Pity de nation dat is full of beliefs and empty of religion. Pity de nation dat wears a cloth it does not weave, eats a bread it does not harvest, and drinks a wine dat flows not from its own wine-press. Pity de nation whose statesman is a fox, whose philosopher is a juggler, and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking. Pity de nation whose sages r dumb wid years and whose strong men r yet in the cradle. Pity de nation divided into fragments, each fragment deeming itself a nation.-KG
"Maturity begins to grow when you can sense your concern for others outweighing your concern for yourself."- A Siyana
Boys do not dump their immature antics and become men until they reach the age of 27, says new research based on a survey.
Lads do not grow up until they have had their first child by age 29 but would continue to indulge in boyish behaviour such as getting drunk, according to OnePoll.com.
Girls, on the other hand, become mature at 24 with the average woman swearing until she is 26, suggests the study. Ladies also stop tumbling out of nightclubs at 25 and stop flashing their breasts and not pile on make-up by the age of 23, researchers found.
"The report proves that men simply don't grow up as quickly as women. They are still likely to indulge in some sort of immature behaviour," the Daily Star quoted a OnePoll spokesman as saying.
"There are six things the LORD hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes,a lying tongue,hands that shed innocent blood,a heart that devises wicked schemes,feet that are quick to rush into evil,a false witness who pours out liesand a man who stirs up dissension among brothers." It's all in the eyes when it comes to attraction. British scientists have found that women get more attracted to men with large pupils.
Edinburgh University study's scientists, who found that the attraction starts just as women are approaching their most fertile time of the month, believe that it could be because it indicates that the man is sexually interested in them and available for mating, reports the Daily Mail.
Pupil size made no significant difference for the rest of the menstrual cycle, according to the study published in the journal Personality and Individual Differences.
To reach the conclusion, photographs of six equally attractive men were presented to a judging panel of ten women. But for each man, three versions of the photo were produced, with the pupils large, medium or small.
The pictures of the men were then jumbled and put into pairs for the women to rate. Volunteers recorded their age, whether they were using hormonal birth control, the date of onset of their menstrual period preceding the test and the length of their menstrual cycle.
The study's analyses revealed that attraction to large pupils shot up four days before day 13 of the menstrual cycle, the usual monthly peak in fertility.
Courtesy Mail
Na jany dhondty kya ho meri weeran ankhon main/ Chupa rakhy hain hum ne to kayi toofan ankhon main/ Tumhara zarf tha k tum ko mohabbat yaad nahi ayi/ Jala teri mohabbat ka diya har aan ankhon main/ Kisi ka hath le kar hath main mile jab tum hum se/ To kaise toot kar bikhra tha mera maan ankhon main/ Na samjho k chup hain, to tumse koi shikwa nahi hai/ Hum apne dard ki rakhte nahi pehchaan ankhon main !!!
Of several songs in the movie "Pakeeza" (A 1972 Indian film) – that took 13 years in the making, a song's lyrics made by Kaifi Azmi, with the music of Ghulam Mohammad titled "Chalty-Chalty" surely stands out.
The sweetness in Lata’s voice as she slows down with “Yunhi Koi Mil Gaya Tha ... Sare-Raah …" is amazing! Towards the end of the song as Lata supposedly rushes through the song as the train whistle blows … is superbly captured! The song ends on a somber-note … “Ye Chiragh bujh rahe hain … mery saath jalty-jalty”. Superb!!! absolutely superb.
The movie is about the courtesan Sahibjaan, (Meena Kumari), who is born to a blonde courtesan, Nargis (also Meena Kumari). After being spurned by her lover's (Ashok KUmar) family, Nargis is driven to a graveyard where she gives birth to Sahibjaan secretly. Nargis dies during childbirth, and her sister, Nawabjaan, takes the child as her own. Sahibjaan was brought up by brothel madame Nawabjaan (Veena).
Unable to break away from the vicious circle, Sahibjaan grows up and becomes a beautiful and popular dancer/ singer. Forest ranger Salim Ahmed Khan (Raja KUmar) is enthralled by Sahibjaan's beauty and innocence, and eventually convinces her to elope with him, which she does. But trials and tribulations await Sahibjaan as she is recognized by men wherever she goes in the company of Salim.
When Salim re-names her "Pakeezah" (pure of heart) and takes her to a priest to be legally married, she refuses, and returns to the brothel. Salim eventually decides to marry someone else, and invites Sahibjaan to dance at his wedding, Sahibjaan agrees to this, not knowing that many secrets will be revealed at this wedding.
Achingly gorgeous songs and visuals, together with Meena Kumari's dynamite final performance make this a Bollywood costumer par excellence. Desire and shame vie for the heart of the courtesan, Nargis (Kumari), who yearns to fall in love and does, with an aristocrat (Raaj Kumar). But, for a woman of her profession, a happily-ever-after ending does not come so easily, as Nargis confronts dark secrets and humiliations that threaten to sabotage her romance and entrap her forever.
Here are the very touching lyrics, and I want to dedicate this song to someone -once very dear to me, who met me like a stranger and left me in a lurch like a "Perfect Stranger"!
Chalty chalty, chalty chalty- Yunhi koi mil gaya tha Chalty chalty, chalty chalty- Yunhi koi mil gaya tha Sare raah chalty chalety, Sare raah chalty chalty
Vahin thamkay reh gayi hain Vahin thamkay reh gayi hain Meri raat dhalty dhalty Sare raah chalty chalety, Sare raah chalty chalty … Jo kahi gayi na mujhsy, voh zamaana keh raha hai Ky fasaana- Ky fasaana ban gayi hai Meri baat chalty chalty Sare raah chalty chalety, Sare raah chalty chalty …
Yunhi koi mil gaya tha - Sare raah chalty chalty Yunhi koi mil gaya tha - Sare raah chalty chalty
Chalty chalty…Sare raah chalty chalty Chalty chalty Chalty chalty, Chalty chalty Yunhi koi mil gaya tha…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ubQ9hrKO6XI Chalty Chalty, yuhein koi mil gaya tha (While Walking; While going along I met someone. My life has stood still since ...) !!!
“Somehow, I don’t enjoy today’s literary writings as much as I enjoyed those produced a hundred years ago,” I said.
“Your age, my dear friend, your age! Don’t forget you have grown old and have not kept pace with time.”
“But my mind has not aged,” I protested, “I can still think young and dream the dreams of a young man. And I still love all such things that touch the heart of today’s young men — despite their preoccupation with television, computer and mobile phones.”
Seeing a possibility for some kajj bahsi to while away the evening, Babboo decided to continue the assault on my advancing age and said: “The problem is in your waning years, you have not been able to keep abreast of modern literary trends and their complex theories. And since they are now beyond you, you must continue to remain lakeer ka faqeer.”
“Stop it, yaar! Shuroo ho jatey ho!” I said, but looking at me closely, he asked:
“Be honest — for a change, if for nothing else — and tell me, what is it that you find lacking in today’s literature?”
“I find lack of style, lack of expression, above all, lack of romance — qualities that one found in the writings of the old masters.”
“You mean lack of Sense and Sensibility, lack of Of Human Bondage, lack of Farewell to Arms, lack of Lady Chatterley’s Lover — perhaps the only books you read?”
I ignored his remark and said: “In poetry I don’t find any ‘Daffodils’ or ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’… and … as far as humour is concerned, where are Bertie Wooster and Jeeves, or where are Shafiqur Rehman’s Shaitan and Hukoomat Apa? The novels too are more autobiographical than anything else and read like travelogues or history.”
“This kind of a sweeping statement reeks of jehalat and is a testimony to the fact that you have diligently kept yourself uninformed about modern literature. How else could you say with such fathead authority that there was no sensibility, poetic imagination or consciousness of the issues facing the human race?”
I still ignored the provocation and continued: “Where is that touch of Charles Dickens, Guy de Maupassant, Asadullah Khan Ghalib, a Mir Taqi Mir, Rabindranath Tagore or Haafiz Shirazi?” I wanted to tell Babboo that contrary to his biased belief, these characters were no strangers to me.
“Please stop name dropping. It is considered bad manners. I can list up more impressive names. And remember, these guys are dead and gone. They created literature in and for a different time for readers living under the dark shadows of two World Wars, a number of bloody revolutions, slavery, and a period of massive exploitation. If they preached love and kindness it was because their readers were famished and needed to be bestowed upon with alms — not only to satisfy their hunger but to keep them in good humour.” “What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean, unlike yesterday when the reader was famished, he is better off today. He is living in a more affluent world. No longer, he is hungry for love and relationship. Today, he yearns for experimentation and innovation. Today, both he and the writer have become avant-garde. They also know how to catch the bull by the horn,” said Babboo.
“What nonsense. Writers today might have turned more practical and candid, but for myself as a reader dil dhoondta hai phir wohi fursat ke raat din!”
“Who is stopping you from reading Shakespeare, Milton, Mir Taqi Mir and Ghalib? Go lie down in your charpoy and read Manto, Krishn Chander, Ismat Chughtai, even Ibne Safi and Wahi Wahanvi.”
It is difficult to argue with Babboo. After sometime, however, I asked him: “Who rules the roost today?”
“Arundhati Roy, Fehmida Riaz, Zeeshan Sahil, Kishwar Naheed and many others. They have concerned themselves with today’s problems — men and matter,” he replied. “You have forgotten Faraz.” I said.
“That’s because I find his poetry for teenagers,” Babboo commented. “So what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Only that the teenagers today do not read poetry!” he said.
“You are wrong. Man cannot live without romance, in other words, poetry and literature. Just as today your avant-garde writers have taken inspiration from yesterday’s Masters, tomorrow’s writers and poets will be inspired by the present day writers and poets.” “Rubbish. There will be no literature and poetry tomorrow.” “Why?” “Because there will be no books.” “How will they read then?”“Blackberry zindabad!” said Babboo. This brought to an end our kajj bahsi.
At my age I do what Mark Twain did. I get my daily paper, look at the obituaries page and if I'm not there I carry on as usual.
Old age begins at 27: Scientists reveal new research into ageing
Old age is often blamed for causing us to misplace car keys, forget a word or lose our train of thought. But new research shows that many well-known effects of ageing may start decades before our twilight years.
According to scientists, our mental abilities begin to decline from the age of 27 after reaching a peak at 22.
The researchers studied 2,000 men and women aged 18 to 60 over seven years. The people involved – who were mostly in good health and well-educated – had to solve visual puzzles, recall words and story details and spot patterns in letters and symbols.
Similar tests are often used to diagnose mental disabilities and declines, including dementia. The research at the University of Virginia, reported in the academic journal Neurobiology Of Aging, found that in nine out of 12 tests the average age at which the top performance was achieved was 22.
The first age at which performance was significantly lower than the peak scores was 27 – for three tests of reasoning, speed of thought and spatial visualisation. Memory was shown to decline from the average age of 37. In the other tests, poorer results were shown by the age of 42.
Professor Timothy Salthouse said the results suggested that therapies designed to prevent or reverse age-related conditions may need to start earlier, long before people become pensioners. He wrote: ‘Results converge on a conclusion that some aspects of age-related cognitive decline begin in healthy, educated adults when they are in their 20s and 30s.’
There is some good news, though. The report states that abilities based on accumulated knowledge, such as performance on tests of vocabulary or generalinformation, increase until at least the age of 60.
Courtesy MAIL
Age to me means nothing. I can't get old; I'm working. I was old when I was twenty-one and out of work. As long as you're working, you stay young. When I'm in front of an audience, all that love and vitality sweeps over me and I forget my age.
“HAPPY NEW YEAR” — is a phrase that has become a burden for me over the years. As January draws near, a heavy sadness settles in my heart, and the sight of withering leaves only deepens my sorrow. It was in this very season that the leaf of Moazzam Bhai’s life fell.
Since Friday, Moazzam Bhai’s health has been on a steep decline. He has been sedated for days, and when we sought the doctors' counsel, they offered a bittersweet message: “Pray for the quality of your loved one’s life; it may extend his time... but keep praying.”
His respiratory struggles weighed heavily on us. My cousins, Nomi and Saqib, and I transformed the room into a makeshift “single room clinic,” surrounding him with all the medical equipment we could muster, hoping to keep him close.
That night, dark thoughts crept in, whispering fears of losing him. To shield my tears from little Maryam, Zainab, and Guria, I slipped out of the house, wandering the streets and seeking solace in a nearby park. All the while, I poured my heart out in prayer, yearning for a miracle.
Saturday night was particularly harrowing. As Nomi and I walked together, we shared a painful truth: “There’s no greater joy we could hope for than to return home and find Moazzam Bhai standing tall, greeting us with his familiar smile and playful banter, teasing us about our mismatched outfits and scuffed shoes.” But that joy never came.
درد میں بھی یہ لب مسکرا جاتے ہیں
بیتے لمحے ہمیں جب بھی یا د آتے ہیں
As the shadows of uncertainty loomed over us with Moazzam Bhai's health spiraling downward, Nomi and I felt a profound urgency to reach out to Ammi Abbu in Islamabad. We needed to bring Bhabhi’s family into our circle, for we instinctively knew that this was a moment woven with fate.
Muhammad Moazzam Bashir, 47, a commoner of 15th and 17th CTP, served with distinction as an additional commissioner of income tax. He was a humble, generous soul, brimming with kindness and an appreciation for life. He was an officer of Income Tax Group (now Inland Revenue). He also served as Deputy Secretary in the Ministry of Commerce. In recent years, during a visit to the Foreign Office from the National Defence University (NDU) for the National Media Workshop (NMW), I inquired of Raza Bashir Tarar, who was briefing the participants, about my late brother, who was his batchmate. I asked, “What do you think would have become of him had he lived?” Without hesitation, he replied, “First, I want to offer a prayer for Moazzam’s soul. He was truly one of the most competent officers at the FBR. It's tragic that he left us too soon. Without a doubt, had he been alive, he would have ascended to the role of Chairman of the FBR or an equally significant position.”
I still remember the determination that surged through Moazzam Bhai after his first surgery in December 2006. He emerged from that experience not just as a survivor but as a beacon of vibrancy, immersing himself wholeheartedly in the fabric of life. One fateful day, amidst his duties at the FBR in Islamabad, he turned to me at dusk and said, “Yar, tomorrow you have to come with me to Gujranwala. The kids need some time with you.” I hesitated, citing my obligations at the office, but he waved my excuses away with infectious enthusiasm, insisting, “Chadd yar, just call and let them know. I have some personal matters to attend to. Now, set the alarm for 6 AM!” And so, I complied, propelled by his spirited resolve.
As the sun began to rise, we started our journey around 8:30 AM, a bittersweet adventure laden with unspoken emotions. This travel with Moazzam Bhai felt different—his spirit seemed shrouded in mystery, and I sensed the weight of his health struggles, as well as the heavy burden of his family's future, pressing on his mind. Typically so expressive and vibrant, today he was wrapped in a quiet introspection.
As we drove, he handed me his cellphone, signaling me to place it on the dashboard. Strangely, he resisted answering any calls. Yet, every twenty minutes, as if compelled by an invisible thread, he pointed towards the dashboard, silently asking for the phone. Each time, he unlocked it, gazing at the screen that revealed his youngest daughter Maryam’s radiant smile, only to pass it back to me with glistening tears pooling in his eyes. This ritual repeated throughout our three to three-and-a-half-hour journey, a poignant reflection of his love and longing.
With the car’s interior infused with the soulful strains of Abrar-ul-Haq’s album, the only cassette we possessed, we surrendered ourselves to the haunting melody of “Nara Sada Ishq Aay.” Every few minutes, he gestured for me to rewind the song, and though I was lost in my own swirling thoughts, I couldn't help but feel the profound weight of the Sufiana verses. The lyrics carried a timeless truth—reminding us of our mortality and the inevitability of death, urging us to rise above the fleeting distractions of this world.
As I listened to the lament of “Chal Melay Nu Chaliaay,” my heart shattered under the weight of loss. There has never been a love quite like that which I have for my dear brother—this aching sadness envelops me. Even after all these years, his memory lingers painfully in my mind, intensifying my longing to simply be by his side. He brought joy into my life, filling my thoughts with profound echoes of reflection. Here are the poignant lyrics of that song…
Hania ..orak jana e mar way Chal Melay Noo Chaliaay
Balia ... orak jana e mar way...Chal Melay Noo Chaliaay
Ailay phar kunjian way saanbh lay tijorian
Ailay phar kunjian way saanbh lay tijorian
khasman noo khanda e tera ghar way
chal melay noo chaliaay
Hania... orak jana e mar way
Chal melay noo chaliay
Pehla maila Aadam keeta
Malka sir sajday wich keeta
Pehla maila Aadam keeta
Malka sir sajday wich keeta
Tay Iblees gia wicho sirr way
Chal melay noo chaliaay
Hania ..orak jana e mar way
Chal melay noo chaliay
Dooja maila Khaleel lagia
Zibha karan noo putar litaya
Dooja maila Khaleel lagia
Zibha karna noo putar litaya
Tay gia aap chaati utay char way
Chal melay noo chaliaay
Hania ..orak jana e mar way
Chal melay noo chaliay
Teeja maila raati hoya
Aan bohay tay Jibreel Khaloya
Teeja maila raati hoya
Aan bohay tay Jibreel Khaloya
Tay Sohna (pbuh) gia burraaq tay char way
Chal melay noo chaliaay
hania ..orak jana e mar way
Chal melay noo chaliay
Ailay phar kunjian way saanbh lay tijorian
Ailay phar kunjian way saanbh lay tijorian
khasman noo khanda e tera ghar way
Chal melay noo chaliaay
I can still recall those school days with startling clarity. Whenever any of us felt a cough bubbling to the surface, we would quickly stifle it, desperate to keep it hidden from Moazzam Bhai. We’d flee to another room or scuttle away to the storeroom, trying not to let him hear. Reflecting on those moments now brings a wave of bittersweet irony; what seemed like an innocent cough back then starkly contrasts with the relentless grip of the cancer he would come to know so intimately. He was remarkably knowledgeable about medical conditions and home remedies, often questioning doctors with a keen instinct, dissecting their responses with the precision of a surgeon.
He faced multiple major surgeries, endured Biomap injections, battled through radiotherapy, and withstood the harsh reality of chemotherapy. Despite the endless prayers from his parents, family, and loved ones, it felt like nothing could quell the storm that raged within him.
On that Saturday night, Nomi and I reached out to Ammi and Abbu in Islamabad. The following morning, Sunday, January 13, 2008, they arrived at Income Tax Colony, Gujranwala, accompanied by Rehana Bhabhi's siblings from Lahore. All day, they occupied themselves with worried questions about Moazzam Bhai’s health, while Nomi and I, painfully aware of the truth, clung to a façade of reassurance, repeatedly saying, “… yes, Masha Allah, he is improving.”
As Ammi and Abbu entered Moazzam Bhai’s room, the atmosphere charged with an unsettling blend of hope and fear. Ammi's tears flowed freely, while Abbu bravely began reciting Quranic verses and durood-e-Pak, filling the air with prayers. Once Abbu finished, he mustered what strength he could and gently whispered, “Masha Allah—Moazzam’s health is improving, and the swelling has lessened. What do you think, Mahtab?” With my head bowed in sorrow, I replied, “… absolutely, you’re right. He is indeed feeling much better.”
As night settled in, Rehana Bhabhi’s relatives began their journey back to Lahore. The house grew quieter as, later that evening; it was just my parents, Nomi, Saqib, and three of Moazzam Bhai’s young daughters (nieces) with us. Amid the heaviness of the moment, father and Mamu made plan to head to Lahore, as father stating, “I’ll handle some medical matters in the morning and return soon after.” They departed at 10:30 PM, leaving behind a palpable tension that wrapped around us like a shroud.
There is no sorrow in this world quite like that of an elderly father grieving the loss of his young son. My father, Bashir Hussain Nazim, endured this heart-wrenching moment with a remarkable patience granted by the Almighty. On the occasion of his son's Chehlum, in an article published in Nawa-i-Waqt on February 24, 2008, he poured out his soul, expressing the deep pain, anguish, and devastation that consumed him in that unbearable moment.
Monday, January 14, 2008, 1:17am
As the night wore on, the three of us—Nomi, Saqib, and I—took turns caring for Moazzam Bhai, dividing the hours into three shifts to ensure he received oxygen and any medical assistance he needed. While the children, our mother, and Bhabhi’s sister drifted off to sleep, Saqib took the first watch as the attendant. In the meantime, Nomi and I desperately reached out to doctors from Lahore, Gujranwala, and Islamabad, only to receive the crushing advice that what we really needed was dua, not dawa.
Seated in the drawing room before the flickering heater, Nomi and I made a silent pact: at dawn on Sunday, we would call Dr. Mukarram at CMH Rawalpindi and Dr. Shaharyar at Mayo Hospital Lahore. Then, suddenly, a wave of fear gripped us—Bhabhi dashed into the room, her face stricken with panic. “Moazzam is not well. His eyes- something is terribly wrong!” she cried. We hurried into Moazzam bhai’s room, hearts racing, each glance exchanged between Nomi, Saqib, and me cementing the grim truth—we sensed he was nearing his final moments.
Nomi wasted no time and called for the doctor, while Saqib and I rushed to the nearest hospital. The chill of the night was biting, and though I wore just a T-shirt, I was soaked in a cold sweat, each droplet a reminder of the fear coursing through me. On our return, Saqib leaned in close and whispered, “Mahtab, it’s over… there’s no need to go.” I knew he was right, but we pushed on regardless.
When we finally returned home, the reality hit us like a sharp blow: the doctor was already in the room, his expression somber as he confirmed what we dreaded to hear—Moazzam Bhai was gone. The air thickened with grief as our world irrevocably tilted on its axis.
Ammi and all the bhatejis were nestled in their sleep in another room when a sudden outcry pierced the night, jolting them awake. I took the hands of Maryam and Zainab, gently guiding them outside into the stillness of the night. “What’s happening, Mahtab Chachu?” Maryam asked, her brow furrowed with concern. I fought to keep the tremor from my voice as I replied, “Nothing, Maryam. Your papa was just in a hurry to meet God,” tears threatening to spill as I spoke.
“What does that mean, Mahtab Chachu?” Zainab inquired, her innocent voice echoing my own confusion. “It’s really chilly outside; let’s go inside,” I suggested, desperately trying to redirect their attention. “What happened to Papa? Why are Dadi Ammi and Mama crying?” they pressed, their questions sharp daggers piercing through the fog of my thoughts. I felt utterly lost, trapped in a whirlwind of emotions, grappling for the right words but unable to find any that wouldn’t shatter their young hearts. The words I dreaded most hung heavy in the air, just beyond my lips: “Your dad is no more, dear ones.” I clung to my silence, wishing to protect them from that devastating truth.
Bhabhi’s sister broke the news, calling upon all our relatives. She even reached out to my father, who was just moments away from Lahore; I could only imagine the devastation he felt upon hearing the news of his beloved son.
In a moment of desperation, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed my sister Bushra back in Islamabad. She had often warned me with fierce resolve, “Bring Moazzam Bhai to Islamabad, standing on his own feet, or I swear I’ll kill you.” But now, as the weight of sorrow settled over us, I simply said, “Moazzam Bhai’s condition is critical; please keep him in your prayers.” She listened intently to my strained voice, the silence stretching between us like a chasm. Before she could respond, I ended the call.
Later, a brief conversation with the doctor confirmed our worst fears: Bhai had never truly emerged from the shadows of his illness. We all had known it deep down, yet we chose to bury the truth, just as he had done.
Dear readers, I ask you to recite Fatiha and send your prayers for Moazzam Bhai’s soul. This is all I seek, and it is the one thing you can offer to us in our time of need. Your heartfelt prayers could light the path for my family to find their smiles again amidst the darkness. May Allah the Almighty bless you all.
After a span of over two and a half years, I am enable to take some time off, make few of my brain’s cells active, hold my pen, thought a bit, had a cup of tea & . ........ and put down few lines!!! Here it goes … with the title of WHY DO PEOPLE …
Why do people Sell their esteem Stoop so low To replenish their need
Why do people Forget the distressed Replace their hunger Devour bread of the bereft
Why do people Not live for love Heal the destitute And gain their trust
Why do people Murder pledges in inferior All they need is Devotion not desire
Lets prove it to them That they are not alone It was us- the ignorant Not they- the indigent.
concern for yourself." - A Siyana 
