of the engine--- the sensitiveness of habitual solitude makes the heart beat for preternaturally small reasons--- the train was to move now. I had crossed the threshold of time, gone up the passage, the paving of which was worn into a gutter by the ebb and flow of time. Aligarh had merely been a halt where the train had been standing for a while. Many more stations are to come--- I have a long way to go. I can hear a voice saying

Ae Aligarh, tera shukriya, tera shukriya, tera shukriya...

FRAILITY THY NAME IS WOMAN

FRAILITY THY NAME IS WOMAN

I've had the opportunity of meeting several girls who say that we,t he boys, are a stupid lot. They give us this tag because we are easily lured into the trap that they lay for us. We are fools because we blindly fall in love with the first fair lady we come across.

Consider the situation where the Vice-Chancellor has passed an ordinance making the burqa compulsory for the female staff and students of>the university. What do you think would happen first--- a revolt by the females, or a protest by the males? Who do you think would be the first to commit suicide--- the boys, or the girls? Let us accept it--- females are like the dog that sits at the feet of the man, waiting for three things: a look, a touch, and a word. He wants them more than a bowl of dog food; he can do anything for them. Believe it or not, females are exactly like the dog. Although they pose to be as virtuous as Mother Teresa, their disposition, their well-being, and their sense of security, like the dog, all depend on the look in our eyes, the touch of our hands, and the sound of our voices.They live for it, and they can die for it.

At a cousin's marriage in the biting cold weather of January, while I could barely hold my jaws together as the teeth chattered, I could not help marvel at the endurance the invited ladies exhibited--- not one of them had a woolen garment over their clothes! The females are dying to show off their gaudy clothes and silhouette figures!

Boys, the girls are yearning for a kind and affectionate look from us, never doubt it! Almost all of us are unaware of how much a look, a touch, or a word can hold for them. I wonder if you have any idea at all of the degree to which our absence makes them cross, resentful, irritatated, and tiresome.

I wonder what the girls would do without us! The other day, the teaching staff of the university was on a strike. Unaware of this, I walked over to the Faculty of Arts. Hail the young ladies strolling there desperately looking for boys! The females are invested with beauty and excitement, but ONLY by our attention. They bloom under it; they die without it.

Let me share an experience with you. I'd once said a few words of praise to one of my fair classmates: she had blushed! The young lady had probably fallen in love with me, or maybe it was the other way round. I learnt an important lesson that day--- the fair ones need not only the comfortable exchange of thoughts and gossip--- cosy and welcome as they are--- but, once in a while, words(like the glance) beamed directly at them can lead to dramatic things!

Gentlemen, you have heard it before, and you shall hear it again: when the girls wear a new dress and you notice it, do say something. One phrase will do: 'nice colour', or 'not bad', or 'wow!' If you can't say anything, at least stare at them for a few seconds. If you don't, they consider it a waste!! You ought to know what power our silence has over them. It doesn't matter how good we think their taste is, or how sure we are of their sense of fashion--- our silence can shatter their confidence. There is nothing in the world that makes the girls walk more proudly and gaily than the verbal pat. You ought to know this.

All these powers that we have over the females emanate from one premise: attention. If we don't pay attention, if we don't look or say something nice, the girls would die. Have you ever considered how serene and dull the Kennedy Auditorium would be if we did not raise a pandemonium whenever a fair one is sighted among the audience? Do you think they don't want the attention? The females consider it a birth right to be cared for, too be made the subject of the commotion we cause, to be looked at, and to be praised; the boys should not come to the auditorium if they can't do this.

Don't you think Amir Nishan would be quite dull and serene without the girls who haunt the marketplace with the sole purpose of ornamentation? Why do you think they do this? Do you think all of them are there to buy something? All of them carry a purse with them. Do you think all of them have money in it? No, sir! Why then do people blame us, the boys, if we take a stroll through the marketplace on these lucky days?

We are fools, I agree. We are nincompoops, but what would you say of the fair ones who yearn for a look from is throughout their lives? Yes, we are fools, but only to the extent that we cannot gauge the severity of the flame that kindles in their hearts: the girls are ten times more susceptible than the boys in matters of love and romance. So, who do you think is foolish and stupid--- the girls, or the boys?

THE ESSENCE OF BEING DIFFERENT

It is a truth universally acknowledged that there is something in the atmosphere of AMU that makes it capable of transforming a dull and unattractive student into a beautiful young woman and a handsome young man. It is not in the least surprising that almost all of us in the university pay a lot of attention to our faces in particular and our appearances in general. The readers of this essay would agree with me that the face on their shoulders today is quite different from what it was when they joined the university. I'm sure that the readers spend a considerable portion of their mornings in dressing up according to the latest fashion of the times. Wouldn't you like to be the smartest boy in the class?--- the best looking, the most handsome? Wouldn't you like to be the star attraction of the faculty?--- envy of all the young boys, and the target of attention of all the pretty young girls? wouldn't you like to dress up like Shah Rukh Khan, or Bobby Deol? Wouldn't you like to comb your hair like Sunil Shetty?--- and why not?

The problem is that we see individuality as a surface phenomenon. We wear garish clothes only to look different from others. We believe that mediocrity shall somehow gain new credentials through exterior cosmetics.

What we fail to understand is that the most important part of our personality lies way beneath all external manifestations of costumes and cosmetics. This part of our personality makes us do things better than others. It is doing something better than others that makes us different from others.

The whole purpose of individuality is excellence. The people who comprehend this simple principle of being different through performance--- who invent, who improvise, who know more about a subject than other people do--- these people are unique and different in the true sense of the word. The boy or girl who does better than the other students in any particular field is the centre of attraction of his or her group, whatever may be his or her external appearance. The essence of being different is excellence. Individualism means working at the top of one's capacity. Smartness is a quality of the intellect; it has nothing to do with one's external appearance. A complete comprehension of this simple secret of being different through performance is very important for us. I wish my friends would understand this, and make a judicious use of the gifts and talents The Almighty has bestowed upon them instead of wasting them in disruptive activities.

THE BEAM OF LIGHT

THE BEAM OF LIGHT

The soft and gentle hands of my mother was probably the first contact I had with humanity. As she lifted me in her arms, I let out a powerful crybeing thrilled, surprised, and frightened at the same time by thefathomless love conveyed through those first few ecstatic moments ofcontact with someone who loved me immensely.

As I grew up, I realised that my mother's immense capacity to loveextended over all the members of our family. The same hands cooked ourfood, the same hands combed my hair, and the same hands rocked me till Iwent to sleep. For us, she was like the beam of light that brings themessage of life and hope of freedom to convicts in captivity. Her verypresence was like the comforting presence of God; it reminded me that Godis at the heart of all life.

Over three decades have elapsed since I had the first contact withdivinity in the form of humanity. The hands that had cuddled me shallnever touch me again. I shall always miss the beam of light that gave melife, but I know that in a small way I've been allowed to touch the hem ofmystery--- the mystery commonly known as God.

WHAT MAKES A WOMAN MORE BEAUTIFUL
God! You ought to have seen her blush! Her ears turned pink long beforeblood rushed into her face to give it a similar colour. I never expected such a response from her, but there she was---red as aripe turnip! For a second I was lost in her eyes that could not look up tomine. She was beautiful, and I'd just told her so.

The very communiqué brought about an indescribable transformation inher. She had become more beautiful than ever. Of all the young ladies whohave been informed of their beauty by me, over 98% have shown a similarresponse. The young lady had probably fallen in love with me, maybe I'd fallen inlove with her, whatever it was, I could discern every shade of the redcolour in her face. We see each other everyday, she seems to have got overher infatuation, but I shall never forget those moments when she stoodbefore me with her eyes and brow bowed down, and her face changing fromcrimson to pink alternately. I cannot help accepting the veracity ofSophia Loren's words-----

Nothing makes a woman more beautiful than the belief that she isbeautiful.It's true!!