Life has become a spectacle, a world!

The radio on the table in my father’s room kept ringing all day. Amma is cooking food, Baba is praying, sparrows are chirping happily by chewing the bajra poured by Baba, Apa is reading the book, brother is busy playing cricket, the younger father’s bicycle is running with the scissors of the legs and trying to hum manjhali. Hey Sabse Sohnia, Hey Manmohanya…. I became yours, lost in love. When Holi is my name, I am going to die there, hi hi. To live with you in the way, I know the world. Everyone’s own world and the background of this world are broadcast on the radio! If there is music at any friend’s house, everyone knows what our request will be. Some believe that no story of the colorful past allows us to take China. One wants to find out why such meaningful songs have reached the age of five. Who’s having a clue? Whether a person becomes Aristotle or Allama, there is a burial in everyone. Memories, stories, sayings and times! Hidden, locked, layer by layer, dusty, broken, but the world’s largest treasure for Mujawar _ Mujawar circumambulates this samadhi whenever he gets time from sorrow _ _ In the blink of an eye he opens the door that leads to the samadhi _ but the key to the door is not even in the reach all the time _ when will it be found ? Where? How? That’s not even known. Perhaps a moment, a forgotten moment, a memory that refreshes the time that can never come back at any cost. Know from this preamble that these songs heard from the radio are the keys for us that open the door of this samadhi for us where the mother is father, books, courtyards, sparrows, radio, songs and our young age! Seeing Khwaja Rahat in Zindagi Tamasha, we felt that he is us, perhaps just as we try to stay connected with this samadhi of memories, in the same way, these songs of old films take Khwaja Rahat to the time when he puts Baji’s necklace around his neck while studying in the third and fourth grade, wearing his mother’s dupatta and standing in front of the mirror. he used to do. He who has now reached the ladder of age where the three daughters have been married. Day and night with a sick wife While dealing with grief, the only key to breathing in the pleasant air and joy of the previous life on the bridge of this life is to open the window that opens towards it sometimes. Old films, better heroines to the next world, their erotic dances and forgotten songs…. A man who is a kind husband, a kind father, a kind neighbor, an honest businessman, a good Muslim, a famous naat khwan because of his deep attachment to religion! No one has any complaint with Khwaja Rahat, a harmless man, a person who shares the happiness of the people wholeheartedly, one who takes pity on the eunuch, one who serves his wife, who takes care of his daughters, who makes a niaz and distributes it, the love of the Prophet whose veil and spiritual means. We wonder if such a person does not even have the right to spend a few moments with him. We remembered my father. Five-time worshippers, pious fathers, loving husbands and sons, helpers for the family, very gentle for daughters, hospitable, useful to the people on the way, generous and river-hearted, simple, sincere ….. But i am very fond of listening to film songs on the radio! They listen to themselves, but at the same time, young girls are reaching the age of puberty by listening to all kinds of songs, practicing singing songs, but there is no doubt on their foreheads. At that time, we heard a lot of people say… He’s a strange man… Prayer does not leave one, hajj is done but all the time film songs …. A great pilgrim and a worshipper! No one knows which samadhi inside baba was key kept in these film songs. So while watching life as a spectacle, I repeatedly thought that sitting in the gathering of friends, were the slaps made in innocence and selflessness so worthy that Khwaja Rahat would have been buried alive? It’s not just that a naat khawan got up on a film song and slapped it…and friends, neighbors, family, and even the daughter could not bear it. If you look at the top layer, then in the lower layer, our society is seen with its decaying existence. Expelling Khawaja from family gatherings, trying to record a video of his apology, shouting at him, making fun of him in gatherings, not eating his hand-made niyaz, not allowing him to recite Naat on Eid Milad-un-Nabi and expelling him from the gathering. Isn’t this proof that we are incompetent in sentencing and sentencing? If we become aware of a hidden part of someone’s self by chance, then all his goodness is left behind and we are bent on crucifiing him on the cross. Remember that everyone is naked here in this bath…. Only then does the Maulvi appear to be doing this a show of his strength… The slogan of blasphemy… And today everyone is aware of the bloody reality of this threat. And you and… Khwaja’s daughter also seems to be upset with her father. The one who grew up listening to this song since childhood in this house, the one whom the father leaves the media house on a motorcycle, on which there is no restriction… She who sees the love of mother and father day and night. She too is shying away from standing with her father in this crisis. According to him, the father has made him ashamed in front of the people by dancing obscenely. The question arises again, who are these people? What do these people matter? For whose sake the daughter ignores a father like Khwaja. Khwaja’s wife listens to the story and is neither surprised nor worried… She is well aware of her husband that this is the window to her past. Then she asks with a smile… What was the need to dance with so much obesity? To which Khwaja smiles and says… What wasn’t, it was gone. Khwaja’s simplicity, kind smile, selflessness, expression of affection for Farkhanda Bibi, especially when he combs her long hair, are captivated. This character seems to have been written with Khawaja in front. Regardless of the story, seeing the angles from which Sarmad has shot the film, the look instantly fades and the mind understands that the cameraman is the artist of Bala who directs him. The culture of neighborhoods and the middle class is reflected in small things. Wedding scenes, chicken tikka wrapped in newspaper, daughter’s bed laid on the ground, Khwaja’s house, salami calculation, mention of who was called to the weddings of the house, Samia Mumtaz’s woollen cap and two gold bangles in the wrist, thumb tied to the body’s thread, Khawaja wearing a hat and sheet in cold evenings, old model TV Khwaja’s wife to be informed of the details of small things ….. Tell me something? Just looking at it, yes, it was our house… Probably in Khwaja’s neighborhood. But at a time when people were not obsessed with punishment, when man did not start living by wearing a mask on himself, when religion was to be worn, but art and culture were also part of life. We were not Al-Baksani but Pakistanis. Sarmad has put his hand on the pulse of the society and has told that although everyone is one in this johor, the hypocrisy of considering oneself to be virtuous and the other a criminal is flowing everywhere smelling like boiling dirt from the open gutter. Stay alive Sirmad!