A rickshaw ride in Lahore...
Man carries a tray of coconut dripping on his head
Donkeys idle, their coloured pom poms mask protruding ribs
A cow roots through a dustbin
A sheep with drooping ears the size of a horse, is sprawled by the road side
A bicycle with umbrellas tied front and back
Donkeys idle, their coloured pom poms mask protruding ribs
A cow roots through a dustbin
A sheep with drooping ears the size of a horse, is sprawled by the road side
A bicycle with umbrellas tied front and back
spirits balloon animals up the main street at midnight
Rickshaws rickshaws rickshaws
Tooting tooting tooting
Shawled women clutching babies draw in as we stop at the lights
Eyes dark and hard
Their empty hands reach mournfully through the doors
These gritty women sit on street corners, perch in the alleyways
The others hidden at home, streets are the mens domain
Boys weave at waist height, trays of tea cups in hand
Tooting tooting tooting
Shawled women clutching babies draw in as we stop at the lights
Eyes dark and hard
Their empty hands reach mournfully through the doors
These gritty women sit on street corners, perch in the alleyways
The others hidden at home, streets are the mens domain
Boys weave at waist height, trays of tea cups in hand
The Azan trembles at first tentatively through the heavy smog.
With time it becomes riotous, a holy war of chanting beckons us to mosques
Lit by flashing florescent strips. Dried fruit stalls- dates, raisins, figs strung Like the marigold necklaces on Sufi tombs. A small donkey hurtles up the main street, its cart jumping, two boys lolling atop. Pomigranite stalls beating off flies, a skip askew amidst mounds of waste.
With time it becomes riotous, a holy war of chanting beckons us to mosques
Lit by flashing florescent strips. Dried fruit stalls- dates, raisins, figs strung Like the marigold necklaces on Sufi tombs. A small donkey hurtles up the main street, its cart jumping, two boys lolling atop. Pomigranite stalls beating off flies, a skip askew amidst mounds of waste.
Men sort it into sacks,
A bloated cat seems to slumber on the pavement
A bloated cat seems to slumber on the pavement
staring with dead eyes through swarms of flies
The severed head of a goat is disguised as a pile of mud,
Chapati ovens like underground caves,
The severed head of a goat is disguised as a pile of mud,
Chapati ovens like underground caves,
Dough balls flattened on sacks of straw
like pin cushions thrown against oven walls
Dishes washed in bowls of brown water on the street
Armed guards at the churchyard ask where we stay,
In the bishops garden a man squats, potting plants
Women in burqua, eyes pearing, women loosely scarved, women not scarved at all
On the TV they writhe, scantly clad, hair flailing
Celebrities and prostitutes.
No man would bear the shame to marry a women who has appeared on screen like this
Dishes washed in bowls of brown water on the street
Armed guards at the churchyard ask where we stay,
In the bishops garden a man squats, potting plants
Women in burqua, eyes pearing, women loosely scarved, women not scarved at all
On the TV they writhe, scantly clad, hair flailing
Celebrities and prostitutes.
No man would bear the shame to marry a women who has appeared on screen like this
But the cinemas are full.
we sit on the stone cold of the empty mosque's floor.
we sit and we watch.
we watch and we sit.
he murmurs low into his tightly clasped hands,
not to the Lord,
but some girl on his mobile.
we sit and we watch.
we watch and we sit.
Thursday is Sufi holy day.
Thursday smells of pungent flowers freshly picked.
Thursday feels like rose water sprayed on my body hot under headscarf thick.
Thursday sounds like rhythmic clapping and pleading cries of song.
Thursday looks like orange men, in spinning revery gone.
and Thursday nights, are nothing like Thur's Day....for at night the drums emerge, the hash flows freely, the spinning is harder, faster and time is no longer here but steps outside reality all together- spinning off into its own moment....
Swarms of police idle at intersections
Barbed wire barricades cluster
Court buildings hazy and languid
Beneath a blanket of smog and silence
Rumours of Bhutto, rumours of suicide bomb alert, whispers of fighting in the streets
Silence amidst the tumultuous noise of the city.
A lawyer in subway with a bright eyed wife has not slept at home for two nights for fear of arrest.
500 lawyers taken into custody 315 later released on bail
500 lawyers taken into custody 315 later released on bail
M. was a journalist. The hostel, once clacking with the hurried outpour of hungered for news, now sits slow in the smog of travellers chain smoking.
M. was a journalist, his life an action packed movie America could never write.
M. was a journalist, until he got too close to publishing a story that would ruin the government.
M. was a journalist, until they smashed his head with a brick and left him for dead....
2 comments:
the photos of the mosque are absolutely beautiful. So mysterious but still and peaceful...
the mosque looks so beautiful - all peaceful but spooky too...
Post a Comment