ScrapBook

For those who need it the most.

2012-01-27T17:37:00.001+05:00

Regrets collect like old friends

Here to relive your darkest moments

I can see no way, I can see no way

And all of the ghouls come out to play

And every demon wants his pound of flesh

But I like to keep some things to myself

I like to keep my issues drawn

It's always darkest before the dawn

And I've been fool and I've been blind

I can never leave the past behind

I can see no way, I can see no way

I'm always dragging that horse around

All of his questions, such a mournful sound

Tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground

'Cause I like to keep my issues drawn

It's always darkest before the dawn

Shake it out, shake it out

And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back

So shake him off

And I am done with my graceless heart

So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart

'Cause I like to keep my issues drawn

It's always darkest before the dawn

Shake it out, shake it out

And it's hard to dance with the devil on your back

And given half the chance, would I take any of it back

It's a fine romance but it's left me so undone

It's always darkest before the dawn

And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't

So here's to drinks in the dark, at the end of my rope

And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope

It's a shot in the dark aimed right at my throat

'Cause looking for heaven, for the devil in me

Looking for heaven, for the devil in me

But what the hell, I'm gonna let it happen to me, yeah

Shake it out, shake it out

And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back

So shake him off.

TT Funtoosh

2012-01-23T10:28:00.001+05:00

You were always an iconic figure in our family. There were jokes and stories of plots and investments, of your friends in Finland, and the nightclubs and bicycle rides in the cold. There were women who wanted to marry you, but you never settled for any of them. I saw you on a cooking show on TV once, and I believe you won a microwave on it!
I remember once we came home after school to bari ammi’s, starving, and you treated us to Pizza Hut – a big treat back in the late 1990s. Once we hid your cigarettes in the drawing room porcelain box and then bribed them back in exchange for Walls ice cream. You were so generous with us; we wondered why everyone in the family claimed you were stingy. Is it because you ironed your own clothes or cooked from time to time?

I was one of the last people to meet you. You had tea and kababs in my lounge a few weeks ago, wearing your plum blazer. Your booming voice, fanciful stories and unconvincing vows to finally settle down will always remain with us. We will remember you with fond memories, and apologize that our matchmaking skills failed miserably for the past two decades. I hope you meet your perfect match in heaven. Untimely and difficult to digest, the fateful morning phone call was yours this time. I can’t believe I’m writing about you in the past tense already. But I hope you rest in Peace.

Grosso.

2011-12-19T13:11:00.005+05:00

Dont you just hate:

Taking a shower in a wet bathroom.

Peeing in an already peed pot.

Frying kababs in used oil.

Driving a car which the driver used to before.

Eating in a wet plate.

Wearing rented bowling shoes/ice skates.

Sleeping in someone else's lehaaf.

Giving your shoe to someone sweaty to try on.

Using the treadmill right after someone's coughed all over it.

When you hand someone something and they slither their fingers on your hand.

When your maid uses your nailcutter.

When students force you to have cream/blackforest birthday cake(every day),

People eating the aforementioned cake with their chipped nailpolish fingers.

When people pronounce 's' as 'sh' like Alistair ko 'Aleshter'.

- return of the ebal kirili.

Zukallergy.

2011-12-01T10:51:00.001+05:00

its official.

2011-11-11T12:43:00.003+05:00

How far can my car go if its on the last petrol blinking light?

Pl respond in distance examples in Lahore (e.g. Defence to Liberty) cos I dont know what a km or mile means in Khi. Thanks i'm about to leave work and dont know if doing my groceries is a good idea.

Earth to Hub

2011-10-25T11:18:00.001+05:00

Hello? Are you in Birmingham?

Laugh of the Week

2011-10-21T11:24:00.001+05:00

S: You have to listen to the new song by Florence and the Nightingale!

Z: Umm. Florence and the Machine nahin hai?

1984 (not Orwell)

2011-10-18T11:45:00.001+05:00

Estrella; Shines confidently in adversity, especially without a Straha card. Looks mean, but maybe its just the eyebrows. Crazy hot, but doesn’t believe it entirely. Super smart, knows it and shows it. Fair, so a D plus means a D plus. Spunky, Unique, Charming, Vibrant, Edgy and always up for adventure. Firestarter, I hope you always light up every alley you walk through (with oversized cakes and cathedral walls), especially the ones I find myself lurking in. Even though it’s your special day today, somehow I feel the luckiest.
I got love for you, cos you were born in the aighties.

Hulloth!

2011-09-20T13:06:00.002+05:00

I left my phone at home today.
There was a bomb blast in my neighbourhood yesterday.
I am leaving day after tomorrow.
I have to pick up the laundry tomorrow afternoon.
I miss my bubsies all the time.
The peon in my office, Alastair is totally cool.
I can drive an automatic car!
I go to the gym at least thrice a week.
I got new sneakers.
I can cook.
I love bugging Beenth.
Im taking tomorrow off but haven't told anyone at work yet.
I have a biggish job interview tomorrow.
I want sushi all the time.
I am eating a stolen packet of chips right now, which is slightly seela hua from the humidity.

4.01

2011-06-07T00:44:00.003+05:00

Sometimes, I was telling M this today, my brain is working so fast but my body is so tired I want to write but my fingers are too tired to write. Other times, I am staring at the screen, but so mentally exhausted I wish someone could read my mind, suck out my ideas, and just write for me. Phrase my sentences, insert the appropriate vocabulary for effect and just do the job. Oh well, sometimes I wish I could do the same, save my dreams in an inception inspired silver briefcase and wake up and rewind them to make the coolest movies ever. Anyway.

So I’ve been trying to follow coke studio as much as possible; yesterday I kept switching amongst ALL ten music channels on TV to finally dejectedly land on PTV by fluke on hour later. Lo and behold, only PTV was airing the 2nd episode, which I had by then missed, save for the last 2 songs. One of which was a duet of Arif Hussain Samrat and Zoe Viccaji (the tota at the back), where it wasn’t clear as to why this was a duet and not her on the usual backing vocals. It was a joke: her humming in the background and being a co-singer. What a free-loader. Am listening to Kangna as I type, so verdict on that later.

4.01. I got my teaching evaluation for my last semester at LUMS (for a while at least) before I move to browner non-pastures. I was quite pleased at my comments, where a strength of the course was ‘the instructor was so nice : )’ . Okay, so I was kinda flattered. Also, I found my stolen nameplate, and then stole it for myself. Apparently Marta took hers with her too after she left, so why cant I. I hope accounts don’t come claiming it in 2 months.

Ok. Now I’ve reached the brain too tired to churn out coherent thoughts stage. The paiti story was what I had in mind for tonight.

Sleeping Lessons

2011-03-20T00:22:00.001+05:00

When water goes down the drain in my shower stall, it makes a funny echoing sound, almost melodious as it trickles down the pipes. It sounds so familiar, like a song I’ve grown up listening to. And then one day, as I usually get my epiphanies while brushing my teeth or while in the bathroom generally, I remembered what the drain music sounded like. The opening rift of one of the songs I heard live in November 2007. So one by one I listened to every song I had trying to remember which one it was. The song was as weird as most of the others they've sung. But I was more concerned with the bubbling drain tune.

It could be about insomnia, drugs or a girl. Shrug

I've loved this song for a year. I saw the meaning today

2011-03-10T15:12:00.002+05:00

Quelqu’un M’a Dit

On me dit que nos vies ne valent pas grand-chose
Elles passent en un instant comme fanent les roses
On me dit que le temps qui glisse est un salaud
Que de nos chagrins il s'en fait des manteaux
Pourtant quelqu'un m'a dit...

Que tu m'aimais encore
C'est quelqu'un qui m'a dit que tu m'aimais encore
Serait-ce possible alors ?

On me dit que le destin se moque bien de nous
Qu'il ne nous donne rien et qu'il nous promet tout
Paraît que le bonheur est à portée de main
Alors on tend la main et on se retrouve fou
Pourtant quelqu'un m'a dit...

Mais qui est-ce qui m'a dit que toujours tu m'aimais ?
Je ne me souviens plus, c'était tard dans la nuit
J'entends encore la voix, mais je ne vois plus les traits
"Il vous aime, c'est secret, lui dites pas que je vous l'ai dit"
Tu vois, quelqu'un m'a dit...

Que tu m'aimais encore, me l'a-t-on vraiment dit...
Que tu m'aimais encore, serait-ce possible alors ?

Clutter

2011-02-18T14:08:00.001+05:00

According to Mary Douglas, matter out of place is waste (I’m not putting direct quotes in case this isn’t the exact wording). I wrote my master’s dissertation on Waste, so I should know this. She says that objects or things outside of their proper domain create waste, such as a saucepan in your bedroom, or a pair of shoes in the kitchen. They don’t belong to those areas of the house, hence create waste.

Not only are we surrounded by dirt, both literally and figuratively, our lives are cluttered. By things we don’t need or use but can’t let go of, by people we don’t want in our lives yet constantly pollute our existence, and ideas and thoughts that don’t give us any positive insights, but rather clutter and cloud our better judgment and thinking.

How does one get rid of this clutter? Unlike picking up a saucepan and putting it back on the stove or in the cupboard; or returning the pair of shoes to the shoe rack, clutter needs to be disposed of. It isn’t matter ‘out of place’ then, that needs to be returned or rearranged; rather it is waste that needs to be discarded, disposed of or gotten rid of.

While we may find it easy to get rid of a pair of jeans or shoes that clutter our closets, but without physically disposing of them, how do we remove people who clutter or lives and more so ideas that clutter our minds? Its times like these one could do with a Pensieve, to remove the mind’s burden into a repository of ideas and revisit them when and as one likes. Like a blog?

2011-01-21T21:13:00.002+05:00

So I haven't written in the longest time. Lots has been going on, lots I could write about, lots I could poke fun at, lots I could dissect and shred to pieces - but I didn't. Partially because people I used to like, I don't like so much anymore, people I used to judge, I don't judge so much anymore, and so forth.

With a whole new level of life alteration in tow, my muse is either jetlagged or lost in translation. More so and to be honest, my muse is pissed off and doesn't feel worthy of articulating cheap stories about cheap people.

However, since I don't want to be a blog tease, I still feel the urge to relay an sms stalker's poem to me yesterday: (and i quote verbatim)

"GREEB AASHIQ"

Tera Mera Jor V Ki
Me Ek Kisan Da Putter
Tu Waddy Afser Di Dhee
Me Khoky Te Cigrate Phookan
Tu K.F.C Wich Pepsi Pi
Tera Mera Jor V Ki

Me Ek Shirt Nu Toh Toh Pavan
Tare suit 25, 30
Tera Mera Jor V Ki

Me Te Mar K B.A Kita
Tu Riyazi Wich M.Sc
Tera Mera Jor V Ki

Tare Pichay Sohnay Munday
Sadey Wastey Khala di Dhee
Tera Mera Jor V Ki
(greeb aashiq)

And now since my Punjabi has sharpened even more, it made my day.

2010-10-26T10:48:00.001+05:00

I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of a train
I kiss you all starry eyed, my body's swinging from side to side
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

D plus

2010-09-21T00:19:00.000+05:00

Once in March we decided to dance to an old 90’s favorite, and while we twirled and twisted on the infectious multiple dhol beats some of the words struck a chord in my head: Raat meri din hain teray, Tere ansoo ab hain meray. And I thought, wow, you really do start sharing your life with someone else. And judging by whatever little I know of this one, he’s a keeper; for-life material.

ecstasy

2010-08-27T00:42:00.000+05:00

I miss sadness.

We always want to find happiness, but when we do, why do we have sadistic cravings for misery, unhappiness, heartbreak? Sadness that makes us revolutionaries, writers and poets. That gives meaning and depth to the minutest of our observations and thoughts. I crave to hear a sad song and have my heart sink a little in the almost comforting (and familiar) melancholy of the singers voice. Happiness makes you numb, unaware, almost apathetic. I remember a dumb blonde once said happy people don’t do bad things (like killing their husbands), but do happy people do good things? Or do they become too self absorbed and happy to bother any longer? I wonder what kind of people we need to be then, to bring change.

And how ironic and typical of us, to complain of happiness.

oyeah.

2010-07-20T22:29:00.001+05:00

I’m listening to the shukran allah from the Kurban soundtrack which I have been told is a great movie. But then, you also liked race. Enough said. It should be shuker Allah but somehow he sings it with a noon ghunna, hence shukran. Hehe.

T’was an interesting week. Apart from biting people’s heads off (its excusable, refer to Guide to Understanding Women version 2.0.1), I played with four Labrador puppies. All golden. I ate chicken roast (WITH paratha). I was able to choose which shawl I liked out of four! (winner). And I realized I am damn cool-supahb-mindblowingly lucky (ya).

And while others might be partaking in leftovers (loving the analogy Z!), or aimlessly running like Zebras with no direction, or carrying weighty rocks on their shoulders like Obelix, we need not worry about reset buttons. This time we aren’t going back to the stars.

Work work work (sing the song with Arabian music)

2010-06-20T23:13:00.004+05:00

A much needed and untimely 6 hour nap is perhaps the perfect remedy to consecutive early mornings; swimsuits with oversized trunks, 90 degrees, amusing encounters, designer belts and shocking newses. But I have to say, the world's most boring couple award is reserved for those who make movies like the Hangover seem like an STN action-replay show for people with special needs. Haha! That description perhaps gives you too much credit. Anyhow, a good dive can take one a long way. And feroza studs work wonders with wet hair. And now that all that needed to be said, is done, back to the children yo.

Bewafaan

2010-04-18T11:38:00.000+05:00

So I had the much dreaded mazdoor encounter. details later.

5 Minute Poems III: Eureka!

2010-04-15T13:55:00.003+05:00

(to be sung to the tune of 10 Days Late, by third eye blind)

Chuck those heels
And heal my cramps for me
T’was care free, thankfully not something major
At the station
Or, out in the open
There’s no simple way
To let you know
It hurts, and you wanna cry out ‘I’m dying’
I got a big surprise, I said
I’m in trouble now
And it cannot wait
I’m ten days late
So, at least my life’s not complicated (phew)
But I can’t wait
Cos I’ve got no ammo
And I’m ten days late
Ten days late

Don’t ride bicycles, let JayZ drive
I laugh
Though I really want to cry
Talk back at the parents
Consequences don’t bother me now
Ah, ah
Oh no, baby, oh no no
No…
Give me a minute now
To figure out my date
Oh I know, I’m ten days late
But I don’t know
Where I can change it
But it’s still great
No more stress-ss
Albeit ten days late
Ten days late

Your eyes look to me for what to do
I can’t lie
Uh uh
I don’t know why, but
There’s HOY in the bathroom
No ones laughing
Now what do I say
I walk away, but oh, oh
Don’t go back to the function
Walk right behind me
Give me a minute now to figure out my state
My pants are grey like slate
So no need for me to fade it
I guess I’ll Always ™be
Needing you

Even if I’m ten days late
Ten days late

Cat shaped puddles.

2010-03-07T23:14:00.002+05:00

On Friday a mute Chinese transvestite blowdried my hair. I haven’t quite gotten over the experience yet, and it’s a Sunday (almost a Monday, actually). So every day I look out of my window and instead of seeing the beautiful brown and ferozee tailed bird whose name I still haven’t been able to find out, I see mazdoors. Of all shapes and sizes, glugging down liter bottles of water, spitting on the walls, pissing in the bushes and surprisingly not staring into my window. Yet. I mustn’t speak too soon.

While the progress on the neighbors house continues, the concrete waves on the opposite neighbor’s house keep increasing exponentially. And last wave ago I thought my eyes couldn’t get more sore. Speaking of eyesores, I judge people who hide all their life and then once married reveal their erstwhile boyfriend (now husband) in their profile pictures for all to see. Personally, I don’t like the color of your bed sheets now that you insist on showing me.

I am still recovering from my vacation to the Ethnic Mindfuck. I mean Dubai. Broke till yesterday, I received the strangest looking cheque from my other workplace (great, Word still corrects my spelling of ‘received’). It was a thin and broad pale green paper with an old Wild West font. I’ll try cashing it tomorrow.

I’m learning to be vocal. Passive aggressive PMS outweighs all rationality, and also never works on anyone. Be it menopausal mothers or members of the opposite sex.

But, at least mom’s get sarcasm.

O-dip.

2010-01-17T22:37:00.001+05:00

So I confess: I can’t help but feel slightly left out. The same feeling when I lost that election by 2 or 3 votes, and the rest of us all won. Hence the comic relief, that fills, or rather dominates, most of our conversations. For lack of better conversation. Or lack of an Inappropriate Khan or Reborn Rizwan equivalent. But then we’ll all go out for lunch (to Zouk), someone will treat me, and everything will be fine, and all feelings forgotten. I suppose.

I had a sudden urge to listen to Cyndi Lauper during the usual heater and you-know-what session. And after an exceptionally long and shirk-some day, or rather weekend, gender violence and human rights violations sits on my table top, glaring me in the eye. Above it, my Rubik’s cube balances itself precariously, yet with perfection, on one of its corners. Maggie Simpson yawns on a ceramic mug, and Clover peers down on me from the dusty ledge, next to an empty Mortein dispenser.

And here I am, wishing I was the fruit seller who bicycles down my street every afternoon shouting keenoo, amrood in high pitched, yet somehow melodious, Punjabi. I wonder what would happen if one day I decided to get on my bike and belt out girls just wanna have fun, at the top of my lungs down street 11.

Top Few Reasons Why Karachi is better than Lahore

2010-01-05T23:35:00.000+05:00

People talk about real things. The ratio of intelligent women to jooti-purse-girls (JPGs: courtesy Shah) is skewed heavily in favor of the former.

People don’t stare if you’re wearing jeans and/or no dupatta in the bazaar.

They have Jafferjees.

You can get lost in Karachi.

Most people can, and do pronounce qaaf while speaking Urdu.

There are camels at the beach.

You don’t have to think twice before ordering prawns.

Jabberwocky

2009-12-24T00:42:00.004+05:00

Polaris
It was a clear night and since there were 20 minutes of blackout remaining, perfect to gaze. I spied a trace of the big dipper from the car window, but lacking your cosmological expertise wasn’t able to go beyond the aligned three. Having forgotten all I had learnt, I googled it instead. Braving the cold in my pjs and scarf I stared into the sky. Did you know the cities of the Indus Valley Civilization were astronomically aligned with Draconis, not the North Star?

Perfume
You know its time to get locks installed in the bathroom drawers when Fayyaz cleaner starts wafting Lancôme Miracle.

Gool
This was the name of a brand of woolen socks in Anarkali Bazaar I saw a couple of weeks ago while delivering some clothes to the caretakers’ family in Nazir Manzil. Silently amused at the name and at S’s suggestion (on the phone at that time, to whom I relayed my discovery of Gool mozay (not jurabain)) to steal them, I saw a burqa clad woman pass by and there I knew I had finally found my new character: Rubina Al-Hooda, who steals from the rich and gives to the poor; Your local super heroine, good Samaritan of sorts (Wait for more development on this front; don’t want to give too much away).

Gillani
I finally figured out what is wrong with him. His face is as thick as his neck; or rather, his neck is the same thickness as his face. So essentially it is one solid block of flesh from head to shoulders. Like Gumby.

Shania Spain
While channel surfing in our Seville hotel room, I came across a travel programme akin to Malaysia Truly Asia, about Algeciras or Malaga – cant recall – and kept watching the clichéd straw huts, handicrafts and flame grilled prawns. Since it was all in Spanish I was rather amused at their choice of soundtrack: That Don’t Impress Me Much, by Shania Twain. I suppose the beginning music is catchy, but you could’ve at least not played the chorus.

Go-go
I was kind of disappointed to see George Michael wearing a ‘Choose Life’ t-shirt in Wham’s Wake Me Up video. It kind of killed the coolth of trainspotting. Forever. Oh well. I guess he wins cos he came first.

Permanently Blue

2009-12-07T23:50:00.005+05:00

So after much contemplation, I downloaded Limewire. But I am going to beware the spyware foosa with a vigilant eye. Another bomb blast today. I have a creeping feeling that I have become so desensitized to violence, that if God forbid something happens to me/my loved ones, I’ll be able to handle it. Yeah.

To get my mind off the inferno which was/is Moon Market, I took refuge in the Superhero Movie. And in between the ridiculous references to nothing funny, the polo ad posing the question: ‘what is your hole story?’ warranted a grin (accompanied with slight shock). But speaking of superheroes, I think we need a hero, or a savior, soon. I’m sure I’ve said this before, somewhere near M.M Alam road.

Speaking of heroes, I know (part of) my new year’s resolution. Since a personality makeover isn’t really on the charts (nor something I consciously want to do, I am liking myself more lately) I want to be honorable. The sort of person who will lay his/her life for others, the silent yet wise elder, the warrior who keeps his word even to his enemy, the soldier who gets shot saving others, the (native) American who takes the first arrow. Who isn’t driven by money, greed, material things, and is content in that life. In the midst of so much noise, hate, fear, avarice, deception, I could use some peace and quiet. Or a lifejacket.

p.s on a lighter note: if you read the lyrics of Lisztomania without hearing the song first, you’d probably think someone from India wrote it, only.

MS.

2009-12-05T22:56:00.001+05:00

62 isn’t really the age to leave. That’s what they said about nani too. But I just met you, sat with you on the lounge sofa, laughed with you, tried clothes on with you, criticized the darzi’s cut of the gala which was too broad for your liking. You were always so spirited, so full of energy, life and vibrancy. That is how I will always remember you. Your hilarious anecdotes of your grandchildren, children, mother, mother-in-law, naukars will always be remembered with the fondest of memories. I’ll remember picking you up from temple road, driving to goldsmiths jewelers, having chaat, and buying your favorite shadow-work joras from liberty. Your paan-stained mouth, impeccable British accent, and equally perfect urdu lehja. Your happy go lucky pragmatic approach to the most serious of things. Your pine cigarettes ki dabbi with the lighter inside. Your pink gharara on bibi khala’s mehndi. I’m glad you went peacefully. But, I still wish you had more time. Because we weren’t ready for you to leave.

Oh-Noh.

2009-11-28T00:19:00.000+05:00

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.

The Devil Drives Prado.

2009-11-19T15:57:00.002+05:00

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.

SwitchBitch

2009-11-15T01:00:00.001+05:00

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.

(par′ə sīt′)

2009-11-11T23:47:00.002+05:00

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.

Too Cool

2009-11-07T22:30:00.001+05:00

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.

Snakes

2009-11-04T00:51:00.001+05:00

"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)

2009-11-01T23:39:00.004+05:00

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.

2009-10-27T01:14:00.001+06:00

Khan used to sing Sullivan Street in 10th grade. I heard it today after a while. March isn't too far from today.

Popping Bubbles

2009-10-21T00:41:00.001+06:00

So I had assigned the following question to my Pakistan Studies class: imagine you are the ruler of Pakistan with unlimited authority. What three reforms would you implement to improve the socio-economic conditions in Pakistan, (focusing on specific problems which you aim to overcome through those reforms)? Well, something to that effect, the exact wording I can’t recall at this hour. Even though, ironically, I just got up after checking the last few of the first 1/3rd batch (out of a total of 108), in the emergency lamplight. Yeah, someone forgot to turn the generator switch on and since everyone in my household falls asleep at 9:45pm sharp, I was left to my own devices. Cell-phone light to reach the emergency light switch. I didn’t bother venturing out to the backyard.

And while I was reading accounts of how Pakistan will see better days, will be more literate, prosperous and healthy, in a mini euphoria of sorts, my phone lit up. Assuming it was a usual Facebook update or Shah calling me a goat, this time was an email from the Vice Chancellor, at this hour: stating that the university would be shut for an entire week starting tomorrow, following the terrorist attack at the Islamic University in Islamabad today. My heart sank. Ironic too though, because it seems like now the urban bubble is finally popping. And it is more saddening that the few who do have the resources and opportunity to pursue an education are also being denied that right.

Wallowing in these myriad thoughts, I snapped back into reality (or should I say make-believe; sometimes the distinction is blurry) as electric currents buzzed back into empty light bulbs. Trudging my way to the lonesome second storey, carrying the all-too-familiar blue books, I dug my hand into my comfort food bag and downed 2 packs of Doritos without a second thought.

Olives

2009-10-15T23:56:00.001+06:00

Today I was scared.

For the first time, it wasn’t a told-you-so-shrug, or ‘of course this was bound to happen’, explanation. I was sitting in the car outside Shezan while Jay-Z went in to get orange juice for mother’s flu, that I heard a cacophony of voices and then one booming distinctively through a loudspeaker. As nervous drivers and motorcyclists meandered to the sidelines of the road, 8 army jeeps, heavily loaded, teeming with armored soldiers, sped past us in an olive green haze, towards the direction of Badian road. My heart leapt and my brows furrowed, as they are now while I recall today’s incident, albeit from the comfort of my bedroom. I frowned all the way home, thinking when I had left to go to work on the Mall today, past 7 odd ambulances and one fire-engine, and ironically mentioned to E about renovating his Temple Road house only a night before, a storm was already in tow. And even though I have a contradictory mix of scaredy-cat Kashmiri and fearless Pathan genes which usually tend to play out at the right times, I felt vulnerable.

If that wasn’t enough to the start of an uncomfortable evening, another calamity happened. B.A’s regular night maid was on leave so the replacement was due to fill in for tonight. Ma, who usually improvises for the maid’s absences, was sick in bed and Abbu…well, he was watching Geo. I was exiting ammi’s room with a bottle of honey and roasted garlic (desi totka for the cold), and multi-planning Saturday’s final exam, Friday’s office work and a bunch of other things in my head, when B.A fell.
Now since she’s old and hasn’t been entirely active, or rather mobile (self inflicted) for the past few years, she has been prone to falling from the atrophying muscles in her limbs. But this time, there was no one to help. Not only did I have to help haul up my 80 year old grandmother from the bathroom floor, help her sit on the stool to regain her composure before she was able to make her way back to the room, but talk her into doing so like a child. Come on, left foot, now right. Shabaash. I don’t know why it was such an upsetting experience: The fact that I had never really helped a vulnerable older person before, or the fact that my parents are also getting older. Or that I couldn’t look at my grandmother while I was helping her and coaxing her like a 5 year old. And that I was holding my breath the whole time. With a sprained right thumb and wet slippers (from the bathroom floor), I quietly left the room. I suppose it’s easy to take old people for granted, or treat their illness as a part of life.

So, I ate an apple to cheer myself up. Then I went upstairs and decided against my initial plan to chase army vans from the roof. I wasn’t in the mood. Then the landline phone rang. Twice. On the third bell, I picked up only to be greeted by three separate hellos.

Alphabet Soup II

2009-10-06T01:05:00.001+06:00

Guilt
Now that Esteban has made his exit, after a long companionship lasting 4 years, if not more, I have to find a solution to Sanchez’s DVD tray which keeps popping open at the most inopportune moments. I suppose since transitions are on the charts nowadays, my hypocrisy is also making a public face: yes, I have become one of ‘them’ smartphone toting women. I know it is criminal to have a phone which probably values the same as a staff member’s 6 month salary. But I never splurge, otherwise. Honestly.

Identity
So I’m a little late in doing the whole ‘finding meaning in the simple and obscure things of life’ primarily because I’ve always been boxed in the other compartment. Amongst siblings, roles are reserved or ascribed, fixed almost. So if I want to start writing, I’m deviating from what I’m supposed to be good at, painting. No wonder it has taken this long to find a voice.

Anger
Speaking of which, I have realized I hate confrontations. I’d rather ignore, overlook, or move on (convincing myself along the way that it wasn’t worth it to begin with) than face the issue at hand, even if I am the one being wronged. Also my anger is so short lived that the time taken from the parking lot to the office of the HR manager who screwed up my pay-slip (for instance) is enough to cool me down and revert to my usual uber polite social self all over again: “Jee, yeh please kar dain; Shukriya”. What is up with that? I can recall life changing moments when all I said was something to the effect of it aint over till the fat lady sings, where I should’ve probably punched the person on the face, or at least stomped on their polished shoes. This could be a personality flaw.

Lust
Wisdom often comes from unexpected sources and people, especially if they are 9 years your junior. And they say things like “apa, you need to fall in love, too” when you refuse to believe their fellow 14 year old friends are in love with their pubescent, underage drivers with too much pocket-money boyfriends. I can’t decide which is worse: admonitions from younger siblings, or retired uncles lusting over Diya Mirza at eid dinners.

Vulnerability
Newsflash: Boys love vulnerable girls. I read an article in my freshman year on the “Lean and Hungry” look, which the author used to describe twiggies and skinny people in general, and how they almost by virtue (vice) of being so lean and hungry and emaciated, were suspect. As opposed to the well-fed and wholesome look which was much more trusting. A certain someone I know is always the object of every man’s affection. Now, I know of them shallow sorts who only look at faces, but now I’ve realized what the charm is. She epitomizes the “vulnerable”,“I need a savior” look(not the same as damsel in distress, mind you – needs further explanation). And you boys love that, don’t you?

09/02/09 Actually.

2009-09-29T22:27:00.000+06:00

It’s unnerving to say the least when your laptop crashes. But it is devastating when it is returned to you in working condition, less My Documents. It’s all gone. My poems, stories, ramblings, research papers, pdf files, articles, presentations. The only thing I don’t really miss is the lyrics folder. ‘She Speaks’ will be greatly missed. Especially the stuff which was never meant to be posted, but kept safe in a secret time capsule of sorts; For comfort. For old time’s sake.
Speaking of which, the phrase ‘old time’s sake’ is, in my opinion, terribly overrated. An old friend recently very astutely suggested, ‘love the present’. The present should be celebrated. Old time’s sake is just an imaginary construct of better times, the days of yore, when we had braces and knock-knees. Hell, those were hardly better times. Simpler times perhaps.
I watched a terribly lame film today, on a cousin’s insistence. Not only were the characters psychotic, spastic and irrational, Ben and Jen turned out to be the only normal couple of all. Plus, Scarlet needs to get out of her grey t-shirt phase and start wearing real clothes. Now, I could go on and rant about some more stuff on my mind, but I am actually feeling sleepy earlier than my usual ridiculous bedtime. I wonder how long it takes to fully digest a Zinger.

5 Minute Poems III: My Bleeding Nose.

2009-09-21T00:12:00.002+06:00

(to be sung to the tune of Leona Lewis’s Bleeding Love, preferably)

Clogged up all morn, I didn’t need the pain
One kestine seemed enough, but it was all in vain
Time started to pass,
My snot turned into molten

Oww

Then something happened for the very first time in the loo,
I blew my nose and my face started turning blue
Ali entered my room and thought I was going crazy
(I didn’t have asthma as a baby)

But I don’t care what they say,
I don’t have the flu
It’s a case of allergy
Called hay fever too,
My nose’s crippled by the pollen I keep on breathing
Its chokes me up and I

Keep sneezing and wheezing
With an itchy throat,
Keep sneezing, wheezing
With a bleeding nose
I keep sneezing, sneezing with
A bleeding nose

Oww x2

I try hard not to sneeze
With the elders around
Disgusted eyerolls; they try to dodge my ‘germs’ away
A nosebleed don’t get you no sympathy these days
Yet I know they just wish
That I’d carry a hanky

It’s not contagious but I
Keep getting glares and dirty looks
As if I enjoy the undue attention and
Don’t carry tissues on purpose
If only they knew the pain in repressing ones sneezes

Cos nothing’s greater than an unrestricted sneeze out loud
It might splatter, but I promise there’s no germs involved
If only my nose weren’t this sensitive
I wouldn’t be complaining

Cos no matter what I take
A pill or syrup too
Incidal is a pain
And Panadol won’t do
I’ve tried tissues (rose petal and flying), but they’re equally scratchy
They cut me open and I

Keep sneezing and wheezing
With watery eyes,
Keep sneezing, wheezing
Now its no surprise,
I keep sneezing, sneezing with
A bleeding nose

And its draining all of me
It’s not cool to be the kid with nosebleeds
But I’ll be sneezing no more, once autumn season leaves…

Routes vs. Roots

2009-08-20T02:06:00.002+06:00

I was part of a team which made a documentary with the above title. Only, it was about South Asian diaspora in the UK and identity crises they face, analysed through film. And although we played on the notion of samosas, dosas and half baked goras, our own young generation back home seems to be facing its own special predicament. While a ‘good India bride should make perfectly round chapaatis’ instead of playing football with her mayts, the good Pakistani girl cliché seems to take its own transfiguration or mutation - whichever seems more relevant at the moment.

Because, apparently having your own opinion counts as being badtameez. Having studied more than a Bachelor’s degree makes you a know-it-all, and not wanting to hear someone state the obvious, makes you insolent. A fight can turn into you being given the option to move out into your own apartment (who’da thought?)

Yesterday we were talking about finding an escape route. Everyone needs to get out at some point in time, be it going abroad for college, moving away to a new city to work, or other transitions entailing some level of permanent change. I am still trying to figure out my escape route, but ideas are welcome.

M.

2009-08-09T01:21:00.001+06:00

We were both born in deserts, separated by continents. We grew up together, 4 months apart. You and I. We both wore shorts, till you grew 4 inches taller, and had to buy clothes from the ladies section. You said I had hair like Barbie, but we both know your braid was double the thickness of mine. We were bobbing balloons in the lawn when a flying cockroach landed on your head and you got excited thinking the balloon had returned from the terrace. Later someone told us all cockroaches fly. You wore a black velvet dress and pearls on your tenth birthday, and then spilled ice cream on it. I helped scrub out the stain.

We made wire jewelry, and ‘dumped’ hot bead patterns on the carpet. Watched Beauty and the Beast, and knew all the songs by heart. We still do. Then we invented Gaston Moo-Moo-Moo, where Ali was always Gaston, Bia Lefou and the rest of us Belles. Needless to say, we never had to chase.

I sat in front of class, you at the back. We both were toppers, though not so great at math.
We never competed, though given many a chance. We were above and beyond competition. We were equals, in our own unique ways. I made you a talker, you made me a thinker. You taught me how to take chances and believe in love. I knew if you did, I might too one day.

And when I saw the gold and peach silk, embellished with stones and pearls, everyone’s oohs and aahs became mere blurs, as I shared a silent moment with myself. I smiled through tears, as I always do. I was happy and sad at the bittersweet feeing of having to let go of one of my most cherished friends.

All the girls chatted away, as the mothers and aunts read tasbeehs, siparas and duas for you. I read a whole sipara for you silently in the corner, because I would do anything for you. And I said a silent prayer in my heart. They talked about girls making the home, a successful woman being one who builds strong relationships of love with her in-laws and husband. You are going to become someone’s wife, daughter-in-law, sister-in-law, even mother, one day. But this time, I’m not going to be sitting on the pavement with you having Country cold coffee.

A part of me is acutely sad, yet ecstatic. I’ll have to come to terms to letting go, and sharing you with someone else. And we both know I was never good at sharing.

There is no(place like) Spain

2009-08-06T01:49:00.001+06:00

I am looking for the remote control, on a bed with no sheets or pillow cases on the pillows, having been denied my usual place of slumber, by default. I wore black socks tonight, so my pink toes are striped instead of plain, but I brushed my teeth and pulled off the night routine with ease. I bought my first piece of bling today, coming scarily closer to Z’s 8th grade pearls, “you know Channay, if you wore a diamond stud in your nose and struck this pose (shoving a Tupac Shakur CD under my desk), you would look JUST like him!” Not knowing whether to be offended or flattered, I continued writing my impeccable science notes in purple fountain-pen ink, while Z continued to burn her desk with a lighter.

The fact that I have been likened to men, and that too black athletes or celebrities doesn’t say much about my style or looks. Despite all I have learnt to embrace the martian; at least Spanish men thought I was Moroccan or Arab, and I knew it was my cue to be flattered for sure, this time.

My photographic memory hasn’t done me many favours recently, as I kept relying on it for anecdotes of my travels and general day to day observations. My planner was my sole companion these 15 days where I did not carry a pen and paper, wear a watch, carry a functioning mobile phone, or wear socks. Ah, the liberation! No makeup after the first 3 days (except for nights out), one pair of flipflops, which roamed the dirt paths of the Alhambra, danced the wooden floors of Mae West Baby Vamp in Neptuno (wait for further elaboration), went to the beach, in hostel shower cubicles, and then in a backpack back home. It proved to be the best spent 7 Euros of the trip. Paisa Vasool.

Barcelona had crisp air and a recurrent cool breeze throughout the day. We had an attic on Caller Roger de Lluria to ourselves which overlooked pinkish ochre buildings with quaint balconies and potted plants. We reserved ourselves from the clichés, still. Saw Gaudi’s architecture, walked to Park Guell like mofos only to realize had we taken the regular route (ignoring my insistence) there was an escalator that got you up there, from the main road. The uphill hand, I called it. Walked all over, at every hour, got hugged by random Spanish boys on the streets, ate 2 Euro burgers (never again), saw all that there was to be seen and got half price tickets on the night train without the infamous ‘star card’. Even walked to the marina and tried to overcome fears of bridges. Obviously, it didn’t work and I had to run across when I realized there were gaps between the planks. I am probably not doing much justice to the city right now, but each city we visited kept exceeding expectations of the previous, that Barcelona seemed plain in contrast. So for all those lamers who show off of spending their summer in Barcelona: you only made it to the pre party.

“Donde Cheap drinks, Hot guys and Good Music?” through the course of the night, deteriorated into “donde cheap guys, hot drinks and any music?” Also, either sentence spoken in a Spanish accent (contact Z for demonstration) received many more responses, rather than the usual, quick dismissal of “non hablo anglais”.

Case in point: the three hour walk in the streets of Granada, 11pm onwards, looking for Neptuno. After hours upon hours of rejecting places, closed bars, and out of business clubs, asking directions from only the good-looking passersby, we reached Neptuno. Apparently the most happening place for the young local crowd, we instead were faced with an empty (and closed) shopping mall/Cineplex. A walk around the corner revealed a huge staircase with a sign on top – bearing the picture of a local version of Betty Boop wearing a black leotard, reading ‘Mae West, The Baby Vamp’. The ‘err’ which escaped Z and my mouth simultaneously were not entirely audible to Happy Z as she skipped up the stairs to ask the bouncer if the place was nice. Of course he wasn’t biased.

Z then went in to check the place out, and returned, saying “it’s decent and there’s English music – it seems promising.” Having walked in the aforementioned flipflops for 3 hours by then, I was ready to spend those 10 euros, for better or worse, while Not-so-Happy Z apprehensively looked around, saying “isn’t there a Flamenco place we could go to instead? I read about it in the Lonely Planet.” After many an eyeroll and persuasion, all three of us landed up inside the wooden, ship-like interior of a bar, with 10 people sitting around the counter. A KT Tunstall song was blaring from the speakers as we exchanged mixed looks and plonked down on three bar stools. The two boys next to us were kind enough to share the candy dish, trying to chat up Lively Z off and on.

After forcibly enjoying the incongruous bar music, Z and I headed to explore the rest of the place, thinking the ‘most happening’ place of Granada had to have more to offer. And we were right! One step into the swinging doors opened up into Alice’s Wonderland. A huge split level wooden floor, jampacked with people, Calle Ocho blaring from the speakers, flat TV screens lining the ceiling, (you get my drift). Excitedly we hurried back to Z who was in the middle of a conversation with Raphael (the one in the blue shirt), who then introduced us to his friend: Raul, the Flamenco dancer. Overwhelmed by our discovery of the dance floor, instead of shaking hands with Raul, I leant in and kissed him on the forehead! Then I smiled to myself and skipped away to dance. I didn’t meet another Raul during the rest of the trip. I guess Spanish clichés aren’t really much to go by after all. Grin*

And we thought Barcelona was rocking, after our first night in the chic Carpe Diem, a beachside club/lounge followed by the seedy opium where men insisted on showing us ‘magic tricks’. Needless to say, we left soon after. Well, Granada turned out to be even more happening, in spite of being a smaller, landlocked town. The hamam probably added more to the charm as well. Think: aromatherapy, 7 pools of water (one ice cold, the rest warm in varying degrees), a massage, green tea and sweets. We had washed off the Barca exhaustion and were ready for Tarifa.

Time to time I scribbled in my diary. This is obviously not verbatim.

19th July, 2009
We’re all moving, in different directions, on different vehicles. The startling blue of the Mediterranean en route Tarifa (the windiest beaches in Spain are here) is as enchanting as the Bosporus, if not more. After having a stupendous breakfast (stolen from ‘The Stupendous Brunch’ which happened much later) of salmon and cream cheese with bread, butter, a huevo frito and zumo, the morning couldn’t have been better. Until we realized we were singing, because Alanis’s Jagged Little Pill was the album of the hour. Good music always increases the palatability of food.

In spite of being on the move, we’re all in limbo. We’re all at different stages, I think to myself, as I stare out of the window. Sometimes windmills also stop, even on the windiest of beaches.

Surfer dude haven Tarifa is a 30 minute ferry ride from Tangier, Morocco. But were told Marrakesh is the only city worth visiting, which is 10 hours deep inland. Chucking that plan, we head out to swim in the Mediterranean. Good choice.

Despite 3 layers of sunblock (after each dip), we lie in the sand, only to emerge as sand-coated gingerbread women. The press and pour showers in the hostel also aren’t very affable when sand is discovered in the folds of one’s ears, amongst other places. Proud to have managed to beat the direct rays of the sun, we awake the next morning with the backs of our knees and shins burnt. That was always a tricky angle!

The next beach in Cadiz, where the infamous orange bikini scene (and others) from Die another Day was shot, had less seaweed; water from the Mediterranean and Atlantic merge here. So I swum in the ocean, and bobbed on the waves, and watched people tan their white bodies. In Europe, people prefer more evenly spread tans, and make no bones about it. Publicly. At least I wasn’t with my parents this time.

We roamed the old town in both cities, walked down to the fortifications, ate tapas like nobody’s business and laughed all the way home. Home in this case being Casa Caracol, a quirky back-packers inn (which we found about randomly in Barcelona from Vivienna at the internet café), caracol meaning snail in Spanish (the burden of the backpack = snails shell). The bhangiest place I had ever visited in my life, we slept on bunkbeds with 8 other people the first night, flat on our backs, afraid to turn over lest our faces rub against the pillows. Bedtime was usually 6 am, till which everyone chilled in the lounge, played Sudoku, had jam sessions on the guitar, made dinner, talked – all high of course. For a second I thought the caracol signified the pace at which everyone worked, slow, but Scott explained otherwise. Then he went on to ask me how to say “you’re a dirty mermaid” in Urdu. Apparently he was making a compilation and had already covered Polish, Dutch, French, Spanish and whatever language is spoken in Croatia.

The following night we slept on the roof, in hammocks .The next morning after a jaw-breaking breakfast of muesli and pears, we bid our roommate Tobias farewell at the bus stop and departed for Sevilla, at 9am sharp.

23rd July, 2009
I heard someone say Barcelon-err, in Sevilla. Of course he was British, but just another one on my list, I suppose. Z left day before yesterday and the two of us remaining adventurers are on a bus to Cordoba. “The end will never be ready”, she said, before getting on the tram at Plaza Neuvo.

Sevilla was an instant favourite, primarily because the river that flows through the city was called Alfonso. We celebrated Z’s early departure at the only open café during siesta in Triana, with a bottle of chilled water and Tropicana.

And then I got heatstroke.

But we managed a quick dinner of Gazpacho and Raveoli outside the Catedral, speaking Arabic with the Moroccan waiter. I choked on the atmosphere, by the fountain, but survived. Then we took the long road home so we could make fun of Baghal King. The next day, I slept in till 2pm from heat exhaustion and the deep fried cuttlefish from the previous day’s lunch. It was then we swore never to have seafood for the rest of the trip.

In Cordoba, my memories are of the food, the food and well, the mezquita of course. The mosque converted cathedral was a pleasure to the eyes till you saw the chapels which had been added to the original mosque. Awestruck by the red and white arches, yet disappointed by the incongruous decorative additions, we walked by the river at night, feasting our eyes on the lit up mesquite from outside, the sliver of the moon in the sky and the intense, almost disturbing Flamenco performance we had seen the night before. At night, we returned to our apartment (yes, we had an apartment) and decided Z had tanned 5 shades darker than her original skin colour, and I, 4 times.

The return journey comprised of a lone 10.5 hour train ride to Barcelona, Sants Estacio by night, a 10 minute metro ride to Place de Catalunya, a 30 minute ride on the Aerobus to the Airport (wrong terminal). A subsequent 20 minute shuttle ride to Terminal 2, a soggy tuna baguette and bland wedges, and a relay of mp3 player playlist (x4) during the 6 hour wait till my flight. I, who can never sleep on most plane journeys, was out like a light before take off, and next thing you know, I could smell Lahore.

Before Sunrise

2009-07-08T16:24:00.000+06:00

Ironically, stories and blog posts loomed in my head as I stared at the moon. It was agreed, in unison, that it is waxed 97.2%. Since I haven’t seen the moon since then, it should be full by tonight. I sit in a mountain of clothes, 2 cheque books, a reading package from senior year and a yellow dupatta, recovering from last nights delirium. Although my dreams are things creepy movies could be made of, delirious nightmares are another genre altogether. I dreamt of dancing with you in the bathroom of my old house. The ceramic bathroom tiles are the same shade of pink, but somehow, there are rusty iron-clad windows on the ceiling, and an entire glass wall caged in with grills. The floor has grass growing out of it, and I distinctly remember a tree or two. Surprisingly enough, I can’t recall which song was playing. Perhaps one of the oft repeated pub tunes.

I woke up the next morning, remembering a draft I had saved in my unsent messages at 7:24am. And then I remembered how I had traded the perfect life for the full moon. Just like that.

What Women Want

2009-05-18T02:20:00.002+06:00

We all want the cherry on top,
The silver lining,
The cream of the crop

The eyes of a tiger
The wit of a muse
Hair black as a raven
A distinctive mark, or scar, or bruise

The intelligence of my dad
The mischief of a lad
Integrity and the ethics,
But adventures like Sindbad

But what else could he say or do to please me?
Here’s a few recommendations, how hard could it possibly be?

Every month, a week-full of fresh flowers
The ability to talk (i.e. mostly listen) till the wee hours,
Sweet tooth ESP would work quite well
Handmade birthday cards are also swell

Perfection; but just the right amount
‘Your’ vs. ‘you’re’ certainly does count
For instance, your accent on crème brulee
Could really (really) make my day

The speed of Bailey, the skill of Z
A good luck charm, a 4-leafed clover (not three)
Acquired tastes, for let’s say, Jazz
The acoustic voice of Jason Mraz

A best friend and listener like the Zs
Uses unleaded petrol and likes to hug trees
An advisor, discerning between right and wrong
Picks up on obscure references like, El-Kabong

Could don a dhoti, or even a suit
Clean as a whistle, not necessarily a flute
Cooks chicken karahi in (less than) half an hour
Smells great all the time and loves to shower

Bug, reptile and moth exterminator
Profound; perhaps a poet or orator
Planner to the tee, yet a spontaneous spirit
Decent features, stable health, and good genes to inherit

Pokes some fun, cracks a joke, pays an honest compliment
A believer, not a sinner; yet grateful and content
Wise and calm like the sages
Yet pays the bills, earns the wages

I don’t really ask for much at all
Just someone to catch me when I fall
Grab my elbow, lest I trip
Pull me back up, when I begin to slip

Did I mention he should be brave?
And be my loyal and worthy slave
If so, I shall try and reciprocate
But till that time, I must wait.

Everything is Average Nowadays

2009-05-14T23:58:00.000+06:00

Being a cheapster has become a novelty; today I heard a car with booming speakers after many months or perhaps years. It was almost pleasant, as if I missed the woofer which was previously inherent to civics with tinted windows, on any given main boulevard. With everyone having access to the latest fashions, accessories, electronics, you can’t really tell people apart, unless you hear them speak. Not that I am making a value judgment, it being a change for better or worse, but everything is so easy nowadays. Including a personality makeover. Alternative is the new mainstream.

Even being random, as Z says, has become clichéd.

This is why I make no effort to join the bandwagon. I will not replace my three year old phone (with a weak battery), because it gives me character; what would I be in an endless pool of blackberrys and iphones? Another you, you (you, and you, recurring decimal), with a piece of metal glued to my ear. I’ll pass.

Even being heartbroken, hurt or twisted is clichéd, or overdone. What to be next? For the time being I’ll click my heels down the cement-tiled road, while you glide in your pins and stripes, with a sparkle in your palm.

I like come undone by Robbie Williams, when it randomly played on my itunes. You should listen to it, if you want. Don’t if you don’t want to. The new fad will probably be indifference, but till it takes the centerstage (center/centre?) I shall sing songs.

So get your coats were leaving
We’ll just do something else.

Models and Backbenchers

2009-05-08T01:08:00.003+06:00

Both are usually in the same category, either too dumb or too bored to bother. Their smile is usually the same, fake, pasty and white. Every single yearbook/facebook/wedding album has the same tilt of the head, smile, flick of the bangs, and slight squint of the eyes (to add character, they think). They like to ride bicycles without sitting on the seat and flirt without shame. But this also might hold true for the Assholes. While the Repulsives wear shorts too long, and have their socks up till their knees (one blue and one red stripe), the Assholes usually wear all black, and have their iPhones (Pods are so retro) plugged into their ears. They listen to house or trance, because they’re either too dumb to get the lyrics of real songs, or went to college in Canada and think Tiesto is God. They are obviously too cool for the Dostana soundtrack.

The clique likes to hang out in groups of 5 so God forbid you break the treadmill chain. How could you possibly not see their mobile in the towel slot to mullofy the machine, like the playground swing in primary school? My bad once, twice, thrice…I’ll just go to the other end, grandma(s).

The case in point (conventional ridiculously good-looking) bikes for 30 minutes across the butterfly press and then decides to join you on the other bike next to you, the conversation trigger being:

“It’s so hard to lose weight nowadays!”

“Err….are you implying I’m fat?”

Reply. “No, I am fat” (The model speaks)

(Great pickup line!)

I kinda forgot your name within the next 30 seconds till you added me on facebook with your modeling display picture.

Moral of the story: A waistcoat can really make or break you.

The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain.

2009-05-04T00:43:00.001+06:00

“Master Sahab Sitaron Ko Nahin Mantay”, exclaimed Mian Jee, in his general distaste for a relative who had turned into an atheist after his exposure to the ‘West’. It was true, master sahib didn’t believe in the sea and the sky and the blue that runs through it (yeah), his explanation was that the sky is not the sky, but merely a manifestation of the limitations of ones sight. I suppose when people sing it’s a lie, they are probably right. And just because you don’t believe in the stars, doesn’t make you a non-believer. Just unfortunate, I would suppose.

Anyhow, although most of the audience did not get the urdu lehja and most of the jokes, (yes you, who was wearing the white kurta and aara pajama, fakie fakester), it was better than the usual high society fests one tends to land up at. And the fact that a real parrot was involved was a plus 5. This, coming from someone who isn’t very fond of birds, apart from parrots, flamingos and toucans, is obviously a big deal.

It rained on the way back from dinner, and I initially cowered in the rain (first instinct), making my way towards the car in the puddle-y parking lot. Then all of a sudden I thought, what would you do if you were in my place? (‘you’ in this case being your average happy go lucky, ‘high on life’ {I know paindoo cliché but whatever} person), so I straightened my back, flipped back my hair and skipped all the way to the car, singing whatever rhymed with my mood at that point in time, without a care for my painstakingly blow-dried hair frizzing up.

And guess what? It didn’t.

Never on a Friday.

2009-04-17T21:42:00.001+06:00

Me and Z silently judged C as she made ‘notes’ on Nadeem Aslam’s talk at the launch of his latest book recently. However, now that I am referring to my notes of the day, and judging by my propensity to make to-do lists any given moment of the day, I take my judgments back. Aslam is your average Faisalabadi who migrated to England during the late 70s, and lived the life of the Pakistani Diaspora in general; mamu went to Dewsbury; he himself went to an Urdu medium school in England until university, and learnt English through the limited experiences he had with real goras, while growing up. Speaking with a slight twang in his almost uncomfortable semi-British accent – of which the aspirations after the t were evidence - his manner of conversation left me quite blown away. This is why I wish I had written down some of the things he had said that night.

At the risk of sounding like a moron trying to be profound, I will jump to the bits that I can actually rephrase. So he talked about how he had over a 150 journals in which he had written things he had seen, heard, observed, tasted, felt (you get my drift) to be used later when he wrote - as metaphors, adjectives or in his descriptions. Although I am known to do things similar (flashback: plane ride to London last January when I took notes on a barf bag), I smugly nodded in agreement, thinking of all the times and places I had done this, but most of all when I was in motion: in the car, plane, bus, train etc. Thus, I can safely say my inspiration always comes in moving vehicles. And since I am secretly the travel writer, any form of travel counts; any place, any time counts.

Now before I start bordering on inconsequential, I learnt today that you can get a case of Stella for 6K, and if Munir is selling it to you at 8K, he’s a rip off. Also, Ali (not my brother) is a chay. Also, you can google map yourself and your friends on your Black Berry. Hotel bathrooms smell like lemons, only sickly sweet. Also, bright orange sugar particles are usually fish roe. And while all this extremely pertinent information is whirling in my head, simultaneously, in a parallel universe, I am visualizing my own bizarre versions of music videos to songs I sometimes sing in the bathroom. Nora Jones’s “the light changes when you’re in the room” makes me think of a man (preferably class 5 art teacher, sir Irfan, who I accidently called abbu, twice) sitting with a panel of switches and randomly punching the switches from red to blue to green for effect. Perhaps this is because he sort of did so this when we made a haunted house for the school carnival. Also, because I am the worst person to identify lyrics of a song, or better yet remember any of the words, the sentence which is so oft repeated in most songs “were running out of time” ALWAYS reminds me of a swirl of pink and red (like the time warp in the Austen Powers movies) with two people literally running ‘out’ of time.

This has to be the most random piece I have written in my entire lifetime, so I might as well add, I washed a bunch of dishes today with the underbelly of a lizard stuck to the kitchen window, parallel to my face. Also, I made perfect chai for my family, although it was with teabags.

1:26am Work Blues.

2009-04-14T01:25:00.003+05:00

There’s a little red spot in my eye today
It’s the same old thing as yesterday
There’s a lizard glued to the high roofed hall
And a layer of grease in the shower stall

I have sat here before, like a lump of lard
Working past the wee hours, like a crazed retard
I have a lecture to deliver in the next few hours
But it’s my destiny to be the queen of power(point).

It’s just a little red spot in your eye, they say
It’s not from birth, or strain; a blood vessel gone astray
When I’m tired, it glows like embers may
In their final moments before fading away

Yet I sit here and rub both my eyes in vain
I know my posture will give me nothing but back pain
The LCD screen might diminish the strain
itunes is my only savior from this midnight bane

There’s a spelling mistake on slide 3 line 1
There’s a power cut before I press ‘save all’

There’s a misplaced bullet at the end of the line
Tampering with margins, now seems like a crime

Navy blue or black in bold for emphasis?
I think this program has become my nemesis

Black on white, white on black, or let’s leave it blank
Fancy pictures are more of a distraction, let’s be frank

I have sat her before, like a potato sack
A bundles of nerves; a broken back
My perfectionism will take me way before my time
Before I get a final chance to fine(tune)

The lizard squirms and my heart decides to stop
Might as well take a response paper; an easy way out
But then I’d be just like the others, and I swear I’m not
So let’s get back to work, take this from the top

I’m kinda pleased by the outcome; though I can make amends
I’ll leave it till tomorrow, sleep on the current trends
Inspiration hits you at the oddest times
When you could spew out dialogues, but got the role of the mime.

And although there will be time to revise, and improvise
Your position can’t allow compromise
You see the glimmer in their eyes
(In the earlier days, was enough to terrorize)

They stare at you in expectation and wonder
Because the tiniest mistake could rent you asunder.

I know I’ll be here again, same time, next week
With heavy lidded eyes; an uncontrollable desire to sleep
Getting anything done at that time may seem bleak,
But I’ll find a way to work it out; to make ends meet.

Now excuse me, I have work to do
I hope the class is as entertained as were you.

Interrupted.

2009-04-05T20:07:00.001+05:00

I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss. Only the roof was the terrace, and the moss was a fluff of tumbleweed-like remains of a nest that had blown onto the brick-tiled platform. The lights were out. The wind was cold; however in my determination to brave the wind, I didn’t bother to get up for a shawl. It was perfect. With the stars as my lamp posts, the sky my canopy, the whitewashed walls my canvas and the passersby my subjects. They couldn’t see my silhouette against the backdrop of tinted windows. Or so I pretended. I savored my invisibility for a few odd minutes before the next door neighbors decided to flash their cell phone light in my face.

2009-04-01T22:59:00.001+05:00

A Dream Pang
by: Robert Frost

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song
Was swallowed up in leaves that blew away;
And to the forest edge you came one day
(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,
But did not enter, though the wish was strong:
You shook your pensive head as who should say,
'I dare not--too far in his footsteps stray--
He must seek me would he undo the wrong.

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all
Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;
And the sweet pang it cost me not to call
And tell you that I saw does still abide.
But 'tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,
For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.

Nightcrawler.

2009-03-24T16:00:00.002+05:00

When carrying out research on a country or society, you need a sample size of the population being studied, which is somewhat representative of the characteristics of that population. However, sometimes you get readymade samples when you land up in places like last night. Now I know why my previous anthropology professor was carrying out research on elite women of Lahore, your so called (and sometimes self proclaimed) socialites.

Exhibit A is in a mid-thigh length ruffled dress, creamy white legs, straight black hair, bangs, a goblet in one hand, a smoke in the other, dancing alone at the edge of the stage. Some say she is the reason why H and his wife got a divorce. I’m not one to believe in hearsay but am telling the story as I have been told. You have your profusion of dead straight hair, hair-sprayed curls, fringes glued into place, open toed wedges, tie-back halters, pearl strings and stained mouths. Pungent breath, misplaced bra straps, stilettos, and too much kohl. Hey, I liked your hat though. Very original (this is not sarcastic). I stand in the ‘whirpool of humanity’ as my sister once wrote in her 10th grade essay; only her essay was about a mad man escaping paramedics on a busy train platform. I rest against a pillar, wishing I had the strength to push it over, just to get a reaction out of everyone. Wondering what I am doing there, everything seems slow, languid, almost sluggish, although I am not the one intoxicated.

Who are these people? Who is this man in the paisley printed shirt who is dancing in sync with his wife? Only, this isn’t his wife, I am told, but a colleague from work. Two newly divorced couples brush shoulders, perhaps unknowingly, while they chat up their respective newfound (perhaps temporary) significant others. The woman in the beige dress slips on broken glass into the arms of another man. I turn away just in time. I watch some foreign couples enjoy the band, while another singleton pulls off some ghastly moves and flying kicks on the dance floor.

I’m not impressed by your red lamps and exquisitely decorated lounges. I just stand and wonder what I am doing there, and where all these people came from. Whose houses they live in, who their families are, and what they eat for breakfast on a Sunday. Its almost like people transform into the night, and take on their alter identities, reflective of the dual life most people are living in this country. But then again, who am I to talk? After all, I was also a trash collector to the world, only a few hours ago.

The Adventures of Pip.

2009-03-20T22:58:00.001+05:00

Tich buttons on your collar are a dead giveaway, of course. Because by the looks of it, he did not exude anything prefect-ly by his disposition. Holding two bottles of coke each (he was with a friend of course, they travel in packs, remember), while I watched and silently chuckled at the cuteness of boys’ unquenchable thirst and insatiable hunger in their mid to late teens. Donning my gym trackies, university t-shirt and a dupatta on top, without a care of how I looked, I tapped my sneakers on the tiled floor, standing third in line at the checkout counter. Turns out the checkout system wasn’t working so the bills were being coded and written manually and since everyone in line in front of me had happened to do their monthly groceries (eyeroll) from the gymkhana bakery, I had to wait patiently with my less-than-8-items basket.

So the gangly boys decided that two cokes per person weren’t enough and grabbed an extra sprite just in case, yet finding it increasingly difficult to juggle the bottles in their oversized hands. This was when I caught the eye of the tich button boy. Half smiling at them politely, I turned to look at another product on the shelf which caught my attention: ‘White Menz’ bleach cream with a two faced person (half light brown, half dark brown of course). While I was enjoying yet another silent laugh, the gangly boy had awkwardly made his way behind me in line. I casually turned around and asked “Prefect” in a half-knowing yet questioning tone, which would still solicit an answer. Replying “yes” almost immediately, and increasingly puzzled at my interest, or know how, I furthered “Which house?”

“Ghazi” he replied, and I said “achaa” rather slowly, smiled politely, and then turned back around, not sure whether it was a prep or senior school house. I could hear a mumbled exchange of words between the two boys, while I signed my bill and headed back to the car. Ghazi (I was told later) is the house which stands opposite to Centenary house in the General Assembly; that’s all I know about it. Combined with my general curiosity about people, and tendency to do random things, I didn’t feel significantly out of character.

Because I usually write my blogposts in parts (the electricity went at the most inopportune moment when I was bursting with ideas) and fell asleep later, I am allowed to talk about unrelated things. Thus, on an entirely different note, I dozed off today after eating a whole paratha for lunch and was awoken by a hurricane so strong I had to use every ounce of strength I possessed to shut my sliding window. I only like rain when I’m home as opposed to on the go, I’m sure I have mentioned before. When I came upstairs just now, my room was littered with white petals from the rose bush outside, which probably burst in with the gust of wind through the 2 inch gap from the window. But I didn’t mind.

Encounters

2009-03-15T03:37:00.002+05:00

They say when it rains it pours. I hate stepping into full rooms, or full tents, especially when I am wearing heels. Tonight was enjoyable primarily because I was wearing sneakers and didn’t have 150kg newscasters stepping on me. However, it always boils down to balancing things, to keep the equilibrium going. And most of all, not to overstay ones welcome. Which might sometimes translate in making choices against your wishes.

Speaking of choices, my choice of outfit tonight was a smashing success. Think of two rebellious schoolboys in a sea of slutty school girls. We were awesome. Only the short lived glory of my boyhood was reduced to a pair of track pants and a Viva la Vida concert collectible tshirt, with no makeup (because the boy look only permitted mascara). I only realized this when I came home and noticed how out of context my pallid face was with the change in outfit. Pooh! On the brighter side, I met an old friend after many years, and was relieved that the theory of killing two birds with one stone was not proven true, by any stretch of the imagination.

Obligated by my decade long friendship, it was another one of those nights where you wished you weren’t an employee of the Sukh Chan wellness centre, and that being the passive observer wasn’t much redemption. Those words are ringing in my head like the slow drum beat of insomnia. Although I have to wake up in a few hours, and ensure I don’t get arrested just so I can make it for the evening show of Watchmen, all I can think of is whether my eyelashes will fall out if I go to sleep without removing the mascara.

Girls.

2009-03-07T23:21:00.004+05:00

(After eating a plateful of behari kababs and parathas each and cold drinks, which we both spilled in the car door compartment in succession)

Chun: "Sha, what if we go home and there's roast for lunch? Itna afsos ho ga na?"

(in-keeping with Murphy's law that whenever you decide to eat out, lunch at home happens to be a fabulous roast, nehari, egyptian koftay or- you get my drift...)

Sha: "Yeah....It would be like.....meeting the man of your dreams"

A puzzled Chun, completing the sentence out loud: "....And then meeting his beautiful wife...?"

Sha nods in agreement, appreciative of the quick uptake on reference.

Chun: "Err..."

Moments later, both laugh hysterically, while Sprite and Coke waves lap quite audibly in the side doors.

You could've just said ironic.

Girls!

I am a Duck.

2009-03-03T13:05:00.001+05:00

So, this is a bit over due. A friend asked me yesterday why I hadn’t updated my blog. I replied that I could write about my beautiful baby niece, who was born less than a week ago (25th February 2009, 11:50pm to be precise), or the sense of accomplishment/relief/gratitude upon completing my first quarter as a teaching fellow at university, both personally and from my students’ effusive and heartwarming comments. I could, but I didn’t. Firstly because I think my peach blossom cannot be written about, just as yet. I only write about things I have lived and pondered over a great deal and as I am still living this wonderful experience, I don’t want to trivialize or make it common by writing a pathetic blog post.

Secondly, I love my class and will always appreciate them for being my very first. But I don’t want to write about them. Or teaching, or work, or anything related to it. That too is something I’d like to keep up my sleeve, a personal recollection of sorts. Also, because I fear my blog becoming too angst-y or emotional for its own good, like everyone else’s nowadays. Thus, I’ll stick to things inconsequential for today. I can always whine tomorrow. And mind you when I whine, I really do whine. You probably already know that though. If you’re curious, let’s have lunch tomorrow.

Coming back to the matter at hand (this always reminds me of SS, and how she used to actually conjure up a hand in her head when someone used the phrase), let’s talk about being happy. I was thinking why I don’t do any good, am not inspired, and am uncreative. It is a malaise of happy people. You can only write a song about death if you have suffered the pain of a close one’s demise. About hunger if you’ve spent countless days and nights without food. About loneliness if you’ve ever lost a parent or have no home to call your own. Of helplessness and yearning if the only way of getting something you really wanted is by stealing. We are happy. We have everything. This is why we aren’t pushed to do anything. We are good because we were never pushed to the point to be bad, we were never given reason to rebel, lie, cheat, steal or kill. This inherent goodness will be our downfall, the reason why we stagnate.

It is only when you’ve reached rock-bottom that you reform, only when you’ve been so bad, that you gain the potential to change; to be great. Floating in the limbo of goodness, propriety, happiness and contentment doesn’t engender revolutionaries. We’ll be good forever, but never great. I truly envy you for being careless, wild, and horrible. You have so much potential. I, on the other hand, will probably keep floating in this state forever. This mediocre, neutral existence which doesn’t create any waves, whose actions, words and thoughts would probably not even stir an audience of ducks. Do I dare disturb the universe? Great phrases out of poetry give me transient delusions of significance. I shouldn’t even dare try and make them mine.

The fact is, I fear an inconsequential existence. And when I said above, that I’ll stick to things inconsequential today, I was really talking about myself. Even ducks seem to have more purpose.

Win With Weesa.

2009-02-14T23:34:00.003+05:00

A few days ago.

Music was my boyfriend and my best friend, until I killed them both last night. Well, I killed my obsession for starters. I have these obsessive tendencies with most things I tend to like, (clarification: not people, only things - not a stalker), and being highly aware of this compulsive behavior, I never try/ied addictive substances. If I had ever smoked, I’d be a chain smoker for sure. And to think, in my freshman year people said to my sister (then sophomore) ‘yaar M, tumhari behen to stoner lagti hai’, to which I’d roll my heavy lidded eyes and walk away, giving them even more reason to believe so. I am only allowed to be addicted to orange chocolate and ginger snaps.

So, coming back to the previous issue, Shah will be glad to know I have killed the song, after playing it nonstop on Sanchez for 60 hours and singing parts of it out loud, whenever someone visited (and yes, we get a lot of visitors yesterday).

(40 minutes later)

The sun has set since that last sentence, so I’m going to go switch the lights back on.

A few days later.

So its Valentine’s Day, and the only three reasons why it hasn’t really hit me is because (a) I’ve lost contact with Khan whose birthday was on the 11th (and insisted on being given flowers, preferably roses), (b)Sanaa is in Canada, and (c) well, there is no third reason but two didn’t make my argument sound believable enough, so there. Today Squin was telling me how her mother in law admitted to spending most of her time doing two things: worrying and watching tv; I couldn’t help but relate! My parents are out for a ‘couples’ dinner’ at the Punjab Club, and I sat at home, eating chicken karahi and moongray ki sabzi for dinner. In my defence, I was supposed to be somewhere else, even had a nice outfit planned, but that's another long story. I also watched the beginning, end, and middle of Notting Hill on three separate channels, and chose to see the latter half of The Nanny Diaries for the 4th time ever (first 3 times on the plane last summer), only because the nanny becomes an anthropologist in the end. I also realized that Scarlet Johansson has a HUGE butt.

But coming back to V-day, I thought because I don’t have anything particularly significant to contribute in terms of love advice, except for ‘please refrain from buying frames, candles (scented) and anything heart shaped/red glittery for your lowers’ I will share my wish-list of fun presents:

1. A shower cap
2. Socks (printed, striped, polka dotted, the crazier the better)
3. Terry’s chocolate orange
4. Chocolate chip cookies
5. A companion for Radioactive Puppy
6. Stickers
7. Anything turtle.

These would make me wery happy to be your walentine.

Moving on, because this post is not connected to anything, nor follows a general sequence of related events, the great news of the week is that my baby brother got into every single place he applied to, for grad school! I have agreed to go drop him off end of summer, and promised him an Arsenal match as his graduation present. I feel I went a bit overboard in my generosity, but ‘tis cool. I am secretly looking forward to painting my face red with war paint. I have tendencies to do groupie things like that. Sometimes.

Malinowski was.

2009-02-07T23:50:00.002+05:00

I am making slides on a Saturday night. I feel a bit overworked. But then again I am stressed even when I don’t have work to do, thinking that there has to be something on my to-do list that I’m forgetting. I remind myself of the motif on my mother’s oven mittens and kitchen apron: ‘Hassle Me; I Thrive on Stress’ which has a bedraggled fuzzy animal with a spatula in hand, on it. I spend half my life, it seems, on PowerPoint. And the other half, reading photocopied chapters of books or catching up on sleep. I know I’m not money greedy, but as someone recently said, money gives you options, and more importantly, freedom. So I can safely say, the reason why I work is so I can start living that life, and doing what I really want to do. I decided this last week, by the way.

I’m not much of a career person, and don’t really intend on working (at least not 9 to 5) for a living, to which my parents disapprovingly, though half jokingly, ask if they can get a fee refund from my university. After working at an environment/conservation NGO (Dream #1), teaching at my alma mater (Aspiration, not really dream, #2) and vicariously living the artists life (The road not taken, unfortunately) I wish to be a traveler, and write travelogues for a living. Since I chose to be an anthropologist (in the making) rather than an economist, lawyer, fighter pilot, etc., I wish to write ethnographies on my journeys and adventures in the world of the known and unknown, the people I meet, the food I eat, the bugs that bite me, or I eat back in retaliation (tip: extract neon mango bug juice before trying). That’s the plan so far; unless I am foiled again.

My Solar System.

2009-02-01T19:31:00.002+05:00

You call it a circle of friends because, I suppose, you couldn’t really have a square of friends. That would just be wrong! I can think of a triangle though; Like me and them, of late. We would definitely classify as a triangle. The great thing about this shape, which incidentally happens to be by favorite, is that if you take away a line, any line, the remaining lines will still connect. Although it may not classify as a vector (who cares about those in real life anyway?) it doesn’t fall apart.

Recently, I saw an artist’s sculpture display which was based on the circular form. One wall of his installation was filled with handwritten sentences in Urdu, but without the nuqtas, or dots, immediately rendering the writing (on the wall, pun not intended) meaningless. Although I wasn’t able to hear the explanation of his work, I gathered he meant to emphasise the circle as the basic unit of understanding anything. The planets, the cycle of life, the movement of the earth around the sun (although technically elliptical) or human notions of food chains, rebirth, arrow charts, wheels and movement, the list is endless. Even when we speak of paradigm shifts and periods of chaos where knowledge is created, the process is cyclical.

The breakdown happens with squares. The opposite sides are alien, and if one line disconnects, there is a disarray of relations. You will touch base with two others, but always be struggling with the fourth. It gets worse if you’re bad at making eye contact for long, if at all. The issue stems from the use of parallel lines. Lines that never connect, consumed in their eternal path to infinity. These parallel lines will never connect, and by virtue of not connecting, will never cross, and thus never disconnect. How do, then, parallel lines wishing to change their course, break away?

Us and Them

2009-01-19T23:49:00.001+05:00

We were just talking about disassociation of self when I stand in front of a class of 86 freshman students and deliver a lecture, before you hung up but promised to call me back. We meet every day, yet find reason to speak on the phone at least five times a day. Sometimes you can never run out of things to talk about. At other times, you think you’ve known someone your whole life, but feel like complete strangers in their presence. I wonder if that feeling is entirely one sided, when we sit around the familiar dining table but can barely share an awkwardly worded sentence; while I seek refuge in my burger and noodles (strange combination, agreed) you shift in your seat, rather comfortably, it seems. Have we run out of things to say, or are we content in this mutual silence? Perhaps this is just a phase; or conversely, maybe we’ve grown out each other. Maybe I’m that pair of grey trackies with the red ankle elastic I never wanted to grow out of. So I kept stretching it over my socks and ankles till the elastic wore out, and Ammi had to give them to the Salvation Army. I wonder if there’s anything to salvage here, if there’s any point sticking around. Although, I don’t necessarily feel involved.

The rain always makes me sing and your name always rhymes with rain songs. Your casual mention of things important always seems to trivialize my purpose. However, your simple enthusiasm over the weather makes me soar. There’s you and then there’s you. If I had to choose, I’d choose you over you. You, on the other hand seem to spiral. There’s so much about you I know, and then so much more I have yet to figure out. You seem to get the better of my imagination, when I try. These taunts remind me of school when we were lured into bartering our stationary for a packet of chips. Needless to say, at lunchtime I was left with half an eraser and no chips. Sometimes you are so lost on me, I wonder if we will ever find common ground. Or perhaps we could continue driving along in your fast car, to the beat of the day, in search of orange chocolates. They always seems to fix things in the end.

For Z.

2009-01-10T21:36:00.000+05:00

Wax encrusted fingers
Already hoarse voices
Still find the strength to speak.
Not so coy anymore,
We walk in circles
Only to be seen by you.

The Political Economy of National Security

2009-01-05T18:04:00.002+05:00

So, yesterday while making my presentation for Pak Studies class, I was reading about how the military and excessive defence budget bolstered the role of the army in the state's political affairs, leading to a political economy of national security. Whatever the role of the military was/is in Pakistan, primarily national defence and security from internal and external threats, I was thinking along very different lines, parallel-y (if that's a word). Thinking about the household, which is always my basic unit of analysing most social/political phenomena I come across, I thought about the national security of the house. How parents provide a sense of safety, oneness, unity, integrity (parallel to the rhetoric used by the army in its various military interventions, so to speak). Although these parallels are doing nothing to serve the purpose of this piece of writing, I couldn't help but be grateful that you have been together for 26 years and counting. Nothing can be said of peace of mind and heart, and the security of a child knowing he/she will be awoken by the same familiar and chirpy morning voice, or be patted on the back awkwardly on a first day of work. While my new year motto is things are going to change, and for the better, these are some of those things which should never change. There is no better.

Family Blues.

2008-12-14T00:45:00.000+05:00

S was playing his guitar, as we all gathered around the fire in the TV lounge to sing along. The lead singer of his own band back in the day, he played the guitar most of his college life; he was he one who introduced us eager 7,6 and 4 year olds (respectively) to Elvis, La Bamba and Dire Straits. Not looking a year above 30 (he turned 40 this year), he was happy, with his two beautiful kids and his college sweetheart wife, whom he thought looked like Jennifer Connelly (hence the black and white poster in my grandmothers house in his bedroom, when we were too young to realize what love was). He probably still thinks she does, and she gives him every reason to believe so.

J, his wife, a bit tired from whipping coffee and brewing Kashmiri chai for the Malik clan, reclined on the sofa with her 6 year old S junior in her lap. She confessed over the kitchen stove, in the presence of her 14 year old, that she hated kids. She never wanted kids and made no bones about it, not even in front of N. But her husband did and so she went along to have a family. She’s a wonderful mother by the way. S junior sang along to most of the songs on the nights request list, although I have never heard him speak a word of Urdu. He’s one of your confused desi types, who only speak in English, almost as if his parents are trying to prove a point. That’s another story though.

Next to him sits C, a bit grey and tired, perhaps from the journey from Pindi this morning. Her brother also passed away so we should give her the benefit of doubt. (I’m not so sure about ‘benefit of the doubt’ it sounds wrong to my English ear, somehow). Oh well. P1 sits beside her on the same sofa, recently reunited with her son after over a decade, she has never looked better. She celebrated her 60th birthday 2 weeks ago.

MP is on the chair next to F. She married for love, but never had a child. Sitting quite comfortably in her night suit, she seems relaxed after putting her year old adopted daughter to sleep.

F was a handsome man and quite used to being the popular kid in school, as well as amongst the women. He married later than average (his elder brother did at 23!) to a remarkable woman, but somehow, always felt something lacking. He made the perfect life decision, but sometimes wondered what if he had married someone else, maybe of his choice.

His uncle, even more handsome than him, was the playboy of his day. We grew up hearing stories of his Vespa scooter in Murree, and how he was seen giving rides to a new girl everyday. He was more of a cool elder brother than an uncle, and in some way, still is even today.

While nostalgia plays off the guitar chords, P2, A and Y sing word for word, Kabhi Kabhi, Dheere Dheere Se Meri Zindagi mai Ana, Jab Koi Baat Bigar Jaye, Shaam se Pehle Ana et al. with an ironic sadness, as if the words are lost on them. A always said to me as a child, I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been in love. And now decades into their marriages, these women can only sing hollow lyrics of feelings they have probably never really entirely experienced.

Who wrote these songs, and for whom? Sitting amongst 3 generations of family, I couldn’t help but ponder over each and everyone’s life story. It is stuff of movies, unrealistic and make-believe. This was real life, and these were real life stories, all that I saw tonight. Sometimes I feel like I’m stranded in the wrong time, where love is just a lyric in a children’s rhyme.

Happy Squin Day!

2008-11-30T21:55:00.002+05:00

Yet another birthday wish to my shining superstar, party dress-upper, omellette and pancake maker, move-busting, astagheez carrier, lover under cover!

:)

Happy Birthday Squin. Happy panjee! Chawwi is not too far behind, so you will only be 2 years older than me for 29 more days. Haha :)

Boys

2008-11-23T22:44:00.003+05:00

The Jaffer Memorial is an annual hockey tournament which takes place in the grounds next to my office building. It was the 42nd (or 44th, but 42nd sounds better) year this year and Abbu on his way to work told me how he had played in the tournament when he was in school! So most of our lunch breaks since last week were spent on the sidelines of the hockey field, silently cheering on our teams (our loyalties were usually based on our preference of team uniform or colors more than anything else) and in general my love for sports and sporty boys. Boys in suits or boys playing sports. Or rather make that men.

So, I sat with my back towards the sun, sipping on my water bottle, trying to reconcile with my aloo ki bhujia and ketchup sandwich watching the Aitchison College hockey team play against Garrison. One of the forwards (don’t know what the hockey equivalent is), who was the tallest amongst the other 5’6” boys, was playing at my side. He caught my eye a couple of times, and I felt almost guilty for being a distraction on the sidelines, for it was a boys school after all, and we all know the feeling of being watched, especially boys by girls and vice versa. Probably not realizing I was a good 7 years older than him (although my casual office look might seem otherwise),the minute the water boy handed him the flask he repeatedly gestured one finger (the index) towards him mouthing “mainay abhi aik kiya hai” a couple of times, ensuring all within earshot could hear, including me. I just grinned to myself, enjoying the teenage feeling or victory, for a moment. Well done Ibrahim!

Tonight I was watching Super Movies because I couldn’t fine anyone in the house (honestly, it seems like everyone had disappeared). A movie called Little Manhattan was on about an 11 year old boy who falls in love for the first time. Shot in a style reminiscent of About a Boy, with most of the script a monologue in the boys head. I always like wisdom coming from unexpected sources, and although this adult written script was hardly from a real boys point of view, I’d like to think kids can feel what grown ups can, in their own special and profound way. For instance at the climax when Gabe realizes Rosemary is all he wants, in spite of telling her he hates her the night before, he has a moment of truth: Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. Love isn't about ridiculous little words. Love is about grand gestures. Love is about airplanes pulling banners over stadiums, proposals on jumbo-trons, giant words in sky writing. Love is about going that extra mile even if it hurts, letting it all hang out there. Love is about finding courage inside of you that you didn't even know was there.

Personally, I’m partial to sky writing. And boys in suits. Or boys playing sports.

:D

Bibi Nahee

2008-11-19T09:19:00.001+05:00

(Disclaimer: this is v.v. badly written, from the desk opposite my boss)

The issue at hand is the word ‘No’. On our usual drive back home after work, amma and I were discussing the ‘no’ dilemma and how we have gone the extra mile and bent ourselves backwards, just by saying no to something we should’ve said yes to and vice versa. “Would you like a slice of cake?” Instantly, before even thinking twice “No, thank you, I’m fine” (stomach rumbling with hunger inside); or “Can you (start and) finish this 80 page report by tomorrow?” “Of course, I’ll try to give it to you before Jumma so we have time for editing.” WHY couldn’t I say, “no how about we discuss it on Monday? NGO’s are generally pretty relaxed with deadlines. But , NO. I dare not!

Now I’m trying to start my new job, and leave my current job. I am on a short term contract which ends on the 25th but am feeling guilty for leaving, even though they know I have another job, yet are forcing me to stay part-time. Why can’t I say no, I’m sorry I don’t want to become a crazed workaholic doing 3 jobs at one time, and teaching 3 sections of Pakistan studies; I just want to end my contract and LEAVE? What is wrong with me? And more importantly what the hell is their problem?

Anyhow. I’ll try and figure something out. Right now I’m working on the instinctive, albeit harmless no I insist on repeating whenever I’m deciding what to eat at lunchtime. A mango bug and chip and gum sandwich is all I’ve ever said YES to.
There we go again.

2008-11-10T12:03:00.003+05:00

It was the 10th at 10 am when I heard, this time. Three years and 8 days ago, we were up saying our Fajr prayers, teary eyed and heavy hearted, the imminent phone call looming over us like a noose tightening its hold with every passing minute. Saying out the words, just under my breath (you are supposed to hear yourself recite, they say), my voice wavering as if I were six again singing the Maya the Bee song in my grey tracksuit. Mina waited, perched at the edge of her unmade bed, still slightly warm as we’d woken up for Sehri only half an hour ago, clutching her red Nokia 3310, ready to answer the call upon the first ring, having forgotten, in the urgency, whether she really wanted to hear the news that morning. I, on the other hand, an escapist as always, sought refuge in prayer, even though my utterances were unintelligible to my own self. And then the phone rang, and we knew it was time.

I have goose bumps on my arm as I write right now, my eyes still slightly swollen, although the morning makeup has left enough traces to mask the evidence. My heart sank today, the way it had sunk that day. I cried today, just like I cried that day. I didn’t sleep well last night and awoke with an ominous heaviness – the kind that doesn’t let your eyes smile, not matter how hard you try. Seeking refuge in the office bathroom, I mourned with you. And even if you can’t hear me or see me, today, I will be the boulder; I will be your shoulder.

Amnesia

2008-11-08T15:47:00.001+05:00

Home-alone and relaxed for once, I had my first Saturday at home in three months. Channel surfing I landed up on a random game show (joy!) called ‘Amnesia’ where the contestants bet money to answer obscure questions from their past/early life. The question Linda (lets pretend, for a personal touch) got was “You used to work at a shoe store with Claire your best friend, and had the biggest crush on a boy called Pierre. Your biggest problem with him was that he was in a band. What was the name of the band?” She answered something to the effect of ‘The Donuts’ but was wrong as the band was called Asphyx or something sounding like that which was Swedish for ‘donut hole’….
Point being, I should have been on that show!

At that very moment I thought of the random-nest thing I could remember. That Maham Ashfaq (a girl in my class in 8th grade, now married with child etc.) haven’t seen for the past 6 years (with the exception of Aqsa’s wedding a few weeks ago) had a waxing woman called Seema who was so good she’d take out the in-growns with her fingers. So Shah kept Seema too. And then everyone wanted Seema. Or Khan’s waxing woman was called Yasmeen (her mothers name), which wasn’t as exciting a detail. However, I kept thinking, and then remembered a lot of other random names, mostly of people’s house workers and drivers. Haha. I really should’ve joined the espionage. Gulab Shah, Rajab Ali, and the clan of drivers, or how everyone had an Alice bathroom cleaner. Taaza Gul, my uncle’s driver in Risalpur, and Khalida & Haneef’s son Bubloo, who was my best friend when we were both six years old. Anyhoo, I guess I’m just a nostalgic person with a great memory. That’s about it.

Do the Motorcycle!

2008-11-06T14:22:00.001+05:00

Careless mistake of the day:

(Signing off an email as follows)

Beast,

Sana

Song of the Day:

Im Yours, Jason Mraz

Wisdom of the Day:

I think no one really likes anyone. We’re just killing time.

Food of the Day:

ANYthing but a shami kabab sandwich, please 

Malady of the Day:

Feverish hot flushes

Annoyance of the Day:

“I wasn’t born in this world, In this world who doesn’t care”

(co-worker’s attempt to sing I wish I was a punk rocker)

Risk of the day:

The Heidi frock top

(which looks great on black skinnies Squin!)

Coincidence of the Day:

The Department Intern is Ehsan’s first cousin

The I-wish-I-didn’t-notice detail of the day (actually yesterday):

The same intern (not Ehsan’s cousin, but the one mentioned in a previous post) has a rotten index finger nail on her right hand (corresponding to the mouldy toe nail on her right foot)

Highlight of the day:

“Do the helicopter…do the motorcycle…do the bow and arrow”

I was just told I danced like this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FKnqmOOqf4

S

2008-11-01T20:08:00.001+05:00

I made notes on the Daewoo on my lone journey back home, of my first official trip; Notes about my colleague S, along with my usual list of obscurities and analyses. I was almost there, but couldn’t quite get around to doing it yet. I had made enough jokes and faces about her, to continue the show for all to see. But I’ve been pushed into speaking up. Here goes.

So yeah, S annoyed the crap out of me for many, many (recurring decimal) reasons. The flooded bathroom after doing wuzu, incessant whining (ayyyn!), food complaints, and hysterically buying 7 cakes from United Bakery, because Lahore doesn’t have any cake selling bakeries anymore it seems. Waking up at 7:30 to go to work. Bloody workaholic. I’m sick of the middle class yearning to learn and work and please the boss, ALL the time. However, that’s just me being a brat/snob, having the luxury of not working on a need basis. This is a separate blog entry in itself.

This was supposed to be another weekend spent in the capital city, for a second cousins wedding. I skipped it and went to a Halloween party instead, which probably wasn’t the best of choices to make but fun nonetheless. Sometimes, I like to just stand back and watch people; covert participant observation of sorts. It’s like a bad habit which follows me everywhere. As bad a habit as pressing the spacebar twice after each full stop, from all the report writing I’ve been doing according to the ‘office guidelines’.

I sometimes wish I could just be able to not notice things like my boss’s greasy hair. Or the mutilated toenail on the internees lefts foot; or whether nameless boy in Econ class had shaved his armpits this week or not. Not being able to eat Dean’s cheese and chick on a stick fried in rancid fat is just another on the list. And if only S’s whining, insisting on brushing her teeth after breakfast (‘otherwise I get a fever and rash on my neck’ etc. etc.) and talking at the top of her lungs didn’t bother me. If only I didn’t notice things. Didn’t smell, see, hear things your average Joe wouldn’t give a second thought, sniff, etc. to. Ignorance would truly be bliss. Not being able to smell fresh bananas in the kitchen upon entering the house from the main door, desi ghee in the morning paratha, or the difference between haleeb and halla milk, would’ve been great.
We might as well be cats in the next life.

Tie Ghar

2008-10-26T11:27:00.000+06:00

So I bought two skinny ties, because I love buying presents, although I don’t know many tie wearers. One was pale blue with stripes within the cloth, sort of like a pattern; while the other was black with yummy blue honeycomb-esque print patterned all over it.

And then I thought about Learning Journals or Lesley Jones, which just sounded like a gay house to be in, probably the reason why it doesn’t exist anymore. Khair, and how Miguel announced H.K’s roll number in class, wrote it in the board and repeated for him to own up – three times in a row - while the culprit sat mindlessly doodling on his notebook, oblivious to the world.

I detected a flaw in a song I had been obsessing over, and I wonder if this means I have to undo my obsession. I’ll think over it again, perhaps give it a second chance. There are things we like, and things we think we like. This is almost like one of those things.

Thanks to black outs, I write in phases. Started at work on Friday on Squin’s request, then last night, and now today morning.

2008-10-13T15:41:00.001+06:00

I saw the earth breathe today.

If Nightmares were Movies.

2008-10-13T00:55:00.002+06:00

She woke up in the morning. It was a regular day just like any other. Checking her reflection in her dressing room mirror, she left the room after a quick mental check of her things. Bag, check. Notebook, check. And so on. Leaving the room in an orderly state, to avoid the sinking feeling one gets upon entering a messy room after a long day’s work, she locked the main door and made her way towards the garage. On her way out of the main door, she noticed a rusty key lying on the porch, a forgotten piece of metal, tarnished and weathered from the previous weeks rains. Perhaps even stepped on a couple of times. Not giving it a second thought, she brushed it aside, hoping for its rightful owner to return in order to retrieve it. Hopping on to her vespa, she was off to work.

The drive back home was always a pleasure, across the tree lined road, with the sunset sparkling on the beach in vibrant shades of ochre and orange. She parked her scooter in its usual spot, skipped up the stairs in her usual two-steps-at-a-time routine and stopped short at the main door. Just as she reached into her pocket to unlock the door, she realized, the keyhole was already occupied. In it was neatly inserted the rusty key she had flicked away with her shoe, early that morning. Perplexed, wondering how on earth that key fit into her door lock, she creaked open the front door and inched her way in.

Everything was just as she had left it. She opened the door to the same hallway, coat rack and end of hall mirror that greeted her reflection every evening. Unsure of what to expect, she made her way to the bedroom. Expecting something to pounce upon her, almost horror movie style, she wound the door knob tentatively, making sure she didn’t let go too soon and make unwanted noise. The door opened up to her room, and to her relief there was no one inside. Nothing unexpected, broken, stolen or harmed. However, all the furniture was arranged differently. The wall facing the door had in front of it her dressing table instead of her bed, which was placed next to the wall on her left, as if it had always been there. Her lipsticks were still arranged according to color and shade, not an inch here or there from their usual arrangement. She quickly scanned the whole room, from wall to wall looking for some sign of who must have played this trick on her. But found nothing.

As she closed the open door, behind it was the smooth white stucco wall, with a small sparkling crimson spot of blood, glimmering like an uncut ruby.

Her heart pounding, not knowing what to do or what to expect next, simultaneously thinking why anyone would be playing mind games with her, she stealthily but swiftly darted out to the hall. She crept up the stairs which went up through the hallway, to the attic, and heard something rustle. One look up to the landing of the third storey of the house revealed a set of unfamiliar and unwelcoming eyes, of a woman she had never seen before.

It was time to run.

Please don't make the sun run. Not you at least!

2008-09-28T20:26:00.001+06:00

People need to stop taking themselves so seriously. And imagery about running into the sun only sounds good in well written poetry, as opposed to facebook statuses. Statii would be a cool way of saying statuses, like cacti, or octopi, or loci, or sushi. So put me on a plane and fly me to anywhere. Oh, that was me singing out loud. I’m not big on flying. Especially not in planes. Wings would be a different story though. Of late, I think I’ve become partial towards staying grounded though. Why soar in the sky, when you can sink in the sand? And sinking doesn’t necessarily have to be a heart sinking Pirate Ship induced dip, but just a reality check – dirt under toenails kind of reality. Which is fine, and great. Unrealistic expectations don’t usually get us places. The overactive imagination theory probably only works when you’re a kid.

In class 5, we had to take a true or false test which had the most bizarre of questions on it:

“It is good to have an over active imagination”

Instinctively, I marked True, thinking how my imagination had made my childhood what it was (so much more amazing than your dull one, I’m sure :D), at the same time wondering why anyone would make such a ridiculous and self evident MCQ in the first place! Marking my answer sheet, I sat with a know-it-all grin on my face. At discussion time however, the teacher said, the answer was False, and went on a spiel of how if we imagined a UFO invasion in the class room, our learning ability would be hindered and thus, an over active imagination was a bad thing. I rolled my eyes in my head.

When I grew up, I realized what Teacher Shaheen had meant that day. An overactive imagination may give you unrealistic expectations about life. Make you believe things you wouldn’t have otherwise believed in. Make false true and true false.

However, the power of one’s mind mustn’t be underestimated. At the end of the day, you decide. To believe or unbeleive. To take control or lose control. Now that I’m coming back into academic mode, I got thinking about the summer, and the Evil 6.

*

Mind over Matter, she told me, as we were wading in the murky pool, on a post-monsoon morning. Most illnesses, bodily conditions, even madness - are a state of mind. And we have full control over ourselves if we can control our minds. I wrote a paper on madness for my psychology course, and studied the anti-psychiatry movement which basically argued for ‘natural’ ways of healing madness, which was a social condition rather than a mental one, influenced by one’s childhood, family and upbringing rather than inexplicable maladies. So rather than putting a ‘madman’ in a cage, or a muzzle, you let him be. The anti-psychiatry ward was a house, with bedrooms, a kitchen, a lounge and open doors and windows. Patients lived there, ate, slept and asked their assistants for medicine, but were never told to do anything, were never forced to go anywhere or kept in isolation. They were left to their own devices. They would go for walks and return to sleep in their own beds. They were the cure for their own madness. One patient, distressed with her life and in a ‘growing-up’ denial, could never keep a stable job due to acute depression. Once admitted in the ward, she stripped her clothes, and lay in her room in a fetal position for days, like a baby. When she got up, she was a changed person and went back to work as a professor. She had cured herself.

Cracking up.

2008-09-25T09:01:00.003+06:00

On BBC news:

Mr Zardari told her (Sarah Palin) she was "gorgeous", adding that he understood why many Americans "are crazy about you".

Me:

You should've seen the Cheshire cat grin on his face while he was shaking her hand.

Haha.

Written on a Blues-y Monday.

2008-09-15T14:21:00.001+06:00

I seem to remember.
Triangular paper

Not a hat, nor a ship,
A crane or a swan
Tear a strip off; taper
The game must go on

Of little scraps of paper folded 8 times over.
Not a hint, nor a peek
Draw an arrow
Don’t dare speak.

A perfect rectangle
A smooth glossy cover
Faded ink spells out
A message to discover.

Actions speak louder,
But may be forgot
Words last forever;
Like a deep paper cut.

Although flames fascinate
We choose to blot
out, these meaningless sentences
This proverbial rot

It may take a while,
Dragging my feet in this mire
To set it ablaze,
Extinguish all desire.

But what can I say,
I guess I’m afraid of fire.

I start to paint today.

2008-09-09T14:42:00.003+06:00

This is a tribute to all those people who have the knack of invariably ordering the worst food on the menu. Who can never choose between orange and apple juice and end up with guava. Who are masochists when it comes to mouth ulcers, in-growns and scabs. Whose hair always smells nice, who bathe daily (or more than once a day at times) and still love talcum powder. Who dare to wear red on their toes and tips in spite of not having the fairest skin on the block. Who have never misspelled a word except for rhythm/rythm and friend/freind. Who banish tasty, befreind crazy. Drink the water/brine that comes in the can of tinned corn. Are not ashamed of choosing ninja turtles over barbies, but could never become tomboys, for reasons beyond their control. But are proud of being the best toe pinchers ever!

Anyone?

Finally!

2008-08-31T23:48:00.000+06:00

9,498 words. I'm done. This very minute.

Poppy Seed Roti

2008-08-29T12:52:00.005+06:00

So here I am, listening to Gavin Rossdale in my self proclaimed lunch break, eating a cheese sandwich which has mayo in it instead of makhan bcos ammi realized the qeema had mysteriously dissapeared from the fridge AFTER she had already slathered mayo on the bread. Tsk. So, I'm in my office, on my rickety computer, who btw is called Ewe. Aadum's Soulmate. And because Hawwa might have been a bit sacreligious, thought Eve with a w would serve the dual purpose of the name perfectly.

(5 minutes later- Sorry, power cut and Ewe takes a lot of cajoling to start up)

So me and Ewe became instant friends, not only because her login and password were the same word (We're SO meant to be!) but she reminded me of the familiar. However, I shall be abandoning her for greener pastures a.k.a the FTP department where I get to hang out with the cool people and have a little work station which I can do up with pin ups of turtles and Bart Simpson. YaY! :)

(Virtual Memory Low)

Yeah, so I have become excessively forgetful of late. I always leave my phone on the charger and then run out of the car in the middle of the road outside my house, upstairs to my room, to the green armchair, to fetch it. Daily. So today I forgot it (finally!) and now can't shirk off work. My landline dials out PTCL numbers, and mobiles from the operator so Blah! Who uses landlines anymore anyway?

Anyway. Need to get back to the Lagoon. Its pronounced Nurri (like Curry, but more stress on the r) but spelt Narrari. Whodathunk?

Today!

2008-08-26T21:13:00.001+06:00

So I spent the day with an orange Goldfish color pencil, a permanent board marker and a Panda bear. This is the new life, it seems! :)

61.

2008-08-14T15:29:00.004+06:00

Sure, I have two flags tied to the main gate lights. I could wear my Pakistan jersey and parade the streets on a motorcycle all evening. Read all the newspaper supplements on the Quaid and watch all the TV specials. Even sing the national anthem at the top of my lungs from my roof. Is that really the best I can do?

Finger Puppets.

2008-08-12T23:49:00.003+06:00

oh what a contrast you were
to the brutes in the halls

No compulsions to complete this sentence. Or any of my sentences. Just to prove a point; a point which needed to be proven. To myself, to others, to whomever. If you make your point, but don't feel happy about it, is it a point well-made? If you teach someone a lesson they deserve to learn, without any gratification from giving them their due, is it a lesson worth teaching?

Cool of a temperate breeze from dark skies to wet grass
we fell in a field it seems now a thousand summers passed

If you do good, but feel nothing but bad, have you done any good at all? Why must we be so scared to hurt others, who feel no remorse in trampling over us like five-leaf clover (the plural) in a field. We're just one leaf off, and you wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

You don't pay enough attention anyway.

I don't look back much as a rule
and all this way before murder was cool

And so we make choices we hate. Choices we need to make. To preserve what we call pride, honor, even ego (although i prefer not using that word). Choices we stick by. Because that makes us who we are, and sets us apart from the generic doll-eyed pretty faces, who bat their eyelashes on cue. We skip to our own beat.

when our kite lines first crossed
we tied them into knots
and to finally fly apart
we had to cut them off.

K for .

2008-08-09T01:11:00.004+06:00

It's after experiences like these you realize the joy of knowing a khandani person. Call it elitism, snobbery, or whatever-the-hell else, in the end no matter what, class cannot be bought, values cannot be taught and decency cannot be instilled in just about everyone. We talk of chamri, haddi and khoon and you know what? I'm a firm believer of ammi's theory, that the blue blooded, khandani person will always stand out and always be a pleasure to meet instantly. You can always tell.

Meeting K after roughly five years was wonderful. The effortless conversation, chivalry and etiquette was highly refreshing, after years of dealing with uncouth, brash men from this part of town. I'd like to beleive there is still hope, and pray that I am kept away from the plebs that plague my existence.

However, on a lighter note, now that we are on the subject of K, Krazzy 4 was the biggest ripoff of the year. Four crazy guys saving the world? Give me a break! Shahrukh Khan was only featuring in the title song? and Hritik Roshan in the credits? Who the hell came up with that! Or maybe I'm just a fool to have been duped by cheap Indian gimmicks. Oh well, they made a sale. And I guess that's what really matters. To them at least. *Grump

Speaking of which, 'them' is increasingly becoming a loaded term. Beware! We were always one of them, and now even more so by the day. This only matters to those who know what I'm talking about, the rest, don't flatter yourself. You will never be one of 'them', no matter how hard you try.

Good night.

It happened today.

2008-08-04T16:37:00.000+06:00

"Called to see
If your back
Was still aligned
And your sheets
Were growing grass
All on the corners of your bed

But you've got too much to wear
On your sleeves
It has too much to do with me
And secretly
I want to bury in the yard
The grey remains of a friendship scarred

You told us of your new life there
You got someone coming round
Gluing tinsel to your crown
He's got you talkin' pretty loud

You berate remember
Your ailing heart and your criminal eyes
You say you're still in love
If it's true, what can be done?
It's hard to leave all those moments behind."

2008-07-31T18:08:00.003+06:00

What better time to ramble, when you're up to your ears in work. Especially when you haven't met a deadline of a thousand words per day and you're writing about garbage. Sometimes I think it would just be fun to come up with theories for a living, like classic anthropologists, but then we became smarter and decided there is no absolute truth and we had to worry about ethics and staying true to the community being researched. Its a load of crap, most of this ethics business anyway. I'll explain later.

I couldn't agree less with Ammara of how I still haven't gotten over the shock of inflation in Pakistan. I went to have a Zinger the other day and paid 240 rupees instead of the good old 180. Oh well. In spite of having 40 rupees in my wallet (my compensation is that its the 31st of the month), I am secure in knowing that I can still afford to buy 6 samosas, in case I am on the verge of starvation. Speaking of which, I just gobbled up someone's Zouk leftover's which I 'found' in the fridge this afternoon :) I hope Ali doesn't read my blog, because I am in no mood to own up ;)

Lemonade on Tuesdays

2008-07-09T01:08:00.002+06:00

The same staircase up,

To a cozy grey cubicle

Empty water bottles and gum wrappers

But different finger marks on the reset buttons.

The same sound of footsteps,

Ill-fitted suits and baggy pants

But unrecognizable faces, cut and pasted

Onto familiar backdrops.

A television ad jingle

A warm windowsill

A dusty pavement

A rusty gutter lid.

An ice-lolly

An iPod earphone

An elbow in my side

An accent of your choice

A freshly painted speed-breaker

To slip on,

Another laugh-able story

Inspired by expired Milo.

One Rainbow A Year.

2008-07-05T23:13:00.003+06:00

This is a beautiful song I heard yesterday, and I am probably behind the times for watching Jab We Met for the first time last night, but oh well. I have my excuses.

"aao ge jab tum saajna
barsay ga saawan jhoom jhoom kay
do dil aisay milengay"

Romantic notions of rain, barsaat and monsoon usually (always) tend to backfire on screen. Like the clinging saris, and splashing in the grass scenes in Love 86. Although, I like the jhoom-ing effect. My fondest memories of barsaat involve the preliminary andhis, us three cycling in the front lawn in circles against the wind, nahaofying in the baarish with Afhsan and Qaiser Ali who was less than a year old. When I accidentally gave him a kiss on the cheek because he looked so adorable, like a bheegi billi in his mothers godi, and later realized that I had kissed the cook's son. You're not supposed to do that, apparently.

I'm still waiting for the first proper rain of the season, and considering the off-beat weather of the world this year, a downpour wouldn't surprise me. But then again, nothing really surprises me, anymore.

Two Pin Plug

2008-06-25T16:24:00.002+06:00

Used to be three. And if you're clever like Ali, you can stick a three-pin in a two adaptor and still make it work. Ali's back in town and so, our trio is complete. We had lunch, all five of us together for the first time since last year. It was the usual shimla-mirich qeema/daal/mutton qorma affair, where abbu walks in, wearing his khakis and safari hat, carrying thailas of aam and the other summer fruit, meanwhile ammi is trying to dust the already dusted table because she doesn't trust the new safai waali; Mina and I are sprawled on the lounge sofas watching MTV and Ali is somewhere in between trying to get his phone sim unblocked, dodging our numerous suggestions of how not to get his sideburns trimmed without cutting the front bit of his hair.

Most of the phonecalls to relatives are made. Plans of meeting up are also decided, which reminds me I have to call Najji Khala and ask her about the job she has lined up for me.

I just heard some bad news. Cutting this short. Sorry, M. You were supposed to be in here somewhere too.

"Ma'am can I go to tha haumm?"

2008-06-18T23:43:00.006+06:00

That was for Ali.

Anyway.

So, home at last.

You know you're home when you don't think twice before ordering chicken or beef (machi zindabad), you don't need to use watering cans (or soggy tissues) instead of lotas or muslim showers and you definitely don't need to line the toilet seat with four layers of tissues for a whole year (did not miss even once). You can have lunch, leave the plate on the table and forget about it. Not have to pay for your own soap and deodorant, or have a 3am Kung-Fu practicing Japani living on your roof.

Well, although I can't see Canary Wharf's flickering lights through my window, or see what color the London Eye is tonight, I have my balcony, my bed, (my toilet seat), my family and much, much more. However, I do wish I found the foam covering of my earphone speaker. It's probably sitting in a dust bunny on the 177 on its way to Woolwich, which I accidentally mistook for the 172 during my 35kg weight busting suitcase spree.

Its pretty obvious that I will/do miss a lot of stuff (Ed's peanut butter and banana milkshake!!), but this is me at my rationalizing best and I can safely say I will not miss Peckham, The 7 pound dinner in China Town, Sainsbury's Macaroni and Cheese and certain people I deleted off my msn list (that's not even entirely relevant here, but oh well). Regrets? Don't do those, but perhaps not being introduced to a guy called MITHUN. Oh well, at least I can say i know someone called that :D

So, yeah. That's probably about it :)

Never say Never.

2008-06-09T06:05:00.005+06:00

Naz enlightens me that Susan Sarandon's character says this to her daughter in Stepmom. I only recalled a woman on a horse, and then made the horse poo to add some humor to the story. Naz; she's always a step ahead. Know-it-all.

So, Naz hums the tune of an instrumental song, and I hum along in partial recognition. I have this on my play list, but have no idea what it is because it came off a CD someone burnt for me years ago. We both sing the whole (instrumental) song, while Naz types away on Deli and I sprawl on her bed amidst a pile of clothes (as usual) and I finally discover the enigma song after all these years! Put a name to a tune.

We are a lucky bunch. Me and Naz are like those complementary goods in economics. I'm the maple syrup and I suppose she could be the waffle :D Although I'm not sticky.

Izzie, Nienke, Naz and I had a girl slumber party in my over-packed room last night. Sometime after midnight when everyone seems to get giddy, naz grabbed a kajal stick and started doing everyones eyes. Lo and behold, I was transformed into Amy Winehouse! Izzie admits that the first time we met on that rainy day at Trafalgar Square, the first thing that struck her was my resemblance to the singer. Well, I've been called a stoner before, so nothing shocking. Its the eyes moreso, and facecut perhaps, I reckon.

So Amy and Geisha (Izzie) decided to knock on random doors and try fooling sleep drunk people into believing we were the real deal. Jim was amused enough to come out for a game of shithead. I was the first shithead, but never again! :D

Tonight was my farewell do in the kitchen with the whole gang. T'was heartwarming :) Strangely enough, I'm so stressed about my suitcase weight and traveling dynamics that I can't seem to be my usual emotional self. No tears yet. Not a single one. Let's wait and see. Its a bittersweet feeling I suppose. I'm super excited about home, but sad about leaving behind all these wonderful people who have been my all for the past year. You all will be remembered with fond memories :)

Holiday

2008-05-29T23:42:00.003+05:00

(Disclaimer: Paris is a happy city. It is peaceful, the right amount of busy, friendly, aloof, sunny and beautiful. The buildings are fascinating, the food is delicious, the people are helpful and funny. But it smells of pee. Every underground metro station stinks of pee. And this is not an exaggeration. Ask Minu)

Now, to the real story.

So, a Backstreet Boys concert (a promise fulfilled 10 years (but not too) late, with lyrics etched in our minds) followed by a West End musical (Mamma Mia, who doesn’t know the lyrics?) later, we stumbled upon the platform of St. Pancras on our way to greener pastures. Leaving behind hustling bustling streets, more buildings than trees and British accents, we descended into the land of buttered croissants; free Mars bars (the shopkeeper was Nepali and spoke Urdu, thus the neighborly treatment); coffee and rain all combined together at the platform of the Gare du Nord.

Equipped with my London tube/train know-how and Minu’s French speaking skills which were so much better than mine “deux billets allers simple a Villiers Le Bel, sil vous plait” – it all seems so much simpler written down- especially when an irate Spanish ticket-woman is glaring at you on after-hours duty – we were ready to go. We hopped on to the split level RER (National Rail equivalent of France) towards Ory La-Ville on Line D, 4 stops away from Villiers Le Bel, our temporary abode for the next few nights. Greeted by a rainbow in the bright blue sky (although a bit grey and scratched through the train windows), sitting next to Ali la Pointe ka look-alike (long eyelashes and all, camel look) we descended at our stop, wheelies et. al. about 20 minutes later, only to be barricaded behind the train barriers. The barrier ticket reader kept spitting them out like khatti dahi, so we looked around at others for help, and followed suit (we later discovered how it was commonplace to just taapofy the ticket barriers, for free rides). Baby aunty, our host, was waiting for us in her gleaming grey Mercedes taxi, waving from afar; we scrambled into her car backseat excited as ever, at the beginning of our solo cousin adventure in France.

After a couple of minutes of winding roads, we reached her apartment building, a ten storey block of flats, like many others around it. It seemed decent. But then Baby aunty announced to us “I’ll go park the car in the garage, you girls get a head start, that’s my flat (pointing to the corner flat on the last – tenth – storey); oh and the lifts have been broken for a month now” chuckling. Exchanging glances, but too excited to bother about the more-tedious-than-Russell-Square-Station-staircase (honestly!), we grabbed our suitcases and made our way to the reception. Our first few steps onto the cobbled pavement, into the crisp air of France, we heard:

“O soniyayyyyy” followed by loud, hysterical man-giggles.

Nonplussed for a second; this was Paris right? The Eurostar hadn’t tricked us into Gujranwala by any chance, had it? Much to our dismay: yes, laundas happen to be an international phenomenon. And not just local laundas, but Pakistani, Anarkali-scorpion-jean laundas. The works. France is apparently FULL of them Baby aunty told us later. Great, we thought to ourselves, while picking off cat fluff from our sweaters in BA’s lounge. Our crazy wardrobe was divided by half already.

So, Paris was fabulous. You name it, we did it, and that too in record time. Kuch nahin chora. Saw Mona Lisa’s masculine face encased in a glass box; Got into the Louvre in less than five minutes of waiting; Saw Van Gogh’s originals and couldn’t stop grinning; saw Zizou in a spectacles advertisement (a bit disappointing that you don’t find him in the Adidas store, although I fought it out with the cute sales-boy, who said a new line was expected in the future – although I suspect he said it just to please me); the Champs-Elysees (sang the song for Shahnaz, for old times sake), The Arc de Triumph, Obelisk, Jardin de Tuileries, Bastille, Notre Dame (you would’ve loved it Disney buff) and so much more on the way; The Eiffel Tower by day, and by night and was fascinated by how humongous the structure is. Whoa!

Ate escargot. Chewy, in butter garlic sauce. Ate chocolate filled croissants, jam crepes, chocolate-coconut-banana crepes with whipped cream and savory crepes stuffed with salmon (I’m partially writing this to make sheeda jealous). Saw the Moulin Rouge during the day and the local Heera Mandi Street with its Musee de Erotique, etc etc. Got scandalized, of course. Haha.

Slept in a comfy bed with cat-hair, wore clothes with cat hairs clinging to them, and sneezed and coughed and developed allergic reactions to the cats (puffy eyes, patchy skin, the works) but pretended it was a flu so aunty wouldn’t get offended. Aunty was one of the most interesting and eccentric people I have ever come across. She has her story, and her reasons but she lives it out. She drives a Merc taxi in Paris by day, lives with her two billas on the tenth floor of Villiers Le Bel, which is hardly as beautiful as it sounds, and it so overweight she is more than both Sana and Minu combined (according to Munawar Khalu). She took great care of us, and chauffeured us around Paris by day and night; she was our private taxi and tour guide, so to speak. I couldn’t help feeling sad for her, though.

Never thought I would end up speaking four languages in one place – Urdu, English, French and Arabic. Made elaborate plans to chat up some French people to practice our skills, but ended up befriending quite a few Algerians instead. Also learnt that the Bastille does not exist, save for one pillar at the ‘Place de Bastille’. Fell in love with Montmarte – the quarters of the city where all the artists –Picasso, Monet, Van Gogh – used to hang out. The highest point where you can see all of Paris from the footsteps of the Sacre Coeur Cathedral, amidst live music and tiramisu flavored ice cream, who’d ask for more?

Our trip was perfect. Not too long, not too short, we did everything (and more) than what we had set out to do. Checked back in to the Eurostar terminal on Wednesday afternoon, on our way back to London – where the sun isn’t as bright, and people don’t really notice you, let alone sleaze on you. But then again, London is hardly home. And the countdown has begun :)

The Jellyfish Theory!

2008-05-13T04:33:00.000+05:00

"If it wasn't for chip fat, well they'd be frozen"

-Kaiser Chiefs “I Predict a Riot”

Everything is Everything. Or Not Quite.

2008-05-12T23:33:00.002+05:00

And no, it's not Lauren Hill :D

Today was the end of lots of things. Tina, Evil 6 and My Weetos Chocolate Cereal (I just ate it all rookha as a snack because Naz forbade me from buying chips!)

I'm so tired.

Sprinkles

2008-05-09T05:33:00.002+05:00

Definition: small particles of chocolate, candy, sugar, etc., used as a decorative topping for cookies, cakes, ice-cream cones, and the like.

Why then, did I have chocolate talcum powder on my hot chocolate today when it said 'sprinkles'?

I was sleeping in bed, got out just to write this post. Almost like my unfinished business of the day. It's dark in my room so can't type more.

Shabakhair.

I have been betrayed!

2008-04-27T01:11:00.002+05:00

So, to take a break from Medical Pluralism in India I decided to hit a few games of boggle, for old times sake. But much to my dismay, shackworks.com/boggle does not exist any longer! I was too loyal to try fuzzwords.com or whatever the other websites were called and left dejectedly.

This is almost as bad as Kolson deciding to discontinue making PUK, or fizzers going out of production. Or panda ice cream being relegated to the shady vendors of Ferozpur Road, only to eventually disappear as well. All we're left with is jungle jollies - fake remakes which will never match up to the original, because they're not as chewy as fizzers, and the wrappers just don't make sense. I cannot stand this betrayal of my childhood anymore! No.

I want it all back. Now

My Cinder-Saturday

2008-04-20T22:57:00.019+05:00

r

Yes. I just typed a whole paragraph of my story and in a sudden flash, random keys were pressed here and there, and lo and behold, all i was left with was an 'r'.

Gee.

So I start all over again. I was talking about loving associations, especially those to do with Lahore. Of how if you meet an Aitchisonian, although you have nothing in common with them, they are 8 years older than you and are doing a Ph.D in Math, you can spend countless hours talking about school rivalries, cheating, Kashmiri Sahab, games, bunking, Godley house and horse riding, amongst other things. Maybe I have always been fond of listening to Aitchisonian's school stories, or that my brother studied there, but I'm sure if I were a boy I would have had a ball trying to 'stand in a straight circle' during games lessons, watching the principal "pass away" in the corridors on a daily basis (freaky!), or mass bunking on Sherpao Bridge. Alas, a girl was born instead and then people insisted she wore high heels.

Speaking of which, I will probably have to give up on any form of shoes with heels for a while. My knee has given up on me, for sure this time. Amidst horror stories of people having knee surgeries right, left and center, I have no choice but to freak out and finally go for the dreaded check-up, now that limping is a luxury for me. Don't you dare mention this to ammi abbu though. They'll freak out. I think I've given them enough surprises this week, starting with my credit card scam. Abbu emailed me a couple of days ago saying in typical abbu one-liner fashion (this time two lines, due to urgency) "Your credit card is being used in Italy, where are you? Contact me asap"

As if I would be in Italy without telling amma abbu, haha, I replied back saying, "I wish I were abbu, but I've been slaving away in my dorm the past week and bought groceries on my card yesterday, so I assure you i'm not in Italy" How unfortunate. But then I made up for a week from hell and photocopying by going to Thorpe Park. With Maryam and 9 people from Islamabad I had never seen/met in my life. Thats how random I've become. But speaking of assocations (again), the boy-who-organized-the-trip's, bhabi who was also there with us (with her 9 month old baby, pram et.al) was our head girl from Grammar, from Mehr's batch. We had a good chat about school and school magazine mug shots, as well as how she and her husband both were Luminites (another association) and were crazy about rides, hence baby and all. Fun people. I think when I'm married with kids, I'll be the same. Only I'm too weak hearted to sit on 90 feet drops and heart-sinkers. But I'll still be cool :D

Anyway, I proudly admit that in spite of my weak heart, I sat on Colossus, a 2 minute roller coaster which had to be at least a 100 feet high and twisted 360 degrees more than 7 times. It was almost like a personal challenge. Kitna dar lag jayega? So I sat. And I had fun! In my photograph, I was grinning and not cowering in my seat :D I didn't buy it though. I looked like a Bernstein bear. The other rides were too wet or too scary so I sat on the medium scary ones and missed Disney Land a great deal in the process. My love for American culture (strictly in comparison with the UK, not objectively) increases with every experience I have of life in London (although Staines is in Surrey, lol). Here, the rides were all thrillers and screamfests. There was no creativity involved, just the fear factor. I love Disney Land because it doesn't scare the shit out of you, but makes you enjoy your ride while being thrilling. Logger's Leap was poo in comparison to Thunder Mountain Railroad, as was the Colossus to Matterhorn Bobsleds. Khair, it was enjoyable enough. And at least I can say I had the opportunity to sleep in the oddest of places, Burger King, for a whole hour, because my leg was hurting and I hadn't slept the night before. I also managed to bump into Muhammad Khan, my college security guard (a desi, from Isloo who works part time for the accommodation office) in Thorpe Park as well! How random :D

But the random-est of things was to happen on my return journey from Canada Water Station to NCG. It actually bordered on scary. I was standing on the bus stop listening to Madonna on my mp3 player waiting for the Rail Replacement Bus when this random bus called C10 (that stop only has 2 buses) approach, with a "Not in Service" sign. It stopped at the stop and the doors opened. It was empty (obviously) and the bus driver mouthed something at me. I waved my hand at him, in a motion that I wasn't taking that bus, but then he mouthed something else and i pulled my earphones off.

"Where do you have to go?"

I replied, slightly confused, New Cross Gate. To which he said, "I'm not in service, but I'm heading that way. Hop on, I'll drop you" Not thinking twice, I said "Oh, thats very nice of you, thanks!" and hopped on (Chivalry exists!) But when I sat in the bus, I realized, what I had done. I was in a non-service bus, going god knows where with a random bus driver who was off duty as of then. Slightly panicked, I kept my eyes glued to the journey to make sure we were going on a familiar path and not into the random wilderness! The bus was small so it only had one door both for entry and exit, located next to the bus drivers stall, I had no battery in my phone (because my annoying flatmate kept calling and insisting on talking forever while the last bar of my battery ran out) and a useless knee, so no escape route, either way. I had to play it cool. He asked me a couple of questions of where exactly I wanted to get off. I explained. Then he said he could drop me to NC because it was on his way and not NCG, so I agreed instantly. Anything to get me home and off that bus!

Finally we neared New Cross Road, and I was quite relieved that it was a familiar area, when he asked me "What's your name?" Thinking it was quite illogical to make up a fake name because it wouldn't really make a difference either way, Sana, Shahnaz or even Susan, I squeaked out a deliberately inaudible Sarnda (Could be construed as Sara, Sana or whatever), but then he asked, "Where are you from?" And then I thought, what if he's a racist, anti-Muslim, rapist or something? But me the idiot who's been brought up with overly scrupulous moral values, couldn't lie. I would never say that I was Indian, and even though my overly zealous patriotism could have cost me my life, I said Pakistan.

"That why I gave you a ride. Because I saw a Pakistani girl standing alone at the bus stop and thought, why not do her a favour?" I kept it cool by saying "Well, thats really nice of you, there's a stop ahead, I can get off there" motioning to the bus stop, which was a few meters ahead, a 5 minute walk ahead of my house, which we were passing. Instead, he said, "its not a problem here you go", and opened the bus doors (illegally) at the red light where we stood at the intersection just to let me off! I noticed people looking a bit confused at the bus acting so weird, while I hopped off and waved goodbye to my private carriage and driver. I think he was Lebanese or Arab, as he mentioned he was a student and also spoke with an accent. Its always nice when seemingly freaky incidents turn out to be not-so-bad after all. However, moral of the story, sometimes it helps to act dumb and say "I'm waiting for a friend" rather than hopping onto a random bus at sunset. Maybe it was the sunset that caught me off-guard.

April 4th, 2008. Sunny Day

2008-04-16T03:20:00.002+05:00

..Safe..

Dip your toes in the ocean

It’s easier than taking the plunge.

Take the window seat but,

Dare to dive into the sky?

Stare the sun in the eye

But fear being consumed by fire.

Grab my finger

But don’t take me along.

Look me in the eye, but

Never utter a word.

Cut, but not slice

Carve those words onto your arm:

It’s safe to love from afar

Impossible, to love at all.

the-unpc-anthropologist-speaks

2008-04-14T20:31:00.003+05:00

Loampit Vale sounds like this gorgeous fertile valley with lush sloping hills and meadows of daisies. Well, it isn't. Haha. And even though one shouldn't judge a book by its cover, people by their appearances, or in my case names (hiba/hina/hira/eww), or even more so my case on pronunciations (or better yet pro-NOUN-ciations - the biggest irony of them all) one can't help being judgmental. Or racist. Reminds me of the songs from Avenue Q which in spite of intense moments of mortification (Bhutta!), was hilarious.

Sometimes being a perfectionist can give you trouble. Or sore fingers, after putting together a few dozen, impeccable hors d'oeuvre(s?). To be honest, I can't spell that word, and i can't spell freind either. SEE? aghhhh. I won the spelling bee twice in a row in school, and Mina always got out on the first go (there are two r's in burrow, not one!) although she was always better at me in English. She probably knew the meanings of all the words I could spell;I won by spelling words I never ended up learning. I still don't know what the word phlegmatic means. Balgham wala? (No offense to Parsis/Memons)

Khair, I am being lame and going on a nostalgic trip after watching Zubeidaa last night, (much to my horror, Victor wasn't as dashing as I remembered him to be, :O although i still found the rapist devar's character hot in an evil way) and am listening to Kal Ho Na Ho ka soundtrack and singing along :)

Because it snowed.

2008-04-07T19:23:00.004+05:00

"Everywhere theres trouble
Nowheres safe to go
Pushes turn to shovels
Shoveling the snow
Frozen you have chosen
The path you wish to go
Drifting now forever
And forever more"

I was listening to this song yesterday, in the warmth of my second home, the cream sofa, vased bamboo shoots and earl grey tea. I woke up to white. It had snowed all night or so, and everything was serene, powdery white, although very unlikely for a regular day in April. Global warming they call it. But snow didn't deter the boys from playing football, or the Olympic torch from burning (amidst great controversy, you all must've witnessed on the news) or me from taking the next train to see my baby niece.

The drive to see Jena was snowed out, so we ended up having "American Style Pancakes" as the Brits like to call them, which in my opinion, are the ONLY kind of pancakes that deserve to be called pancakes, Aunt Jemima et. al. The works. Lemon and Sugar, bah! It was a cosy Sunday afternoon, funny to think it was spent with Azhar Mehmood's wife (the cricketer who wore the floppy hat while fielding, remember Squin?) Khair, she's friends with Suniya and was there too. We all watched Z Music on TV, commenting over how John Abraham is only goodlooking on screen while Abhishek Bachchan has "presence", especially when he speaks and "towers over you" . I couldn't agree less. Girl talk is girl talk, no matter where you are and who the girls are. Whether they're 14 years older than you, have kids, live above the Kingston Real Estate Agents Office or in F-8 Islamabad.

Watched 'Race' last night in the Cineplex in Fultham/Feltham, dont remember the name. Full desi adda. And you know desis had been in the previous movie, because it took them over half an hour to clean the hall before we could enter. Poor Kassim. Cous-cous made amidst hysterical Beyonce fast forward dance moves, turned out better than expected! And we were starving. Fell asleep halfway through Bedazzled, dragged ourselves to bed downstairs and conked off. Only to wake up 15 minutes later "Did we put the food in the fridge?"

Woke up with a scratched eyeball. I'm still wondering how that happened. Ouch.

On my way to Waterloo station, sat with two adorable boys, one whose leg kept kicking mine lightly while he beeped away furiously on his Tamagotchi, while the other insisted on putting on his mothers pink lipstick :) I didn't mind them one bit. Must've been 5 and 3 each.

Train rides are a good time to ponder, to watch, observe and reflect. To Drift.

"And you really didnt think it would happen
But it really is the end of the line
So Im sorry that you turned to driftwood
But youve been drifting for a long long time"