أَيَحْسَبُ الْإِنْسَانُ أَنْ يُتْرَكَ سُدًى 75:36

Five Hours

Illumination

There's nothing more that I miss right now than last summer--being in Wellesley, Pakistan, and then in Kashmir. Here's a (slanted and bad quality) picture of Sadequain's artwork in Frere Hall, Karachi, that I took last August:

I tried to copy his style of calligraphy and also made some adjustments of my own. This is, admittedly, a very poor adaptation of mashriqi calligraphy. I'm hoping I can find some guides to mashriqi, and as of yet it is rather difficult to find examples that I find legible.

This is one of my favorite lines from Surah Rum:

"Do they not travel through the earth, and see what was the end of those before them? They were superior to them in strength: they tilled the soil and populated it in greater numbers than these have done: there came to them their messengers with Clear (Signs). (Which they rejected, to their own destruction): It was not Allah Who wronged them, but they wronged their own souls." 

This is 30:9, Yusuf Ali's translation. 

I actually began this during winter break and only got to complete this over spring break. I wanted to add illuminated sides to it but, unfortunately, I didn't leave enough space around the edges of the calligraphy paper and mounting it with any of the thicker papers I have looks sloppy. It's particularly large because I made it for a rather large niche at home, and thus rather difficult to deal with.  Now, I have to figure out how to finish it up and get it framed.

I looked back to my last posts, and saw that I last mentioned my dismay at being unable to take an art history seminar on Islamic calligraphy. I never did take that seminar and, as fate would have it, Wellesley is reportedly offering an art class on Arabic calligraphy in the spring semester of 2016, after I have graduated--another missed opportunity for learning more. However, I did attend a Persian calligraphy workshop at some point during the semester.

I realize that my last post was in January 2014 (!). My mother recently suggested that I start writing a blog with her, and I pointed out that I already have a dismal blogging repertoire. Nevertheless, for the next few days at least I will be trying to distract myself with my old hobbies--at least I have been for the past two weeks. I've read more books and cooked/baked more food during this time than I did in the past year.

Someone recently told me that life is like a sine curve, with ups and downs, and if it wasn't then life wouldn't be interesting. Well, I think I'm currently and very suddenly at the trough of the curve--at least, I hope that this is the lowest I go. But, to think of it, I spent the past four years of my life at the crest, so I am perhaps paying my dues, despite enjoying being with my family at home. Still, it's a little difficult to believe that two weeks ago I was meandering through the Harvard Art Museums with a friend and eating lunch at Tanjore, and now I am suddenly here.

Mirza sahib in the HAM

My father posted this poem on Facebook a few days ago:

is waqt to yun lagta hai ab kuch bhi nahin hai
mahtab na suraj na andhera na sawera
ankhon k darichay main kisi husn k jhalkan
aur dil k panahon main kisi dard ka dera
mumkin hay koi waham ho mumkin hai suna ho
galiyon main kisi chap ka ek akhiri phera
shakhoN main khayalon k ghane payr k shayad
ab aa-kay kareyga na koi khwab basera
ik bayr na ik mahar na ik rabt na rishta
tayra koi apna na paraya koi mera
mana k ye sun-san ghari sakht bari hai
lekn mere dil ye to faqat ek ghari hai
himmat karo jeenay ko abhi umr pari hai
(Faiz Ahmad Faiz)

My poor Urdu skills can't do the translation justice, but I think it's fair to say that the basic gist is that Faiz is writing at a point during his life where it feels like he has nothing left, but knows things will get better in the far future and return to how things were in the past.

I suppose I will have to remember Pakistan in the summer:

Frere Hall

Jhelum River, Kashmir

"Gar firdaus, ruhe zamin ast, hamin asto, hamin asto, hamin ast." 

- Jahangir, on Kashmir