Finally mustering enough courage I did managed to bring Shariq along. The Dr. Banerjee crossing with its huge traffic and narrower road, more bikes than “rickshaws”, vendors of fresh orange juice, chilled water, fruits, chaat, subzi, chappals. Very different from the quieter “HimmatGung” I knew. Taking the exit on left following the thin ally and another 50 meters on left stood the solid iron door, buried deep into history as if unable to bear the sight of more “jannat naseeb” souls. The door probably is one of few remaining remnants of the past generation, in slumber sleep. Looking at the peeling green color oil paint, I took the smaller gate at left and the touch of earth within delivering minor goose bump.

Ishaq the care taker welcomed me warmly with a hug, chastising the overdue visit. People visit the dead even less now days, the heartbeats have its own dilemmas. “The slogan of roti, kapra, makan have long instilled our psyche, leaving the dead alone to rest.

Observing the  area with huge mausoleum of “Lal Mohammed Dada”, the visionary ancestor who bought the land almost a century back, probably with a thought that. A. Resting place of family members, B. A place for reflection for living only if few chose to come here and think of the inevitable death.

 The land area is big, few thousand sq yards, with garden sprouting on either side of lanes, till the mausoleum. Various trees, many of which I couldn’t identify.

Passing the mausoleum and reaching the other side as if on transition lay a hive of grave, in lines. All related by blood, finally reached the gulmohar tree, which I’ve seen growing taller over years, there lies my father.

Shariq, Ishaq and his son followed me with lantern, as it was a new moon and minus the electricity among the sleeping.

 Ishaq identified the new graves, Asif bhai,Maqsood abba, Daddy abba,  badi amma, anwar chacha, shahida bhabi, till tears found the passage from eyes. It was both embarrassing and awkward for me to cry, as I kept telling myself that there is no need for emotions. Then the faces came to eyes, the happy memories of a child, kisses, acknowledgments, and I transformed into a boy I once was. A thinker and reflector. With lump on throat and heavy voice I asked my living companions to leave me alone to be with my own, not even the lantern, for the darkness of place didn’t instilled fear but a craving for peace “salam”. Asif bhai’s grave broke the thin line of courage with which I fought the tears. I do remember borrowing Asif bhai’s classic sports shoe as a 16 years old to hang out with friends as i couldn’t afford new ones then. There were 2 contenders for shoes then, me and shuja bhai, at times I would beat Shuja by being a better candidate at convincing Asif bhai.

Walking back to my fathers grave, reciting Fatiha for all resting. May Allah have mercy on their souls. At times I can’t help but visualize a grown up conversation with father. I missed him after earning the first salary, the trip overseas, discussing the collection of books and my very own observation on people and society at large, on human behavior and on man’s nature to divulge in worldly sins. Its hard to imagine if I would have made an impression. Long morning strolls maybe,with debate on editorial page. How I would have bought all the books he wanted to read and have watched over him aging gracefully. Luckily I have bhai who took over the family reigns early. But for arguments sake these thoughts do stimulate me.

It wasn’t dark anymore as I took the spiritual journey, the place was filled with souls, some known many unknown. But none stopped me and I spotted my own’s and conversed.  

I emerged from darkness, as ever Ishaq invited us for tea. Tea, in grave yard, we call “Kala Danda”, amongst the dead.

And with it you miss the turn, you were suppose to take. More curses from fellow explorers, huh, what did you just said. ” Dude, I repeated it, what’s up are you on iodex, wake up, its a long journey. Shucks, the demon kept comming, I’m gonna slaughter all of em, painful death indeed. Ok, stop, take the left turn, go 3 kms in till you hit the dirt road, another 4 kms right and you’ll hit the camping base.

Its late night and camps are being set, its full moon over the sand dune, the sand spines dancing all over the dune, moon melting the sand into gold, or was it the last sun rays. Loud music, unbearable crazy fanatics, click, and chilled coke glup glup, cigarettes, already warming up the barbecue, ok some one was suppose to get the liquid to fire up the coals and forgot. Some nasty curses. Petrol did the job. Delicious grill, chicken, lamb, kebabs, post dinner tea, another cup and some story telling.

I’m lying down, its a desert night, suppose to be cool. Stars lots of it, can’t count. Thinking about all faces who mattered once and don’t anymore. Time flies. Horse shit!!! Nothing flies, we have perfect capability to shut things off we don’t want to see. I once thought that in life’s journey, excess baggage got to be dumped but failed to clear, at what cost. Now, this starry night, and snores. Far very far I saw the stars dancing

Well, times have changed and probably I did not evolved into a more gregarious social animal, mostly I realized that social gatherings are filled with not always but mostly with big farts, bigger mouths. Though I manage to find a quite corner . Looking around I try to evaluate the persona “introvert”, “extrovert” or damm it “ambivert”.

I thought maybe its the age factor, re calculated and it still added to 33. Did the IQ test and the score as usual came to “normal” so its confirmed that its neither advancing age not the Newton neutron’s intellect. Just the desire to be left alone, with books, few games, small Maryam n little gym. I do desire good conversations over tea or a smoke.

I cherish relationships where one meets an old friend after a decade and picks up the old conversation. Where one enjoys people for who

they are and not what they are. And space guys, we all need space.

I woke up and the Wise Sage vanished with the dream. Too much soul searching can mess grey cells, I assumed.

What’s the chaos, take each day as it comes. The term ‘Qadr’,meaning” Fate”, means much to Muslims globally, who are reasonably aware with the term, the followers to my humble understanding are Many.

Going back to Qadr, the whole ideology of Islam defines Qadr as accepting ones fate which has been written and is predetermined. Now, what shall I do, wait for things to happen or make things happen. Wait for chance or create opportunities, be master or slave.

Now I choose to act or not to, and hence the outcomes becomes my Qadr. But blaming and crying for all those lost opportunities, those blood sucking humans ain’t going to take me anywhere too. So Qadr is something which I also help evolve. It has given me an option to choose, where the results are predetermined and measured. I don’t know why, but I believe, without questions, cause I at times do look at starry nights with glittering stars, sun sets, kids and am forced to thank the force which has have created all this including my own minor existence.

And I believe.

Why Values?. Well values can’t be taken or lost in case of financial meltdown. And they multiply over period of time. Over long run, persistent values survive even the man/woman. To contradict myself its vice versa too. Values too have been doomed, but such cases are rare.

Ultimate aim is survival, this is the very being of man. Not to perish. Having met many people over years of professional and personal journey, the realization have finally sunk in. Its not the clan, blood line or ancestry. Its the desire to excel and carving a niche. The individual makes the difference, and with right values, much is accomplished.

Here we don’t talk about financial or professional success. It will be in limited scope defining the Will of Woman/Man. Society as ever congratulates every success and secretly harbors downfall so dancing ritual could be performed over the doomed soul.

I remember reading years ago an essay” eirsha tu na aiye mere ghar”, by Munshi Prem Chand. The writing left a deep impression on me. The writer talked about the very essence of human nature. Where man becomes so weak at other’s success.

Here the values come in. The so called social evaluation have to be dropped. What social standing got to do with the virtues of a man/woman. But, short term gains focuses the lens on wallet rather then substance.

Such people with Values are rare, you might find them in old friends who are indifferent to your present status, or new acquaintances who judge with quality than standing.

At times I wonder that how possibly one can enjoy both and still keep the sanity. There is no reason that one should not enjoy the soul stirring love verses, moaning the beloved or just plunging into endless copulation.

Spiritualism and passion goes hand in hand. Each complementing the other though not confusing passion with physical lust nor confusing Spiritualism with an extremist.

Here we have two men, each exploring an aspect of human persona. Passion and spirit. There is a strong possibility of them being both, exploring the powerful emotion and penning them down for others to be inspired.

In end, I found myself drawing closer to Iqbal, for the Spiritualism he preaches fulfills the other exposed desires. Here I don’t talk about religion but of the root which lays foundation to the belief. The conviction which is different from where one waits for ones beloved. Even the heart beats in both scenarios differ. The burning of heart for lovers reunion or drinking from lovers lips is different. By being closed to the fire its the moth which is drawn to its annihilation. It’s not the fear of fire but the desire to be consumed by it.

Let’s leave it here, and walk towards the beloved

To my limited knowledge of Urdu “shayeri”, Iqbal stands tall, so much so that, I fail to see or appreciate the poetic beauty in others.

Here I quote what Omar quoted, I asked him to repeat this couplet many times , finally he asked to write it and memorize.

(Mohsin naqvi)
Tune dekha hai ek nazar shaam ke baad,
Kitne chup chaap se lagte hain, shajar shaam ke baad.
Itne chup chaap ki raste bhi rahe la ilm, choor jayenge kisi roz nagar, shaam ke baad.
Shaam se pehle wo apni mast udano mein tha,
Wo jiske haat mein thei tute hue par, shaam ke baad

Tu to suraj hai, tujhe kahan maloon raat ka dukh.
Tu kisi rooz utar meri ghar, shaam ke baad

Hopefully one day I will read extensively, the work of Iqbal Mian and many others, but for time, I thank Omar and his patience with me and my false claims to the world of Urdu Poem.

The best part was claiming the eidi from elders 2 rs mostly and if lucky then a crisp 10 note. Keeping the money safely in the white kurta pocket folded inside ” atar”, sprayed kerchef . Till the pocket got fatter. Spending the small fortune on ice creams, jems, cadburries, and Phantom comics.

Meeting so many cousins, each flounting his, her newly stitched costumes. Playing hide n seek. Or” Dacoits from chambal”.

Now I have these young cousins who once threatened that if I don’t give each a 100, I will be forced to part with my wallet. I looked around and saw four 18 to 20 something, smiling at me with clenched fists. Though a strong man myself, I had few options, either I give them the eidi, take them all down by muscle power or lastly RUN.

Eventually I decided to part with 400 bucks. It was their day, they reminded so much of the rebels, whom I quietly admire.. Saved myself the turmoil of getting beaten by young boys. Not literally. This was also sometime back.

Somthing has happened during the years. I did lost the passion for celebrating Eid, turning into more of religeous ritual, though I enjoy fasting, but something went missing. On the big day, going to Masjid, eating sewai and giving elders a cordial visit or call. This became the Eid, very different from the one I knew as a child. The warmth and passion has gone, from hearts maybe.

This Eid I was at home, went for prayer, hugged my Morrocan friend Mohammed in Masjid while coming back. I did not visited anyone, just few text and calls. Didn’t ate sewai, though I craved for some Qimami. Took a bite of sacrificial meat. I looked at my jeans and the shirt in which I prayed, closing the eyes I imagined if it was the white kurta, pajama and “atar”, doused kerchef.

During leisure days he could be spotted riding heavy duty “Triumph”, or driving the open, low bonnet, left hand drive “Willys”, with hunters net. Sipping coffee at the “Coffee House”.

Ashfaq Saheb was a man of few words and much substance. Had a very exclusive circle of friends, I’ve had the privilege of going through his photo albums, surrounded by many fine admirers, during his college days. Hunting shots at “Chambal” jungles, or at times sporting black glares at few Hill stations.

Ashfaq Saheb got married to the only daughter of” Nawab of Seoni”, Nawab Saheb too had a passion for hunting, and wouldn’t trigger the rifle for anything less than a Tiger. I have heard of Nawab Saheb’s legendary kills and of stuffed tigers at his mansion. The gaming passion was much before hunting restrictions came into force.

Back at our ancestral home “Plot”, there was a section reserved for Ashfaq Saheb, we would rarely get to see the place as Ashfaq Saheb or Abbu, slept all day and was up all night. There was a huge revolving dining table in middle of his Majlis, and we kids would take turns by sitting on top and someone would make it run in circles. Those heavenly “chakkars”.

Sometimes all kids joined together and cleaned up his place, sweeping of all dust, in return Abbu would give each a pack of “mithi supari”. Those days Abbu’s wife “Aunty Begum”, and only child, ” Baba Bhai”, lived in “Seoni”.

After my Father was laid to rest, Ashfaq Saheb, regularly inquired our well being, he was my father’s elder brother. And often showed his concern over our education.

During teenage days I would prepare tea flask for him at nights and tried getting into discussion, asking about my father, his temperament, my ancestors and the blood line. Who else could have given a better narration other than my father’s own brother.

Apart from his countless acres of land in Seoni, Abbu had a Petrol Station on Rewa Road, I visited him there at times . Specially when I was broke. And never hesitated demanding money. We only negotiated the amount, as my demand exceeded few thousands and not hundreds. Eventually, I wrested the money out from him, Abbu never refused. I think he always saw my father in me.

By his order a liter of petrol became my daily bike quota, which was debit ed to his personal account. At times it could even become two.

After Abbu’s wife, Allah E Rehma, Aunty Begum passed away, Abbu and Baba bhai moved permanently to Allahabad. Now Baba bhai is a tall, royal man of 6 “2″. We have our houses built close by and I would spend more hours with Abbu.

When I started working, I bought fragrances for Abbu, and still remember the joy in his eyes. I told him about the work and voyages, in detail. Convincing him probably that I did not wasted myself, that I too inherited the old blood. Proving many failed negative prophesies on self by pseudo relatives. I tamed my anger, “angry young men” look good only on the big screens.

Last meeting with Abbu was heart wrenching and desperately painful, I found him on the bed. I shivered when I saw my once powerful Abbu so weak. He had severe memory loss, and could not recognize me, but called by my fathers name. I sat there holding his hand. Crying. I was too young to mourn my own father’s death. But the thought of losing my noble, father figure was not acceptable. I kissed his majestic forehead and looked into the royal eyes, and sat there asking Allah not to take Abbu, pleading for his health and life, but Allah always has better plans.

Abbu passed away after some time of my visit. I mourned him then and I mourn him everyday. I visit the family graveyard whenever I’m in town. No happiness will ever fill the pain of losing my regal and majestic Abbu. Sometimes I see them all, my father Akhlaq Saheb and brothers Ashfaq Saheb, Mushtaq Saheb, Anwar Saheb, Ishtiyaq Sahib, may Allah have mercy on their souls.

Sometimes I think that Allah has stopped making this noble breed of men. Men like Abbu, pure and true. Men of few words and strong commitments. Men who believed in doing rather than bragging. Men who will not leave your hand during hard days, but hold you firmly, even if hell went lose. Men who could look at devil and bring him to knees.

In our lifetime we meet few people who change the way we see and live life, I’m glad for me Abbu, Ashfaq Ahmed Saheb, is one of them.

From the ancient Babylon, Athens, Roma, Constantiople to the streets of medieval Baghdad, Delhi, Samarkand, to contemporary New York, Dubai or Mumbai. The clan has been active and growing.

I have nothing personal against Wannabe’s. They have all the right of existence and expression, similar or at times better than my own. Its just the curiosity and observation of this clan, which has compelled me to explore the depth.

Next time you are in a high net social party, just observe some loud voices, few empty discussions on Louis Vuitton or Jimmy Choo. On contemporary Arts, Christie’s, Guggenheim Museum or the silk laced Lingerie. Discussion’s could either be tinted at intellectual level minus any substance. You will hear about some fab gadgets, fine joints, loud watches, cars and rare spa’s. Certainly, few might be very genuine conversation but chances are a Wannabe spreading his/her tentacles.

You will find them in most ecstatic pubs, filled with both sexes, high on tequila shots. Hoping to manage at least a Porche 911 smooth drive by an unknown stranger, desirable enough for a quick physical bite.

The clan exists in all social echelon and stratum, it has absolutely nothing to do with money or refined ambiance. Its just the nature of man to be better.[A]. either one develops oneself by the sheer power of will and grit determination, or[B] just emulate the better other, becoming the second hand and cheaper version. The wannabe falls into the [B] category and remains for a period of time. Till realization of reality finally sinks in.

Once I asked an Indian friend absorbing the Roman History, if she has ever read anything on Mughals. Her reply was brutal and honest. ” What for?. Mughals were Indian”, I was so shocked that I just could not react, quietly finished my cigarette and walked out, refusing to take her calls for many months, and poor soul didn’t even knew the reason of my bestial behavior.

Every party or PR event attended related to the work, I fail to see bona fide clients but the same faces, cute hot dolls and clean shaven men, holding almost perfectly the champagne glass, with a touch of fake aristocracy. Wearing replica watches from Bankok with confidence. These faces appear regularly on the decayed social magazines, only events differ. Wannabe’s dig into the social happenings, and surprisingly they manage invites too.

I have seen men, walking and holding Porche key in hand and displaying the logo. Pathetic suckers desperate for cheap attention. Cigar in hand with categorically no idea of make or smoking etiquette. An idea borne by them to be respected and desired has confused many. Getting lost between real self and the desired social strata, too high to reach.

Due to my work, I get to know and meet old and genuine money. Most I found, humble and understated. Cause money has been the way of life, and not taken for granted. I met a 26 years old wearing Journe Tourbillon, and next day again he came wearing a Patek Minute Repeater which cost him Quarter of a million US dollar. He is a simple guy who will open door for you, will never flash his cars or watches at your face, yes, he does call 1000 dollar watches “fun Gadgets” and keeps them for self amusement.

A dear friend stubbornly refuses to get black berry cause its closest one can be on becoming a Wannabe, and keeps reminding me not to keep the berry on table or walk while holding it. He does carry a Vertu though, he was one of the pioneers who bought the hand set. And have been buying since then. Its not about vulgar display of wealth but a sprinkle of taste in chaotic life’s motion. He refuses to be in events buzzing with wannabe’s.

I myself wonder at times if I have already crossed the line and ended up becoming one, whom I resist. The desire to be in parties and sizzling babes gets hauntingly irresistable at times, but its fun to swim the other side of river too. Watching the crowd from far. Devil still waits for my soul. “Hold on”, and he waits for one more Wannabe.