Jigar ka ek sher jo dialogue ban gaya

Ajab baat ke kaise koi jumla, koi misra, koi sher bhi aapne asli maqaam se kisi aur hawaale se ziadah maqbooliyat haasil kar leta hai aur uski qadeem maqaam logon ke zehn se gayab hi ho jaata hai.

Ham ko mita sake ye zamaane mein dam nahi/Ham se zamana khud hai zamaane se ham nahi …… misaal ke taur par Jigar ki ek ghazal ka maqta lijiye, jo asha’ar se ziadah ek dialogue samjha jaata hai…. kisi ko – aakhir kar mein halqe mein – ilm hi nahi hai ke yeh ek behad qimti aur nafis ghazal ka aaghaz hai….

Haqiqat to yeh hai ke mujhe ilm na tha jab tak kai saal pehle ek itwaar ki dopahr par maine Begum Akhtar sahiba ki ruhani awaaz mein yeh ghazal suni. Ittefaq ki baat ke kuch din pehle yeh achanak mere zehn mein laut aayi, aur maine iraada banaya ke main ise aage laayun… Aap mein se jo izzat-mab khawatin-o-hazrat is baat se vaaqif hai voh sirf is ghazal ko padhe aur sarahen, aur jo nahi jaante the, umeed hai aapko yeh dilchasp maalum hogi

Ali Sikandar Jigar Moradabadi apne ahd ke ek bahut khaas shair the aur awaam mein kafi pasand aur pehchaane huye . Inki haisiyat ka aap is baat se andaaza lagayen ke jab Hindustani film “Pyaasa” mein ek manzar tha mushaira ka…. hmmm, mushaira to nahi,  ek shairaana baithak kah lijiye, to us mein do shayar apna kalam padhte dikhaye gaye – dono naam se mukhatib nahi huye lekin unke kalam aur paikar se pehchana jaa sakta tha…. Jigar aur Majaaz Lakhnavi…

Berhaal, main mudde par vapas aata hoon, aur kisi aur baat ke bina yeh qimti ghazal aapke nazar ki jaye……

 Ham ko mita sake ye zamaane mein dam nahi
Ham se zamana khud hai zamaane se ham nahi

Befaayada alam nahi bekaar gam nahi
Taufiq de Khuda to ye nemat bhi kam nahi

Meri zubaan pe shikwa-e-ahl-e-sitam nahi
Mujh ko jaga diya yahi ehsaan kam nahi

Ya Rab! Hujuum-e-dard ko de aur vusaten
Daaman to kya abhi meri aankhen bhi nam nahi

Zaahid kuch aur ho na ho maikhaane mein magar
Kya kam ye hai ki shikwa-e-dair-o-haram nahi

Marg-e-Jigar pe kyun teri aankhen hai ashkrez
Ik saniha sahi magar itni ahm nahi……

The Most Solemn Resolutions for 2013

Making resolutions for the orderly conduct of life is a mark of us few of wisdom and discernment. They may not survive the first contact with a most capricious and uncertain life but that is certainly no reason to stop planning.

I have already written about the 2012 resolutions and how they fared but that is all gone now…  now it is time to make the ones for 2013 too, and strive to solemnly implement them to the best of my ability.

Here goes…

#1 Read as many books as I can… and if I can achieve the target of 999 that I aspired to in 2012, it will be worth it.

#2 As part of #1, strive to finish all the available parts of the various exemplary series I am reading – Michael Pearce’s Mamur Zapt series,  James R Benn’s Billy Boyle series, Michael Genelin’s Commander Jana Matinova series, Barbara Cleverly’s Joe Sandilands series, Barbara Nadel’s Cetin Ikmen + Mehmet Suleyman series, Henry Chang’s D I Jack Yu series, the next installments in Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next series, Amdrea Camilleri’s Inspector Montalbano series, David Downing’s ‘Stations’ series and all other such as may come to notice…

#3 Pay more attention to my blog, strive for one post a day, aim to reach 1000 posts as soon as possible.

#4 Make all efforts to become a Badass Moustache With Mangst, a Deadpan Snarker, The Snark Knight in Sour Armour, the Tower, a Renaissance Polymath, a Seeker (Combined Archtypes), the Mysterious Watcher, a Grant/TR-Style Determinator, a Bunny-Ears Lawyer (to some extent) and all other tropes as may seem appropriate…

#5  Keep up the efforts to acquaint the world with the glories of Urdu adab, Dabistan-e-Lakhnau aur baqi sab maamle jo in se vabasta ho.

#6 Strive to maintain the quality of language in both English (Toff-level) and Urdu and become a high-level Sesquipedalian Loquaciousness Practioner.

#7 Try as much to stop being an Unfortunate Lancer, a Dogged Nice Guy, a DCA Addict, a Hikikomori, a Leeroy Jenkins, a Martyr Without Cause or any such kind, even a Yandere.

#8  Keep up – the extent possible – the noble activity of trope-spotting and slotting, and even creation.

#9 Read as much as possible about my heroes – U S Grant, Sherman, Phil Sheridan, Baron Mannerheim, and tell the unknowing world about them.

#10 Keep all efforts to maintain fiscal prudence…. Kampani kabhi khasaare mein nahi jaani chahiye…

#11 Make all necessary attempts to be able to sing Alfred P Doolittle’s signature song this year… If nothing else works out, work on achieving Abstract Apotheosis status

#12 Write a book or two.

#13 Learn at least two new languages, and polish up command of at least two existing ones….

And that is it….

An innovative look at strategy and its making

Strategy entails making efficient use of available resources – which are generally never enough – in a general plan of action to achieve a goal, usually over a period of time. It may seem a simple enough task – and many unqualified people – may term themselves expert practitioners – but it is certainly not so and they are deluded…. as the following paragraphs will show. On the other hand, there are some issues which are so SNAFU…even FUBAR (sorry, can’t expand these acronyms) that even the best strategists cannot untangle them as this story will show you and then there is one man who… but better you read it yourself….

~~~~One of the signs that distinguishes a good general, so good generals, bad generals and military historians let it be known, is preparedness to refuse to do things that other influential people think would be a good thing to do. The good general, pressed for political, or propaganda, or in some cases purely idiotic, reasons to take a course of action that he knows to be military unsound, digs his heels in and points forcibly to the disadvantages of such a course of action.

Thus, during the Second World War,  Gen Sir Alan Brooke, the Chief of the Imperial General Staff, spent much of his time – usually in the middle of the night when he wanted to go to bed and Mr. Winston Churchill didn’t – in the production and development of persuasive arguments about the unwisdom of pursuing such schemes of Mr Churchill’s as the establishment of an unsupported beach-head beyond the range of fighter cover in Norway, or tying up and probably losing most of the commandos in the purposeless capture of the island of Pantalleria or doing something aggressively spectacular but fundamentally useless in the north of Sumatra. (These and a great many other aberrations beside, Gen Brooke had an enormous admiration for Mr Churchill as a war leader.)

In the simpler days of Victorian soldiering, the reasons that were put forward for doing or not doing things were of a less complex politico-strategic nature than the ones that Brooke had to dream up in the small hours of the morning at No.10 Downing Street or at Chequers.

A case in point arose during a panning conference chaired by General Sir Garnet Wolseley in 1884 to discuss arrangements for the relief of General Charles Gordon, at that time besieged in Khartoum by Dervishes under the command of the Mahdi.

It was believed by some, not least among them Mr Gladstone the Liberal Prime Minister, that Gordon’s incarceration at Khartoum was a product of his own high-minded obstinacy.

Gordon was a remarkable sapper of deep religious faith, an unfashionable tendency to pass his spare time in the performance of good works among the poor and the sick, and, for a Victorian, an almost subversive indifference to money, which he mainly either gave away when he had it, or refused to accept when it was offered to him. He was an outstandingly able soldier with a particular flair for getting the best out of those who in his time were comprehensively known as ‘natives’.

He had been famously successful as the commander of the Chinese Ever Victorious Army during the Taiping Rebellion against the Imperial Chinese government, and caused distress and amazement to the Chinese court by resigning when one of their acts met with his moral disapproval. He upset them further by sending back the handsome financial present with which they wanted to reward him for his services. He had governed the Equatorial Province of Central Africa. He had been sent to the Sudan to superintend the evacuation of the Egyptian administration and garrison, neither of which was humane, efficient or a match for the Mahdi and his Fuzzie-Wuzzies. Gordon had got some out, but refused to obey an order to abandon the ones he couldn’t get out and to get out by himself.

The unhappy Egyptian warriors, not celebrated for their martial ardour, congregated around General Gordon in Khartoum. He inspired them to fight for their lives, and with a compound of ingenuity, leadership, and zeal had by the time of Wolseley’s planning conference already survived a siege of five months.*

The delay of even starting to think about  how to rescue Gordon was of almost political provenance….. (To be continued)

*All told, he was to hold out for nine months. Gordon was killed, and the defences of Khartoum overrun, six days before Wolseley’s relief column arrived within range of the city.

Rally to the colours….II

And continuing this magnificent story in its immortal crisp but descriptive prose….

~~~~ Major Pryor turned out not to be one of those reticent heroes who shrug modestly with an embarrassed smile when asked about their exploits. He was an eloquently obsessive megalomaniac with a flair for stage management. Instead of the quiet question and answer session over a cup of coffee or a drink that the correspondent had expected, there was something approaching a son et lumiere display. Pryor, wearing the famed scarlet tunic, regulation riding breeches and field boots, had a demonstration platoon in full marching order lined up behind him. Their embittered expressions suggested that some time had already been spent on rehearsal. Pryor shook hands brusquely and got straight down to business.

“Now,” he said resonantly, “I have devised this presentation to illustrate the advantages that follow upon an officer of my seniority dressing as I do in a battalion assault. In essence, they are two. The first is control. Some confusion in action is inevitable. I minimise it. I provide a rallying point, an inspiration. Its central ingredient is visibility. Anyone temporarily lost, or unsure of what to do, has only to look around, identify my red coat, and be reassured. If in doubt he can come to me for orders.”

Pryor paused, and stared dramatically at the demonstration platoon. They stared resignedly back.

“You may well ask,” continued Pryor, looking at the correspondent with a challenging scowl, “You may well ask: If the second-in-command is so conspicuously visible to his own men, is he not equally conspicuously visible to the Germans? Will they not concentrate their fire at him? The answer to that question is Yes. Of course they will. I expect it.” He lowered his voice grimly. “But that,” he said emphasizing each word like a slow succession of gun shots, “is-what-I-am-paid-for.”

His decible output came back to normal. “And now,” he cried, “for part one of the presentation. Sergeant Smith.”

Sergeant Smith called the platoon to attention, and marched them off wearily in fours to a neighbouring muddy field. They spread out in extended order, and waited. Pryor took a position forty yards ahead of them. He blew a whistle. They all advanced, Pryor in front in  his scarlet jacket, the troops plodding behind with rifles, bayonets fixed, held at the high port.

Pryor blew the whistle again. They halted. Pryor turned towards them.

“Sergeant Smith,” bawled Pryor, “can you see me?”

“Yes sir,” shouted Sergeant Smith.

“You there, right-hand man. Can you see me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Left-hand Can you?”

“With total clarity,” said the left-hand man unexpectedly. He had a cultivated, sardonic voice.

Pryor stared at him briefly, gave it up and told Sergeant Smith to march the platoon back to the farmyard. There, they were ordered to stand easy. Pryor braced his legs in front of them and flexed his swagger cane.

“You will appreciate,” rasped Pryor to the correspondent, “that it is impossible to simulate battle conditions with precision. That was only an approximation. It should however have given you some idea of the value to troops of a presence of a readily identifiable senior officer to whom they can turn when under pressure.”

Pryor, who seemed to be expecting some form of endorsement, or admiring comment, stared fixedly into the correspondent’s eyes. The correspondent nodded nervously, wondering how to get away from this lunatic.

“Now,” said Pryor. “I said earlier that there were two benefits that arise from my wearing a scarlet jacket. The first, visibility, you have seen demonstrated. The second, more incalculable, concerns that elusive, essential, indefinable quality, morale. The men may not realize it, ” – he turned to gaze at them with paternal sympathy – “but if senior officers are wounded in action they bleed like anyone else. A senior officer who is hit and seen to bleed, for that matter a senior officer who shows external signs of any physical weakness whatsoever, is one with a bad effect on morale, HE BECOMES A LIABILITY. Men who rely upon him for leadership and guidance, who draw confidence from his presence, may lose heart if they see him stained with his own blood.”

Pryor glowed again at the correspondent. The correspondent gave a repeat performance of his nervous nod.

“You see what I am getting at,” went on Pryor spelling it out. “My tunic is the same colour as my blood. My tunic does not show blood.”

He accentuated the intensity of his mesmeric stare upon the correspondent. The owner of the voice from the demonstration platoon was never officially identified, but the correspondent was later prepared to put his money on the man who in the muddy field had seen Pryor with total clarity.

“You will also notice,” said this commentator, “that he wears khaki riding breaches.”

Goodbye 2012….

Time, a useful fiction to explain why everything doesn’t happen all at once. Or maybe we’re the fiction, moving minute by minute while like a wind crying endlessly through some vast universe, the same inexorable time carries away all our ephemeral names and deeds. And all that we were, all that remains is in the memories of those who cared we came this way briefly….. As 2012 drew to a close, I sought to put down some thoughts about the year it was but then there was rather bittersweet realisation how we spend so much time trying to justify ourselves to the shadows of those who are long gone. And even if they were still around, would they remember? Would they recall what they had said or done that made you spend the rest of your life proving yourself? And if you could go back, wouldn’t you learn that you were always the master of your fate?

And if you learned that great truth, wouldn’t it free you of a useless burden. A dead weight  from a phantom reality? What more can I say about 2012. Meeting and making great friends, spending times that you never wish would end … and somehow never do as they always stay in the memory, some moments of dread and helplessness you wish will never come again and many others you fervently wish that had never arisen  or you could have dealt with more ably and differently. Friends you come across suddenly. others you make the same way, and are with you while yet there are others who you keep waiting for, waiting for in your happiest, saddest and tense times….waiting for them to make the slightest gesture till you figure the doctrine of assymetrical  reciprocity is most noble but doesn’t work…. But then that is life and one must learn to leave the past and all those who will stay there in that the same dark vale and move ahead with those who will ahead on the difficult but existing path to broad, sunlit uplands…. ( I realise that is my Churchillian streak surfacing… must be the brandy and cigars)

On the whole, it was an interesting year – full of great moment and promise, endless work and fun times, periods of intense drudgery and frenzied activity, routine journeys and unexpected travels, some great books (that I will always remember) , intense and insightful realisations of my purpose in life – moments of excitable revolt against it and periods of calm resignation…. Well, best is to remember is a jest and act accordingly…. the rest is unseen.

I think that is enough babble….. Looking forward to an intense, meaningful and interesting 2013 and a resolute passage across across it with my amour propre intact in the proper armour (I think it is time to end any discourse when you begin to make dreadfully silly puns). So goodbye 2012

2012 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

4,329 films were submitted to the 2012 Cannes Film Festival. This blog had 32,000 views in 2012. If each view were a film, this blog would power 7 Film Festivals

Click here to see the complete report.

Wrapping up the Year #2: The 13 best books I read in 2013 II

And now its time to pick my 13 favourites reads in 2013, and the reasons thereof.  Why? A great author and man – while making a list of the dozen most favourite stories of his immortal creation – the greatest detective of all times – remarked it was proverbially wrong for a judge to analyze his decisions, but like he went ahead, so will I.

So here goes – and oh yes, the list is in no particular order and does not denote either a ranking or chronological order the book was read.

The Pyrates: A Swashbuckling Comic Novel by the Creator of Flashman and The Reavers – George MacDonald Fraser.

There was no way I was going to leave out my favourite author out, especially when I read two of his most funniest books, his last autobiographical book and the one remaining episode of the Flashman series. It was a tough decision between this and The Reavers,  and strict justice demanded I include only of them.  But I cannot claim to the ability to set one above the other and have therefore without any ado, named both of them. Not only are both of these absolutely spiffy fun reads, but both well display that rare quality – the author having as fun writing the novel as you had reading it. The first encompasses every pirate stereotype seen or read, and second does the same for the Elizabethan era and sundry nefarious activities then extant, both absolutely eschew political correctness – like the Flashman series – and every line sends you into paroxysms of helpless, irresistible laughter, so perhaps you shouldn’t read either of them in public.

 Dreadnought  – Robert K. Massie

A wonderfully engrossing account of high international politics and the arms race in the late 19th century and how the Great War came about. Brings a long-gone era and its notable personalities to vivid light.

Where Three Roads Meet – Salley Vickers

A brilliant re-telling of a seminal myth and the last days of an exemplary mind.

The Mamur Zapt and The Return of the Carpet (Mamur Zapt, #1) – Michael Pearce

Another sparkling gem I came across this year. The Mamur Zapt series are  sparkling narratives of Egypt in a forgotten – but for me a greatly-missed – era, and the imperial attitudes extant therein. An engrossing mystery and denouement are ably played out by a host of unforgettable characters (particularly Z. whom I wouldn’t mind knowing…or perhaps I do), while the witty and spirited dialogue is  marvellous. It is difficult to pick one out of the 10-odd I have so far read so I will just keep the first of them.

Inventing the Victorians  – Matthew Sweet

Debunks most of the myths about Victorians, and shows how much they resembled – and shaped – the modern age,  and how we – you all  (since I am of that epoch only) can still learn from them – personal knowledge and manners for one, I would venture to say.

Bulldog Drummond: The Carl Peterson Quartet –   Sapper

A rousing set of adventures with a cast of unforgettable characters, headed by a larger-than-life character, who do what they have to do in an uncertain age. Wonderfully atmospheric – and I don’t believe any of the criticism how it is all so dated, politically incorrect, jingoistic, chauvanistic and the rest of that bunkum….

Thinking Of Answers: Questions In The Philosophy Of Everyday Life – A.C.  Grayling

A host of questions for today’s uncertain age answered with a rare insight.

The Main Enemy: The Inside Story of the CIA’s Final Showdown with the KGB - Milton Bearden

Fact can be more engrossing than fiction proves this gripping account of the shadow manoeuvrings of the Cold War.

Casebook of Sexton Blake – David Stuart Davies (editor)

Another Golden Age hero, who has received less than his due in our day and age.

Journey Through Britain  – John Hillaby

A magnificently idiosyncratic ramble through Britain.

Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era – James M McPherson

With my new-found fascination for the American Civil War, this one-volume comprehensive account was sure to find a place, and is sure to be a harbringer of many more dealing with various facets of the War Between the States.

The Killer Angels – Michael Shaara

A last-minute inclusion but an inspired choice nevertheless. Brings the tragic story of Gettysburg to life through the viewpoints of its principal protagonists. Can’t wait to read the sequel and prequel by the son (Am halfway through the sequel in in which USG and his equally brilliant subordinates figure, even as a I wait for the prequel’s delivery.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my list and I do hope it inspires you to read them – even one. However being what I am, I find the list insufficient and crave indulgence to add a further half-dozen honourable mentions….

The Alienist (Dr. Laszlo Kreizler, #1)  – Caleb Carr/Silent War - David Fiddimore

The first is a genuinely creepy story, very atmospheric and profiting immensely from featuring a larger-than-life character, the then New York Police Commissioner (and his engaging family who appear in one scene) before he went on to much bigger and greater things… don’t know who it is? Well you’re more to be pitied then censured. The second figures because the way it tells of one of the last Imperial outposts …. and yes the cameo appearance by Brother Gamal clinches the argument.

The Second Tom Holt Omnibus: My Hero/Who’s Afraid of Beowulf? – Tom Holt

Pure inspired, trope-subverting mayhem – the fist one that is.

Outposts: Journeys to the Surviving Relics of the British Empire - Simon Winchester

The name says it all, and the journeys are told with verve and an eye to detail in these forgotten areas of the globe.

A Spy by Nature: A Novel  – Charles Cumming

A dark, despairing account of espionage and what it actually entails.

 Flaws in the Jewel -  Roderick Matthews

A uniquely perceptive account of the reality of the Raj, scoring in bringing the first set of “What-If’ scenarios to the study of India history. I hope it will not be the last.

Billy Boyle – James R Benn

World War II is a topic no man – no real man – can skip. And here is a brash young man making his own contribution to Allied victory. I mention the first of the series since it and the second one are the ones I have read… I anticipate doing the rest in the year to come…