These are a few words that I wrote for Ghulam Ali, some time during our last year at LUMS. It's hardly a poem, but just a few broken lines that I penned down to express my feelings with a touch of melody. Ali was probably busy with some stuff and I just felt that wasn't as available as I would have liked him to be. I felt that his open door was not as open in those daya. Thus this poem, which I slipped under his door.
Soon enough, things got back to normal. Having come up with these half-melodic lines by some luck, I never subsequently lost an opportunity to remind Ali of the lengths which I had gone to win back his friendship. But during those days, he never really so much as acknowledged the existence of this "poem" or give it any credit.
More than a year later, however, when he had migrated to Canada, one evening, I received a gift from him. And in the gift pack was a letter in an envelope, which I still have in my closet in Pakistan. In that letter, Ali he lovingly acknowledged this "poem" which I had once written for him and how special a thing it was for him.
Now as I was reading it again, it brought tears to my eyes. Ali was a special friend. . He will always be.He was one of the few people who ever understood me.
And then, I felt like resorting to the same vehicle once again for expressing my present feelings. Some things I just can't say in simple, solid prose. Thus, a few more broken lines of verse. Our mutual friend Shaheer always refers to Ghulam Ali as Ali Maula. Ali Maula was a transformative force in the lives of more than one person that I know of. One of things about him is that during hostel life, he was my dependable banker, lending me money for anything, ranging from tea to lunch to a Daweoo ticket. And sometimes, when I wanted to wear something nice, I would even borrow a clean kurta from that enviably clean and elegant closet full of kurtas. His kurtas fit me so perfectly. I wish I could have one of those forever - but then I don't know if I would want that. Anyways, that's the context of the poem.
I often hum whatever comes to me. And humming these words especially helped me shed the tears that I really needed to shed to lighten the burden of my heart. Now I feel much better. Grieving is natural. Since I now have the benefit of an iphone to record my voice, I thought I might just as well share it too. Perhaps some friends, whom I cannot physically be with, will find solace in it. Ali had a good musical ear and his assessment of my singing abilities was harshly realistic; but I suppose, in the circumstances, even he wouldn't mind.
In ordinary circumstances, all this would have remained private. I versify and hum as do so many human beings, don't we? But I know I am no poet or singer. Yet, in this moment of grief, I feel a strong urge like to share my feelings with all who loved Ali, in the only ways that I know of sharing - through my pen and my voice. What good is a life not generously shared? What would we be without the multiple webs of love in which we are tied? Even for an intensely private individual, in the darkest and the brightest of hours, going public is perhaps only proper.
Ali Maula, khuda tum per meharban hoe. Sada ham per meharban hoe. Ameen!
Soon enough, things got back to normal. Having come up with these half-melodic lines by some luck, I never subsequently lost an opportunity to remind Ali of the lengths which I had gone to win back his friendship. But during those days, he never really so much as acknowledged the existence of this "poem" or give it any credit.
More than a year later, however, when he had migrated to Canada, one evening, I received a gift from him. And in the gift pack was a letter in an envelope, which I still have in my closet in Pakistan. In that letter, Ali he lovingly acknowledged this "poem" which I had once written for him and how special a thing it was for him.
Now as I was reading it again, it brought tears to my eyes. Ali was a special friend. . He will always be.He was one of the few people who ever understood me.
And then, I felt like resorting to the same vehicle once again for expressing my present feelings. Some things I just can't say in simple, solid prose. Thus, a few more broken lines of verse. Our mutual friend Shaheer always refers to Ghulam Ali as Ali Maula. Ali Maula was a transformative force in the lives of more than one person that I know of. One of things about him is that during hostel life, he was my dependable banker, lending me money for anything, ranging from tea to lunch to a Daweoo ticket. And sometimes, when I wanted to wear something nice, I would even borrow a clean kurta from that enviably clean and elegant closet full of kurtas. His kurtas fit me so perfectly. I wish I could have one of those forever - but then I don't know if I would want that. Anyways, that's the context of the poem.
I often hum whatever comes to me. And humming these words especially helped me shed the tears that I really needed to shed to lighten the burden of my heart. Now I feel much better. Grieving is natural. Since I now have the benefit of an iphone to record my voice, I thought I might just as well share it too. Perhaps some friends, whom I cannot physically be with, will find solace in it. Ali had a good musical ear and his assessment of my singing abilities was harshly realistic; but I suppose, in the circumstances, even he wouldn't mind.
In ordinary circumstances, all this would have remained private. I versify and hum as do so many human beings, don't we? But I know I am no poet or singer. Yet, in this moment of grief, I feel a strong urge like to share my feelings with all who loved Ali, in the only ways that I know of sharing - through my pen and my voice. What good is a life not generously shared? What would we be without the multiple webs of love in which we are tied? Even for an intensely private individual, in the darkest and the brightest of hours, going public is perhaps only proper.
1 comment:
Umer Gillanis audio tribute to Ali Ghulam:
http://kiwi6.com/file/32qg2igngk
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