Category: Furqan Ali

By Furqan Ali

I wrote this poem on May 14, 2025, after watching a deeply moving video of Robin Williams (1951–2014) hugging Koko (1971–2018). Somehow, the moment stirred something in me, and I was compelled to write.

Koko was a Western Lowland Gorilla, a critically endangered subspecies. Every year, thousands of these gentle beings are killed due to habitat loss and the illegal bushmeat trade in parts of Africa.

Robin met Koko in 2001, shortly after she had lost her closest gorilla friend, Michael. She hadn’t smiled since his passing. But on this day, with Robin, she laughed freely and fully. And so did he.

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Koko, Williams, and me

We who are left, how shall we look again

Happily on the sun or feel the rain [1]

I did understand the signs—

The hostility trampled on my head,

Nukes with round heads,

And socks with prints of blood.

I liked myself, my poetry,

And so was written thenceforth.

Williams too liked himself.

It was August, and

Maybe May is for me.

Along the fountain of my reckless heart,

Koko was sitting on pine,

And with the adjacent,

he was amusing on juniper.

Making comic faces

To mollycoddle the depression of the scene,

And yet the flow exceeded the fountain

Of ravishing, cute, and mesmerizing love

Towards the one being—

A love with borderless terrains,

Skyless limits, and wordsless intensity,

Though, I never trusted her,

With cold, inexplicable eyes,

And unlit nail paints and lips.

For her I strangled the ticking of the clock.

But my hands are crying;

the world can’t understand my signs,

And caravanserais longing

For another companion.

Koko, Williams, and me.

[1] Gibson

By Furqan Ali

A review from Ink-e-Lab.

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Publisher: Folio Books

Author: Ammar Ali Qureshi

Pages: 228

According to a Gallup survey, 75% of people claim not to read books at all. Mind you, this survey is from 2019 and by 2025, the figure has likely deteriorated even further; social media has drastically decimated our attention spans. A book, being a far more demanding form of engagement, often feels too formidable. People now struggle to read even a full 1,000 words op-ed, let alone something verbose. Many skim through posts on X, LinkedIn, or even long WhatsApp messages. And for those who do feel the urge to read, they’re often left perplexed: what should they read?

And that’s where book reviews come in: book reviews offer several valuable benefits for readers, writers, and the broader literary community. They help readers make informed decisions by summarizing a book’s content, style, and strengths or weaknesses, ultimately saving time and guiding personal preferences. Albeit, it is not a replacement of the whole corpus at all.

Reviews also deepen understanding by unpacking complex themes, symbolism, or context that casual readers might overlook. Additionally, they encourage critical thinking and discussion, as they often present arguments and interpretations that spark dialogue.

For writers, reviews provide constructive feedback and insight into how their work is being received, while also offering exposure, especially to lesser-known authors, by promoting diverse voices and hidden literary gems. Overall, reviews enrich the reading experience and foster a thoughtful culture of engagement with books. And the impending book under discussion does all of this and more.

Ammar Ali Qureshi’s Views and Reviews is a compilation of articles written across five cities spanning three continents over the past 15 years. One might call it a ‘labour of love’—a testament to his deep affection for books, inherited from his parents, both students of history, who allowed him to devour every book in their home. Even today, the library he has posted online reflects this passion, curated with care and brimming with crème de la crème titles.

The idea of writing these pieces draws inspiration from A.J.P. Taylor, the most popular and provocative British historian of the 20th century, who authored around 1,600 book reviews. This book, of course, is much slimmer compared to Taylor’s prolific output, yet it spans a wide range of subjects: history, politics, the economy and governance structures, nationalism, notable personalities, poetry, and more.

One striking piece, included in the first section, covers the exiled prince I had never heard of before, Maharaja Daleep Singh, son of Maharaja Ranjit Singh. The author’s review captures the deep melancholy of the story: the fall of one of the fiercest and most formidable reigns faced by the British, stretching from 1799 to 1849—from the southern districts of Punjab to Afghanistan and Kashmir. Ranjit Singh’s feat was a remarkable historical achievement.

The loss of this indigenous Punjabi kingdom, the confiscation of the Koh-i-Noor, Daleep’s dethronement at the age of ten, his coerced conversion to Christianity, his exile to England, and eventually his re-embrace of Sikhism, these form a profoundly tragic arc. He died penniless in a Paris hotel room, carrying the burdens of resentment and betrayal to the very end. The first section of the book, “Historical Perspectives on Punjab,” reads like a lament from a son mourning his lost mother, Punjab.

The second section turns to Pakistan. Among the essays, Pakistan and Iran: Neighbours of Many Surprises and Pakistan’s Middle Class and Islam particularly caught my attention. The former explores how Iran, under the Shah, was the first foreign head of state to visit Pakistan in 1950, became its largest bilateral donor—providing $800 million in loans and credit in the 1970s—supported Pakistan in the 1965 and 1971 wars, and yet, today, we face off against each other at a tense border.

The latter explores the rise of the new middle class, based on Dr Ammara Maqsood’s book The New Pakistani Middle Class. It focuses on how this class is more inclined toward a globalized form of Islam—seen as a legacy of Zia-ul-Haq and practiced by many Muslims in the West—rather than Wahhabism. However, Ammar points out the frequent conflation between the two, especially given the influence of Saudi funding. This stands in contrast to the older middle class, which projected a softer image of Pakistan.

In the third section, the article on Iqbal, “Iqbal — Love Letter to Persia,” reveals his (Iqbal’s) deep love for Persia: the language (of over 12,000 verses he composed, around 7,000 are in Persian), and Persian history especially the Persian conquest, which he considered most significant in the history of Islam, as reflected in his doctoral thesis. Iqbal’s admiration was reciprocated by prominent Persians, including Iran’s poet laureate Mohammad-Taqi Bahar, Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh, and influential figures like Ali Shariati (the ideologue of the Iranian Revolution) and Ali Khamenei (Supreme Leader of Iran).

Ammar quotes,

“Although the language of Hind is sweet as sugar / Yet sweeter is the fashion of Persian speech / My mind was enchanted by its loveliness / My pen became a twig of the Burning Bush / Because of the loftiness of my thoughts / Persian alone is suitable to them.”

The fourth section focuses on governance, particularly how corruption and the absence of a robust justice system fuel crony capitalism, weaken public service delivery, stifle economic growth, hinder innovation, crowd out investment, erode public trust, nudge religious extremism and reinforce elitism, among other consequences.

The fifth section, focused on personalities and memoirs, features intriguing pieces on figures such as Karl Marx—described as a “Prophet of Revolutions”—and Nur Jahan, the only Mughal queen to have her name inscribed on coins, who effectively ruled Jahangir’s empire for 15 of his 21 years on the throne. It explores the enduring influence of their legacies and the lessons they continue to offer, even after centuries. He quotes Robert Heilbroner from his book The Worldly Philosophers:

“We turn to Marx, therefore, not because he is infallible, but because he is inescapable.”

The sixth section shifts to global history, touching upon the rise and fall of Eastern and Western powers, the miscalculations of the Afghan war, Robert Fisk’s life amidst global upheavals, diplomatic failures, Obama’s failures, the rise of Trump, and much more. But I’ll stop here, I wouldn’t want to spoil it by revealing everything in it.

What elevates Ammar’s work is that his reviews are not mere summaries. He weaves history, politics, identity, and contemporary relevance into his analysis. He doesn’t shy away from highlighting contradictions or calling for critical engagement. His essays are not just about books, but about how to read, how to wrestle with ideas, how to cherish curiosity, and how to think.

In an age of vanishing attention spans, Views and Reviews is not only a literary respite, it is a call to return to depth, nuance, and the quiet joy of thoughtful reading.

By Furqan Ali

I’ve known Afshan Shafi for a while now as a mentor and a senior poet in the Pakistani Anglophone poetry scene (which is growing rapidly). Especially through the Dead Poets Society of Pakistan, a collective I founded, I’ve had the chance to learn from her presence and support. I still can’t believe we started just 2–3 months ago, and already we’ve grown to over 50 members, with nearly 30 actively contributing to our first anthology volume.

Anyway, I’ve tried here to annotate a poem from Afshan’s book Quiet Women, titled: Ganesh, in a confectionery mill.

Stanza I:
Last November’s basilica is crumbling,
The taffy foundry found to the char, the last scruff of meal
rotten.
still aerate masses dispense themselves
Onto the curd, and enter the extruder to be filled with
Shiny viscera,
Palm oil kidneys blossoming under the churn,
The winds percolating soft while
The clouds widen their tangerine irises,

This modernist-lyrical poem positions the Hindu deity Ganesh, traditionally a remover of obstacles and God of beginnings, in an absurdly industrial, even grotesque setting: a confectionary mill. It layers Hindu symbolism with post-industrial imagery, a surrealist aesthetic, and biting socioeconomic subtext.

The opening line juxtaposes Ganesh, a spiritual figure, with confectionary mill—a symbol of capitalist excess, mechanized desire, and sweetness-turned-sinister. The “basilica” references crumbling sacred spaces, showing how religion itself is industrialized or decaying in a consumerist age. The “taffy foundry” being burnt and the meal rotting suggest both spiritual and material entropy.

Further, it presents visceral industrial birth. A grotesque fusion of biology and production. “Palm oil kidneys” evoke cheap globalized ingredients, outsourced and mechanized labor. The clouds’ “tangerine irises” lend a psychedelic, possibly apocalyptic aura, where even nature gazes on in artificial hues.

Stanza II:
Ganesh wakes with a strawberry smile
his Styrofoam lips expunge bliss from leather jowls,
lashes and white hoarfrost of the eye
refract petroleum flora and
The textile of his palm, offers a hilltop of
Pink candy and glucose intaglio.
no satyr could have envisaged him thus, with
this clutch of winching blades and death ribbons
in rococo hands; he loosely wills to the green lotus.
a noose, hammer, axe, tusk, and garland,
a comely exhibition of rage.

Ganesh is now awakened, but with synthetic, sterile parts: “Styrofoam lips,” “leather jowls,” “petroleum flora.” This re-engineering of divinity underscores how capitalism and mass production cannibalize the divine, reconfiguring joy as pre-packaged euphoria. “Glucose intaglio” suggests even meaning is etched in sugar, brittle and saccharine.

We see an inversion of traditional religious iconography; Ganesh’s usual items (lotus, tusk) are now joined by industrial tools and “death ribbons.” Rococo—an ornate, decadent European aesthetic—is ironically placed in the deity’s hands, symbolizing colonial residues and grotesque excess. His rage becomes a beautiful but hollow spectacle.

Stanza III:
he, who galumphed through the century’s rain-carousel,
like a little girl
in his emerald playground, iliac metal suffused
with humectants, sacred sugars cohering his cross bones
and the toppling caul of an
ancestral-star, across his neck.
his delicate calf, frozen, in supplication to the woodbulb
of his throne,
for a being so strong
his gaze is weary, adolescent,
has no gunpowder to sustain the promise
of violence and eldritch-rosy,
He does not even possess the tranquilized regret
of the aesthete or the shaman
though one can see him across the
astral esplanades, chalking out his charkas,
hope scotching across the sediment, not even
alert to the cosmic sanguinity of his pleasure,
roaring beyond
the elongated shadows.

Ganesh is reimagined as childlike and vulnerable, “galumphing” playfully—an echo of Carrollian absurdity—but in a world of “iliac metal” and “sacred sugars.” This verse mourns the death of sacred innocence in a world overrun by commodified spirituality and mechanical ritual. The “ancestral-star” falling suggests cosmic disinheritance.

There’s a paralysis of divine strength. Ganesh kneels before an industrial “woodbulb,” a bastardization of enlightenment or throne. His adolescent gaze captures a mood of spiritual fatigue and confusion, as if divine power itself is exhausted in late capitalism.

Even violence is rendered inert, “no gunpowder” to fuel change. Neither divine fury nor aesthetic contemplation is viable anymore. The aesthete and shaman, both archetypes of deep feeling and mystical insight, are absent, replaced by a numb spectator god.

The poem ends on a note of withdrawal and loss of awareness. Ganesh remains, perhaps in form, but is disconnected from his own pleasure, joy, or purpose. His “chalked chakras” become meaningless diagrams. “Hope” is burning uselessly, never catching flame.

Much like:

1. 1. Since 2020, $42 trillion in new wealth was created, with 63% ($26 trillion) captured by the top 1%.
   2. From 1995–2021, the top 1% gained 38% of global wealth growth, while the bottom 50% got only 2%.
   3. In Pakistan, the richest 10% earning 16x the poorest, and landed aristocracy (nearly 52% of National Assembly members) exempting itself from tax.
   4. Land Ownership in Pakistan: 5% of large landowners hold 64% of farmland; 65% of small farmers own just 15% of land.
   5. Public neglect of social welfare: education spending slashed, health stagnant, and the HDI plunging.

CODA: The holy has decayed, not because gods have abandoned humans, but because humans have converted gods into icons of consumption. This poem is not just an abstract surrealist poem. It is a lament and a critique, a religious and political satire, invoking a plastic deity in a sugarcoated hell. It mourns the erosion of the divine, critiques structural injustice, and questions whether even the gods plasticized and commodified, can feel pleasure or rage anymore.

By Furqan Ali

Today, I was travelling to Tarkha, a small village near Taru Jabba, all situated in KP (erstwhile NWFP), from Peshawar, which is considered the oldest living city of South Asia.

There, I saw a flying peacock. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I had never seen one fly before, except in caged settings. A dog kept pestering her, making her dart from one place to another. And then, there was a donkey too, without reins! Perhaps the spectre of capitalism was absent. In that rural pocket, so close to the bustling and chaotic city of Peshawar, constantly a victim of radical urbanisation (over 45%), there was still something untamed.

Here’s the poem, inspired by the errand, along with the picture I took. Pardon my pathetic aesthetic, I’m learning this craft for my IG.

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a flying peacock

“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun…”

— Shakespeare

In Tarkha,

a flying peacock—

Simurgh,

aphrodisiac,

like a newly resurrected girl

in the dark night,

and the sin of being born.

Wandering,

hand in hand, eye to eye,

with Quratulain Tahira in the heavens.

Scène crème de la crème

landscape and portrait,

all green.

A darbar of some majzoob,

a Hindu majzoob

who lifted his hand—donning a ring of tourmaline—

and forgot,

like I forgot my birthday.

A free Jack—

a free, rapacious Jack

in the temporariness

of extraction,

with no reins

and obstruction.

Imbibed the aerodynamics

of the multicolored creature.

Everyone is colorblind

up to some extent—

too many hues.

Gobsmacked.

Kaleidoscope swaying

retina and brain.

And a thirsty dog

trying to bite—

for hemoglobin, and iron, and water.

The displacement angles

bottlenecked

between:

the dog must die.

It is ugly.

A brat with channa mewa,

wandering in the intricate ploy—

dusty and topsy-turvy roads.

A sheriff was maybe peeing somewhere.

I could not sense anyone.

Miscreant mist—

and resplendent.

Except

us.

I waited for a nimrod

who could bullet that beautiful ghoul.

A dragon scroll fell on my head,

with a sheesh mahal.

Every nook flummoxed

with those savage eyes.

I could see the song of the future—

Inconsequential.

How could I smoke and not puff?

The nicotine pouches in my jaw?

Pathetic!

Sweet coils of

paintings,

bureaus of linen—

I was painted

a zillion times

by the palette of that bird

that prowled through Tarru Jabba,

for the relief of my head,

and the reconstruction of

my senses—

and poems.