I’ll turn all the lights off

And I would stay in the darkness…

Fejzë Demiri was born on 15 January 1997, in Stubell, Gjakove (Kosovo). He studied at the “FAMA” College, General Psychology branch, in Pristina, (Kosovo). His books include: Dedicating verses I, poetry (2012), Dedicating verses II, poetry (2014), In the Sea of Love and Saying (wise words and authorial thoughts), 2016; When the soul is thirsty, Fishta (Pristina, 2016); Candles for light, Pristina (2017); Time pain, Pristina (2018); My little one, Pristina (2019) and The Spirit with Dad, Prishtina (2020).

FOR YOU

For you

I’ll turn all the lights off

And I would stay in the darkness

I will also turn off the last candle, burned flame

Of spirits

Because, neither the light

Will have any sense without you.

***

LOVE COHESION

Darling

Wait for me to come one day

As particle molecules

Wait for me

Let’s get together, in this cohesion of love.

GATEWAY OF THE HEART

Whenever you feel lonely

You can open the gateway of my heart

There is still room for exit – entry.

***

CANDLES FOR LIGHT

How many candles are lit?

To get rid of this darkness

But I did not know

That the darkness extinguishes all candles.

***

I WILL COME

I’ll come one day

To remove your tears

I’ll be your smile

Although I won’t be with you

I’ll be in your footsteps

Let me please

To be your sleep

***

LIFE WITH UPS AND DOWNS

Why does my life bring me torrential rains?

Nausea, fatigue

You know how much I need the sun, light and knowledge

Sometimes I try not to stop the light in the tower,

 the shepherd’s fiddle

Do not exhaust the water source

Why does my life force me to say the word without weighing it

A distinguished man

I removed as much as I could, I didn’t chock the snake, the worm

I didn’t even destroy a wasp’s nest

Before you finish eating

I was not in the habit of leaving the table

In the past I loved art, beauty

With an espresso coffee I dived into the deep ocean of thought

Infinite Space

And my life blames me for not doing more,

That I could not stop the vanities of time

Why does my life demand things I can’t do?

I don’t even have the strength to change them

If you walk on the street

I only managed to wipe his tears

Please don’t blame me, out of skin

I can’t go out.

___________________  

Read: Keep Moving Forward- Poetry from Kosovo

The post For You… Poetry from Kosovo first appeared on Sindh Courier.

On 14 August 1947, the Citizens’ Celebrations Committee had erected sixteen ceremonial gates along the route. Each one bore the name of a distinguished citizen – political leaders, religious figures, intellectuals and national heroes. One of the sixteen was a Hindu – Dr. Hemandas Wadhwani.

Saaz Aggarwal

On 14 August 1947, the day Pakistan came into being, Karachi was swept up in jubilant celebration. A three-mile state procession wound its way through the city, led by Viceroy Louis Mountbatten and Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the Quaid-e-Azam – Great Leader – of the new nation. Military units lined the route of the procession, while overhead, fighter planes dipped in salute. Crowds gathered at every corner – cheering, waving, witnessing the birth of a country.

To mark the occasion, the Citizens’ Celebrations Committee had erected sixteen ceremonial gates along the route. Each one bore the name of a distinguished citizen – political leaders, religious figures, intellectuals and national heroes – among them three future Prime Ministers of Pakistan, pioneering voices of the Pakistan Movement, spiritual heads of major communities, and iconic city-builders.

One of the sixteen was a Hindu – Dr. Hemandas Wadhwani.

An eminent but forgotten Wadhwani

I came across his name quite by chance while working on the family history of a Wadhwani family, and was intrigued. A few older relatives with memories of Sindh had mentioned Dr. Hemandas – a medical doctor with a practice in Jacobabad. Some thought back with faraway expressions and vaguely recalled that he had once been a minister in Sindh.

Curious, I began piecing together his story through online searches and scattered mentions, and found more than I expected. Most striking of all was a Dawn report dated 15 August 1947, quoted by Khurram Ali Shafique on The Republic of Rumi website – which mentioned the sixteen ceremonial gates.

Who was this prominent Wadhwani, honoured on the day Pakistan was born – and now almost entirely forgotten? From news reports, gazetteer entries, and administrative records of the time, a shadowy picture emerged: that of a widely respected physician and high-ranking public servant. These findings enhanced the family memories.

What Kanu remembered

Kanu Wadhwani (1934-2022) was 84 when I first met him. He had lived in Jacobabad as a child where his father Hiranand (Dr. Hemandas’s father’s brother) was headmaster of the Municipal High School. He had fond memories of his well-settled older cousin, and the three-story family home with its arches, red pillars, wide verandas, and spacious rooms, overlooking the Begaree Wah. Dr. Hemandas’s clinic was in the house and several of the rooms doubled as a nursing home. When Kanu’s elder brother Moti contracted typhoid, the family moved from their government quarters to live in the family home, where a safe and comfortable convalescence was assured.

Kanu’s memories of his loving, always-cheerful uncle are balanced by Dr. Hemandas’s formidable reputation as a skilled and dedicated doctor across the Upper Sindh Frontier region and Baluchistan, where he was responsible for many social activities.

The esteemed doctor saab of Jacobabad

When devastating floods struck Jacobabad in 1929, Dr. Hemandas led the relief efforts. He was again at the forefront during the Quetta earthquake of 1935, in which more than forty thousand lives were lost from a population of sixty thousand.

He served as Honorary Secretary of the Indian Red Cross Society in Sindh, implementing global practices he had encountered while volunteering with the Red Cross Society Leagues in London and Paris. His MBBS degree was from Grant Medical College in Bombay, and he had enhanced his skills with specialized courses in diseases of the Ear, Nose, and Throat in Vienna. A long-serving member of the Jacobabad Municipality and Chairman of both the Sanitary and Primary School Boards, he also established a Child Welfare Centre in the town. One of its most beloved initiatives was the annual Baby Show – a joyful community event with a public health purpose.

Dr. Hemandas’s greatest motivation was to promote hygiene and nutrition across the region. Grateful families credited him with significantly reducing maternal mortality in Jacobabad and with training midwives who later served across Sindh. Perhaps it was his dedication that earned him the title Kaiser-e-Hind from the British colonial government.

One of his most enduring efforts was the establishment of Dow Medical College in Karachi. When Sir Hugh Dow, Governor of Sindh, laid the foundation stone of the college, he reportedly said of Dr. Hemandas:

His efforts were untiring; he would accept no discouragement, and it is certain that this scheme would not have been brought to the stage which we see today had it not been for his enthusiastic and dedicated work. I have done my best to second his efforts, but in my opinion the college might have been more appropriately named after him than after me.

As Dr. Hemandas rose to prominence across the province, he remained a kind and good-natured man – loved by his family and widely respected by the people of Upper Sindh Frontier and Baluchistan.

The rise to eminence

When Sindh was separated from the Bombay Presidency in 1936 and established its own government, he was put up as the candidate of the Indian National Congress from Jacobabad and won a resounding victory. He was appointed Minister of Health for Sindh, and his time was divided between Jacobabad and Karachi. In Karachi, he set up a nursing home next to his residence and the road was named in his honour: Hemandas Wadhwani Road.

Although the British government had postponed independence until the Second World War had ended, negotiations were already underway. Among the senior officials involved in these high-level discussions was Dr. Hemandas Wadhwani. Were these the reasons he was honoured as one of sixteen eminent citizens of Pakistan – with a ceremonial gate bearing his name on the day the country was born?

He stayed on as long as he could

Gradually, things began to change. Sindh had not been partitioned; Hindus had lived there as a peaceful and prosperous minority for centuries, and at first, there was no reason for them to leave. But Partition had created a tide of desperate new arrivals – refugees who had been promised a homeland, and who looked to Sindh to begin again.

Kanu’s family left in September 1947, after a traumatic incident in which their home was raided. He remembered his father walking calmly to the front door and opening it, as the police inspector in charge of the search entered. His terror turned to astonishment when the inspector bowed before Kaka and assured him that the house would not be searched. Hiranand had once been his school headmaster in Jacobabad – how could he violate the home of a man he still respected? But the officer pleaded with Hiranand to leave Pakistan, warning that it was becoming increasingly dangerous for Hindus.

It was Dr. Hemandas who arranged passage for the family on one of the ships evacuating non-Muslims from Karachi to Bombay. Kanu remembered his father weeping at the port, and others around him trying to console him, saying there was nothing anyone could do.

Dr. Hemandas and his family remained in Sindh until 1950. Who can imagine the shifts that finally forced them to leave – the disillusionment, the helplessness, the loss of all the goodwill and prestige he had built over decades of hard work?

Their first home away from Sindh was in Udaipur, where Dr. Hemandas was welcomed as personal doctor to the Maharaja, whose treatment he continued for nearly a year. It’s unclear how this association had formed, but the family had links to Udaipur – it had been the first port of call for several relatives after Partition. This included Kanu’s family, who were allotted two rooms in a large house known as Iron Bungalow, shared with seven other displaced Sindhi families – their first home as refugees.

From Udaipur, Dr. Hemandas moved to Indore, where he tried, unsuccessfully, to set up a business selling steel vessels for his son Moti. Eventually, he, Totibai, and their differently-abled son Gopal moved to Bombay. Moti, his wife Kamala, and their sons Vijay and Ashok – both born in Sindh – and baby Ravi, born in Jhansi, settled in Pimpri. In time, the family came together again in Colaba, Bombay.

Our family physician, the former Health Minister

Building up a professional practice takes years, and Dr. Hemandas was one of the thousands of illustrious Sindhi professionals who had lost everything and did not have the resources to start all over. In time, patients came – largely from families who had known him in Sindh. Many travelled from the refugee camps in Kalyan, a journey of nearly three hours, having complete faith in his treatment. Colaba had a large Sindhi population too. Dr. Hemandas established the Colaba Sindhi Panchayat and Bombay Sindhi Panchayat where medical treatment was provided free of cost.

Among the many Sindhi families who made Colaba their home was that of my grandfather, Presidency Magistrate K. J. Bijlani. That home in Colaba remained a center for gatherings and happy times for our family, all the way till 2003.

When I asked two of my uncles if they remembered Dr. Hemandas, it turned out that his home had been right nearby. To my amazement, they recalled him vividly – because he had been the family physician! However, they had not the faintest idea that he had once been an important public figure in Sindh. What they did remember, the kind of detail children are so likely to retain, was the lisp with which he spoke.

My uncle Hiru, who was born in February 1948 at the peak of post-Partition trauma (the family had migrated just months earlier in November 1947), had been sickly as a child. He remembered Dr. Hemandas as kind and reassuring. On phone consultations he would say, “Haa, haa, samjhi vyus – yes, yes, I understand”. Someone would then be sent over to collect the medicine he dispensed.

The Ramayana mix-up and the darbar servant

For some years I believed that in the completely altered life after Partition, Dr. Hemandas revived a tradition initiated by his grandmother Chetibai when he was a little boy in Sindh, encouraging him, “Ramayana ji katha budhaye – tell us a story from the Ramayana!” People would gather round to sit and listen when he did. This became a daily routine, and it gave the comfort of home to many who had carried on with stoic acceptance after their lives had been upturned.

However, in November 2024 I finally got the opportunity to meet Ashok Wadhwani, Dr. Hemandas’s grandson, who had grown up in the Colaba home and he was adamant that no such routine ever took place there! Kanu had passed on. There was no one else I could check with. Confused, somewhat sheepish that I may have got my facts wrong, I went back to Kanu’s recordings. Eventually it became clear that I had misheard. It was Rupchand, Hemandas’s father, whose Ramayana katha was so popular.

Seventy-four when Partition took place, Hiranand’s brother Rupchand resolutely stayed on in Sindh. His wife Jasoda and their brother Thakurdas were both no more. While most of the family left Sindh, Rupchand chose to stay. Long steeped in the life of contemplation, of “seeking the beloved” that was so common in Sindh, he moved to his darbar – a traditional Sindhi place of worship usually maintained by generations of a family – in Kambar. There, he swept the floors himself and referred to himself humbly as “Darbar jo naukar Rupo – Rupo, a servant of the darbar”.

After the pogrom of 6 January 1948, when mobs began attacking gurmandars, tikanos, darbars and other Hindu places of worship, moving from the cities into interior Sindh, the Kambar Darbar’s devotees fled as well. With help from its followers, the community reconvened in Kandivali, a suburb of Bombay. Some years later, Rupchand moved to live with his son – once the health minister of Sindh – now leading an unassuming life in Colaba.

The memory of the daily katha was not Dr. Hemandas’s – but it remains part of the family’s atmosphere of comfort, continuity, and reconstruction in a world turned upside down.

A lasting legacy – with an invisible donor

While in Bombay it is the memory of Dr. Hemandas’s gentle lisp that lives on, in Sindh his legacy endures – not only through infrastructure and institutions, but through a model of civic service, compassion, and professional excellence. His contributions to Dow Medical College, the Indian Red Cross Society’s work in Sindh, and the Jacobabad Child Welfare Centre, along with the public health practices he pioneered, continued to shape the region’s medical and social fabric long after his departure – and long after his name was erased from plaques and street signs.

Dr. Hemandas was one of many illustrious Hindus of Sindh whose work remained even as their names vanished from public memory. I felt a little better about this when my uncle Moti told me about Dr. Hemandas’s funeral procession: that it had been enormous, numbering hundreds.

The local population probably wondered what all the fuss was about.

Read: ‘Sunrise Over Valivade’: A historical record and an intimate family account

__________________

Saaz Aggarwal is an independent researcher, writer and artist based in Pune, India. Her body of writing includes biographies, translations, critical reviews and humour columns. Her books are in university libraries around the world, and much of her research contribution in the field of Sindh studies is easily accessible online.

Courtesy: Sindh Stories 

This article first appeared in Scroll on 15 August 2025

Images courtesy Ashok Wadhwani, Dr. Hemandas’s grandson.

The post A Gate that Rekindles Hemandas Memory first appeared on Sindh Courier.

[Nicat HUNALP is a promising young Azerbaijani poet and writer, a member of the Union of Azerbaijani Writers and the World Union of Young Turkic Writers]

Jakhongir NOMOZOV | Uzbekistan

— You studied History at the university. What is the importance of history for a poet’s heart? How has this subject influenced your poetic thinking?

Yes, I studied in the History faculty at Sumgait State University from 2015 to 2019. I have been passionate about history since a young age. By the time I was nine or ten, I was already reading historical encyclopedias, exploring ancient civilizations, Turkic peoples, and mythologies. History, for me, is not merely a collection of events, but also the spirit, memory, and spiritual code accumulated within a people.

This historical spirit shines through openly in my poetry. In poems like “Where Did the Horses Lead Their Ancestors?”, “Wolf’s Memory”, and “Shaman Writes My Dream”, you can find the worldview of ancient Turks, the spirit of shamanism, and the philosophy of the steppes. Even the Uzbek–translated version of “Where Did the Horses Lead Their Ancestors?” in your publication carries the echo of this historical soul.

— When you write, do you feel closer to yourself or further away?

When I write, I move away from myself. The writing process becomes a kind of self‑loss. To immerse in the depth of one’s own lines and become another version of Nicat — perhaps that is the path to reach Nicat himself again. Writers and poets typically have a different mindset, which occasionally separates them from their society.

Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Camus, Sadegh Hedayat — their works were born in the depths of their personal labyrinths. When I write, I enter those labyrinths as well.

— Can a genuine poem be born without an inner ache, without a sense of wonder or beauty?

No, it is impossible. A poem is the poetic embodiment of something lived and truly felt. Lines written without feeling that ache—without that inner burn—remain lifeless. Consider the Soviet‑era forced poems: ideological, mechanical, artificial. History has sifted them out — today, neither the poems nor the names of those poets are remembered. For history despises deceit, and literature does not tolerate heartless words.

— Have you ever faced false praise or baseless criticism? How did they affect you?

Yes, quite often. False praise has become a habit in our circles. Sometimes they shower you with hollow compliments—it may feel nice for a moment, but then you realize it was meant to stroke someone’s ego, not yours.

Baseless criticism, on the other hand, can burn you. But over time, I understood that a writer must learn to endure not only criticism but also silence and misunderstanding.

— In your poetry, is history just a subject, or is it also spirit, memory, remembrance?

In my work, history is more than plot—it’s a state of mind. It’s not just about remembering; it’s about carrying that spirit, bringing it into the present, keeping it alive. In my lines, you can hear the echo of Attila’s or Asparukh’s horses’ hoofbeats: the 12th‑century Mongol shaman recites a prayer, Genghis Khan on his steed symbolically sees through the Chinese wall with his fierce eyes, wise figures and oracles like Tonyukuk recite the earliest and final songs of the Turkic people in the Orkhon inscriptions. Each line carries the breath of that spirit.

— How does a poetic mind develop? Does thought give birth to inspiration, or does inspiration give birth to thought?

They are processes that give birth to each other, complementing one another. Sometimes a moment of reflection triggers inspiration; other times a spontaneous wave of inspiration plunges a person into deep thought. But I believe that sustained creativity requires a structured thinking system. Inspiration may come and go—but the intellect should not abandon you.

— How do philosophy and spirituality merge in your work? Was that fusion natural, or born of searching?

At first, it was a natural state for me. But as time passed, I realized that the philosophical layer in each line is no coincidence. It stems from my inner spiritual quest as well as from the influence of philosophers and poets I’ve read — Nizami, Nasimi, Omar Khayyam, Navoiy, Rumi, and others. Spirituality comes from the heart; philosophy is the voice of the mind. When they unite, the poem becomes deeper and more enduring.

— Should a poet hide their feelings, or transfer them onto paper exactly as they are?

A poet is the voice for what cannot be spoken. To conceal is a trait of fear. I believe that a true poem should not remain silent. That is why they skinned Nasimi alive for refusing to be silent. True poets cannot be contained in palaces — as Nasimi said, they are too vast to be contained in the world.

— How do you distinguish between “creating” a poem and “finding” one?

“Creating” refers to expressing an idea you formed internally into words. “Finding” refers to discovering a thought that already existed somewhere, and capturing it. I believe poetry is often found — emerging from a dream, a moment of silence, a glance. It hovers in the air, and you catch it. But catching it is also a creative act.

— How does your personal life reflect in your work? And how do you transform the personal into the universal?

My personal life is the core of my creativity. But I don’t present it just as it happened; I filter it into universal emotions. For example, when writing about a separation, I don’t consider only my own sorrow—I think about the feelings of thousands. The poet’s role is to transform what he has lived into what everyone can feel. Personal pain becomes part of collective suffering—and that is how literature is born.

I hope this translation captures the depth, sincerity, and poetic nuance of the original. Let me know if you’d like any adjustments or poetic enhancements!

Read: Artists Have To Foster Global Peace

________________

Jakhongir NOMOZOV Is a young poet and journalist from Uzbekistan.  He is also a Member of the Union of Journalists of Azerbaijan and the World Young Turkic Writers Union.

The post Fake Words Fade, Truths Endure Eternally first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Tom Arms

President William McKinley is Donald Trump’s favorite president because he imposed “beautiful tariffs.”

Trump is right. He did support tariffs. Mainly while he was in Congress. But also in 1897, at the start of his presidency when the Dingley Act imposed the biggest tariffs in American history. But what Trump has apparently forgotten—or, more likely, never knew—is that by 1899, McKinley was seriously going off tariffs and shortly before his assassination wrote a speech supporting free trade.

McKinley was focused on “reciprocity agreements” which was a sort of you-lower-your-tariff-and- we-will-lower- ours sort of arrangement. His focus was on other countries in the Western Hemisphere. A sort of expanded NAFTA agreement. In 1899 President Mckinley was the leading force behind the creation of the Pan American Union which was seen as the first step towards lowering tariffs throughout the Americas.

The 1901 Pan American Exposition in Buffalo, New York was the idea venue to pursue this low tariff proposal for North and South America. And on September 5, 1901 he told a crowd of 50,000 that reciprocity treaties with other nations were needed to assure American manufacturers access to foreign markets, especially in countries in the Western Hemisphere.

The September 5 speech would have been a scene-setter for an even bigger speech on which McKinley had been working. Unfortunately for the world of 2025, Trump’s favourite president never gave that speech because he was assassinated on September 6 by anarchist Leon Czolgosz.

The speech that was never delivered, however, the text as been lodged in the National Archives. It proves that Mckinley was preparing to say that “the development of trade and commerce in the Western Hemisphere must become a mutual and beneficial work.

“We have only one road to travel to achieve this, and that is the road of fair and equitable trade relations. The economic relations between the nations of the Western Hemisphere are destined to be the most important for future progress. My administration is prepared to meet the future of this region with a policy of cooperation, and trade agreements founded upon mutual benefit.

“The reduction of tariffs and the improvement of trade agreements are not merely abstract goals. They are essential to securing peace and prosperity. This administration will continue to push for the policy of lowering tariffs, so as to improve the efficiency and fairness of trade, which will allow the people of all nations involved to benefit.

“We seek no special privileges or advantage over our neighbors but advocate a policy of peace and free trade among all nations of this hemisphere. Our aim is to remove unnecessary obstacles to trade and to advance the interests of our industries by promoting better relations with all of our neighboring countries.”

Not exactly Trumpian, is it?

American tariffs were the brainchild of the financial wizard of the founding fathers—Alexander Hamilton. The industrial revolution was just getting underway when America won its independence and Hamilton realized that if the infant America was going to compete in the new age then it needed a manufacturing base and that base needed to be protected in order to grow.

In fact, the US constitution was specifically written with tariffs in mind. Article One Section Eight stipulated that Congress (Note: not the president) shall pass laws to collect taxes “including duties, imports and excises.” There was even a reference to a special tax on imported slaves. Income tax was ruled out by omission.

But by 1900 Hamiltonian tariffs had been so successful in building American industry that it was on the brink of surpassing Britain and Germany. It was already the leading producer of steel and oil, had developed a major textile industry and was a leader in technological innovation. America’s biggest problem was that it was restricted by the size of its domestic market, which was growing but not fast enough. The United States needed access to foreign markets through free trade and McKinley realized it.

McKinley’s economic policies were continued by his successor Teddy Roosevelt who continued to lower tariffs. But it was not until 1913 and the administration of Woodrow Wilson that income tax was introduced. It required a constitutional amendment—the 16th. Tariffs nosedived as McKinley—Trump’s hero—intended.

Read: Observations of an Expat: Boycott!

_______________

Tom Arms is foreign editor of Liberal Democrat Voice. He can be emailed at Tom.arms195@gmail.com

The post Observations of an Expat: McKinley Advocated Free Trade first appeared on Sindh Courier.

The political parties have realized over several decades of democratizing that manifesto is no more than a mouth-wash

Dr. Jernail S. Anand        

The real danger to the country is from those people who protect the violators of public morality. And, last but not the least, ordinary man wants to have a country where ‘there is no fear, and one can walk with his head held high’. This is the dream of an ordinary man. His manifesto. It cannot be treated as a popular mouth-wash. Who will take the call? 

Ordinarily, only political parties have an election manifesto. But who knows when things get into reverse gear and we, the people, think of the people having an election manifesto. India is a thriving democracy and no one can doubt our democratic credentials. Stray incidents apart, we never lose our calm. Even the great upsets in the apple cart have not been able to make us lose our faith in the democratic ideal. If anyone has shaken our faith in democracy, it is the politician, the leader, for whom power means everything and who can compromise all morals and ethics to stay in power.

India has been the ‘Punya bhoomi’ on which were seen great sages and seers and prophets take birth to resolve apocalyptic crises, as in Ramayana and then, in Mahabharata. But the touch of the divine which should have been seen in the consciousness of the country is missing. If people talk of religion and spirituality, it is only to grab power. India’s status as a great spiritual nation stands badly mauled today because of the foul deeds of our politicians, that too in the name of religion.

Religion should be separated from politics. There should be food counters at easy prices. Corrupt officials and leaders should be mortally afraid of the state power. Police should be free from political control.

Election Manifesto is a Mouth-Wash

The political parties have realized over several decades of democratizing that manifesto is no more than a mouth-wash. It has no legal sanction. And, therefore, each one of them tries to paint the future as colorfully as it can. Political parties stuff their manifestoes with almost everything, including promising the moon. The Govt. at the Centre came to power on the agenda of development. Except some roads being widened, and tall talk on bullet trains, there is little real development, except in the suicide rate by the farmers, and the flourishing of the drug trade, at the behest of foreign powers, as our leaders very insightfully have us believe.  The people might be feeling the pinch of electing people who become absolutely irresponsible, and totally insensitive, to their needs, once they are elected. We have unresponsive, irresponsible, insensitive governments running for five years, and we have no means to pull them down, if they leave their promised manifesto and take up some hidden, undeclared agenda.

The Organized Media

We are convinced by the organized media that the heavy consignments of drugs caught at the border, are destroyed, and they do not fall into the hands of the police people, nor are they, thereafter, sold to the slumbering youth of the nation. That the best way to provide jobs is to encourage the private agents to export our youngsters to Canada or Panama. That it is better to be second rate citizens in a developed country like USA and UK, and do slaving in farms [mortgaging their own, back in India].  We have no problem in uttering with full mouth, all the slogans they would want from us.

Citizens’ Election Manifesto

In such a scenario, where politics has been reduced to a crazy game of wealth, power, politics and religion, an ordinary man finds himself transfixed, as to who will vouch for his wellbeing?  The social and political environment in the country has taken a nosedive. Who bothers about the common man and his needs? Instead of bullet trains, he wants free medical facilities and hospitals to have doctors and nurses and medicines too. He wants that for genuine students, education should be free, or heavily subsidized. Jobs on full pay to be available on the basis of genuine merit. He wants that the budget on education be more than the budget spent on war preparedness. More schools and more universities should be opened so that students could be given proper training.

Read: The Vacuum at the Centre of the Transformational Politics

Religion should be separated from politics. There should be food counters at easy prices. Corrupt officials and leaders should be mortally afraid of the state power. Police should be free from political control.

Electoral Politics needs Review

Elections should be held once in five years, but we should elect two governments. The majority party rules for the first half, while the largest opposition party takes over for the rest of the period. National policy is decided once for all by a Politburo of leaders of all parties. Ordinary man does not want foul mouthed election propaganda. No rallies. All electioneering should be done on the electronic media. Three months before the election date, there should be President’s rule, and the central forces brought in to ensure free and fair poll. No party should ever think of buying votes, offering liquor, or capturing booths.

Wisdom Pool

The governments in the states, where the elections are to be held, should be stopped from taking policy decisions, as in America. The leaders will resign from their govt. jobs, and their business interests also; only then, they will be sworn in. A politician should have two terms only. All leaders should retire at 65.  There should be a Wisdom Pool consisting of all the retired politicians, cutting across party lines, where they could debate on the problems and the possibilities for the nation. The assets of the leaders will be under constant surveillance by an independent agency. It should not take five years to assess their wealth. As soon as it is found they are playing foul, they should be divested of power.

Batting for Clean Administration

An ordinary man wants clean administration. Clean leaders. Clean environs. And clean corridors of power. Those who play foul with the nation, loot its wealth, and fill Swiss banks, are the real traitors. The real danger to India is from those people who protect the violators of public morality.  And, last but not the least, ordinary man wants to have a country where ‘there is no fear, and one can walk with his head held high’. This is the dream of an ordinary man. His manifesto. It cannot be treated as a popular mouth-wash. Who will take the call?

Read: The Descent of Indian Statesmanship to Salesmen

________________

Dr. Jernail S. Anand is a socialist campaigner, an ideologue who heads the International Academy of Ethics and authored 170 books. Winner of the international award Charter of Morava, his name is inscribed on Poets’ Rock in Serbia. A rare achievement for an Indian author, who was the only one to be honoured by the Serbian Writers Association after Rabindra Nath Tagore in 1926 – Contact: anandjs55@yahoo.com

The post IS ELECTION MANIFESTO NO MORE THAN A POPULAR MOUTH WASH? first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Shoukat Lohar is Assistant professor in English at Mehran University of Engineering and Technology Jamshoro. He can be reached at Shoukat.ali@faculty.muet.edu.pk

An elegy: Remembering the Gallantry of Hussain!

In the realm of sorrow,

Let my words now flow,

A tale of anguish, where tears ceaselessly flow.

Amidst the pages of history, a chapter unfolds,

Of Karbala’s tragedy,

Where a mighty tale was told.

It’s time, by dodge,

The Brutus Kufi wrote,

A letter of defiance,

With courage he spoke.

For Great Hussain, a noble soul so revered,

He embarked on a

Journey, undeterred and fearless.

To Karbala they ventured,

Seventy-two strong,

Men, women, and children, a faithful throng.

But deceit awaited, as Yazid’s treachery spread,

A web of lies and falsehood, the righteous bled.

Yazid, the deceiver, his true colors unmasked,

A tyrant, a cheat, in his heart darkness basked.

Hussain, undeterred, stood firm and condemned,

For he knew the path of righteousness wouldn’t bend.

With gallantry, he fought, never kneeling down,

Defending truth and justice, his noble crown.

Through the scorching sands, his banner held high,

A symbol of unwavering strength, touching the sky.

In Muharram, we gather, hearts heavy with pain,

To remember the

Sacrifice, to honor Hussain’s name.

Lessons echo through time,

A sacred legacy,

To be uncompromising before despotism’s decree.

Karbala’s tale, a tragic and solemn decree,

A reminder of valor and unwavering loyalty.

In Hussain’s memory, an elegy we proclaim,

A tribute to his greatness, forever aflame.

So let us weep for Karbala, shed tears for Hussain,

For his sacrifice resonates, our souls it does sustain.

In the annals of history, his name shall forever endure,

A beacon of inspiration, his legacy pure.

***

Karoonjhar Hills Hearts Above!

In the heart of Sindh, a memory stands tall,

Karoonjhar Hills, witness to it all.

A history’s glory etched upon its face,

Symbol of dignity for this ancient place.

Like the mighty Indus, it flows with pride,

A symbol of heritage, never to subside.

Just as Shah Latif’s verses gracefully soar,

Karoonjhar’s greatness we must restore.

But why, oh why, have you turned a blind eye?

To sell your soil and hills, heedless of the cry?

Are you not Sindhi, in heart and soul?

Or descendants of invaders taking their toll?

Your insatiable hunger, never appeased,

Conquering prosperity, the Sindhi people squeezed.

Robbing them of their language, their pride,

Enough is enough, it’s time to decide!

No more will we let you auction our land,

Imperialistic ways, we can’t withstand.

Your atrocities, like wounds, run deep,

But we rise together, from slumber, we leap.

“You,” the new-era Brutus, heartless and cold,

Rasputin of corporations, your grip takes hold.

Hitler of this time, spreading fear and hate,

Genghis Khan reborn, your greed won’t abate.

But know this now, we’ll resist and fight,

Against your oppression, with all our might.

Sindh will stand tall, undeterred,

And into Karoonjhar, your tyranny will be interred.

United, we’ll save our cultural identity,

Preserve our history,

Our precious Karoonjhar, undoubtedly.

Let the winds carry our call across the land,

Stop the cutting, let Karoonjhar’s legacy forever stand.

______________

The post An Elegy: Remembering the Gallantry of Hussain! first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Astana

Special US Representative for Afghanistan, Thomas West, made a visit to Astana to participate in a special C5+1 session on Afghanistan, as reported by Sputnik with reference to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Kazakhstan.

Diplomats from Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and the USA discussed several issues related to humanitarian assistance, human rights protection, and international cooperation with Afghanistan, as well as security and counterterrorism measures.

Ambassador at Large of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Kazakhstan, Talgat Kaliev, emphasized the importance of a unified and coordinated pragmatic approach to stabilizing the situation in Afghanistan.

The US special envoy held a meeting with Kazakhstan’s First Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, Kayrat Umarov. During the meeting, the American side appreciated Kazakhstan’s efforts in providing assistance to the Afghan people and noted measures taken to stabilize the social and economic situation.

Umarov highlighted that Kazakhstan supports the consolidation of international efforts to assist Afghanistan and find ways to address the complex humanitarian crisis.

In particular, attention was drawn to the initiative of Kazakhstan’s President, Kassym-Jomart Tokayev, regarding the establishment of the UN Regional Center for Sustainable Development in Almaty. This center aims to facilitate cooperation between Central Asian countries and Afghanistan in the fields of socio-economic and trade and investment development.

C5+1 is a regional diplomatic platform founded in 2015 for the interaction of five Central Asian countries (Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan) with the USA in areas of mutual interest, including trade and economics.

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Courtesy: Central Asian Light (Posted on July 28, 2023)

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Miryam Zakheim

One rainy December evening, Agatha Christie disappeared without a trace, as if she were swallowed up by the ground.

All of Britain was anxious about the fate of their beloved novelist, and thousands of fans and volunteers joined in what was, at the time, the largest ever search operation conducted by the British police. Among the volunteers was none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who employed methods that might cause you to raise an eyebrow or two.

It sounds like the plot of a good English detective story. One that Christie herself, or Conan Doyle, could have easily written, but it turns out that reality sometimes trumps fiction.

In December 1926, Agatha Christie was already a famous writer. Her book The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, published a few months earlier, spread her fame beyond England and made her a respected figure in the international literary world. Her married life, however, was not as great a success.

She wed Archie Christie (whose name she kept until her death) on the eve of the First World War, in a hasty decision that was characteristic of many marriages all over the continent at the time.

Their relationship began to fizzle after the war. Archie returned to London from the trench war in France as Colonel Archibald Christie, and typical of the men of his day, he had a hard time dealing with his wife’s independence and professional success.

Agatha, however, was devoted to her family, even with her successful writing career well underway. “I didn’t consider myself a writer. A married woman was a profession in itself. Writing books was something I did on the side,” she said of those years.

Still, that “something she did on the side” was a sensation that brought publishers and fans knocking on her door while driving her husband away.

On the night she disappeared, her husband confessed to her that he was in love with another woman—Nancy Neele— that he had been having an affair with her for two years and that he wanted a divorce. After dropping this bombshell, he left their house to spend the weekend in the arms of his mistress (who would later become his wife). Christie then went into her daughter’s bedroom, gave her sleeping child a kiss, and then she too left the house.

She didn’t come back

Her car was found the next day between an abandoned quarry and a lake, with its headlights on and the motor still running. Inside was a bag with her personal belongings and an expired driver’s license.

Britain was gripped with worry. Did the beloved writer commit suicide? Had she been murdered? Did she drown in a terrible accident?

Thousands of volunteers (estimates range from 2,000 to 15,000), sniffer dogs and police officers embarked on an unprecedented search. For the first time in the history of the British police, planes were sent to assist in the search. But in vain.

Her disappearance made waves far from Britain’s shores, and was reported in the Jewish press around the world.

This edition of The Palestine Bulletin was also quite detailed:

The editors of the American Yiddish newspapers Forṿerṭs (The Forward) and Der Ṭog devoted more space to the headlines, and in general were much more informative:

It was at this point that no less a figure than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle entered the story. The creator of Sherlock Holmes offered to help with the police search for the vanished murder mystery novelist. However, contrary to what one might have expected, he did not offer Scotland Yard the benefit of his sharp logical mind, instead volunteering to help in a completely unexpected way.

By this point in his life, Conan Doyle had become an ardent spiritualist, something that Sherlock Holmes would have surely curled his lip at. He was now a firm believer in the existence of the world beyond this one as well as our ability to communicate with it.

The police gave Conan Doyle one of Christie’s gloves that was found in the abandoned car. He then took it to a local medium hoping that she would use her special abilities to uncover Christie’s whereabouts. The medium was unable to find out the exact location of the missing person, but declared decisively that she was alive, in no physical danger and would be found soon.

The proof Conan Doyle had been waiting for came eleven days later. A waiter or receptionist at a spa hotel in Harrogate where Christie was staying under a false name recognized her, and contacted the authorities. She was picked up by Archie and the police, safe and sound, her sanity intact, but she never fully explained her disappearance.

The official version (probably put out by her husband) was that she suffered from what would be described today as dissociation, and was not aware of what was happening to her the whole time.

But this explanation, is, shall we say, less plausible than some other possibilities. Did Agatha Christie stage her own disappearance? And if so, to what end?

She never offered an official version of events and the episode is not even mentioned in her autobiography. But years later it came out that on that evening, after abandoning her car, Agatha boarded a train to London, where she stayed the night with a friend in Chelsea Park Gardens.

The cynics tried to claim that it was a brazen publicity stunt. A sort of elaborate ruse to promote her detective novels.

The romantics, on the other hand (and probably also tabloid readers, in other words – almost everyone), thought differently.

Was it an attempt to embarrass her husband (whom the police snatched from Nancy’s bed the night Christie went missing), or worse—to frame him for her murder? Was she trying to shock him so that he would return to her or was it really the mental collapse of a woman who had just discovered the answer to a mystery that had been brewing in her own home for over two years?

In retrospect, we can reasonably assume that the motives were related to the betrayal, since beyond the extraordinarily coincidental timing, it turns out that the pseudonym Christie used to register at the hotel included the last name of her husband’s lover—she called herself “Teresa Neele.”

We will never really know for sure. This mystery, unlike all the hundreds of mysteries she solved for us, will remain just as it is: open and intriguing.

From that point, Agatha Christie’s life took a massively positive turn. She remarried an archaeologist, Max Mallowan, who took her on fascinating journeys around the world, and she won unprecedented professional success, the likes of which no other writer has been able to replicate to this day. Only the Bible and Shakespeare have sold more copies.

In 1971, Christie was made Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire, so in fact proper protocol would decree that we should have added the title “Dame” to her name throughout this article.

Dame Agatha Mary Clarissa Christie passed away on January 12, 1976, taking the secret surrounding her disappearance for eleven days with her to her grave.

_____________________

Courtesy: National Library of Israel (Published on Feb 23, 2023)

The post The Case of Agatha Christie’s Mysterious Disappearance first appeared on Sindh Courier.

“The Mistress Inn” is a newly published novel written by the Egyptian writer Mohammed Baraka. It was given the subtitle “Umm Kulthum tells her veiled story” accordingly as it deals with the unknown side and taboos in the life of Mrs. Umm Kulthum (1898-1975), the legendary icon of music in the Arabic Culture.

Umm Kulthum was the singer who changed the aspects of this art completely and gave it its independent Arabic personality after decades of being just a faint echo or a reflection of the Turkish art. She presented the most famous immortal classical songs which spread widely not only in Egypt but also in all Arab countries from the Ocean to the Gulf. It was not surprising that she held a number of titles, such as “Planet of the East” and “The Mistress of Arabic Singing”. Over the years, Umm Kulthum turned from being an inspiring figure into a sacred icon on both the social and cultural sides. Accordingly, this novel tries to remove the holiness of this character and scratch the statue of the female legend.

This work tackles the unofficial account of Umm Kulthum’s life. It sheds light on her upbringing in a male-dominated society, her father’s preference of her brother over her and the tense relationship with her father, who worked as an imam of a mosque. More light is shed on the period she spent in the religious educational center “Al Kottab” and how she was bullied by her colleagues and persecuted by the Sheikh.

The novel also focuses on the disorder of her physical identity owing to her obligation to wear men’s clothes while singing in humble local weddings and parties for the sake of earning a living for her poor family. The conservative rural society in her village considered femininity a shame, especially when a girl worked in public activities, as a result Umm Kulthum had to keep on wearing men’s clothes even after moving to the Egyptian capital city, Cairo. All these hard circumstances had much to do with causing her disorder in her physical and sexual identity.

One of the crucial events in the stream of the novel is the physical violence she was subjected to by her father and later by her last husband, the dermatologist, when they slapped her in the face more than once.

The novel also records Umm Kulthum’s relations with the excessive political changes in the Middle East in the mid-twentieth century and how, for example, she was subjected to persecution at the beginning of the 1952 Revolution, according to which Egypt was transformed from a monarchy country to a republic. In the beginning of such revolution she was considered a relic of the former monarchy, but Gamal Abdel Nasser, The Leader of the Revolution refuted this claim and apologized to her.

The novel also depicts the exceptional social and class evolution of Umm Kulthum from a very poor illiterate girl into a close friend of kings and presidents.

The narrator of the novel is the spirit or specter of Umm Kulthum which appeared to the author who seated it on the Chair of Confession and let it tell the veiled and unknown story.

Local reaction towards the novel

The novel gained a great deal of approval and was also praised by renowned writers and critics however other writers and critics regarded it as an insult to a historical symbol in the Arabic culture. These loud disagreeing voices led to preventing the author from appearing on some television programs!

Novel strategy

Writing this novel required a very well-planned process preceded by comprehensive research and the documentation of historical resources. We must bear in our minds that the writer invented some imaginary details to serve and strengthen the plot of the novel. Accordingly, we can say that this novel is a fantastic mixture of both restricted reality and literary fiction.

An excerpt from chapter 1

“I have a thick neck, thicker than you think.

My genuine dark skin surprises many of my fans when they look at my old photos after adding color effects. My voice locates in between masculinity and femininity and this is the secret of its exceptional uniqueness. My voice is the brand single copy that God created; He decided not to recreate it because he wanted it to be immortal.

My palm is big and my fingers are not as tender as those of your beautiful daughters.

This is true, perfectly true.

I am the daughter of destitute fellahin who did not hold a single academic degree. My thyroid gland deteriorated and caused my eyelids to resemble those of a witch living in a grave yard. When I wore my black glasses day and night I became a stereo-typed photocopy of an old woman whose only proof of femininity was what is written in the gender field in the ID card. 

My proper name is compound. Its uniqueness goes beyond the traditional classification. It is composed of two syllables: “Umm” means that I am officially female, while “Kulthum” means that a male-fellow is carried on my back in times of touring and travelling.

My marriages are a top secret, what is known about them is surprising, and what is unknown is awfully unbelievable. One husband was bald and plump, another was a butcher boy, and between them there was a history of seduction, sins and passion.

I learned that femininity meant shame, so I lived the sweetest years of my life disguised in a Bedouin headband a blue coat and a tight belt around my waist so that I could prove to everyone that I was a man and son of a man. By doing so, my family managed to avoid being scandalized by having a singer-daughter.

My family didn’t mind enriching over my voice but this came at the expense of my genuine identity.

My body housed a potential scandal, so I wore neither embellished nor silky dresses.

Dragging the tail of her black dress and wrapping her hair with a black veil, the nine-year-old girl had difficulty in breathing in hot August.”

Why this novel interests the European reader

* It presents an exciting thriller about the most powerful woman in the Middle East who managed to overcome all hardships and extreme conditions of oppression and bullying in a patriarchal society – A woman who reached the peak of success in spite of everyone and everything.

* The novel records the social, cultural and political conditions and developments in the Middle East during the twentieth century.

Mohammed Baraka

Mohammed Baraka born in 1972 is an Egyptian writer. He works as a journalist in Al-Ahram, the widely-spread newspaper. He has published five novels and four short story collections so far.

Translated into English by

Mohammed El Hedeiny

The post The Mistress Inn first appeared on Sindh Courier.

‘Chaa khaabe?’ translated into courtesy “Will you have tea”, always made visitors feel welcome. Mostly milk-free, it was lal-chai, of deep red, a color that has almost gone missing in Bengal

By Nazarul Islam

Each one of us, who has lived in the subcontinent of India and the neighboring countries, has carried a bit of Huen Tsang, inside his being. This name always rang a bell for me. My (history) teacher in 1964, Mr. Nalini Sarker had extolled the greatness of the Chinese pilgrim who set foot in India, and captured the ancient images for historical record.

I remember late Nalini Sir’s rebounding voice, and powerful lessons: This was the Chinese pilgrim whose story, we read about in history books in school. He had crossed over to India in the 7th century to study Buddhism, traversed Tashkent to Takshashila to Kanchi in the south, and reportedly, stayed in India for 16 years.

Twenty- years ago, I had visited West Bengal for two weeks. Obviously, my journey was triggered by love for that place, and the fact that one knows so little about it. I mean, beyond Roshogolla, Gurudev Tagore, Satyajit Ray and the Bengal cotton saree, how well do you know your Bengal?

Would you know of ‘matir putuls’ the unmatched clay dolls of Krishnanagar in Nadia district? Or of the ‘mulmul’—fine muslin cloth, woven in Nabadwip and in east Bardhawan of Bengal?

Murshidabad’s silk, Bankura’s terracotta horses, Kantha work from Bolpur near Shantiniketan, Coochbehar’s Bhawaiyya music, the eco-fabric jute along the Hooghly?

Fast forward….In the context of present day Bengal—an election is as good a time as any to know about the state of a state. I asked my distant cousin who still resides in Tiretti Bazar Street Kolkata, to apprise me what was going on in the state, where my ancestors had once, worked and lived. And so his solo sojourn was planned around the time when political mud-slinging would peak and the people would speak. What has made Bengal tick? How has a state that led India in dazzling intellect, freedom consciousness, social reforms, literature and education, now let itself lag in industry and employment?

What was the price that the residents had paid socially and culturally, in the aftermath of Partition that can explain today’s huge border issues and religious divide? A fortnight’s stay may not be expected to magically reveal all the answers, but travel can certainly be the beginning of understanding.

And a journey through the land and waters has ever remained mystical. Rivers with names last read in the story book Amar Chitra Katha, like the Icchamati from where you can see Bangladesh while driving from Kolkata to an island on the Sunderbans. This was to Hingalganj, along with an old, retired teacher, Satarupa Mazumder, who was then building an English-medium school for tribal children.

My cousin J Noman, sent me a few pictures of homes and  women whose lives were devastated by cyclone Amphan last year – and where they said that the ‘corrupt TMC workers’  never let relief reach – who are now being trained by an NGO to rear ducks to earn a livelihood. The ‘Shundorbon’ is home to the Royal Bengal Tiger; Noman did meet a quiet tigress, Archana Mridhha who is ‘mahasabhopati’ – the Panchayat president responsible for welfare programs in 100 villages in the North 24 Paragonas district.

Change seemed brewing quietly, despite the system. Noman described how he journeyed via train the evening Bhagirathi Express from the capital city to Buharampore, the Indian Railways coach buzzed with enterprise and entrepreneurship. From every Bengali’s favorite spiced puffed rice Jhaal Muri to ‘badaam’ (peanuts that were neatly packed and stayed crisp for the next 4 days) to fruits to even Bluetooth gadgets – the wares were packed neatly and vanished from the vendors’ baskets.

Visitors and travelers have been warned that in the politically explosive Murshidabad, It would be a good idea to not get caught in poll violence, while my cousin Noman was on the way to Raghunathganj anyway. Here, one saw village after village of women, 90% of them Muslims, who roll the beedi, the poor man’s cigarette, for household income.

The contractor pays them Rs 152 for every 1,000 beedis rolled. The men migrate, as the masons of this region are in demand all over India: A pattern unchanged for decades.

Noman has depicted a picture of acceptance—a status quo, that stood out in Murshidabad, where anger was the dominant emotion in the tea plantations of Darjeeling. “Our forefathers worked in these same tea gardens even more than 100 years back, and we are being called Nepalis?” Maniraj, a proud Gorkha leader, said, adding that the BJP wouldn’t get votes in the hills as “kuch nahi kiya” despite being given 3 wins in the past polls.

And my illustrious cousin’s further journey, this time by the state bus into the former princely state of Cooch Behar, got pleasant when the Bengali-speaking conductor lapsed into Kannada suddenly. It turned out that Bidyut had worked in Bengaluru as a security guard for 3 years but home had beckoned him.

Back in Kolkata, fiery speeches at street corners, students with purpose, hoardings of Didi-Modi everywhere met the eye. Names that would read Aunindyo, Ananya, Saraswati, but who were actually Onindho, Ononna and Shoroshhoti. Where the curd or dahi was by default mishti doi, sweet curd. Where the mention of ‘aami niramish’ (I am vegetarian) worried hosts who wondered what creature didn’t eat ‘mach’, fish.

But ‘Chaa khaabe?’ translated into courtesy “Will you have tea”, always made visitors feel welcome. Mostly milk-free, it was lal-chai, of deep red, a color that has almost gone missing in a state that now seems to have to decide between white-blue and saffron.

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About the Author

The Bengal-born writer Nazarul Islam is a senior educationist based in USA. He writes for Sindh Courier and the newspapers of Bangladesh, India and America. He is author of a recently published book ‘Chasing Hope’ – a compilation of his 119 articles.

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