POETRY (FATE)

EGO, image by Chatgpt 

قسمت
FATE

By: Ghani Khan ( Translated by: Nasser Yousaf)

ګوره طاوُس مړکړ ښايسته وزرو

Look! Peacock lost it to its pretty feathers

ابلیس برباد کړو علمی خبرو

His erudite chatter led to the fall of Lucifer

سيپئ ويده وه دسين په تل کښ

Shell 🐚 lay asleep in the river

ذړ ګے ئے وچادسرو ملغلرو

Red pearl had its heart ♥ rent asunder

ګلاب خپل رنګ او خپل بوئ تالا کړ

Rose 🌹 paid the price for its scent and colour

منصور په دار شوچه باخبرو

Mansoor faced the scaffold for his knowledge 

پتنګ خپل نرم زړګے ستۍ کړ

Butterfly 🦋 set its soft heart ♥ afire

ميږے برباد کړ خپلو وزرو

Ant 🐜 was let down by its wings

غنۍ پوهيږۍ ځکه ژړيږۍ

Ghani understands which is why he weeps

ځه ښه به ژونره که ژوند د خرو

Living like an ass would rather be much better

PEOPLE (A RUDE AWAKENING)

A rude awakening

NASSER YOUSAF

‘SAUDADE’ is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement or comfort, and the absence of which now brings a mixture of sad and happy feelings — sadness for the lost past and happiness for having experienced it. It would thus be right to say that one experiences saudade when Abbottabad of the 1980s comes to mind.
Afghan refugees had just started trickling into the serene landscape of the hill station, which then used to be quite sparsely populated. A little before dusk, smoke could be seen billowing from the fires set up outside the tents with the rich aroma of oven-baked bread.
One does not remember encountering garbage, as one does now, during the evening walks in the shadows of the poplar-trees that lined the single-lane road running through the length of Abbottabad. The ubiquitous springs mentioned by Major James Abbott, the first deputy commissioner of Hazara in the mid-19th century, kept bubbling well upto the turn of the present millennium, before drying up completely.

A Pashto idiom states that the time of youth is like an evening of winter, short and indeed fleeting. Our present existence is like a frightful awakening from a beautiful but brief sleep where the Abbottabad of yore seems to have metamorphosed into one of the ugliest places on earth. Most strikingly, a population implosion has occurred, bringing with it the concomitant hazards. Garbage dumps dot the landscape, while houses and shops have been built on watercourses that in the days gone by would carry rainwater.

Young children are seen rummaging through mounds of garbage.

The most galling spectre is the one where young children are seen rummaging through mounds of garbage. Invariably, all these children, with some as young as five, are Pakhtuns of Afghan origin. Not only these children but their parents too — and in quite a large number of cases their grandparents — were also born on Pakistani soil. This by no means is an unfounded assumption; it is substantiated by the incontrovertible fact that Afghans of Pakhtun stock marry young and their four-decade-long stay in the country is long enough to spawn three generations.
It is an ungainly sight to see these children fending for themselves and their extended families from dawn to dusk in extreme weather conditions. These garbage dumps are in fact their habitats in the daytime where they are seen eating, sleeping and even playing marbles. The garbage also includes medical waste as private hospitals and their managements, in their mercantile pursuits, appear least concerned with the safe disposal of litter of all odious description.
According to the UNHCR, there are about 2.4 million Afghan refugees in Pakistan, out of which some 1.4m are registered. At one time there were about 4m Afghan refugees in the country. A repatriation of sorts commenced in 2016 when 360,000 refugees returned to Afghanistan.
It is essential to acknowledge that the Afghan conflict is a human tragedy of colossal proportions which we can neither erase from our memory nor dismiss from our midst with half-baked measures. What is even more saddening than the tragedy itself is the desensitisation of our society, and also of the world at large, as to how the present generation of Afghan children, whom we stubbornly continue to label as refugees, are being brought up in the middens. This desensitisation is manifest from the way the fate of these crowds of children has been accepted as the necessary corollary of an unending war.
The Afghan conflict does not appear to be abating anytime soon. The much talked about peace deal with the Afghan Taliban does not appear to be anything more than a move aimed at attaining some short-term objectives. Ground realities, as we in Khyber Pakhtun­khwa have come to understand through our coexistence with the Afghans, would indicate that the Taliban’s return to power in Afghanistan will unleash another wave of refugees, thus perpetuating the vicious cycle.
Every fortnight or so, some Afghan Taliban leaders are seen on television boarding or disembarking from a plane in a major world capital in their pretentious attempts to reach a peace deal. One would have wished that such news were carried in tandem with the videos of young scavengers carrying sacks full of garbage on their backs.
The fact that a suicide attack by a child precedes such sanctimonious visits by these men in long white robes demonstrates how little the Taliban value human life. The world’s conscience would never be believed to have ever been pricked unless the Taliban are made to accept the rights of Afghan children.
The writer is the author of Less Than Civil: The State of Civil Service in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.
nasseryousaf@gmail.com
Published in Dawn, November 7th, 2019

POETRY (RETRIBUTION)

Image by Chatgpt AI

RETRIBUTION 

حساب کتاب

By: Ghani Khan 

Translated: Nasser Yousaf 

په ژړا ژړا مې عمر په سجدو مونځونو تېر کۀ

نتيجه ئې بس مرګي يو،تور لحد رانه چاپېر کۀ

Crying, prostrating, praying my life was spent 

Death alone was the outcome in the fold of dark depths

د تقدير او د قانون ئې څۀ قانون لاره ګودر شته؟

د ځوانۍ اور ته مې ولے،بيا وے وسوځېدے ولے

Lord! Do Fate, Destiny have any law, way out of this labyrinth? 

The fires of youth consume me but I am questioned as to why

لاس او پښې مې دي تړللي،او وې شابه ګډ شه شابه 

هر انسان دې دې اتڼ ته،زنځيرونو کښې بللے

My hands and feet in chains as I am tempted to dance dance 

Every soul has thus been beckoned in chains to this waltz

د مسکو سترګو جانانه لر د پښو مې کا دا  پړے

بيا مستي د خاورې ګوره ،او ټوپونه د آدم

 O the Wielder of smiling eyes let there be no holds barred 

Behold then how this dust spins, Adam sprints and jumps

کله شرنګ د حوا خوا کښې،کله زير او کله بم

د تقدير کړۍ که سسته،بيا زما ګډا ته ګوره

Now dancing beside Eve, now the strings of the rabab

Lord, keep your Will aside and watch me how I dance

ستا د عرش په منارو کښې ،لېونۍ خندا تۀ ګوره

چې زۀ مست شم،په هوا شم،اور شم،تندر شم رڼا شم

Up above in heaven observe then my maddening laughter 

In rapture I am like the wind, fire, thunder and spanking light

چې يو ساز مست او سرشار شم،نور شم،پړق شم ،په ځلا شم

روښان تور د مرګي سورے،برندې سترګې تکې تورې

Turning into a joyful music, a luminous light I begin to shine 

Ever present dark shadow of death, its black eyes bulging wide

يو نظر راته راواړئ،يو نظر کښې روک تالا شم

رڼا نور مستي لاهو شي،موټې خاوره د صحرا شم

She turns a glance at me and devours me wholesome in a while 

Light, ecstasy get shattered turning me into the desert's dust

 

اې زما د زړۀ د نور ،د وېنا او د خيال ربه

د ځوانۍ د سرو رنګونو،د مستۍ او جلال ربه

O the Lord of my heart's light, of pleadings, of my thought 

Of the red colours of youth and its joys, O Lord of all

اې چې زۀ جوړ تش د خاورې،بس د خاورې ومه سيال

ولې تا راکړۀ سازونه او ګلونه او جمال

If I was to be just dust only to vie with dust 

Why was I blessed with music flora and a beauty so robust

دا انصاف دې موټې خاوره،د خپل تخت پايو له يوسے

بيا ئې درز زمکې له راولے،هر سنګار ښائست ترې يوسے

Is it fair taking a mere palm of dust to the ends of heaven 

Only to bring it down stripping it of all its various beauties

د ليلی نه ښايست واخلے ځوان بوډا کړے،بوډا خاورې،

نور ډېر ښۀ دې راروان دي،د ملا هغه چې واورے

Laila is rid of beauty just as young turned into old and old into dust 

What more good is in store as the mullah chatters on the pulpit at length

مستي ،خېشت کمال مې واخلے،خپل يو تور وېښتۀ پرې نۀ ږدے

زۀ دې لوټ تالا کړم ډلته،تۀ به تله کښې دې څۀ ږدے

Shorn of joys beauty skill, not sparing a strand of black hair 

Thus devastated here what is left to be weighed in the hereafter

د ګلاب په شان ځواني دې،راله خاورې کړه تباه کړه

تر هغې به مې نچوړې،چې هر رګ مې واویلا کړه

 My rose like youth is reduced to no better than a palm of dust 

The grind goes on till all my veins will start wailing in distress

دا لږ ژوند پوټے احساس دې ځي مرګي 

له غلے غلے

چې اخر به رانه جوړ کړے يو ټوپکے شان د خزلې

This short sensitive life is quietly slipping towards end 

When nothing will be left of me but a wee bit of scum

 

حساب،ستا به څۀ حساب وي،جناب راوسپړه ورکړ دې

لوټ تالا برباد دې زۀ کړم،خو کمزورے،دله پړ دے

 Retribution? What retribution, please do open the accounts 

I am the one defeated and devasted but being the weakest is at fault