by chughtai

The past is never dead. It's not even past.

The world has dyed black the eyebrow of the Eed

It's your distracted, lovelorn heart That asks these questions constantly.

It is a strange science whose most telling assertions are its most tremulously based, in which to get somewhere with the matter at hand is to intensify the suspicion, both your own and that of others, that you are not quite getting it right. But that, along with plaguing subtle people with obtuse questions, is what being an ethnographer is like.

Ethnography is invaded by heteroglossia.

The time which we have at our disposal every day is elastic; the passions that we feel expand it, those that we inspire contract it; and habit fills up what remains.

it is one thing to remember, another to know.

The world is everything that is the case.

And all the marvels that our eyes behold Are pictures. There has happened some event For each of them, and this they represent— Our lives are like a tale that has been told.

So have they not traveled through the earth and have hearts by which to reason and ears by which to hear? For indeed, it is not eyes that are blinded, but blinded are the hearts which are within the breasts.

قطرے میں دجلہ دکھائی نہ دے اور جزو میں کل کھیل لڑکوں کا ہوا دیدۂ بینا نہ ہوا a part contains the whole as the drop a river and unconcealment of the world a child’s play

April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.