Due to time constraints, I am unable to complete this article but please allow me to present the data (for Lahore, Pakistan) and two predictive pictures of the globe that might enable you to spot the crescent of 1432 Hijrah.
The predictive software that I use is quite precise (Accurate Times) in helping one look in the correct direction (azimuth) and height above the horizon (altitude of a celestial body).
But first, let us look at this interesting illustration of what various moon phases look like.
Data for 31 July 2011, Lahore:
Conjunction Time (birth of the new moon): 30 July 2011 at 23:40 PST
Moon Age: +19H 20M (even a 19 hours old crescent may not be visible)
Moon Altitude: +03°:02':25" (quite low on the horizon)
Moon Azimuth: +281°:13':06"
Moon Lag Time: +00H 14M (note 'very short time' between sunset and moonset)
PREDICTION: The crescent is NOT visible even with an optical aid.
Moon Age: +43H 19M (although quite old, it could only be seen after sunset)
Moon Altitude: +11°:05':06" (comfortable to look at)
Moon Azimuth: +270°:02':52"
Moon Lag Time: +00H 53M (note 'sufficient time' between sunset and moonset)
PREDICTION: The crescent is EASILY VISIBLE by naked eye.
As for the two pictures below (31 July and 01 August 2011), please note the legend in the bottom right hand side to see who will be able to see the crescent in which country.
As shown in the first picture, observing the crescent on 31 July 2011 is impossible in our region but will be possible on 01 August 2011. Therefore, unless Allah wills it otherwise, Ramadan of 1432 Hijrah will commence from 02 August 2011.
The diagram on the right depicts the phases of the moon as seen from the Earth.
With Eid around the corner I will return to this space with more useful information regarding lunar astronomy, especially with reference to problems relating to Islamic crescent observation methods.
WARNING: Unless you are well-connected to someone in the National Highway Authority, do NOT attempt to run your own high speed test like the one shown in this video.
Et tu Nawazu?
Despite my poverty on four wheels, I was a happy man in 2003 when I first drove my old 1300cc Japanese car at 140 Km/h on the M2 motorway.
The ex-Prime Minister of Pakistan, Mian Muhammad Nawaz Sharif, is credited with doing three things: testing an atomic bomb up in the remote hills of Baluchistan, having a six lane motorway built between Lahore and Islamabad and finally going for a hair transplant.
The M2 being a joint venture project between Pakistan and Korea, Nawaz Sharif laid its foundation stone on 11 January 1992 and inaugurated it on 26 November 1997. He did the undoable by ‘wasting huge sums of money on one of Asia’s most expensive highways’.
The Fast Lane
The new M2 is a faster alternative to the old GT Road. Although the 367 Km long M2 increases the distance between Lahore and Rawalpindi, it cuts down the travel time considerably. As in the old days, when the GT Road was dotted with caravanserais and trees on both sides, the M2 has plenty of resting points, whose names are associated with nearby towns. Keeping in view the public’s penchant for consuming refreshments, there are plenty of free public toilets all along the route—a major achievement considering that in many parts of the industrialized world, one pays to answer the call of nature.
One must pay a one-way toll fee of Rs 235 on the M2 which is a small price for laying one’s tired eyes on scenic beauty and totally bypassing all the dirt and noise produced by heavy vehicular traffic on GT Road where carefree humans and animals suddenly cross one’s path.
History
Indeed Nawaz Sharif upped the ante on Sher Shah Suri who merely renovated the famous Sarak-e-Azam (Great Road) that linked the capital at Agra (India) with his home in Sasaram. Suri extended the road westwards to Multan (now in Pakistan) and eastwards to Sonargaon (now in Bangladesh) in the 16th century AD. The same highway was later re-named by the British as Grand Trunk Road—now popularly known as GT Road.
The most interesting points of this scenic drive on the M2 are the world’s largest rock salt deposits and Asia’s highest pillared bridge built at Khewra Salt Range near Kallar Kahaar, home to ICI’s chemical processing industrial plants. Not many who drive by a town called Bhera realise it dates back to the time when Alexander of Macedon, invaded us in the name of democracy in 326 BCE. He was followed By Mahmud of Ghazni, Genghis Khan, Shahab-ud-din Ghauri, Zaheer-ud-din Babur and Sher Shah Suri.
Greed For Speed
Life on the M2 begins when you exceed 120 Km/h, the legal speed limit on the motorway. If one has a powerful car, there is much to gain from occasional speeding such as: shrieking children, a scared wife reciting aloud holy verses, one’s own pounding heart (which invariably pounds less after a few years of having uttered ‘I DO’ thrice), an engine revving away on automobile-Viagra and best of all, adrenalized highway policemen lying in wait for the next speed demon.
What you see in the video here is a Mercedes-Benz E-Klasse (W211) E200 Kompressor not chased by the police on the M2. While the automobile is capable of reaching a top speed of 236 Km/h (146.7 mph), we could only touch 222 Km/h (139 mph) or 96.5% of the maximum.
While the E200 Kompressor can accelerate from 0 to 100 Km/h (0-62 mph) in a 9.1 seconds, it took us full fifty-eight seconds to accelerate from 128 Km/h (80 mph) to 222 Km/h (139 mph). This slightly slower acceleration resulted because the car was loaded (approximately 380 Kg) with five adults, their luggage, and forty Litres of petrol in the tank—conditions hardly conducive to an ideal speed test.
Test Conditions
Elevation: 366m (1,200 feet) above mean sea level
Temperature: 35 Celsius
Relative humidity: 63%
Speed Vs RPM data
80 mph (128 Km/h) @ RPM 3,500
90 mph (144 Km/h) @ RPM 4,000
100 mph (160 Km/h) @ RPM 4,200
110 mph (176 Km/h) @ RPM 4,700
120 mph (192 Km/h) @ RPM 5,100
130 mph (208 Km/h) @ RPM 5,500 (drop to 4,700)
139 mph (222 Km/h) @ RPM rise to 5,000
The acceleration rate was 1.55 Km/h every one second. The distance being covered was from 2.13 Km/minute (at an initial speed of 128 Km/h) to 3.7 Km/minute (at a final speed of 222 Km/h).
Finding a five kilometres long traffic-free stretch in the right lane on the M2 was not an easy task considering that the Motorway Patrol watches motorists at such sweet spots for over-speeding. After all, they too have wives and young children to feed at home.
At places, the concrete divider that separated the lanes on each side of the M2 had gaps through which stray cats or dogs could suddenly cross one’s path. At such speeds, even a bird hitting the car’s body might act like a bullet, hence the possibility of a high speed crash was more on the mind than a ticket for over-speeding.
Money On four Wheels
Depending upon the options, the current price of an E200 (2011 model) in Pakistan is anywhere from 8.2 to 8.6 million Rupees. Add to that an annual comprehensive insurance premium of at least Rs 250,000, one time registration fee of at least Rs 100,000 and the cost of using high octane (RON 95 rating) fuel at Rs 103/Litre. With this much white money out of a banker’s clutches and moving gracefully on four wheels, one would be a complete fool not to conquer temptation by giving in to it on the M2.
Buying a Mercedes-Benz means one pays for the superb ride quality, lower noise level inside, the ability to touch hitherto unknown speeds and see jealousy writ large on the faces of lesser mortals on the road. Speeding away like a bullet at 222 Km/h brought home the realization this July that life is for living.
In Pakistan, millions spend their entire lives saving enough to buy either an 800 cc Suzuki or a 1,300 cc Toyota, always worrying about children’s higher education. The feel of driving a pedigree automobile—such as a Porsche 911 Carrera which I once drove in England at 240 Km/h (150 mph)—is something quite beyond words.
Tail Lights
Men express happiness when women get themselves waxed but almost all women show signs of jealousy when a man pays more attention to his first love: his car. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I need to go wax my E200 Kompressor.
If a man approaches a work of art with any desire to exercise authority over it and the artist, he approaches it in such a spirit that he cannot receive any artistic impression from it at all. —Oscar Wilde
Reproduced for your viewing pleasure are the obverse and the reverse sides of the invitation card of my first ever solo photography exhibition titled ‘One for the Road’, held at Lahore’s Alliance Française from 5 until 18 March 2005.
The director at the Alliance Française, Matthieu Pinel, was most cooperative from the beginning and matters such as image selection, print size, and framing were left entirely to my Pakistani imagination mainly because his immediate superior, mademoiselle Giselle, had already appreciated my work in private.
Hectic were the days leading up to the opening night but excitement left panic knocking at the door. To be honest, photography seemed an easier job compared with organizing a major public display of it.
More than half of my images were in colour, with no digital manipulation in Adobe Photoshop software. Long hours spent at yet another photo lab that only processed black and white (silver gelatine) prints paid off as well. Ah, the lengths one must go to satisfy discerning eyes.
The cameras I used were good old film cameras from as far back in time as the 1950s. Nothing was digital, all was either shot using the square 6x6 cm format or standard 35mm negative film. Whenever interested viewers or interviewers wished to know what camera bodies or lens I had used, I laid great stress on the power wielded by something considered quite old-fashioned: the negative.
It was odd to note that ordinary people seemed to equate quality images with unusually expensive and complicated digital gadgetry. There is no short cut to hard work and just about any camera in capable hands automatically becomes a powerful creative tool, and the greater the artistic vision, the less important the fixation on equipment becomes, but even this truth takes time to absorb.
At home, I spent endless hours getting the photograph’s titles and the pricelist right. Since I knew that photographs always sold less than paintings did, the prices were kept affordable.
Mine was the first event to be held at the new Alliance Française premises located at Scotch Corner, Upper Mall. The opening day was extremely busy as nearly all the media people and members of civil society descended in time for free snacks—if not fine Scotch—that the ‘French Centre’ had arranged in the front lawn.
The first ever exhibition of my work was a solo show—a great breakthrough for me. Friends, colleagues, neighbours, strangers, famous names and perhaps unrecognizable old flames, all turned up at the venue during those fourteen days. If the public got any wrong impressions from seeing certain images, it was because it did not look long and hard at them.
The public’s comments in the visitors’ book that I had placed there were equally amusing—I learnt nothing new about myself. While the literati used the same book rather wisely, the ignoramuses of our society abused it by penning thoughts that actually showed me how unhappy they were to witness genuine creativity. The latter group—unable to appreciate the meticulous printing, expensive glass-covered frames and the witty titles of the photographs—expected from a first time solo exhibiter, quantity and not quality, inability to expound and not lucidity, mistakes and not perfection. And hence, the shutter-bugs imposed themselves on my work and took little home to brood over. It was their loss, not mine, and that made me very happy.
Alliance Française invited people from the print and electronic media to cover the exhibition. Interesting were the questions of journalists, some of whom wrote entire articles without having laid eyes on me, preferring to plagiarize the text of the invitation card instead. It made me glad that for a change they wrote fine English.
Interviewers from various television channels, woefully unfamiliar with matters of Art, made me feel they were at a political rally. And by the time the gentlemen from Pakistan Television got over, they imagined I taught photography professionally, something I vehemently denied.
I was asked, “What should the gore-mint do to promote the art?”
Unexpected for them was my reply, “I think the government should only concentrate on running itself without meddling with Art and artists”.
One TV channel aired my interview so many times I was convinced their viewers had absorbed plenty of Art and knew all my words by heart.
Not everyone came as a buyer but some bought what they liked at the exhibition. With urban and rural landscapes, abstractions and street photographs, there were forty-two prints on display. In any case, I exceeded my sales target and was happy to share the cake with my French sponsors.
By the end of the exhibition, director Matthieu Pinel too was a happy customer who bought a black and white photograph titled, Lord of the Rings, which was a street portrait of man selling rings that common folks can be seen wearing in Pakistan.
I had plans of taking the circus to the Federal capital but decided to spare the capitalists so in love with bad policies plaguing this country. Then I thought of Karachi but decided to let the unhappy ethnicities first decide matters relating to ‘the art of war’ between their rotten selves.
These days, everybody needs a painting to match the interior decor, and calligraphy of Qur’ānic verses seems safe since many believe that if they hung depictions of human beings on the walls, God will ask them to breathe life into them. God has better things to do than that.
Art is one’s individual expression and pays tribute to the unity in diversity. Art is the opposite of organized religion and this is the reason why artificially pious persons, unable to attach unverifiable dogmas to each stroke of genius, hate its unfathomable abstractions.
Lahore now has many art galleries and some still wish to put up my work for sale. Since March of 2005, I have not decided if I should become famous as a photographer or as a wordsmith.
Please restrict yourselves to reading my tongue-in-cheek style of written material; never imagine that I have my tongue inside forbidden cheeks. –tgh
You are many in number, are spread all over the globe and have seen me grow over the years.
What is this map here?
Are these locations of Al-CIAda’s bases—as America would have us believe? Are they places where military DICK-tators have hidden our clean money as ‘dirty’ money? Are you still guessing if these are shops that sell red balloons? Give up wracking your frail nerves right away!
Well, this is how all readers, commentators and casual browsers of my blog really look like on the world map! Surprised?
As you can see, from Hawaii to Japan, I have got it covered. Why do so few possess literary tastes in South America is beyond me, and why are there no readers from Australia, Africa, Russia, CIS countries and Greenland? I can take some horses to the proverbial well but I cannot make them all drink.
Use word of mouth, and spread the good word around because I love you all in shockingly different ways and for whose demonstration you must never ask.
On 2 May 2011, America again fooled the entire world with news we knew were untrue; that of Osama bin Laden’s state-sponsored assassination at the hands of CIA’s hit squad which violated Pakistan’s airspace to conduct its unintelligent business.
Just like Pearl Harbour and 9/11, the clandestine operation at Abbotabad too begs for answers which, I assure you, we will never get from the MIC (military industrial complex). You see, major charges trumped up against OBL were dropped once the thirst of the American public for ‘enemy blood’ was quenched and Obama’s flagging popularity at home received a shot in the arm.
As of this writing, they are busy doctoring OBL’s pictures, much like those moon landing photographs of 1969 which had so many inconsistencies that NASA never bothered satisfactorily explaining to the sceptics. But people will believe in anything the spin doctors working for the lying governments throw at them. My life is simple; I treat official truth in my patent-pending way: by laughing at it aloud while rolling on the floor.
Many years ago, when I first heard the Eagles’ global hit ‘Hotel California’ (Grammy winner for best record of the year), I was bowled over not only by the fine musicianship and immaculate production standards of this country-rock outfit but also by their writing ability as evidenced in other songs from the album of the same name.
Back then the lyrics seemed to talk about a fancy hotel with a unique policy: ‘you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave’. Now, who in his youth would not wish to land at such a fortunate spot? Many of my friends took things quite literally, crossed the Atlantic to live the American dream, and got themselves blonde wives who home-delivered to them two things: great matrimonial grief and confused children. Years later, most men from the same group returned to Pakistan quite empty-handed in every sense of the word. Their American wet dream had dried up.
Repeated playbacks of ‘Hotel California’ caused my chrome cassette tape emulsion to nearly wear out but it finally dawned upon me that while to the casual listener ‘Hotel California’ represented a tale of a road-wearied man entrapped in a terrifying but appealing lavish hotel, in reality it symbolized the destructive pleasure-seeking culture of America. Justifiably, Don Henley (singer, songwriter, drummer of the Eagles) called it ‘our interpretation of the high life in Los Angeles’ and ‘a song about the dark underbelly of the American dream and about excess in America, which is something we knew a lot about.’
Anton LaVey, a Satanist, in the balcony
Little did I realize back then that years later, none other than the ‘most wanted terrorist in the world’, Osama bin Laden, would check into a house in Abbotabad (Pakistan) in a manner which would attract the attention of seals that the American navy would not want inside Lahore zoo’s pond.
The entire world’s focus was quickly diverted—away from failing capitalism and bankrupting economies—towards a defiant Arab from the royal family of Saudi Arabia. We were told that Pakistan’s army knew about OBL’s opulent accommodation right next to its military academy and that some Islamist sympathizers had made sure he evaded detection by the CIA.
Then we were shown video footage of a huge compound being strafed and raided by the US navy commandos who returned, after completing the ‘successful mission’, back to Afghanistan with a unique trophy: OBL’s dead body which they later buried in a novel way into an unknown sea. I believe the Arab did not go to the bottom of the Arabian Sea.
The roach motel they showed us did not have bullet marks or shattered windows, the neighbours told conflicting stories about how the stealth helicopter was intentionally shot down to make it appear as if a great battle between the American attackers and al-CIAda (note my spellings) had taken place. The media kept humming the tune that the White Washed House of Washing Town composed for them, and the US and her allies kept making excuses for not bringing OBL’s body home for burial with full military dishonour.
It is politically correct to believe that OBL, along with his rather large family checked into a luxury villa in Abbotabad and remained there undetected and quite in control of al-CIAda for five long years without being tracked by those who could not track the 9/11 jet airliners flying about in the most protected airspace in the world. And since OBL was such an able man, by Allah, he deserves to be remembered as a tired traveller in my parody called Hotel Abbotabadia.
OBL was not from Abbotabad and probably never lived there. The Eagles’ too were not from California but they successfully captured in a song what ran through their minds as they drove around Los Angeles at night to review their broken Hollywood dreams.
I am not from Abbotabad but years ago I spent a few days in a house on the slopes overlooking the PMA (Pakistan Military Academy). Much like the Eagles, I too have been able to capture the spirit of that fateful night in my parody. What I mean by certain words, phrases and names used in my parody is up to the reader to find out.
In Chicago, many people called Cook County jail ‘Hotel California’ because it is on California Street. In an interview, Eagles’ Don Henley was asked to explain why he sang the following lines when he knew that wine was not a distilled spirit but rather a fermented alcoholic drink:
So I called up the captain / Please bring me my wine / He said, “We haven't had that spirit here since 1969.”
The Beverly Hills Hotel (Sunset Boulevard, LA)
Henley replied, "Thanks for the tutorial and, no, you're not the first to bring this to my attention—and you're not the first to completely misinterpret the lyric and miss the metaphor. Believe me; I've consumed enough alcoholic beverages in my time to know how they are made and what the proper nomenclature is. But that line in the song has little or nothing to do with alcoholic beverages. It's a socio-political statement. My only regret would be having to explain it in detail to you, which would defeat the purpose of using literary devices in song-writing and lower the discussion to some silly and irrelevant argument about chemical processes.”
The text of my parody appeared to me in a dream in which I saw terrifying commandos marching to the tune of a famous song. The icing on the cake was that instead of the Eagles, it was a military brass band that played ‘Hotel California’. And God, it sounded very soldierly.
I dedicate Hotel Abbotabadia to those who turn a blind eye to universal American aggression, do not mind NAT
O’s involvement, do not clobber the UN Security Council for acting like a poodle, and to those who arm the extremists and support Pakistani establishment’s collusion in this utterly useless global war of error (G-WOE) being waged in our continent.The original Hotel California (for those who are new to this classic cut):
Please click on the karaoke track of Hotel California and sing along the following lyrics for maximum pleasure:
***
Hotel Abbotabadia
VERSE: Said a Pak desi, "Hai oye,
Colonel Rind has no hair!”
Bomb-scare and militias
Climbing up through the stairs
Up ahead was resistance, I saw a bearded delight
The lads got angry ‘cause at night we pimped
One more puff, chilled Bud light
There he stood in the stairway
I heard the Colonel yell
“And he’s limping, that’s OBL
Langley’s agent of neo-con hell!”
Then he bit off my handle
And he shoved me away
There were khakis down on second floor
Beards shouted, “God’s great!”
CHORUS: Hell comes to the Intel Abbotabadia
Such a lovely place (such a lovely place)
Such a lonely base
Plenty of boom at the Intel Abbotabadia
Any time, O yaar (any time, O yaar)
Find your copter here
VERSE: Radar is stealthily busted
We got the Pentagon’s pants
We got a lot of pretty witty boys, that we call 'friends'
Its a trance in the bomb yard
Sweet C4 pets
Some plan to dismember
Some plan pious bets
So I hauled up the captain,
“Please bring me my Wyne”
He said, "We haven't had that idiot here since M. Ayub Khan's time!"
Be still our bosses are flying out from Ghan base
Shake you up in the middle of the night
Must you say your prayers?
CHORUS: Hell comes to the Intel Abbotabadia
Such a lovely place (such a lovely place)
Such a lonely base
They lovin' it all at the Intel Abbotabadia
Want a nicer prize? (want a nicer prize?)
Bring your Ali bhais
VERSE: Choppers on the ceiling
A sting campaign and lies
And he says, "We're all just pensioners here since Gitmo is not that nice"
And in the oval chambers they gather up to meet
They back it with their lying eyes, throw the dust in eyes of khakis
The last thing I remember, Dick was running like a whore
I had to plant fake evidence, get my rear back to the shore
"Relax", said the Gates-man, “We're programmed to deceive
You can poo anywhere you like, but you can never pee."
More out of curiosity and driven less by misplaced patriotism I decided to check what the strange emblem on a Pakistani passport represented. Since nobody lies better than a government, I visited a government website to find some answers. The site proudly explains the state emblem of Pakistan as ‘approved by the Central Government in 1954' and which 'symbolises Pakistan's ideological foundation, its cultural heritage, the guiding principles and the basis of its economic strength.’
If you look around, such official proclamations made with martial zeal have already been blown to smithereens, courtesy of suicide bombers and American drone-attacks. Let us now dissect the official statement further. First... The foundation of the state has been shaken to the core by repeated undemocratic interruptions by MISKUs (men in starched khaki uniforms) who were corrupted by MISSs (men in safari-suits), and both 'helped' covertly by MIBs (men in black) employed by the WWW (White-Washed House of Washing-Town).
At the time of independence in 1947, Pakistan’s foundation was fool-proof; it was never upgraded to 'duffer'-proof level. All that concrete and steel of our 'Pak' structure has now turned into mud and hay, and the ground on which the state currently stands shakes every day because of American killer drones that take off from airfields rented out by our own flying 'protectors'. God abhors killing and corruption in all forms, hence no sane person ought to press the LIKE button of terrorism in all its forms. Second... Our cultural heritage until a few years ago was intact. It was beautifully being represented every spring by the kite-flying festival of basant which is now banned by a government that does not care about how people enjoy.
Behind the basant-ban are the murderousmullahsand men who wear wigs when they judge, never flew kites and never played with marbles. Some obscurantist groups quote obscure episodes from a fabricated history to justify the ban on basant and attack all celebrations that the inhabitants of the Indo-Pak sub-continent enjoyed together for centuries without hacking each other to pieces. Had this group of mullahs been more vigilant regarding the legal sanction given to military dictators, we might have fared better. Kite-flying using traditional cotton thread never was the problem until the deadly metal wire came along and which only some pranksters used. Why must the whole festival or the thousands of artisans connected with the kites and thread making industry suffer? Surprisingly, the rulers consider lack of utilities, escalating inflation, rising crime rate, drone attacks, the failing security apparatus and other ‘threats’ to our necks as God’s Will. The impotent PTDC (Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation) still exists but tourism is all but destroyed in peaceful places like Swat whose three million inhabitants were bombed and turned into displaced persons in their own country by the 'security forces'. Where do we take our children for sight-seeing? The Presidency, Federal buildings of a heavily guarded cultural wasteland called Islamabad or the GHQ where our collective fate is re-written every day while foreign agents dip their 'intelligence' biscuits in our hot tea?
Third... Where can we see those ‘guiding principles’ in action which we have been taught to worship like a golden calf? What did poet Allama Iqbal mean by his ode to Hindustan? Who, if not the Anglophiles, the mullahs and the feudal lords have truly benefitted from the creation of a 'separate homeland for Indian Muslims' by Mr Muhammad Ali Jinabhai and his rich league of Nawabs and industrialists? What shall the common man do?
Hollow are the words that we hear ad nauseam in official speeches or as lyrics of national songs sung by shrill out-of-tune pop singers. Allama Iqbal, the poet of the east, who gave us loads of vision and pride in being Muslims, must turn in his grave situated at the foot of the Badshahi mosque of Lahore. Armed guards at his mausoleum’s door ensure that he never steps out to chastise with his walking stick the mis-leaders who trample upon the ideals of Pakistan.
The same security is ensured at Jinnah’s white marble mausoleum in Karachi. Our leaders do not go there to offer fatiha (Qur’anic prayer) but to mumble apologies for their misdeeds and to cry crocodile tears, yet year after year they proceed on all-expenses paid pilgrimage trips to Makkah to wash away the guilt that seems to multiply like rabbits.
Fourth... And at last we come to the mirage of ‘economic growth’. In which jungle is this animal found, on which tree does this bird sing, from which branch does this monkey swing? Where is this growth that the World Bank’s banksters and the International Monetary Fund’s gangsters promise us each time they feed us with un-blessed usurious money? Economic growth is now a lame mad dog that barks at each car because it cannot comprehend how to capitalize on golden opportunities that whiz by.
With scarcely a Volt or a Watt of electricity available, and with a dwindling natural gas supply, on what crutches will we run to become like 'Asian tigers' Japan, Korea, or China? Has our friendship with China overhauled our railways or the urban transportation systems? Have we asked China to stop flooding our markets with cheap products in order to protect our own industries of sports goods, surgical instruments, and hand-made carpets? No is an answer common to all of the above questions.
The government website goes further to claim that ‘the four ingredients of the emblem are the crescent and star crest at the top; traditional symbols of Islam’.
In Hollywood movies and cartoons we invariably see witches’ hats adorned with the crescent and star symbol. Have the witches become Muslims or have they applied for Pakistani nationality?
The star symbolizes the sun which represents the son of light, or Lucifer. The crescent represents Diana, the pagan goddess of hunting. The owl is considered foolish in the east but wise in the west because it is worshipped as Satan at the Bohemian Grove. Does our crescent and star depict goodness?
The last messenger of Allah never used such symbols, leave alone salute them or force others to do the same in public. Evil promotes dark symbolism and wicked numerology because it needs a disguise to fool mankind. The American dollar bill’s symbolism is a case in point.
Evil has its own favourite signs and numbers and these need to be recognised and rejected by those who can see through the smokescreen. Just because the creators of our national insignia were not well-informed must not make us disregard the true meanings associated with occult symbols.
Just because we use the lunar calendar for our religious festivals must also not mean that the moon is Islam’s sacred symbol. Before Islamic states and Muslim leaders adopted the moon symbol, pagans and enemies of God used it too. Why must the moon symbol compete with the Christian cross which represents the apparent crucifixion (religious-political assassination) of Christ? You may research for yourself how the ancient cultures (such as the Sumerians and Greeks) used the symbols of the crescent and the star on ancient coins.
Further, we are told that ‘the shield in the centre, with four partitions, shows cotton, wheat, tea and jute. These are the main crops of Pakistan and signify the strong agriculture based economy.’
In 1971, the collective stupidity of the politicians and the excesses committed by a defeated army (that later surrendered) caused the loss of East Pakistan (later Bangladesh). Hence, jute and tea should no more be included in the state emblem since they are harsh reminders of the west Pakistanis exploiting the east Pakistani Bengalis. Bangladesh is better off now than it was in the past because her government is sending to the gallows Jama'at-e-Islami mullahs who participated in the genocide.
As for cotton crops, Pakistan faces an onslaught of the Amreeki sundi (American worm) which arrived here under diplomatic cover, much like murderer Raymond Davis and others of his ilk did. Tons of our raw cotton is exported to countries whose cheap slave labourer force stitches shirts in sweatshops and then exports the expensive apparel back to us.
As for wheat, it is being smuggled out to Afghanistan to create artificial shortages most suited to smugglers. In turn, the government procures rotten wheat from the Americans which it wants mixed with our own high quality wheat and then sold to the starving masses. Indeed the devil enters one through the stomach.
It is claimed that ‘the wreath surrounding the shield in the logo is ‘a reproduction of the floral designs used in traditional Mughal art. Its inclusion in the design reminds of the nation's cultural heritage.’
The fact is the government is not interested in reminding the masses of liberal pagan times during which our trade links extended from China to Mesopotamia. Since we were not all Muslims back then, those pages of history are gleaned over conveniently as if being proud of our ancient roots is something very shameful. We had plenty of culture before the Mongols or Muhammad bin Qasim landed here. It was the Persians who softened the cruel tribal name of the raiding Mongols and re-named them Mughals.
And finally, the scroll supporting the shield carries the Urdu version of Qaed-e-Azam's famous motto: Faith, Unity, Discipline. The website claims ‘these three words articulate the guiding principles for the nation'.
Here I will remind you of Ta’leem-e-Balighan, Khawaja Mueenuddin’s classic play written in 1954 and telecast prior to 1971. Incidentally, 1971 was the year in which we lost half of Pakistan not to India or to the Bengalis but to our own prejudices.
The playwright explains unity, faith and discipline while looking at three broken ghara (earthenware meant for storing water in rural areas). The satirist compared the state of affairs with shattered earthenware and declared that 'none of the original ideals could be seen any more in the ideology of Pakistan'. He wrote the lines fifty-seven years ago and the truth still rings today. Why has faith, as revealed in the noble Qur’an and taught by the messenger of Allah, turned so violent with the accursed arrival of American forces in Afghanistan? Count the militant groups we created using petro-dollars and which blow ordinary citizens to smithereens. Pakistanis have reacted sharply to the recent cold-blooded murders of Chechens in Quetta, that of journalist Saleem Shahzad, and a youth in Karachi at the Rangers' hands. When fearless attacks on the Navy, the Air Force and the Army take place here apparently sane 'educated' people never tire of eulogizing the loss of life that ‘security forces’ alone seem to suffer. The same people treat the General Headquarters as holy ground and label all critics of the establishment as 'traitors', 'terrorists' and 'RAW agents'. What of unity? Provinces are tired of being parts of a federation for whose creation one million people lost their lives during the communal riots engineered by the departing British.
Our politicians would rather rename the NWFP (North West Frontier Province) 'Khyber Pakhtoonkhwa' and carve out more provinces so that more ministries may be created and more bulletproof BMWs may land on our shores.
The common perception is that discipline and democracy only exists in the armed forces. The fact is that while disobedience there invites a court marshal, young officers still dream of walking in the footsteps of military dictators like Ayub Khan, Yahya Khan, Zia-ul-Haq and Pervez Musharraf. The promise of owning dozens of fair wide-eyed virgins is almost as good as snatching the of power from 'bloody civilians'. The ‘bloody civilians’ do not hold Pharaoh’s batons under their arms, salute everything that moves, paint trees in cantonments, point guns at their own brethren, patrol the unsafe streets in fancy jeeps or dream of residential plots in suburbs that were once productive fields. Here I rest my case and recommend that they explain what the state emblem means. If they are unable to re-design the logo, they must at least re-write the text quoted above in order to reflect reality. May the souls of the founding fathers rest in peace until resurrection day.
Now listen to what the Allama's own son, Justice Javaid Iqbal, has to say about India, Hindus, and Pakistan:
I have noticed that the press tends to reinforce in the public mind the name of Lahore’s famous cannon as Kim’s Gun, which is not its real name but Zamzama is.
What needs to be recalled here for the benefit of the readers is that the said cannon was cast under the order of Shah Wali Khan, prime minister of the Abdali king, Ahmed Shah Durrani.
The last Persian line on the plaque over the cannon’s side forms a chronogram—a phrase in which each letter has a numerical value, and which when added, gives a specific date. Interestingly, the gunsmith, Shah Nazeer, cast not one but two such cannons at Lahore.
The reason the Anglophiles call the cannon Kim’s Gun has some history attached to it. The Nobel laureate of 1907, British writer Rudyard Kipling, who worked in 1882 for The Civil And Military Gazette of Lahore, wrote in his novel called Kim:
“Who hold Zam-Zammah, that ‘fire-breathing dragon’, hold the Punjab, for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror’s loot.”
It is clear from Kipling’s novel that he knew the cannon’s real name whereas our press mostly does not, and which shows that not many have read the English writer who introduced many Urdu and Hindi words into his works.
Kim, the fictional character in Kipling’s novel, is an Irish orphan boy in Lahore who is taught espionage. Interestingly, Chief Boy Scout, Lord Baden Powell, used a game called Kim’s Game (inspired by Kipling, of course) for training boy-scouts when he lived in pre-partition India. Both, Kipling and Powell, belonged to a very controversial secret society which Prime Minister Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto banned in Pakistan.
Suffice to say, Zamazama, this great relic from our historic past has details too numerous to be recounted in a letter. Therefore, the cannon need not be incorrectly associated with the title of Rudyard Kipling’s novel.
Today, Zamzama stands silently on its enormous wooden wheels over The Mall, opposite the Lahore Museum, embedded in the collective sub-consciousness of the people of the city. The least we can do is call it by its real name: Zamzama.
When Prince William (Duke of Cambridge) entered his ‘Made in England’ marital paradise, millions of people chose to focus not on the bride but rather on the sister-in-law, Pippa Middleton, who flashed her fleshy rear bumper not as curvaceous as a Ferrari’s.
That sinking feeling
During the royal wedding, the British society remained at great risk of sinking into an abyss of voluptuous bottoms. It might have been infinitely more fruitful for the English to recover from the prevailing ‘economic downturn’ instead of obsessing over Pippa’s rearmost. People missed a great opportunity to demand free fish and chips and ended up chasing after royal hindquarters.
Nobody can wake up someone who pretends to be asleep. The idea behind the expensive royal wedding ceremony was to make all Earthlings completely forget the financial spanking the money-masters have been giving to a captive global work-force. The public was expected to forget all woes for the duration of the royal puppet show in London.
How might one’s life improve by reading about ‘the fittest member of the monarchy’ or seeing ‘the nicest ass at the royal wedding’? We live in very dangerous times in which governments, instead of overhauling invasive foreign policies, help weaker regimes create ‘Big Brother’ police states all over the world. Humanity’s focus has been hijacked; trivia is intentionally being given maximum importance in our lives.
A new oath of allegiance
Pippa Middleton, by appearing at Kate’s wedding, set the cyberspace on fire and caused the Twitter website to crash.
Then Jimmy Wevell created on Facebook a page called ‘Pippa Middleton Ass Appreciation Society’, where over 226,000 fans (and counting) swore true allegiance to Pippa’s derriere. He even intends to induct her into the ‘Butt Hall of Fame’—wherever that might be. Now this part of the anatomy in my part of the world is ritually thrashed by the police to extract ‘voluntary confessions’ from those who dare to cross the paths of the Law or the VIPs.
How many of you recall reciting the following?
I, (Insert full name), do swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty (name withheld due to security concerns), her heirs and successors, according to law. So help me God.
Will we—God forbid—see a new oath of allegiance of British citizenship which might read as follows?
I, (insert your full name), do swear, without using four-letter swear words, that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Majestic Bums, the buttocks of heirs and successors, according to law. So help me dogs.
A large number of Pakistanis—with plenty of ifs and butts at their disposal—are now expected to seek citizenship of the United Kingdom to admire royal butts.
The osculum infame (Francesco Maria Guazzo's Compendium maleficarum of 1608)
Osculum infame
During the Victorian era, gentlemen kissed ladies’ gloved hands to show respect and brave men received knighthoods on bended knees; we are now living in an age in which the fanny of the likes of Jennifer Lopez command awesome respect and the greatest possible media coverage.
With all those magic-infused Harry Potter novels (‘modern literature’) casting mass spells over children, this obsession with buttocks might lead one to what witches do at the beginning of sabbats: offer ‘The kiss of shame’ to the fundament of the devil and sometimes those of lower-ranking demons.
Because modern women have no use for chivalrous knights in shining armour, the knighthood manufacturing department of England is at risk of being shut down if it fails to give a new meaning to the honorific title of GBE—that of Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bottom End. What does the popular slogan of ‘God save the Queen’ mean these days when one cannot save one’s butts from uncontrollable inflation and increasing taxation?
How will future British children be reared—pun intended—in the traditional British way if unnatural emphasis were placed on royal rears? Will they introduce buttology as a new subject at Oxford? Does Britain’s favourite traditional fish and chips risk being renamed bums and hips?
Lucky to be in Pakistan
In Pakistani politics only two things may be considered worth kissing: the swagger sticks (or batons) at our General Headquarters or the hindquarters of a foreign power.
Here, if any ‘bloody civilian’ ever dares accusing a high-ranking serviceman of breaking the oath, his own hindquarters end up being in serious trouble. No journalist in his right mind dares making a curvaceous sarkari begum sahiba the butt of his joke, leave alone use colourful language to describe the fatty rear of a leader’s sister-in-law.
In rural areas, the punishment for a disgraceful act is this: the offender’s head and eyebrows are shaved before being given an ignominious donkey-ride through the streets, with children jeering, “Pagal, hee oye!” (literally: hey, madman!).
Bhabi means brother’s wife. In Pakistan, men normally address another man’s wife as bhabi. Do not be misled by Waheed Murad, our ‘chocolate hero’, who played a touchy-feely brother-in-law and thus perverted a pious relationship for the sake of a film. I warn you: DO NOT watch this video.
Hot-crossed buns
Instead of using a pendulum and a hypnotic voice suggesting, “You are falling asleep”, Pippa Middleton’s rear was used to cast a mass spell on billions of television viewers. True to their nature, the British tabloids first admired Pippa Middleton’s soft white silk dress and then sang praises of her equally white and 'lively rear that squirmed mesmerizingly’ as she followed her lucky sister down Westminster Abbey’s aisle.
While I am able to correctly interpret many body language signs, never have I tried decoding imaginary signals ‘mesmerizingly’ emanating from ‘squirming’ buttocks. Have you?
Some questions arise here. Why do most males tend to notice female cheeks? Is that part of their genetic makeup or have they been conditioned by events such as the one under scrutiny? Do Hollywood and the news media require severe censorship before anti-harassment laws are enforced?
It’s in my blue jeans
A British celebrity fitness expert has opined, “Not calorie-burning workouts but rather family genes play an important part in having a rounded backside as perfect as Pippa’s and a curvy long-legged figure like her mum Carole’s.”
We all know what happens in Pakistan if one brings into an argument someone’s mother, sister or daughter. Not only did this ‘expert’ comment on the daughter, he dragged in her ‘mum’ as well. His message is clear: in order for a woman to climb up the Darwinian ladder of evolution, she must possess royal family genes—whatever they look like under a microscope.
Being a man, I missed nothing by not watching Kate’s wedding. I assume plans are now afoot to boost British tourism by introducing yet more topless red busses in London to take newly-married couples and their in-laws for sightseeing the rear ends of genetically superior sisters-in-law.
You too, Gluteus? The same royal trainer also opined: “Gluteus maximus is a big muscle that responds quickly to exercise, many of my clients want a body like Pippa’s. Her butt-toning secrets are: tennis and swimming all strokes except the breast-stroke.”
Pippa behind Kate's behind
Why, this must be supreme royal censorship? Were they able to keep Pandora’s snuff-box closed by not disclosing that Pippa does swim excellent breast stroke? I know not how to swim or play tennis but here I am with my maximus talentus of making social commentus that receive an odd few hundred clickus each monthus on this blogus. How can I compete with Pippa Middleton’s gluteus, leave alone her royal bunsus which do better social workus than I could even dream of doing? In any case, her public display of a ‘squirming’ posterior gets more Facebook LIKEs in a day than I ever could in a lifetime.
Get your BUTT over here!
This British fitness expert who trains the royals to have perfect butts must now be held accountable by UK-settled Cash-Miris whose ‘Butt’ surnames are unfairly associated with the most backward and fatty part of the human frame.
Never mind if the Cash-Miris are famous for cooking and then consuming foods so fatty they make the word cholesterol blush, or that they love talking about food while consuming it, or that they possess bodies that lean people have nightmares about.
In care-free Cash-Miri company, one is bound to forget that a balanced nourishing diet and some physical exertion are fine habits. The Cash-Miris of Pakistan have given up all forms of physical exercise except one: that of demanding the exercise of constitutional rights for their kin across the Indo-Pak Line of Control.
From today on I will do strenuous cardio workouts, prefer extreme diets, take the stairs and never a lift, and ascend three steps at a time to bend the knees a bit more so that my gluteus maximus wakes up—God knows, it needs to. To ensure that I also meet exacting British ‘LMAO’ Standards, I intend to do another exercise that I recently devised: jumping into my trousers both legs at once.
