Your Canvas, My Country

It is a privilege, Mr. Media, to address you directly, and even though I have achieved a lot, this is humbling; for in any society, you have the ultimate influence. You, who have the power of words, who can morph unrelated images to create fancy tales, who can use eloquence to stir people’s emotions at just the right instant, are surely awe-inspiring. I am aware that after I’m through speaking today, a mere flick of your finger can either grant my wish or label me as a heretic. Even so, I intend to stand my ground, if only once.

To be honest, I was a nerd till my O’ Levels, taking little interest in social happenings. I watched little TV (which was evolving to be the most followed form of media), and then too, only Pakistani channels. One can argue that I had little exposure of the world, but I do remember that morning shows were educational and motivating; the cartoons didn’t have vulgarity; tourism and traditional cuisines were promoted; drama serials were either patriotic or had some tangible moral message; news were to inform us, not to frighten us; and anchors everywhere didn’t mutilate their mother tongue. Why has all that changed, Mr. Media?

I wholeheartedly accept that we’re inherently quite impressionable, but turning to other cultures for inspiration won’t help us; neither in the short run where we would appear to be copycats, nor in the long run where our next generations will never know our true identity and ideology. I admit that we have a long-lasting, if not everlasting, inferiority complex, but does it run so deep that we cannot make do with our own culture and religion? Do we always have to start our day with a mediocre morning show where the host has nothing constructive to say? Your disciples, Mr. Media, are always praising the way the Jews raise their children by educating them about anything and everything, by strengthening their beliefs and ethics. They laud the Japanese, who plant miniature speakers underneath their infants’ pillows to soothingly whisper ideologies in their ears, making them better citizens. And what do we do besides distracting ours with displays of magic and planting ideas of rebellion in their minds? Regretfully, that is not how a Pakistani should be.

I also accept that norms of journalism have changed in the 21st Century, and giving the front row to education and religion isn’t widely acceptable. All that is not necessary too, to groom a nation into becoming what its forefathers wanted. We portray the West (and our Eastern neighbour) in our entertainment programmes. How longer do you think it would take before our youth forgets the important place parents hold in social decisions? Or they forget how their culture expects them to behave in public? Has our entertainment industry lost all Anwar Maqsoods and Bushra Ansaris and Shakeels and Saba Hameeds that we have to play dramas like “Ishq-e-Mamnu” and “Mera Sultan”? Have all Alamgirs and Sajjad Alis left us that our music talent shows are being judged by the likes of Ali Azmat who do not even know how to react to the audience? And surely, the drones haven’t blown up all our Northern beauty that we cannot produce a richer, more vibrant “Travel Guide of Pakistan”. You, sir, show blood and gore on-screen, use sensationalism, and claim you’re only showing what is happening. Why don’t you, now too, take inspiration from the West and your neighbours, who only showcase their positive aspects on-screen? Our nation already knows what we are going through. Displaying it again and again is only making us immune to others’ suffering, while discouraging potential investors and tourists. Oh, and haven’t we all studied enough Urdu to at least speak it properly? Your anchors, sir, sound like some hybrids our neighbour countries have created with the West’s collaboration. Please tell them these fake accents and meagre stock of vocabulary only depreciates their already-limited capacity of talking sense.

My country, Mr. Media, isn’t grim and desolate at all. Nor are my people backwards and desperate. We might not love that our elders are evolving too slowly to adapt to a rapidly changing global environment, but we do not appreciate an open invitation to vices we’re taught to stay away from. Your brushstrokes, sir, define us. Paint us in our true colours. Bring back patriotism and dedication, honesty and righteousness, and help raise a generation without mental shackles. Believe me sir, only you and your canvas have the power to do so.

The Road to My Heart

You're one brave visitor if you dare walk;

Down the road leading to my heart

The journey is not too long, I believe;

But instead of the milestone, is a gnarled tree

The path is treacherous, your shoes might not last;

'Cos strewn here and there, are dreams from the past

Have a look if you want, at these rubies and sapphires;

Of longings and regrets, of hopes and desires

Do you like their shiny facets, their glimmer of a bright future?

But you can't feel their sadness, unless you hold them closer

Be careful with the shards, of diamonds and opals;

Relics from the past, as far as I recall

Keep walking on the path, its not a long march;

My heart is right there, the façade with wide arch

The courtyard is mossy, and the pillars wrapped with vines;

The threshold is dusty, covered in layers of grime

The doorknob, though rusty, will still work fine;

Though the chiming clock in foyer tells the wrong time

It seems desolate, but please excuse its state;

It hasn't had a worthy visitor of late

I know you're wound up, you need a place to rest;

Take master room of mansion, it is by far the best

But o, fair visitor, if you intend to stay;

There's urgent work to do, can't wait for a rainy day

Clean all that past has left, purge this shrine of love;

Polish the chandeliers, that hang high above

You'll have new furniture, beds with solid bottom;

Covered with finest sheets of Egyptian cotton

The sofas will be leather, the divan comfortable;

And cutlery of gold, straight from a fable

No more sputtering torches, no gloomy hallways;

The mansion shall be lit, through all nights and days

The garden is parched, but there's a well under my eye;

Use all the tears on roses, nevermore I want to cry

Don't leave my dreams alone, pick them and be gentle;

Bring them inside my heart, and put them on the mantle

See, now you have a home, a place to call yours;

Where joy is in the roots, and above, love soars

Here you will be cherished, here I will watch you over;

You'll live like a princess, in the heart of your lover

About a Girl I Once Knew (Narrative)

She's unlike any girl I've ever seen. That's the truth. She has raven hair, hanging straight down her shoulders. And when she's talking to you, she will brush them back and tuck them behind her ear. That said, she is NOT like any raven-haired girl you'd have ever met. She's unique, like a rare gem you often dream of, but never actually find. Her eyes are the colour of chocolate and coffee, always sparkling with life, and when you look into them, all you will see is honesty. Her face, well, you'll probably notice her freckles first. She never tries to hide them because she isn't conceited. She wants you to see her for what she is. And to tell you the truth, I think those freckles suit her. And when she smiles, she looks so radiant and pretty, that my heart actually flutters like a caged bird. That's the effect she has on me.

Now I don't think a man ever notices a girl's hands while he's talking to her, but I did. Hers are small and delicate, with slender fingers that are absolutely    mesmerising. I'm told that my eyes follow the movement of her hands as she brushes them through her hair.  Well, I don't deny it, because I know how special she is for me. Everything she does captures my attention. I tell you, any man will be proud to have her.

When she talks, all I can do is listen. Her voice is soft yet clear, and when she speaks, it casts a spell over me. Its not as if I don't want to listen to her. But her voice has a reinforcing effect that tells me I'm going to listen to whatever she's saying.

I'm not sure if I'm able to do justice to her so far, because as I said, she's unlike any girl I've ever met. So it's impossible to compare her with someone and say: yes, she's the better one. Of course she's better than them all, so comparing her to them is like disgracing her. She's like an oyester's pearl: rare and valuable. And all I know is, I like her more and more with each second I spend with her. I've gotten so used to her that I don't want to be without her. Ever. I just hope she feels the same way too. I hope my wish comes true. I want to shower her with all the life's joys, if only she becomes mine...