ADAB ARCHIVES

Memories of a Landscape

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 0 comments

by

Raania Durrani

Extracts from a larger body of work produced in Bennington, Vermont 2002/2003

October 7th 2002 — Metaphor and Meaning in landscape

The landscape develops and is related to the movement of those who inhabit it. Landscape is a visual documentation of lives. Lives develop and are related to the formation of the land. The jelly in the bowl contracts and expands the way I ask it to. My movement dominates its form. The landscape is the jelly in the bowl. It has been walked and lived on for time that cannot be summed up in words. The weight of the life on the landscape tells it where to rise and where to drop. Life and landscape, movement and colour, scale, size and structure — are all related.

There the mountains were not part of the terrain; they were simply the terrain. That is the place where the landscape is so overpowering that sometimes the life on the landscape is ignored. But the life there is simply incredible. The landscape so large and frightfully vertical makes the people and the green bow down in modesty. Life is warm, inviting and so mystical. The landscape hides the secrets of the people. Embraces their belief and provides them shelter to protect their simplicity from exploitation.

The mountain though large and powerful is accepting; finding spaces and making way to integrate. The river that runs through its gaps and the highway that flows around its mass— are all examples of its nature. The mountain so high, and so above everything is still humble. It is afraid to touch the sky, grab the stars or kiss the moon. It just sits below the blue enormous mass, a mass more enormous than itself. It is like watching the two fall in love over and over again. In the day the mountain blushes in the heat of the sun, accepting and reflecting. The wind blows each cloud into the mountain attempting to shyly touch its white body. The whole day — the sky and mountain play these games. At night the moon and stars caress the tiniest crevices of the mountain with their soft light. At night the heat calms down, and they sit all night realizing their love. The mountain and the sky are the kind for who future emerges in the night. Their romance touches the landscape and serves the people, changing their lives, evoking love in them and the patience to appreciate and adore. The mountain in the day is confidence and inspiration for its people. At night it is the once who keeps their secrets.

October 8th 2002 — Memories of the Morning

Something about the air this morning reminded me of Hunza. The mid-morning air on a fall day in Vermont made me think of the early morning of a summer day in the Karakorams.

A clear image came to mind. I thought of when I would wake up early morning in Karimabad, and come out of my room wrapped in a warm shawl. Before me would be a wall, an incredible wall. It was lit up by mustard sunshine, which was purified by the snow-capped peaks that it would reflect on. Then the sweet Hunzai man, who had a mustache, would walk down the terrace stairs. He would smile at me, and greet me with the genuine, 'peace be on you'. He would then ask me what I would like for breakfast.Few minutes later, he would come back with cooked milk tea in a kettle, accompanied by a Hunza version of the Pakistani Omelette.

The Hunza food is as simple and uncomplicated as the Hunzai people are. As I would eat, I would watch the mustard light grow stronger on the seven thousand-meter mountains before me. I would watch the mountain as if it were a painting. A painting of many colours and many details. Or like a sculpture of many angles, and several tool marks. How landscape is pure art would amaze me — how no colour combination in landscape are wrong would challenge my mind. How the creator is the artist would make me feel humble and shy. All my efforts to art and aesthetics are so small, I thought. But each morning as I stared and felt the crisp air on my ears and cheeks, I thanked the creator for giving me the senses to be overwhelmed by his creation.

First Stars

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 1 comments

by

Rida Tariq

The darkening firmament
heralds the approaching night.
Watching, I reflect and
I see my life,
besmirched by a dark loss...
I look at the smoky sky
and I wonder why,
Surprised at the likeness
of the dim welkins and
my fogging life
Once more
I rub my cold feet
as I soliloquise---
How cold can one be!
And
As the hurt of it all sinks deeper
Warm fears threaten to erupt
My eyes now afraid to blink
keep staring towards the heavens
and I see them melt---
The first stars of a long night.

Ramblings Of A Confused Mind - II

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 1 comments

by

Saurabh Datta

He was confused. Walking down the stairs of the town hall, hands tucked in his pockets, his face covered with woolen scarf, saving him from the winter chill. The scene had a definitive murkiness to itself. Was it his state of mind or was it for real? He tried to re-collect what had happened.
It was so surreal.
While sifting through the rubble in an archeological site located just north of this sleepy little town, he had stumbled upon a strange box. It was covered with mud. But that didn’t hide the intricate carvings on the box. There were inscriptions which he couldn’t decipher. He wondered how such an obvious object could not catch the eye of professional archeologists.
He picked up the box and cleaned it. The inscriptions were in what seemed like a mix of small and bigger lines. Curious, he opened the box. The latch was hard. It was not opening. He applied a little more pressure and the latch clicked. The click sound was so loud that it echoed all around him. Suddenly he was afraid. He had seen The Mummy last week on HBO. And the thought of uncovering such a box was bringing him mixed emotions of joy and dread.
Temptation got the better of him. He held the latch and opened the box. To his amusement, inside the box was a film roll negative. There wasn’t much sunlight so he couldn’t gather what was the roll all about. But it seemed strange to find a film roll after going through the emotions of temptation and dread. May be the Mummy happened only in the movies.
He took the roll and drove back to a photo studio. The place was owned by a friend, who allowed him to use the lab. He got down to developing the roll. In the red light of the dark room, he saw the photographs developing.
He suddenly caught the table for support. An all of sudden dread had gripped him. The pictures had him lying on the floor in front of the town-hall, covered all in blood. Just at the foot of the stairs his body lay, shredded with bullets.
He was confused. Was this some kind of a joke? Fate was playing a joke on him. He had heard of storied of Abraham Lincoln knowing of his death before hand. But how could this be. He was just an ordinary man. Yes, he had been cruel in some ways. But what was this?
He tried looking for more in the pictures. There was a car. A familiar face looking out of the window. Was she going kill him? Yes, they had problems, but why would she kill him. In an instant he realized it was her friend who was instigating here. He had ignored him. People had told him she was having an affair. He had ignored. He loved her despite the problems.
He looked closer. Her friend was also there. He was crouched in front of him, as if hiding something. May be the gun!!
He fell back on the chair in the red light draped lab. He was supposed to be at the town hall in an hour. He would kill them before they did him. He had always been a winner. He would prove this to be a joke.
He checked his gun and walked out.
He drove his car to the town hall. Before stepping out, he checked the bullets. He would kill them before they did him.
He went in and finished his work. And then came the time he was waiting for.

He was confused. Walking down the stairs of the town hall, hands tucked in his pockets, his face covered with woolen scarf, saving him from the winter chill. The scene had a definitive murkiness to itself. Was it his state of mind or was it for real?

He saw him standing at the foot of the stairs. She was in the car. Looking out. Hiding her face. He walked as if not noticing her. He pushed the safety latch of his gun. Walked to him and pulled the gun on his face. The man seemed to be speechless. Suddenly something hit him in the leg. He pressed the trigger.
As if in slow motion, at the same instant one of the guards saw this man pull out a gun on the Mayor. He did what he was taught to do. He pulled the safety and in an instant opened fire. Hitting the man in the legs first. As he opened fire, he slipped. And the shot went awry. It hit the assassin in chest. The man fell down.
The guard moved fast to secure the Mayor. He was also lying on the ground. He turned the mayor around. He had been shot in the shoulder. He was safe. A woman came running out of a car. And crouched at the dead assassin. Other guards also came in to secure the location. Meanwhile he walked to the dead assassin; there were some photographs on the ground near the body. He picked one and fell back at what he saw.
It had him standing over the body of the assassin looking at the picture.

Ek Patjhar Ja Raha Hai

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 2 comments

by

Gurinder Singh

Ek patjhar ja raha hai.
Ek patjhar ja raha hai.

Dard ke antim pahar mein
Asha ki chandni taley ullas ka sagar jhilmila raha hai
Ek patjhar ja raha hai.

Subah ke dhundalke mein lupt koi
Jeb me padi hansi khankhanaa raha hai.
Ek patjhar ja raha hai.

Raat ki hayat ka bujh chuka deepak,
Nabh mein sarson ke phool sa sooraj lahlahaa raha hai
Ek patjhar ja raha hai.