Saturday, November 28, 2009


I just lied to someone because I didn’t want to speak to them on the phone. I don’t know if that makes me a sinner, considering I fasted today thinking that I could use all the extra sawaab I could get. At some level, I suppose we all could use a bonus now and then.
They say you should leave doors open, not closed, in order to keep the positive energies balanced. After my nightmare fiasco, followed by an exorcism of sorts on the room, I feel safe again.
I read by the fireplace (how quaint!) all day today, bundled up in my patent maroon shawl and blue socks. Since I recently watched this great movie, I got my hands on the book (I know, wrong order) and after a really long time, read something which was real (fiction doesn’t always inspire me, somehow) and wasn’t Pakistani politics. The protagonist’s journals were found with his favorite quotes in them. On loneliness he quoted James Joyce: “He was alone. He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and willful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight.” To this Z ever so astutely remarked, ‘see it goes to show loneliness is so underrated’. I couldn’t agree more, although of course there was a lot more I had to say about his skewed notions of loneliness.
In the spirit of Eid, I decided to flick through the usual last ten channels on the cable and landed up on a show playing old Bollywood classics. Always a heartwarming and welcome choice. Piya tose naina lagay re, kabhi kabhi, sagar kinaray, tere bina zindagi se koi shikwa, and others. Although the music had absolutely nothing to do with Eid, I didn’t mind. The neighbor’s bakra was baah-ing in the distance and I was glad my window didn’t face the neighbor’s backyard as it had used to for the past 15 years.
I was hungry because I’d eaten dinner at 5:30pm, and then binged on a cheese, chilli garlic ketchup and olive sandwich (in toasted brown bread), followed by some spoonfuls from the bowlful of chanay ki chaat for tomorrow’s trolley. I hope the uneven layer on top isn’t an instant giveaway. If so I’ll blame it on abbu because he loves chaat, and I’m normally not a big fan of channay, although these were exceptionally delicious (not tasty).
I just (trying to figure out the English equivalent for charhaofied) my night blanket with its cover, as per ammi’s strict instructions not to sleep in her shaadi wali razai (with satin patchwork, lace and beads) without the cover on, or face the consequences, only to realize the stupid zip had broken in the washing machine.
I picked up some newly stitched clothes from the tailor today and am wondering if wearing black and gold on Eid is sacrilegious. Also, it’s their song, not mine, so I’ll feel like a usurper.
In any case, let’s make it a point to think about the less fortunate this Eid. Have a humble, yet joyous Eid filled with prayers and love from your well-wishers. It will be particularly lonely this time around again. But I’m not going to complain.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

The Devil Drives Prado.

So this is why I hate you. You’re obese, boxy and ugly. You hog up too much space, cost too much money and are driven by the most hideous, uncouth, nouveau riche, jaahil and uncompromising people. Well, most of you at least. Also, your owners have too much facial hair, wear too much starch on their shalwars and probably don’t shave their armpits because it’s an attack on their manhood. And since I love making these assumptions based on my lifelong observation (not participant-obs, god forbid I ever went native) I’m sure you also drink Halla milk. Now I need to go pray Murphy doesn’t bite me in the ass and get me married to an MNA. (with or without saath murabbay ;) hurr)

Oh yeah, and you are probably the ones hoarding up all the sugar too, because lemon tarts just don’t taste the same no more. Even the EDH (Executive Dining Hall, a step-up from the generic PDC, us somewhat privileged ones have access to) has started making savory chocolate brownies.

p.s Speaking of chocolate heroes and Cheshire cats, you remind me of soft centered orange (or strawberry, if you please) crème in the Cadbury’s milk tray.

Sunday, November 15, 2009


Hag nails are a bitch when your muse is on a roll. So is living next to a marriage lawn, where every filmi song is followed by the first 20 seconds of James Blunt’s ‘you’re beautiful’. I have a sneaking suspicion it is the filler between the medley songs, but I can’t decide what is more judge-worthy: the song itself (bolay chooriyan bolay kangna) or the filler.

Today we talked about grief and anger in the car. Today was a composite of grief with some anger on the side. The gaping-wide-like-a-fish face was replaced with amusement and borderline scorn at the audacity of some who never fail to test one’s boundaries: Epitomizing the words of truth, which are so easily ignored or overlooked, yet reinforce the very reality of your duplicity, or triplicity if that’s even a word. Who had thought mysterious scribes could be so spot on. And that parasites could turn you into stone, not dust. Everything said and done, liars will be liars and cheaters will be cheaters. But will you have that buttered, pray thee tell? Or with a side order of candy floss?

Cracking up on one’s own jokes is never a virtue, unless you’re the red faced tourist at Izmir airport in 1995. Even so, we remember you with fondness, instantly followed by a barrage of swear words. Preferably in Punjabi because as we all agreed today, English just doesn’t give you the ‘satisfaction’. So today have the satisfaction in walking away, to the place that doesn’t exist, before your imaginary curfew, because my lemon sorbet is starting to melt, if you excuse me.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

(par′ə sīt′)

Here’s to ridding oneself of another who sucks the life, laughter, happiness and joy out of life.

(unrelated)sub text: (for those who live for it) god bless you for hair goo.

Saturday, November 07, 2009

Too Cool

I’m not sure what to make of the bizarre lyrics of the song Z is singing nowadays. Or of the automatic double spacing on Word 2007 documents, such as this. Or this collaboration of a million artists playing on the Oracle right now, which I think is a lie because it sounds like none of them. But I know for sure that although I’m an environmentalist at heart, I will never compromise over toilet paper usage. And when Im having waxing pain, I think my pain away with thoughts of you. I’m not even sure if that’s flatterworthy though. Haha. All this I realized somewhere near the broken soap dispenser oozing neon.

I think I've started saying 'too cool' alot. Obviously sarcastically, but still.

Wednesday, November 04, 2009


"And as much as humans might want to slither into a new body each month, we can't. That is unless you have really dry skin and the weather's awful, and you don't use lotion, then maybe you can. But on a more serious note, shedding looks very tiresome and painful, two adjectives that a majority of humans are opposed to, and so, you regal reptilians shall continue to reign supreme when it comes to leaving old skin behind you." (Quoted from The Things Pets Do: The Things our Pets Do That We Can't, Won't, Or Don't Do)

Sunday, November 01, 2009

It should’ve been like the fateful day of dance practice by the school pool. Freed from desire, gawky teenagers, trainer bras, and stomach cramps. That’s when it should’ve happened. It should’ve happened when we were able bodied, healthy, solid and strong – not when our solar plexus’s would get displaced by wearing high heels for a few hours, or by lugging suitcases into overhead compartments. It should’ve happened before standing in line for a few sweaty hours to get an official identity, when Ali Noor haircuts were recorded in green plastic for the next decade. It should’ve happened when elder siblings scraped white cars on brick walls, in the driveway, after driving impeccably on the streets of township.

It should’ve happened soon after we played Alanis for musical chairs. It should’ve happened after we saw Gandhi on the school television and VCR, but before the Battle of Algiers. It could’ve happened on the phone, in orange block print, when sleeves were too short, kameezes even shorter.

It might’ve happened on the bench made of Styrofoam cups, if only we had the time.

Or on the chips driveway, under the sparkling moon amidst permutations and combinations. I wonder whether it would have happened in the half hexagon, or on the raised platform, if only we’d been in town. Or while hanging loose on tree trunks, before packaging thrift wear. Or at the speed of 90km/h on a spray-painted bridge with no boundary walls or railings. To the tune of bagpipes or even electric guitars. In an ice cream cone?

It could have happened on a plate of greasy fries, or in an empty absolut bottle. Behind a podium, with or without an audience, in song lyrics instead of prose. In a circle instead of a square. I’d have preferred it to happen in the grey jeep, by the empty windowsill, or down the library corridor.