Manto Tshabalala-Msimang has died and it is amazing to see the reaction from around the world. From wishing her to “burn in hell” till the praise of “nation building” there is not one gray shadow, which one can not encounter seeing what it is said and written about her. You don’t say something bad about a dead person, I was taught in my childhood, but this wisdom does not to count anymore. So what can one say as an AIDS activist and a priest?

So difficult to say: I do remember sitting next to her at a Durban AIDS conference and discussing her controversal stands on antiretrovirals. I also do remember the embarrassment of the South African stall in Toronto during the World AIDS Conference where she singing and dancing visited the exhibit of natural remedies, forgetting about the medication. And I do remember the collective outcry thereafter. I do remember her seemingly to enjoy being controversial at conferences. And I do remember her at a visit at Red Cross Children’s hospital, which she clearly loved very much.

I remember all my sentiments while listening to her beetroot and vitamin talks – and I am aware, that thousands have died because of her resistance to HAART treatment.
She was wrong, deadly wrong for thousands of people, but still – I refuse to condemn her completely. I have no idea what was really in her mind. I never understood why she resisted the obvious and why she kept up her views proven wrong so many times.

I am sure also in her life there was some light, some good, some moments of giving and loving and appreciation. I refuse to believe that she caused the death of people on purpose. My anger about the past dealing with HIV in South Africa remains, but I believe that it needed much more than just one person to mess it up so completely. It also needed all those in her department who followed and implemented this nonsense. It also needed the cowardice of a whole bunch of people assisting her.

So instead of damning now one person, lets rather look to create structures where obviously wrong politics will have no chance to blossom; Manto is for me in this sense a lesson to learn also for the future of South Africa. Let her rest in peace.

Health Minister Msimang died after a failed liver transplant. According to her attending surgeon who wishes to remain anonymous, ‘The liver rejected her’. According to a witness, ‘The liver fought tooth and nail upon being inserted into the patient. The liver was finally subdued and the incision sewed closed. We were not in the least bit prepared for what happened next. The liver broke through the incision, tearing the stitches on its way out. It then rolled towards the edge of the operating table and said “Screw this! I’d rather die than go in there” and then plummeted to the ground. By the time doctors and surgeons responded, it was too late, both liver and patient were lost.’

We spoke to internationally acclaimed surgeon Mark Shaky who explained the process of a liver rejecting its recipient. ‘If the patient repulses the organ enough, it will do anything in its power to escape the body. There was one case where a transplanted brain guided its recipient to the roof of the hospital and made him leap to his death,’ Shaky explains.

Although a large percentage of the country is in mourning, South African radio DJ Gareth Cliff claims it’s ‘Good’. The remark has caused a nation-wide outrage and many are calling for Cliff’s head. It’s unclear as to how Cliff will respond but most fans are confident he will not yield to the pressure.

Msimang leaves behind a beetroot, two garlic cloves and a cornucopia of fresh fruit.

Its been awhile i have not updated this blog. Because there are two weeks to Uni exams. Study load, harsh winter and learning a difficult language (script), all giving some tough time in Mongolia.

Most foreigners, particularly westerners, complain about food in Mongolia. There is no variety of vegetables here. And Mongol meal is too heavy and meat-all-the-time. But there is no good quality rice here. For me food is delicious, but less variety of vegetables is a concern. Other than potato, carrot and radish, most of vegetables come from China. Compared to our part of the world, potatoes and tomato is too expensive here. Similarly, other vegetables like cabbage, eggplant and okra are exported. Same is the case with fruits, almost all exported from China. Dairy products are very nice and cheap in Mongolia. Sutay Sai is tea with milk and salt, its like Mongolian national drink, very famous and taken with every meal.

Some Mongol foods are exact similar to Hazaragi food.

Khuushuur is very famous in Mongolia.

Khuushuur (Pirki in Hazaragi): Khuushuur is the Mongolian name of Pirki, but the difference is that Pirki is filled with spinach or minced pottato but Khushuur is; mutton or beef filled in a round or oval piece of dough (flour with water). Its boiled in oil. Khushuur is part of almost every meal. Its very famous, and available everywhere. While writing this, water comes in my mouth. After posting it, i am gonna have Khushuur!

Buuz.

Buuz: (Manto in Hazaragi): Buuz is the Mongolian version of Manto. Its very similiar to Khuushuur. The difference is that; unlike Khuushuur, Buuz is round and steamed but not boiled in oil.

Khailmaq (Qaimaq): Mongolia is the best place for dairy products. Its of the best quality and very cheap. Khailmaq is the Mongol name for Qaimaq (cream). There are different items of dairy products, very much similiar to the ones in Bamyan.

Aruul (Qurood/t): Aruul is Quroot, dried yougurt. Its also very common. Qurood/t in Afghanistan is round or oval, but in Mongolia its in shape of square. Aruul in round are found in countryside.

(Appeared in the November issue 2009 Maxx-m published from Jakarta, Indonesia)

If I leave here tomorrow
would you still remember me?
For I must be travelling on, now,
cause there’s too many places I’ve got to see.
But, if I stayed here with you, girl,
Things just couldn’t be the same.
Cause I’m as free as a bird now,
And this bird you cannot change.
Lord knows, I can’t change.

Lynyrd Skynyrd – Free Bird (Allen Collins & Ronnie Vanzant)

Sometimes when ennui takes hold and it feels like solitary confinement at the work desk I dash off for a night out on the town or village, as the case may be. Just the other day when such a moment presented itself I retreated to the bustling Jalan Monkey Forest which is dotted with restaurants, warungs and bars of all hues and prices.

Here amidst the cacophony of car horns, thundering motorcycles and eager beaver tourists trudging the footpath carrying plastic bags loaded with goodies is one of my favourite watering holes imaginatively named Laughing Buddha Bar. This small cosy place has a range of reasonably priced dishes on the menu and the ubiquitous Bintang on tap. But this is not why I haunt this place on Mondays and Thursdays whenever I am on the road. It is for the live music and the company of free birds from across the world.

So now that you have got the gist of the tale let us move onto the happenings of the other night.

Monday it is – washed out by the incessant rain. Dampness hangs heavy in the air as I walk into the gaily lit warung to be greeted by Ketut, the agile young lady whose smile and service is second to none. A quickie drinky, a Ramayana cigar stuffed in my face and a steaming Chorizo sausage in chilli with freshly baked baguette before me and I am content…till the music begins…then the looming spectre of the loneliness of a writer confronts me. I hastily chow down and move to speak to the band members gearing up for the shindig.

The group is called Bali Blues Brothers aka Mushroom Brothers (for obvious reasons).

“Hi Bli what are you doing fiddling with your guitar?” I ask Agung (slide guitarist and leader of the band).

“Tuning bro…tuning…it is an ancient Chinese art form,” he replies with a smile.

The band is – Manto (lead guitar & vocals), Dedy (keyboard), Rinto (bass), Niko (drums) and Agung (band leader and slide guitar).

Soon Bali Blues Brothers launch into a warm up number. A couple sit down opposite me and introduce themselves.

“Hi am Peter and this is my girlfriend Heather we’re from New South Wales do you mind if we join you”, the man asks.

“No worries set your selves down my friends”.

The place begins filling up with couples and singles. The loud chatter mingles delightfully with the music, everything seems right.

Just then she walks up to my table and sits down next to me without a word. After ordering a drink she turns to me and asks, “What’s your name, I see you around a lot”.

“Mark Useless, that’s what the Balinese call me”.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. And what’s yours me lady”

“Yasmin. American but Lebanese born. Adopted.”

“And what are you doing all alone by the telephone”, I say pointing to the hand phone she carries in her hand, an appendage that has become a fashion accessory.

“Finding myself. Learning and yearning to be someone who can create something out of nothing…a meaningful life of sorts. I want to go back to Beirut to find my folks”, she replies distantly.

Suddenly the band belts out a James Brown number ‘Baby give it up or turn it a loose, Uh ha baby give it up or turn it a loose’. Everyone seems to be moving to the rhythm, cameras flash and my Oz friends are on the floor shaking spasmodically. Life suddenly becomes meaningful even for Yasmin. She smiles and we cheer with our drinks.

La Dolce Vita…Hidup Manis…what more can one say?

But the night is young and much is to follow.

In the interval when recorded music takes over and the couple from Oz are back at my table we talk.

“Is this your first time in Bali?” Yasmin asks the couple who appear to be in their mid-fifties.

“Nah we’ve been here before…but this is the first time we have been holidaying together after a gap of 32 years”.

“Could you repeat that please”, I ask.

“Actually Heather and I were in love 32 years ago. We drifted apart and then reconnected when I dropped by a garage sale and bumped into her. Love blossomed again and this time we are not going to lose each other,” he replies while holding his lover close to him.

Yasmin looks away as if to avoid the onset of tears. Heather puts her hand on Yasmin’s shoulder, two women connecting across cultures and time zones in Bali. The unsaid seems all pervasive. A momentary silence ensues which is quickly broken by yours truly who holds Yasmin’s hand and asks her, “So what do you do to pay the bills?”

“I teach small children because they seem so innocent and I can learn a lot from them. In fact I am here in Bali because one of my small students asked me where Bali is situated on the map. That is when I decided to take leave of absence from work and travel south of the equator to see for myself this island, to may be fill the emptiness that I feel – of not belonging. When my savings run out I will return not to Connecticut but Beirut to look for my real family”, she says pulling her hand away from mine and seeking solace in her mojito.

The place keeps filling up and customers are spilling onto the sidewalk.

I invite Agung to our table and introduce my new best friends to him.

Agung is bald and I suppose this is a plus point with the nubile nymphets that congregate at this dig. An unassuming chap he prefers to talk in Balinese with his friends, though ‘Inggris’ music is the way to go to make ends meet. He is married to Nina, an English lady and has a seven year old son, Narayan. He believes music is the only language that connects religions, peoples and cultures…the medium being the massage!

Everyone appears to be talking at the same time. Heather and Peter are lost in their wonderful world of love. Yasmin is animatedly conversing with all and sundry while Agung and I discuss the pros and cons of the traffic flow in Ubud. The picture is one of realism framed on a Monday night on Jalan Monkey Forest.

Agung returns to play with his mates. Live music fills the place once again and the crowd comes closer together…a bonhomie that reflects a truth…that people whoever they may be long for peace, love and happiness, of course spiced by good music. And where else can they find this but in Bali, Indonesia.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

By Ajmal Kamal

Saadat Hasan Manto

Suppression of dissent and criticism has always been an active force in Pakistani society. Journalists and creative writers have had to struggle hard to find their way around or across many laws threatening to punish  any deviation from the official line on most vital issues. The authorities’ initiative to impose censorship through legislative means dates back to the Public Safety Act Ordinance imposed in October 1948, and later, in 1952, ratified by the first Constituent Assembly of Pakistan as the Safety Act.  Apart from numberless political workers, newspapers, and periodicals, the leading literary journals too fell victim to this oppressive piece of legislation which was only the first in a long series of such laws.  In fact,  Savera (Lahore) has the dubious honor of being the first periodical of any kind to be banned, in 1948, under this very Public Safety Act Ordinance.  This legal device was also invoked to suspend two other Lahore-based literary periodicals—Nuqush and Adab-e Latif—for six months and to incarcerate the editor of Savera, Zaheer Kashmiri, in 1950 without even a trial.[1]

The infamous Safety Act had well-known literary people on both sides. On the one hand, literary critics such as Muhammad Hasan Askari[2] found the law perfectly justifiable—indeed, they even praised it. On the other hand, there were writers and editors who were prosecuted under this law, Sa’dat Hasan Manto perhaps being the most prominent among them.[3] Manto’s writing had had a history of attracting the wrath of the authorities for its downright honest and realistic portrayal of life and its stinging moral and political comment. He had been prosecuted under the British colonial government for publishing the short stories “Dhuvan” and “Kali Shalvar.” Individuals such as Chaudhry Muhammad Husain of the Press Branch, Government of Punjab—immortalized by Manto in the dedications of two successive editions of his collection Lazzat-e Sang—were always eager to assist the authorities in this respect. Having decided on intolerance of any moral or political comment almost from the moment the new state came into being, the Pakistani authorities have since kept it alive and have never felt the need to relax it. Consequently, there has been a long series of unjust laws and practices intended to suppress freedom of thought and expression, irredeemably crippling any tradition of dissent in the society. Especially regrettable is the fact that people like Chaudhry Muhammad Husain and Muhammad Hasan ‘Askari have always come forward to lend a helping hand to the authorities by providing legal and ideological support in stilling any expression of
dissent.

The socially and intellectually stifling environment which obtained early in the life of the newly-created state coincided with another factor:Pakistan’s political dependence on the United States, itself experiencing the worst kind of repression under McCarthyism. During the Cold War years, Pakistan openly sided against the Soviet Union and thus, ostensibly to counter the threat from the north, found a convenient excuse to muzzle political and social criticism of any kind. Over the long haul, this intolerance has irrevocably injured the social and moral fabric of Pakistani society in a number of ways.

A particularly harmful expression of this intolerant and myopic policy has been felt in the field of education, more specifically in the preparation and dispensation of textbooks for Pakistani students. Once every voice capable of offering an alternative view had been effectively silenced, the field was left wide open for the imposition on students—without any threat of challenge from any quarter—of an anemic and distorted viewpoint through officially produced textbooks. Thus, according to Dr. K.K. Aziz, a noted Pakistani historian:

Since the early 1960s, the planning, preparation and publication of all textbooks for classes 1–12 are the responsibility of the Textbook Boards, of which there is one in each province. These bodies are created and controlled by the provincial Department of Education, and their personnel is recruited from the provincial education service. Their textbooks are generally written by a team of authors, then corrected and supervised by another person or group of persons, and finally edited by another individual. Then the manuscript is submitted to the National Review Committee of the Ministry of Education of the Government of Pakistan, which checks its accuracy and approves of its “ideological” content. When the book has been published, it is prescribed by the Provincial Government as the “sole textbook” for the relevant class in all the schools of the province. [4]

In his commendable work, aptly named The Murder of History in Pakistan, Dr. Aziz has painstakingly carried out a detailed analysis of the revolting mixture of half-truths, distorted facts, harrowing omissions, blatant lies, and ugly governmental propaganda dished out as “history” to scores of unsuspecting students. One notes, with some sadness but little surprise, that the same unethical principles govern the preparation of textbooks meant to be used for the instruction of students in, for instance, Urdu. It would have been interesting to analyze the many successive revisions—inclusions and deletions—made in Urdu textbooks in the course of the past several decades, but no one has, as yet, risen to the task of replicating Dr. Aziz’s minute scrutiny and close content analyses. Once in a while, though, the Textbook Boards do drop in a hint sufficient to give an idea of what actually goes on in preparing the Urdu textbooks.

Why these occasional revisions? What could be their underlying reasons? Monetary, one suspects: to provide the Board’s favorites the opportunity to make some extra cash as compilers, editors, publishers, and printers.

But the reasons need not be so mundane. In an ideological state such as Pakistan, the revision of history to further the aims of those who happen to be in power at a given time should surprise no one. The rewriting of texts is not limited to the technically non-existent subject of “history” alone. It frequently spills over into other fields as well—for instance, literature. Needless to say, the respectable compilers and editors, contracted by the Board for the purpose, tacitly know what is expected of them, their submissive and unquestioning cooperation matched only by officials working for government departments such as the Press Branch, the Press Information Department, etc. Let me illustrate my point with an example: the Urdu textbooks for eleventh and twelfth classes, issued under the auspices of the Sindh Textbook Board, have recently seen new incarnations as Gulzar-e Urdu, Part I and Part II, respectively.[5]  I would like to give three significant examples of this process of officially sanctioned revisionism—two examples that appear in Part I of the Gulzar, and one more, in some detail, from Part II. My aim is to show that literary texts are unhesitatingly censored, without any kind of indication or explanation, to make them conform to the official outlook.

In Part I, Premchand, who was included in the textbook for Class XI before it was revised, has been dropped altogether. Given his pioneering contribution to the development of modern Urdu fiction, one can think of no reason for Premchand’s exclusion except that he was a non-Muslim. This exclusion may be regarded as analogous to attempts made by several literary historians and critics who, ashamed or unable to accept a Hindu as the first short story writer of Urdu, have replaced him with a writer of more acceptable beliefs, if not of comparable merit. Lacking both the means and the intention to defend Premchand against these learned efforts, I would nevertheless point to his more secure status as the first Urdu fiction writer of any consequence. The other victim of the revisionist hatchet in Part I is Khvaja Hasan Nizami. In his case, certain key words and phrases have been unwarrantedly removed from his piece “Thele-wala Shahzada.” Obviously, it was unwise on the part of the Khvaja to have used such words and phrases as “sharab” (wine), “makhmur” (drunk), “tava’if” (prostitute), and “ayyash panjabi saudagar” [6] (hedonistic Punjabi businessman) in his story which was one day destined to be used for teaching Urdu in an Islami Mamlikat. The compilers and editors of the revised textbook, who apparently attach more respect to the integrity of official dogma than to the integrity of a literary text, have expelled these words and phrases even at the expense of comprehensibility of the story line. As would be expected, no indication of this editing has been provided anywhere in the book.

The case of Gulzar-e Urdu, Part II, is even more intriguing. One is surprised to find that the Board has, suddenly and for no fathomable reason, decided to posthumously honor Sa‘adat Hasan Manto, the enfant terrible of Urdu fiction, by including one of his stories in the textbook for Class XII. What is less surprising, however, is the fact that both the Board and the team of compilers and editors faithfully serving it have not lost sight of the ideological principles guiding the preparation of course materials for students. It would appear that on including one of Manto’s (and Urdu fiction’s) masterpieces, “Naya  Qanon ” (The New Constitution), they have subjected it to a careful reading, using their censor’s blue pencil to neutralize what they probably considered the fictional text’s potentially corrupting influence on the innocent minds of second-year college students.

Some insight into the kinds of considerations uppermost in the minds of the textbook censors may perhaps be gained by looking at the passages expunged from the story of the hapless Mangu kuchvan (the tonga carriage driver)—passages thought unfit for impressionable college students. I quote below the relevant passages from Khalid Hasan’s translation of the story, [7] with deleted portions appearing in italics, followed by brief comments pointing to possible reasons for each deletion.

One day he [Mangu] overheard a couple of his fares discussing
yet another outbreak of communal violence between Hindus and Muslims.

That evening when he returned to the adda, he looked perturbed. He sat down with his friends, took a long drag on the hookah, removed his khaki turban and said in a worried voice: “It is no doubt the result of a holy man’s curse that Hindus and Muslims keep slashing each other up every other day. I have heard it said by one of my elders that Akbar Badshah once showed disrespect to a saint, who cursed him in these words: ‘Get out of my sight! And, yes, your Hindustan will always be plagued by riots and disorder.’ And you can see for yourselves. Ever since the end of Akbar’s raj, what else has India known but riots!” (p. 83)

The entire second paragraph has been deleted. This is in line with the official policy to present the Hindu-Muslim riots in the erstwhile united India as a one-way affair and the Muslims as innocent victims and never as equal, or equally enthusiastic, partners in the game of riots.

He took a deep breath, drew on his hookah reflectively and said: “These Congressites want to get India its freedom. Well, you take my word, they will get nowhere even if they try for a thousand years. At the most, the Angrez will leave, but then you will get maybe the Italywala or the Russian. I have heard that the Russiawala is tough. Hindustan, I can assure you, will always remain enslaved. Yes, I forgot to tell you that part of the saint’s curse on Akbar was that India will always be ruled by foreigners.” (pp. 83–84)

This whole paragraph too is not to be found in the Gulzar version. The reason seems simple enough. Laughable as it may sound, the official history in Pakistan never credits the Indian National Congress with wanting—let alone struggling for—India’s freedom. The fact that India was ruled by foreigners might also have encouraged dangerous thinking in the minds of the students—who knows!

He then went into a detailed description of the changes the new constitution was going to bring to India. “You just wait and see. Things are going to happen. You have my word, this Russian king is bound to show them his paces.”

Ustad Mangu had heard many stories about the Communist system over the years. There were many things he liked about it, such as their new laws and even newer ideas. That was why he’d decided to link the king of Russia with the India Act. He was convinced that the changes being brought in on . April were a direct result of the influence of the Russian king. He was of course quite convinced that every country in the world was ruled by a king. (p. 86)

Not much insight is needed to figure out why this paragraph was considered unsuitable for students. Throughout the Cold War, the Communist Party had been banned and severely suppressed in Pakistan. The mere mention of its name was considered taboo by the authorities. The official attitude appears to have survived the disintegration of the
Soviet Union.

For some years, the Red Shirt movement in Peshawar had been
much in the news. To Ustad Mangu, this movement had something to do with “the king of Russia” and, naturally, with the new Government of India Act. There were also frequent reports of bomb blasts in various Indian cities. Whenever Ustad Mangu heard that so many had been caught for possessing explosives or so many were going to be tried by the government on treason charges, he interpreted it all as a curtain-raiser for the new constitution. (pp. 86–87)

The reference to the Red Shirt movement, led by ‘Abdul Ghaffar Khan of the North West Frontier Province (henceforward NWFP), points to the political atmosphere of the province during the 1940s. As a result of this political atmosphere, the All India Muslim League failed to win a majority in NWFP’s 1946 provincial elections or to have NWFP support the demand for Pakistan. Nevertheless, NWFP was made a part of Pakistan, the elected provincial government was dismissed, and a referendum was held, the credentials of which remain doubtful to many. The Red Shirt movement was banned and its workers were severely persecuted. No mention is made of the existence of any such movement in the official history of Pakistan. Manto has pointed to these later events in a few other places in his stories and essays.

Ustad Mangu was one of those people who cannot stand the suspense of waiting. When he was going to get his first child, he had been unable to sit still. He wanted to see the child even before it was born. Many times, he had put his ear over his wife’s pregnant belly in an attempt to find out when the child was coming or what was he like, but of course he had found nothing. One day he had shouted at his wife in exasperation.

“What’s the matter with you? All day long you’re in bed like you were dead. Why don’t you get yourself out, walk around, gain some strength to help the child be born? He won’t come this way. I can tell you.”

Ustad Mangu was always in a hurry. He just couldn’t wait for things to take shape. He wanted everything to happen immediately. Once his wife Gangawatti had said to him: “You haven’t even begun digging the well and already you are impatient to have a drink of water.” (p. 89)

These three entire paragraphs have been cut out. Part of the reason may well be that students in Pakistani colleges are not supposed to learn that babies are made in women’s bellies. But there is another point which might well have been considered offensive: Mangu’s wife’s name, Gangawatti, is an obviously Hindu name—unlike Mangu’s, which can equally well apply to a Muslim or a Hindu.

This morning he was not as impatient as he normally should have been. He had come out early to view the new constitution with his own eyes, the same way he used to wait for hours to catch a glimpse of Gandhi and Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru.

Great leaders, in Ustad Mangu’s view, were those who were profusely garlanded when taken out in procession. And if there were a few scuffles with the police during the proceedings, the man went up even further in Ustad’s estimation. He wanted to see the new constitution brought out with the same razzle-dazzle (Ibid.)

Here, again, both paragraphs have been subjected to the chopping block. And understandably. The names of the Congress leaders, such as Gandhi and Nehru, are anathema to most Pakistanis and are not mentioned in Pakistani textbooks except in an openly derogatory or grossly inaccurate manner.

Ustad Mangu was trying to work out if the present system of allotting tonga number plates would change with the new dispensations, when he saw a gora soldier standing next to a lamp post. […]

“Where do you want to go?” Ustad Mangu asked, not unforgetful [sic] of the fact that there was a new constitution in force in India now.

“Hira Mandi, […]” the gora answered. (pp. 90–91)

This, perhaps, is the most masterful stroke of the blue pencil. By striking out the word “hira” from “Hira Mandi” (literally, “diamond market”), the name of the famous red-light district of Lahore, the textbook censors have managed to remove the sting. Having been metamorphosed to “mandi”,  it may well be the fruit or grain market that the poor gora soldier was trying to reach.

The above exercise points to a clear and simple conclusion: to be accepted for inclusion as or in a textbook, a literary text must be made ideologically and politically acceptable, regardless of the injury this may do to its intent and artistic value. The teachers commissioned to prepare or revise textbooks for the Board, themselves harboring literary pretensions in some cases, are not in the least doubtful about the political preferences of the state. That they voluntarily lend their services for this purpose, even at the cost of mutilating literary texts, is clear from the fact that, as personnel of the Education Department, they are not obligated to participate in the preparation of textbooks. But they do—willingly. Indeed, they spend a lot of time and effort in obtaining these coveted assignments—assignments that entail some extra income, too. The example of the treatment afforded to Premchand, Khvaja Hasan Nizami, and Manto raises serious questions about the moral and intellectual integrity of the officials—especially teachers —serving the State of Pakistan. More regrettably still, it leaves no room for any optimism about the future. A generation fed on deficient knowledge and false or skewed or distorted or truncated views of history is unlikely one day to manage the affairs of the country with any forthrightness, pride, or honesty.

References

1 . See Zamir Niazi, The Press in Chains (Karachi: Karachi Press Club, 1986), pp. 38 and 50.

2. For details, see Muhammad Hasan Askari, ‘Takhliqi ‘Amal aur Uslub‘, collected by Muhammad Suhel Umar (Karachi: Nafis Academy, 1989) , pp. 95–116. This is a collection of ‘Askari’s monthly columns which appeared in the literary periodical Saqi (published from Delhi until June 1947, and subsequently from Karachi) under the general title of “Jhalkiyan”.

3. For details of Manto’s trials, see his Lazzat-e Sang (Lahore: Naya Idara, 1956).

4. K.K. Aziz, The Murder of History in Pakistan (Lahore: Vanguard Books (Pvt.) Limited, 1993), p. 1.

5. Gulzar-e -Urdu, Part I, 2nd ed. (Jamshoro: Sindh Textbook Board, November 1993).  Gulzar-e-Urdu, Part II, 1st ed. (Jamshoro: Sindh Textbook
Board, July 1994).

6. The original sentence, “us motar mein ek panjabi saudagar, javani aur sharab ke nashw mein choor, kisi bazari ‘aurat kå liye betha tha,” has been changed to read “us motar mein ek saudagar aur ek ‘aurat bethe thay.” In the next paragraph, the adjective “makhmur” has been censored before the word “naujavan,” and the words “sharabi ayyash” have been replaced by “naujavan.” Further on, the phrase “motar-nashin tava’if” has been Islamized as ‘‘motar-nashin aurat.” For the original text of Khavaja Hasan Nizami’s story “Thele wala Shahzada,” see Begamat ke Ansu (Lahore: Khvajagan Publications, 1988), pp. 142–51.

7. For which, see Saadat Hasan Manto, “The New Constitution,” in his Kingdom’s End and Other Stories,” tr. by Khalid Hasan (London and New York: Verso, 1987), pp. 83–92; for the original in Urdu, see “Naya Qanon,” in his Manto Rama (Lahore: Sang-e Mil Publications, 1990), pp. 707–19.

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l’estrema    lievissima     sequela

come di pioggia fresca    la pianta

in un boschetto di betulle    un soffio

e una danza raffinata e svelta

il tallone  all’orlo che  la mia veste  sfiora

come di erbe un coro    l’ alito di cento fanciulle

la sua eco mi ricanta.

E  l’ andatura   è  un manto

che quieta  ne decanta tratto e incanto

come di un bacio    il tenero contatto

di foglie     sul velo dell’acqua

luci e cerchi ne segnano il mosaico  e leggerissimo l’impatto

Desvelada noche

que escondes mis deseos

y bajo el oscuro manto de lo incierto

envuelves nuestros cuerpos

fundiéndolos

en una fracción de tiempo sin tiempo

donde tus susurros, ahora míos

escapan por los callejones del silencio.

.

Bastó un instante

.

Aún desvelada

me escondo bajo el oscuro manto de la noche

y envuelta en la incertidumbre del momento

te busco sin efecto

como quien contra el tiempo

escarva los callejones del olvido

lastimando con susurros el eco del silencio

que se escapa entre lo que queda de la noche

fundiendo nuestros cuerpos, ahora suyos…en un instante.

.

De la serie “Cartas a un amigo”

(Escrito el 19 de junio de 2009)

_ Piknik z okazji 5 lecia Hotelu Sheraton w Krakowie
_ identyfikacja wizualna, plakaty (teasery), zaproszenia, baner, identyfikatory

_

This is short story – about 500 words, mostly inspired from the stories of Manto, that I wrote as an entry for a competition (500 word limit) last year. I just have changed the title…

It was a chilly December morning, when I spotted the young man hurrying across the dew infested pathway. As soon as I saw him, my tired sleepless eyes lit up; could this man help me?! He was hunched up, both with the fear of the physical surroundings and the December chill, and was literarily running to get away to his home as fast as possible. Ignoring this I mustered some strength and glided along the grass, rustling some leaves as I reached him. I held his shoulders and turned him around.  The first thing I noticed was sweat, maybe from his running or maybe from the fear one feels coming across the foggy blurred images that a cemetery creates in an early December morning. The sweat was pouring down his forehead along his brow and almost dropping into his eyes. Yet he made no effort to wipe this off – he stood frozen with his glassy eyes poring deep burrows through mine.

“Relax young man,” I said, “I am here seeking your help. I got to tell you something and it’s very rare that someone comes along this area at this point of time. You see, I never used to sneak unto people and bother them like this before; I had my journal to talk to. Well, its still there with me and also the pen with a golden nib, which my daughter had gifted. I loved to write, you see. I still do, but I can’t anymore! I have run out of ink and the stationary guy doesn’t understand that I need some ink! This is my first problem. The second problem is what has made the first one even more traumatic!  I wanted to write in that journal of mine to get some relief from my predicament and my inability to do so is weighing down upon me heavier than the tombstone! Hence I had to tell this to someone and you are here…”

Even though I noticed him getting more frigid and trying to wrestle out from my grip, I continued, not wanting to lose this chance of lifting that burden. “I am a Parsi and used to live in the Rehman Street. And after the riots last year,” As soon as he heard the word ‘riots’, I could sense a stroke of brilliance shine through his frozen eyes.  Poor chap, must have lost someone in those times, or  rather, as my sinister mind told me, must have killed some. I held him tighter with my bony hands and whispered, “After the riots last year, those stupid fools at the municipality buried me in this Muslim cemetery…”

Galera do maaaal!!

Passei pra dar uma dica:

Estava eu, um dia, fuçando no amarok, reprodutor de música aqui do mandriva, e encontrei uma rádio online fudidíssima de reggae, ska, dub, rocksteady, etc. Desde então não consigo mais ouvir outra coisa!

Pra quem gosta ou quer conhecer várias vertentes de boa música jamaicana, la vai: http://www.azevedo.ca/scratch/scratch.m3u

Não rola só em Gnu/Linux não. É só clicar no link, fazer download do arquivinho e abrir no seu reprodutor de música preferido. No amarok e no winamp, pelo menos, rola saber o nome da banda e da música que está rolando no momento.

Espero que vcs gostem.

O Flamengo jogou bem, mostrou boa movimentação, mas não venceu.

O placar de 1 x 1 deu a vaga ao Fluminense, já que o mando de campo era nosso e acabamos levando um gol. A equipe jogou para mostrar uma mudança de postura e está se acertando para dar continuidade à campanha no Brasileirão. O time lutou até o fim, mas está fora da Copa Sul-Americana. Agora é recuperar os jogadores lesionados e se concentrar para a reação no campeonato nacional.

O VERMELHO DO MANTO JAMAIS DESBOTARÁ!

Fae trocou por este manto vermelho com um alfinete especial como fecho. foi ela mesma que fez o design, cortou e custurou o manto.

trocado no MIP, bh

_ Madonna VS Madonna, Święto Matki Boskiej Zielnej
_ Gazetka ścienna

Projekt K27>>>

Madonna vs. Madonna
Już 15 sierpnia odbędzie się największa bitwa tego roku, święta wojna Królowa Polski kontra królowa popu…

__

Cuando intentamos visualizar el remoto pasado de la Tierra y su intensa actividad geológica solemos acudir a una imagen mental de paisajes volcánicos, con grandes erupciones, lluvias de ceniza, lagos de lava, etc. Naturalmente esta imagen la construimos a partir de nuestra experiencia en las erupciones de hoy en día, por ejemplo las de los volcanes hawaianos cuya lava es sumamente fluida. Sin embargo, esta imagen no hace justicia a las características aún más extremas que la lava exhibía durante el Arcaico.

Flujo de lava del Puʻu ʻŌʻō, en el Kilauea (Hawai). Credit: United States Geological Survey

Se estima que el manto terrestre tenía en el Arcaico (hace de 3.8 a 2.5 Ga; 1 Ga = 10⁹ años) una temperatura superior a la actual en unos 500ºC debido al calor residual de la acreción terrestre y de la mayor abundancia de elementos radiactivos. Estas condiciones resultaban en la formación de magmas diferentes al basáltico común. Rocas ígneas como la komatita -cuyo punto de fusión supera los 1600ºC, frente a los aproximadamente 1200ºC de las lavas basálticas- daban lugar a extraordinarias inundaciones de lava. Y es que la komatita fundida se comporta como un fluido supercrítico (denso como la roca, viscoso como un gas, sin apenas tensión superficial): se desplazaría por la superficie sin apenas resistencia, pudiendo formar hilos fluidos de sólo 1 cm de tamaño.

Credit: United States Geological Survey

Dado el cambio de las condiciones del manto, estas rocas son hoy en día muy extrañas y sólo se  encuentran en coladas de lava del periodo Arcaico. Su estudio es pues importante en tanto que pueden arrojar información de gran interés en relación a la composición y actividad del manto en aquella época. Más aún, hay un interés económico, ya que estas rocas se asocian con depósitos de oro y níquel. Precisamente un proyecto de investigación industrial relativo a los depósitos de níquel ha dado lugar de resultas del análisis de las komatitas a un importante descubrimiento en relación a la dinámica del manto. Este proyecto se basa en el estudio del platino como guía para localizar al níquel. Para ello han analizado komatitas para analizar su contenido en platino, y ahí es donde ha llegado el hallazgo.

Micrografía de una komatita. Las placas paralelas que se aprecian dan lugar a lo que se conoce como "textura spinifex". Credit: CSIRO, Australia

El análisis de komatitas del Paleoarcaico (hace de 3.6 a 3.2 Ga) indica que su contenido en platino es muy pobre, debido a éste se precipito al núcleo terrestre durante su formación. Sin embargo, el análisis de komatitas del Neoarcaico (concretamente de hace 2.7-2.9 Ga) y del Paleoproterozoico (2.0-2.5 Ga en este caso) indica un incremento gradual en el contenido de platino. ¿Y de dónde proviene dicho platino? Del material meteorítico que llegó a la Tierra durante el último bombardeo intenso, hace 3.8 a 4.1 Ga (esto es, durante el Hadeico). Este material formó una lámina superficial que luego sería arrastrada y mezclada con el manto debido a procesos de convección a gran escala durante 1 500 millones de años.

Estas conclusiones has sido presentadas por Wolfgang D. Maier y 6 colaboradores -de la University of Western Australia y otras 7 instituciones- en un trabajo titulado

• Progressive mixing of meteoritic veneer into the early Earth’s deep mantle

recién aparecido en Nature. Los autores citan la determinación de la escala temporal del proceso como una de las principales contribuciones del trabajo, y apuntan a su utilidad para una mejor comprensión de los procesos del manto.

Allora … ma se la bici ha il cambio shimano significa che:
…la moto ha il cambio shipiede?
…in africa hanno il cambio shipione?
…i primati hanno il cambio shimpaze?
…in toscana usano il cambio maremmano?
…ma anche gli uomini possono usare il cambio shemano? {stando però attenti che non sia shemale (Fra cerca su google image togliendo il filtro famiglia)}
…superman ha un cambio sovraumano?
…gli spacciatori usano solo il cambio sottomano?
…e le scale … hanno il cambio corrimano?

I medici dai 50 anni in su consigliano di fare ogni anno l’esame alla prostata … ma fino ai 50 anni sarebbe meglio farlo alla sennaata

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH !!!

Autori: nik, verroc, manto, bovo