Rain

Rain is a song. No, not that raunchy one the greedy director adds to the dumb plot of the movie just to spice it enough to turn his junk into a profit. It is the song that takes some back into the past and others into alternate futures. Yet, it remains a song. All geographies and languages have a stash of songs on rain, quite befitting ones. When all those songs are played together, what would you hear? Exactly the sound that reminds you of the drizzle outside.

Of rain!

2019

January 1st, 2019 / 06:53 AM / Lahore

Yes, a new year demands a new flow. But every time I move the current year to an archive, I start feeling like an old ghost. Or maybe is it a ghost haunting me. A chudail perhaps. No, the chudails could never be one. Never.

چڑیل | The Witch

October 8th, 2018 / 4:49 PM

I came across a book while roaming the old bazaar. A book about witches, or better, a book on the subject of witches. The subject has existed in almost every culture, religion, and region though the ideas, beliefs, myths, and ideologies about evil under the guise of a woman differ. Even the one I was born and raised in has a lot to say about this fascinating subject. From folk tales, dramas, contemporary literature, modern writings to informal gossip, proverbs, urban myths, and those evening warnings dadi used to say when we kids wanted to go to the neighborhood park, she existed.

As I grew up, so did that churail (چڑیل). She has lost that horrifying makeover from my earliest perceptions. Maybe those perceptions came into existence from all that was spoken about her. No more exist her hard reptilian skin or her beastly nails. The glowing white or black-hole dark eyes are gone too. She doesn’t levitate in the air or walk on the ground with those inverted feet of hers. The horrifying mask of her has fallen. Out has come to the appearance I had never expected. Organic. Staple. And normal. Like any other non-witch being. Only a master with the skill and experience might be able to spot her. The fools of men would never be able to do so, even with a thousand eyes. Perhaps that is the reason why she mixes herself so well in the crowd and ordinary mortals fail to spot her truer self.

Not all definitions one starts believing in exist in the dictionary. Not all ideas one follows are taught at a school. The experience is, after all, the best teacher. It is that very same experience that helped craft definitions for hard and impossible to define concepts including those of life, death, love, divine, and the witch. Out from the hideous and centuries-old reptilian skin has come a normal and organic witch who looks like any other woman one would come across. In her definition, she has been to the universities and beyond. She has a social media presence that she uses, very aptly, for two of the most nefarious purposes – propaganda and stalking. Beyond her apparent modernist ideologies exists a centuries-old soul, if the soul has something to do with her. Her beliefs do not bend with the fevers of the present era. Men of the modern age would not stand a moment before her ancient powers.

Two of the short stories in my book are inspired by this topic. This number does not do justice as the number of witches that helped define her is higher. I know this because at least a few of them would surely read these words. Yes, this is for your eyes. You are the witch for you know what lives under your skin better than any mortal ever can. A few of the witches were kind enough. They didn’t suck blood even after biting. None of them had inverted feet even when some had feet that incited the foot fetish and helped it evolve to new heights. I always wondered what if one day she reveals her true nature and her feet bend backward, would my fetish stay the same or disappear? What if her horrendous scary skin was not what she removed but the skin was something she just wore on to mix among her human preys? A few witches kept saying that men are dogs. I am not sure of others but had I been one, I would have seen her true self. I was told dogs see what humans cannot. Maybe the inner dog found a bone in this book bazaar. I look forward to a new definition this book might help craft.

Aamir Bilal

Waves

August 1st, 2018 / 05:51 PM

They don’t understand the waves that reach the shores.

They don’t understand the songs they carry.

They don’t understand the things they speak.

They don’t.

Reset Button

August 2nd, 2018 / 3:30 PM

Everyone at old age wants to become young again. There is a price of being young. The price of experiencing the same things including troubles and pain and learning from these experiences. After realizing the actual price of starting life over again, many might not want to press the reset button. It is not easy to give everything up and face the same tortures and the same monsters for another time. Nobody wants to die twice just to be in the same heaven.
Changing one’s primary method of communication to a newer bridge is not comfortable. It surely has the same price. Without a doubt, the advantage is as enormous as the hardship. I waited for almost 15 minutes in the hall before this realization hit me. I gave up the idea of creating a new Rome. I can live with the monster but I don’t have both the stamina and the courage to get a new number again and start the communication of life from the beginning. I cannot press the reset button. I guess that’s why a lot of men do not develop the same spark once they get married. The newer attractions live only in the cages of flings and attractions. They opt for such comforting and easier adventures instead of falling into a pit that has fewer chances of coming out ever again. So let’s not press that button. Let’s never press that button.


Never. 

First of July

July 1st, 2018 / 4:24 AM
It’s someone’s birthday. Every day is someone’s birthday. So is today. We spent a good time together. A golden time perhaps. Only if that could be re-lived. I cannot overlook a question. Will any of us forget and forgive if we relive it? I fail to reach any answer when I realize that I have not forgotten anything even today. It is being very unwise of me. A fool here. I have no idea of the other side. If anyone comes to see my end, they will find my side of the bridge intact. Maybe the other end is intact too. Yet the bridge fell. It is another question that keeps peaceful sleep and harmony at bay. We once talked about life and the afterlife and decided that the one who outlives the other should tell the next generation of ours about how many years we stayed in each other’s lives. I believe that silence is not absence. It never is. Has God ever talked to us? Yet when we pray, we believe that he is there. This example does not apply to those who don’t believe in a God. The number of years we talked is now less than the number of years we haven’t. I wish the wiser of us was more wiser. It is the first of July. I wish happiness for the other end of the bridge, even if it has fallen. 

 

بھولی باتیں

June 8th, 2018 / 02:42 AM 

اپنی ڈائری میں لکھی ہوئی کچھ باتیں دوبارہ پڑھیں تو بہت حیرت ہوئی. مجھے کچھ یاد نہیں کہ یہ سب میں نے کب لکھا .لیکن جوں جوں ایک ایک لفظ میری آنکھوں کے سامنے سے گزرا ہر پرانی چیزتازہ ہوگی. لوگوں کی کی ہوئی مہربانیاں بھی. اور دوستوں کی کی ہوئی نا انصافیاں بھی . نہ جانے میں نے یہ سب کب لکھا . اتنی پرانی باتیں پڑھ کر لگتا ہے کہ شاید وہ کوئی دوسری زندگی تھی. لیکن میں تو تب بھی میں ہی تھا

Unplugged

April 14th, 2018 / 07:38 AM

It is not easy to keep an eye on someone. It is expensive and gets even more expensive as time passes. We all have our reasons, some nasty and some genuine, to keep an eye on someone. A mother keeps her eye on her children. We know why she does so but why would a clingy ex keep an eye on someone. Years ago I was searching for a place to post writings at. I came across a service that allowed posting using SMS. That service was Twitter. Over the years I found myself in a love-hate relationship with it. Eventually, I stopped using it some years ago for which I had my reasons. Luckily, a few of them are now married. Still, marriage is no guarantee to not keep an eye on someone. It itself brings a heap of responsibilities that everybody is not able to carry. It explains some of the reasons which at their core are still the same while their appearances have become motherly.

I made a new Twitter ID that was anonymous. My primary intent was to interact with new people because at times I needed new people to talk to and the only new people that I was talking to in those days were the patients. The hospital environment is no party. I used to think that a social space like Twitter however is, to some extent at least. Twitter has become a swimming pool of shit and piss but it is full of random people. That absolute random talk exists there. Even if one doesn’t want to join them, one can be a silent observer and witness a conversation fold out. I thought that if I had a new ID, that would serve as a mask. The anonymity would help me vent energy to learn something new. Even today I don’t think that what I did was religiously, morally, culturally, or socially wrong. You can be anyone on the internet. I once became a Muslim Vampire. It was short-lived. But it wasn’t wrong. The vampire did not hurt anyone. It could not be as wrong as keeping an eye on someone especially after the person you are keeping an eye on is no longer relevant to you. Maybe some people have no good left in their lives. Somehow two once-amazing ladies found out that it was me who was behind that ID. It is true that I always felt genes of a sniffer inside them but I thought that they were in lesser amount. Boy, I was wrong. 

It was not my first attempt at making an anonymous ID and using that as a mask of anonymity to interact with people. In 2017 I made one more attempt at a new online life. That made my total number of attempts reach five. Out of these five, only twice was I wearing the persona of a girl. Every time I was behind an avatar of a girl, I thought that it logically ruled me out of the possibility that someone would think that it was me. In heels and mascara, I followed boys. I stayed kind to a few of them. I became harsh to a few of them. I lured a few to their untimely regrets. One positive aspect of it was the growing number of screenshots that I took and have saved even to this date. All those screenshots were no less than inspiration for dialogues and for stories that I created at a later time. The dilemma was that I was not a girl on the inside which is why those accounts became stagnant very soon and died eventually.

One of the clingy ladies found out about one of those IDs too. Twitter’s algorithm works in some crazy way and brings disasters to the front seats. In those days I used to draw pictures after coming back from the hospital. That is why I took the mask of an illustrator in made my second last anonymous ID. But even that adventure was also short-lived. 

I know that she knows that Aamir is aware of her knowledge of Aamir’s anonymous account.

I know that she knows that Aamir is aware of her knowledge that why Aamir doesn’t use that ID anymore.

I confess that I started liking that illustrator’s identity because the main fuel for it was those pictures that I used to draw on paper and later as digital drawings. An interesting thing happened afterward. A girl interacted who allegedly lived in Rawalpindi. I never asked her what she did but she used to interact liking almost every tweet that I posted. And one day we had an interaction beyond just liking the tweets. It was like any other harmless interaction that happens on Twitter. Harmless and halal for any curious mind. The interactions never grew beyond a certain point. Then one day she asked me to draw a picture of hers like my other drawings. Even at that point, I had not told her anything about the real me. She had no idea who the actual person was behind that account. This is what I used to believe. I was wrong. Very wrong. Because later on the account of that girl ceased to exist. And even before I had started drawing her, I came to the realization that the account I was to draw a picture of never belong to a real person. The same strong feeling exists even today. That ID that interacted with my anonymous ID of illustrator was one of the many sleeper probes the two clingy women have developed over the years. My tweets kept coming after that event but something was changed. The digital existence seemed liked an emotionless space I was swimming through waiting to get fished.

The last and the final attempt that I made of living an unknown being occurred in the February of 2018. So far nobody has either claimed of discovering me or any ripples are created from my tweets. Such ripples eventually reach me and make me realize the leaks that exist. What can Aamir possibly talk about? Poetry, books, medicine, painting, movies, graphic novels, nostalgia, Punjabi music, and flirting. He would never talk about Chinese food, artificial jewelry, cruel in-laws, and political Gods. These are a few things that the sleepers use to make wild but good guesses. Very intelligent guesses. They cannot guess anymore now. A win for them is a loss too. 

Today marks the day when I have closed all the accounts that I have operated in other names. Each one of them except for my original account has been shut down. I am a lazy soul. I intend to start posting over the original account soon. But what the stalkers would guess about now? The memoirs channels @LahoreDiaries and original ones @AamirBilal @AamirAliBilal live on. I still visit my old town from time to time and see a few familiar faces who have changed with the time that has shown its colors on them. But on the inside, they are still the same.

Some sadist.

Some hopeless.

And some are still emitting only negative energy because that is the only energy they have.

It fills me with extreme happiness that an ID that I had been using since 2010 has crossed 70000 posts. I write down very honest feelings there. It is like a notebook. I didn’t expect that one day it would grow to this milestone. We know that diaries can be lost or stolen and as I had lost diaries in the past, that is why I am extremely careful with this one. I have already downloaded and printed a copy of all the tweets that I have posted on the ID from as early as 2010. I have zero following and zero followers and 70058 tweets as of this writing. 

A part of me still loves Twitter but that part of me is very afraid of what Twitter has created and also of what Twitter the people have created now. 

There are some decisions in life for which I always applauded myself. And keeping a lock on my oldest Twitter account is one of those decisions. There only I myself keep an eye on myself and it is not expensive either.

All the leaks are closed. 

The Creeps

March 12th, 2018 / 04:32 PM

 

 ڈاؤ کے دنوں میں ایک کتاب کے بارے میں پڑھا. کوئی پروفیسر صاحب ہیں جنہیں بچپن سے تصویریں بنانے کا شوق تھا لیکن کچھ وجوہات کی بنا پر زندگی نے ان کو یہ کام کرنے نہیں دیا مگر پچھلے کچھ سال سے ان کے پاس کچھ لوگ آئے جو ان پروفیسر صاحب کو مختلف فوبیا کے بارے میں بتاتے جن سے جو بچپن سے دوچار ہیں. پروفیسر صاحب نے ایک تصویر بنائی . بعد میں بہت سی ایسی تصویریں وجود میں آئیں جو ان لوگوں کے فوبیا کو بیان کرتی ہیں آئیڈیا تو بہت بے مثال تھا اس تصویریں بنانے والے پروفیسر کا ٹمبلر اکاونٹ بھی ہے جہاں پر وہ بہت عرصے سے ان تصویروں کو شائع کرتے آ رہے ہیں. پہلی بار میں نے بھی ان کو ٹمبلر پر ہی دریافت کیا. ایک روز مجھے پتہ چلا کہ انہوں نے بہت ساری اچھی تصویروں کو جمع کر کے ایک کتاب بناڈالی. بدقسمتی کہ وہ کتاب پاکستان میں میسر نہیں. تو مجھے وہ کتاب درآمد کرنی پڑی لیکن اس کے لیے چھ ہفتے لگے. صبر کرنے مشکل تھا تو میں نے آئی ٹیونز سے وہ کتاب ڈاؤنلوڈ کرلی. اس بات کو اب چار برس گزر چکے ہیں مجھے پھر سے پتہ چلا کہ پروفیسر نے اپنی کتاب کا دوسرا حصہ شائع کر دیا. میں جانتا ہوں کہ مزید چھ ہفتے انتظار میرے بس کا روگ نہیں. میں نے کچھ گھنٹے پہلے وہ کتاب ڈاؤنلوڈ کرلی اور اب وہ کتاب ختم ہونے کو ہے .لیکن آس پاس شور بہت ہے اور کسی بھی کتاب کو ختم کرنے کے لیے دوچیزیں درکار ہیں ایک خاموشی اور دوسرا وہ کتاب خود. اچھا ہے جب سے نئی جگہ نوکری شروع ہوئی ہے میں 300 کتابیں کھا چکا ہوں جن میں سے اڑتالیس 2018 کی ہیں. جس کو موقع ملے وہ یہ کتاب ضرور پڑھے. کیا پتا کوئی ایسا خوف آپ کے اندر بھی پل رہا ہوں جس سے آپ اب تک نہیں جانتے

 

March 9th, 2018 / 06:11 PM

دل کو توفیق زیاں ہو تو غزل ہوتی ہے
زہر غم بادہ چکاں ہو تو غزل ہوتی ہے 

فکر تپ تپ کے نکھرتی رہے کندن کی طرح 
آگ سینے کی جواں ہو تو غزل ہوتی ہے 

دھیمی دھیمی سی نوا سلسلہ جنبان ابد 
پردۂ جاں میں نہاں ہو تو غزل ہوتی ہے 

دھڑکنیں صورت الفاظ بکھرتی جائیں 
دل معانی کی زباں ہو تو غزل ہوتی ہے 

آنچ مٹی کے کھلونوں کی طرح ملتی جائے 
ذہن خوابوں سے تپاں ہو تو غزل ہوتی ہے 

روزن ماہ سے پچھلے پہر اک شوخ لقا 
جانب دل نگراں ہو تو غزل ہوتی ہے 

روح شب اپنی اداؤں کی تب و تاب لیے 
خلوت آرائے بیاں ہو تو غزل ہوتی ہے 

ایک سیال کسک جادہ کشائے تخلیق 
فن کی نبضوں میں رواں ہو تو غزل ہوتی ہے 

تجربے درد کی شبنم میں نہائیں حرمتؔ 
گل فشاں شعلۂ جاں ہو تو غزل ہوتی ہے
حرمت الااکرام