Aghosh - A Healing Journey

My journey began 3 years ago upon receiving some not so delightful personal news. Aghosh (lap or in arms) is a product of these 3 years, and with its release, the last remnants of being bound by the vagaries of life fritter away.

Aghosh signifies the much needed peace that all of us vie for. This is for all those who are on their own healing journeys, and also those who are yet to breakthrough their own shackles of ego and self-doubt. Look inward - the light resides in your heart. ❤️

Love and peace to all. 

SJ

Running Adventures 1: 35km (38) for 35 years

Of Marathons and Old Men

This post has been sitting as a Draft for at least 3 months now. Talk about irony - a post about marathons delayed due to indolence. Anyway, here it is.

I started the New Year with quite a hefty break travelling back to my family home in Pakistan. I hail from the capital of Pakistan, Islamabad – a beautiful city with green and serene landscapes, hills that would easily qualify as mountains for the denizens of Australia, and chaos aplenty to ensure a purely Pakistani experience nonetheless. When I was living there, we used to make our way to the Northern areas quite often – home to 5 of the 14 eight-thousanders including K-2 and Nanga Parbat, the Killer Mountain. For those of you accustomed to the idea of trekking, I don’t have to delve into elaborating how humbling the sport can potentially be. The same is true for another extreme sport – long-distance running/walking. A marathon measures to an exact 42.195kms, anything beyond the much sought for mark qualifies as an ultra-marathon. The most common distance run in an ultra is 50km or 100km – the most prestigious of the ultras being the 100-milers, which equate to roughly 161kms.  

Needless to say trekking and walking is much looked forward to every time I travel back home. Albeit offering very high entertainment value and overdoses of adrenaline, long-distance is always physically painful and mentally exhausting – always.

The sun rose to a typical Islamabad morning – penetrating cold, foggy and wet, at 7:13am on the 14^th of January. Having already walked around 10kms in the dark, we greeted the sun with literally just an iota of mirth hoping against an already dwindling hope that with the golden hour past, warmth was nigh. With the sun shyly rising above the horizon and the light roaring across the landscape like a cavalry charge, the day did look wholly promising. Besides, it was a special day as we were attempting our first marathon in Pakistan and that too in the mountains of my youth – Margalla Hills. The Margallas, as they’ve come to be known, are home to the Margalla National Park and the hills have their fair share of wolves, deer, wild boars and hyenas, and the occasional disoriented leopard visiting due to extreme cold up North. It makes for a very interesting walk especially if getting lost is on the agenda, which tends to happen on long walks. One other generosity that longer than the usual 5 to 7kms trail walks lend the enthusiast is 'time', and that too in abundance. Therefore, there is ample opportunity to reflect on what seemed like a really bright idea a few hours ago and resulted in embarking on this Lord of the Rings-esque 10-hour long journey. All said and done, we made it back home 43kms and 11 odd hours later.

The reader may have noticed that I haven’t yet promulgated any information on who accompanied me. Well, all the complaining would’ve been for naught if I’d done so at the beginning. So, for the walk, I partnered with my 72-year old dad who was cuckoo enough to attempt a marathon at his age solely because it “sounded” like a good idea.

For me, personally, this specific marathon ended up being more of a life lesson than just another excursion through mountains. I shall leave the reader with three takeaways. First, in face of adversity, don’t give up. Second, if you have fears, take them on upfront– that’s the only way you’ll conquer them. Third, the journey matters more than the destination – make sure to cherish the opportunity to experience it.

The Margalla Hills in all her glory

Decided to name this, "Umar Choti" after my brother who took a tumble on 01/04/1994. We found him 12 hours later. 

Serenity on the Kalinjar Trail

Turned out to be a beautiful day for a walk

In the hills

Faisal Mosque visible from the Margallas

Barking dogs seldom bite! He was super possessive about his owner's belongings.

The General and I - much needed sugar and vitamin C consumption. 

Nafs

I miss doing music and since moving to Australia have been doing some sporadically, and largely alone. One tends to lead life outside Pakistan at an insane breakneck pace with barely enough time to put in a few kilometres every now and then in hopes of stonewalling the ever widening gait. So, anyway, here's a newer rendition of "Nafs". This was the first song I ever wrote as part of Aaraiz, and this also ended up being the first song we ever recorded. I was terrible then, I'm terrible now. Regardless, music is fun and I would get back into it without giving it a second thought.

Naya Pakistan Has Landed

Having not written in over a year, it had to be something colossal to bring me out of hibernation. Imran Khan's PTI winning the elections overwhelmingly and him becoming the next Prime Minister of Pakistan is possibly one of the best Pakistani political stories since Bhutto's clean sweep in the '70s. The key difference between the two individuals - IK's a humanitarian, monetarily clean, and a track record of a winner. As a completely non-political person, I'll trust IK with my money, not the likes of Bhutto and his posterity.

If I had an iota of doubt pertaining to IK's credibility, his victory speech last night (26/07) diluted it in its entirety. A very different IK took the podium yesterday; he was humble, level-headed, succinct and focused on the very element that the leaders of the past have missed out on - the people of Pakistan, and especially the poor and underprivileged. The hope that Pakistan still has a future ahead of her has been rekindled. After living as an expat for a decade, I'm all the more attune to the challenges it poses. There's no doubt that living in a first world country has pros aplenty but it still doesn't change the fact around it being a foreign land for me - my skin color and accents are a pretty good giveaways due to which I'll always be Pakistani, and Australian only in papers. In a fantastical world where Pakistan is the nation Jinnah wanted it to become, there's no way in hell would've I migrated overseas. I don't want to sound delusional and living outside Pakistan has presented me with a lot of opportunities that would've been only a dream back home but it's the expression "back home" that encompasses the sentiment wholly. 

With IK's rising popularity over the last couple of decades, his critics have also grew in substantial numbers. Even I've delved into criticizing him on some of his antics. But the funny part is that no matter what the criticism, there's one aspect that has never been a feature of ridicule - IK's intentions for Pakistan and it's people; His victory speech reinforced this belief in me a million times over. I wish I could've made it back to vote as well however wasn't possible under the circumstances. 

So, IK's ready to take on the toughest possible job he could've ever dreamed of; that of  the 19th Prime Minister of Pakistan. I would've been scared out of knickers at the prospect of taking on such a task but then, this is Imran Khan that we're talking about. If there's anyone who can make things better in Pakistan and live up to the claims he's made in his speech yesterday, it is him! This isn't the time to argue over IK's authenticity as PM or whether he was the most deserving of the candidates; it's prime time we move on, believe in his intentions and back him in every possible way because believe it or not, opportunities of this kind never present themselves to as debauch and far gone a nation as Pakistan. There's no level of hypocrisy, debauchery and moral depravity that we haven't indulged in; save a complete annihilation of Pakistanis, IK's the best alternative who may just be capable and driven enough to put Pakistan on some sort of a track towards sustenance and development. 

I always have and still believe in what IK has to offer, and will continue to support his movement come hail, rain or shine. I feel blessed to be able to witness Khan's, "Naya Pakistan", at least I won't die dreaming! All prayers for IK and I really hope he delivers, not only to shut his critics up but for the sake of Pakistan; we deserve so much more! 

Listen to his speech using the link below or just YouTube it. Now!

IK's Victory Speech - 26/07/2018

Bashir Does India!

For Bashir, the average Pakistani fan, the last decade and a half has been a tough one; a journey on a bed of thorns with a glimpse of a rose every now and then, hardly enough. Bashir blames the decline of the sport predominantly on the overall situation the country finds itself in – politically, economically, and just about any –ally one can deem to think of. Since the 1999 WC Final loss to Australia, there have been innumerable incidents, the details of which Bashir hates to indulge in like a true patriot, to put off the staunchest and most steadfast of fans. But If you’re like Bashir who has stuck by his team where the players are as often proclaimed legendary as thought of as complete nincompoops with as much surety as Amir getting Sharma out every time they face-off, and all of this within a span of a fly batting its wings and Bashir letting out an insignificant post-Iftar fart – take a bow and feel proud, it’s a privileged state to be in. The one key factor that keeps Bashir intact is Pakistan’s team statistical dominance over arch-rivals India, and the fact that our players have always found themselves cooler and more dashing than our cousins from across the border. But this emotion too had started to wane and has been teetering on the brink of being completely vanquished. Until now!

Bashir remembers when Pakistan lost to India at Bengaluru in 1996. The feeling of dread as the wickets tumbled, after Anwar and Sohail had given his team the best of chances to chase down the total, is still fresh. It hurts. Bashir also remembers the 2003 WC bout against India when his team’s star studded line-up succumbed to the weirdest of all defeats. It hurts. And how can Bashir not remember the “The Scoop”. It hurts and burns. All in all, there’s a lot of hurt Bashir remembers that had started to emerge more often than not like a pinching, itching haemorrhoid courtesy India’s precipitous rise in World Cricket. Until now!

Bashir is a cricketer himself; a name to fear among the galli mohalla tape-ball fraternity. Favourite shot: jharhoo, favourite ball: anywhere. But now Bashir has gone overseas and has had the fortune of playing the real shit – cricket with a cock-ball, as it’s known back home, or hard-ball for the bores. To his delightful pleasure, the jharhoo still works as effectively as it did in tape-ball cricket. The only difference is the height he has to bring the jharhoo in fruition at – a Younis-esque annoying sweep to a swash-buckling Lara-esque flick off the hip to a dashing Ponting-esque pull; just revisions of basically the same shot – the jharhoo. But the trips to the cricket grounds on match days had been becoming a bit of an annoyance with Indians prevalent in opposing teams and ones never to shy away from throwing a jibe every now and then on how suffering Pakistan’s performance has been of late. Until now! 

Bashir suddenly finds himself in the all-so-familiar scenario of looking at his Indian compatriots, inwardly sniggering and sympathetically agreeing with them as they lament India’s performance at the CT2017 Final. Even though this win comes after quite a bit of time, Bashir has a feeling that scores have been settled, nerves have been calmed, the old dread has been kindled in Indian hearts, dominance recommenced and the Indians taught the lesson to never ever write Pakistan off. The only issue is that the Indian team is nowhere to be seen. India still hides behind political alibis and categorically refuses to play Pakistan; home or at neutral venues. Bashir knows this for a fact that if cricketing ties were to be resumed, it’d only be a matter of time (a series or two tops) until Pakistan would confirm its utter dominance over India once again. Bashir reached the conclusion a while ago that no matter how strong the Indian team becomes, mental fortitude will always upstage skill in all encounters. Not having played a full series against them since India’s 2007 tour to Pakistan, and practically no bilateral series whatsoever in front of large crowds since, the Boys in Green have suffered in confidence and lost the panache that had come to be associated as closely with Pakistanis as the colour green. But now, after years of being written-off and ridiculed, Bashir knows that everything seems to be garnering a semblance of normalcy; Pakistani bowlers are best in the world, and Indian batters are best in the world…just not for Pakistanis.

Prior to the Final the Indian media, ex-players and general public were so confident that it’d give Ali a stomach ache. The difference being that the latter actually delivered on his promises. Funnily enough most times the Indians have gone down the path of being pompous (Amir is an ordinary bowler), mouthing off grandiose claims (aanay do), and making vows as if Helen of Troy was actually Bhagmati of Hyderabad who’d eloped with our Bashir, fate has served them a much deserving dose of humble chai that is obviously much too difficult to gobble down. In spite of this natural phenomenon they continue to indulge in this vile practice. Bashir is as confused as the rest of us Pakistanis - 'insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result." The post-defeat backlash of the Indians is what classic comedy is made of, and they seem to be so good at churning out this stuff that even Fox News would bow down to their greatness, Pratchett would steal notes from their script, Vonnegut would do a Sylar on their producers. 

Bashir’s advice to India is simple: Quit. Just hang your bats ‘n balls.

If even after attempting to sabotage Pakistan cricket at every available opportunity, Pakistanis not only make it to the Final but also thrash the bejesus out of the richest, most passionate and, as claimed by a lot of gurus, without a doubt the best team in the world, then there’s no point whatsoever for India to take part in global competitions. This defeat is not just a defeat. India hasn’t been just outplayed by the better team. They've been decimated like they used to be at the hands of Imran, Wasim, Waqar, Anwar, Inzi, Yousuf - ugh, it's a never-ending list. The fear of Indian Cricket Board and their nonsensical political stance has been exposed. And it has surfaced when it mattered the most, and at a time when they least expected it themselves. Rest assured this win was not due to Pakistanis being unpredictable; the tag of being unpredictable is irrelevant in matches against India. As Bashir said earlier – it’s the psychological strength that ensures wins in these encounters, skill to a large degree takes a seat and watches the show. Bashir can sense that the mental hold India was just starting to relish over Pakistan may have just been broken. But of course, it’d be difficult to tell courtesy India not willing to play against his team outside global tournaments – don’t get Bashir started on the hypocrisy of that. Keep calm, Bashir, they’ll succumb eventually. And when they do, it shall be Amir steam-rolling them as ordinarily as Sharma plays him, Hasan Ali busy in his generator celebratory acts, Fakhar top-edging quickies and slog-sweeping spinners like nobody’s business and that too with a smile on his face, Azhar making sure he keeps Pakistan’s tag of unpredictability intact, and Sarfaraz doing what he does best – lead fearlessly. 

Tonight Bashir is a happy Pakistani and is generous enough to offer it back to his dear cousins a curse that’s been dogging him since the 2015 World Cup – “Mauka Mauka”, no…”Thoka Thoka”. Toodles :). 

The Mask

7:53am, Monday, 27th March, 1995

I've been on his trail for over an hour. His movements don't have a pattern, erratic to say the least. He suspects something amiss. Onset of paranoia? Only plausible explanation to the bizarre demeanor that's on display here. Is he under some sort of "influence"? The instructions are quite idiot proof; Zedoic is to be administered to the proletariat only. For some undisclosed reasons, it affects us Slicks differently. The last case in 1985 and might I remind you how well that ended? Why I always end up with these absolutely crazy jobs? It's hardly my fault that I'm semi-proficient at whatever's assigned to me - you gotta keep the cache as brusque as "Professionally" possible. Where is this guy heading? He's just turned into Foyer Lane, a no through road. Did fate hand him his Death Certificate just then? How the mighty fall. I should've known, with all the time I've invested in the Precognition Training for Professionals course, how promising today is. Last time I was in the field with my personal favorite, the Capacitive Gun, I completed my mission objective promptly. time to put an end to this. Almost at the mouth of the alleyway; he should be nearing the end of the Lane right about now sadly realizing the folly of his decision. So elating the feeling of the gun. It emanates a certain warmth, a buzz resonating with my being at a very intimate and elemental level. Soon it'll be over. I must do this right. Oh, how convenient of you to afford that skeptical glance at me, as if the Corporation's scrutinizing gaze wasn't enough. A wry smile, eh - best you can do? Well, thanks for the vote of confidence? I've hit a dead end. That's not right. Did I miss something? I can feel wrath...and hate, potent enough to make me wince as it gouging at my aura. So close. Hot breath at the nape of my neck as paralysis is starting to take me. I can't see. Everything's blurry. Wait, blue...no, no..th..th..that's green, the color of her eyes. Wait, it's saying something. Listen. "Lighten up, Ash,", says a mask to my face, "You know what it is, yea? Mouth, please."