For Hassan, Here You Go, You Gay TeddyBear, You!!!!!
In a beautiful peace, you sleep at my side
Through sweet gentle dreams, you soar and you glide
You hold me tight, with your head on my arm,
I promise you this, you're safe from harm
I strive to say just how much
I miss you now and I cherish your touch
You held me close as my life unfurled
But I can't give you much, just my world
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Friday, July 14, 2006
Six Strings and Life
For Sameera, Who Will Grasp The Meaning Of This Better Than Anybody.
The cigarette smoke forced the tears out of my eyes and they rolled down like rivulets branching off from a river. The room was shrouded in smoke. It's lazy tendrils drifted in and out of little nooks and crannies. The ashtray was filled to over-flowing and even the teacups had cigarette butts in them. Two of my fingers were bleeding and my upper arm felt numb, but I couldn't break the cycle. C, G, A Minor, E Minor and E. I could feel his eyes watching my fingers, as they somehow managed to get into position fast enough to keep up with the rythm he was dictating. He's been doing it for years now and I'm only a beginner.
This had been the routine for a couple of days now. Ever since a cousin of a friend arrived from Multan, we've been jamming pretty regularly. Three guys so good, it's a sin to even the hold the guitar when youre in the same room with them. Khizer I've known for years, and he teaches me when he has the time. Wajdan, I've known only for an year and Shameel, I only met a couple of days ago. Its usually Shameel on lead and Khizer and Wajdan on rythm. Shameel and Khizer switch occasionally. The little cigarette or food break in between is when Khizer switches his attention to me and tells me what to do next.
Aching fingers finally prevail and we get ready to go home again. I put my guitar on the bed and take a long hard look at the still vibrating strings. I figure that life itself is kinda similar. Not very different from a guitar.
Everyday somebody is plucking a string, strumming a chord or even playing a scale. Rarely, very rarely, somebody comes along and twists the knobs that way and this, tunes it to perfection and plays something so heart-wrenchingly beautiful, it leaves a void in your soul. Their fingers play along the lengths of the strings and everything resonates with purity and harmony. Music so beautiful and so enchanting that angels in heaven dare not reproduce it with their harps. They play their intoxicating tunes until the strings break, at which point, they get up and leave. In due time, you just might replace them, but you know that nobody is ever going to make those six strings sing like that. You will ache and burn for those fingers and the magic they once produced. You'll turn to every other hand that comes your way and let them play your beloved strings and then turn away disgusted when they fail to do so. The only thing that keeps you functioning is friends and family. They make sure that youre tuned atleast, even if you sound horrible. It's really that simple. Life and Six Strings.
The cigarette smoke forced the tears out of my eyes and they rolled down like rivulets branching off from a river. The room was shrouded in smoke. It's lazy tendrils drifted in and out of little nooks and crannies. The ashtray was filled to over-flowing and even the teacups had cigarette butts in them. Two of my fingers were bleeding and my upper arm felt numb, but I couldn't break the cycle. C, G, A Minor, E Minor and E. I could feel his eyes watching my fingers, as they somehow managed to get into position fast enough to keep up with the rythm he was dictating. He's been doing it for years now and I'm only a beginner.
This had been the routine for a couple of days now. Ever since a cousin of a friend arrived from Multan, we've been jamming pretty regularly. Three guys so good, it's a sin to even the hold the guitar when youre in the same room with them. Khizer I've known for years, and he teaches me when he has the time. Wajdan, I've known only for an year and Shameel, I only met a couple of days ago. Its usually Shameel on lead and Khizer and Wajdan on rythm. Shameel and Khizer switch occasionally. The little cigarette or food break in between is when Khizer switches his attention to me and tells me what to do next.
Aching fingers finally prevail and we get ready to go home again. I put my guitar on the bed and take a long hard look at the still vibrating strings. I figure that life itself is kinda similar. Not very different from a guitar.
Everyday somebody is plucking a string, strumming a chord or even playing a scale. Rarely, very rarely, somebody comes along and twists the knobs that way and this, tunes it to perfection and plays something so heart-wrenchingly beautiful, it leaves a void in your soul. Their fingers play along the lengths of the strings and everything resonates with purity and harmony. Music so beautiful and so enchanting that angels in heaven dare not reproduce it with their harps. They play their intoxicating tunes until the strings break, at which point, they get up and leave. In due time, you just might replace them, but you know that nobody is ever going to make those six strings sing like that. You will ache and burn for those fingers and the magic they once produced. You'll turn to every other hand that comes your way and let them play your beloved strings and then turn away disgusted when they fail to do so. The only thing that keeps you functioning is friends and family. They make sure that youre tuned atleast, even if you sound horrible. It's really that simple. Life and Six Strings.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Dark Agent - II
For Qudsia, Who Believes In My Creative Genius
Ascent
The corridor reeked of human excrement. The walls were plastered with mouldy, damp wallpaper that was patched and torn along the length of the hallway. He walked in towards the first room and took a survey of his surroundings. A couple of cardboard boxes served as chairs. They were positioned around an old rickety table, on which stood a dozen or so empty beer bottles. More of these were found rolling or shattered on the floor. A solitary bucket tried in vain to keep a leak in the roof in check. “They’re going to have trouble if those storm clouds open up”, he thought to himself, “Then again, after I’m through here, that’s going to be the least of their worries”. He spotted an open-door and went through it. In the corner, sat a young girl, no more than 14, writing in a notebook by the light of a lantern. He stood right behind her and peered over her shoulder. He could easily make out what she was writing in her child-like spidery scrawl:
Dark Agent - I
For Mav, Who Is Fast Becoming One Of My Biggest Fans
Descent
Skimming low tree-tops, he alighted across the street from where his task now lay. He thought it fitting that he always land in the dark. He stepped out of the shadows of the now decrepit and abandoned school building and started to cross the road. His dark long hair framed his face. He shook his head, for he was no great fan of what he was about to do. Everything was dark in his life and he dressed accordingly. A black suit, all but obscured the tie and shirt underneath that were of the same colour. He walked forward with purpose but faltered at every step. His mind was in turmoil, but he was bound by the very essence of his creation to carry out the task allotted to him. He betrayed no emotion now as he strode forward. He stopped at the fence door, veering crazily on its rusted hinges, and started looking at the neighbourhood. All of the houses were run-down without exception. None of them had a garden and only one had a paint-job that looked like it was administered in this century. The whole block had an aura of neglect around it. Not a light bulb adorned the whole street and nothing stirred. The creatures of the night were strangely absent, although he was to blame for that. They had felt his dark halo of power and scuttled off to the nooks and crannies lying in abundance. Beer cans and old newspapers littered the street and dead and gnarled trees grew on either side. He envisioned the place half a century ago and saw a lively community, thriving on a factory nearby. He turned around and looked across the street. The chimneys could still be seen in the horizon, although only four of the original six were still standing. Like a plant devoid of water, the community had died a slow and undoubtedly painful death. He sighed, turned back and started walking towards the door. It was getting harder every time. There was no place in the fold for one who let his feelings come between the job at hand. He knew there were a million just like him, doing what he was about to do now, but he doubted that any of them felt what he was feeling right now. He walked up the path, once paved marble, now overgrown with weeds. He stopped an inch from the door and looked up for inspiration; all he saw was storm clouds piling up. Anger clouded his judgment, and he threw a punch at the rotting, oak door with all the strength he could muster. The house shook on its very foundations, the veering fence door fell to the ground, a shutter fell somewhere close by and far away, behind him, he could hear the rumble as another one of the chimneys collapsed. He looked at the door and there was not a mark on it. He looked at his hand and it was as flawless as the day it had been created. Again he looked up and started to scream, “Why do you give me this power when I did not ask for it? Why must I go through this, day after day?” Still, no answer was forthcoming. Resigned, he pushed open the door and stepped in.
Descent
Skimming low tree-tops, he alighted across the street from where his task now lay. He thought it fitting that he always land in the dark. He stepped out of the shadows of the now decrepit and abandoned school building and started to cross the road. His dark long hair framed his face. He shook his head, for he was no great fan of what he was about to do. Everything was dark in his life and he dressed accordingly. A black suit, all but obscured the tie and shirt underneath that were of the same colour. He walked forward with purpose but faltered at every step. His mind was in turmoil, but he was bound by the very essence of his creation to carry out the task allotted to him. He betrayed no emotion now as he strode forward. He stopped at the fence door, veering crazily on its rusted hinges, and started looking at the neighbourhood. All of the houses were run-down without exception. None of them had a garden and only one had a paint-job that looked like it was administered in this century. The whole block had an aura of neglect around it. Not a light bulb adorned the whole street and nothing stirred. The creatures of the night were strangely absent, although he was to blame for that. They had felt his dark halo of power and scuttled off to the nooks and crannies lying in abundance. Beer cans and old newspapers littered the street and dead and gnarled trees grew on either side. He envisioned the place half a century ago and saw a lively community, thriving on a factory nearby. He turned around and looked across the street. The chimneys could still be seen in the horizon, although only four of the original six were still standing. Like a plant devoid of water, the community had died a slow and undoubtedly painful death. He sighed, turned back and started walking towards the door. It was getting harder every time. There was no place in the fold for one who let his feelings come between the job at hand. He knew there were a million just like him, doing what he was about to do now, but he doubted that any of them felt what he was feeling right now. He walked up the path, once paved marble, now overgrown with weeds. He stopped an inch from the door and looked up for inspiration; all he saw was storm clouds piling up. Anger clouded his judgment, and he threw a punch at the rotting, oak door with all the strength he could muster. The house shook on its very foundations, the veering fence door fell to the ground, a shutter fell somewhere close by and far away, behind him, he could hear the rumble as another one of the chimneys collapsed. He looked at the door and there was not a mark on it. He looked at his hand and it was as flawless as the day it had been created. Again he looked up and started to scream, “Why do you give me this power when I did not ask for it? Why must I go through this, day after day?” Still, no answer was forthcoming. Resigned, he pushed open the door and stepped in.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Wailing Lament Update - II
*Walks up a road into a green field and lies down under a tree near a running stream*
Every so often, something happens that changes your life for the better. It might be a decision you make or maybe it's just luck but it sure feels good.
My last update was all about how I was thinking about appearing in May/June and changing my subjects. I didn't do that and man, am I glad I didn't. I decided to take a break. Just waste time and go with the flow. Sometimes you need to do that, just because youre 18 or 19 doesn't mean your invincible, and it's done wonders. I've been praying regularly and I'm down to 2 cigarettes a day (some of you may recall me quitting, well that didn't work out). It feels strange to say this but I'm content, almost happy. It's almost as if I'm laying my demons to rest one by one and thats a hard thing to do. I don't know and more importantly, I don't care. I've only know such peace for about 2 and half years of my life, give or take a month, and now to have attained it by myself, I feel complete. Yet, I feel more alone now than I ever have before and thats how it will stay I guess. There's nobody to share this feeling with and that feels kind of bad I guess. In God I trust however :).
*Smiles and goes to sleep*
Every so often, something happens that changes your life for the better. It might be a decision you make or maybe it's just luck but it sure feels good.
My last update was all about how I was thinking about appearing in May/June and changing my subjects. I didn't do that and man, am I glad I didn't. I decided to take a break. Just waste time and go with the flow. Sometimes you need to do that, just because youre 18 or 19 doesn't mean your invincible, and it's done wonders. I've been praying regularly and I'm down to 2 cigarettes a day (some of you may recall me quitting, well that didn't work out). It feels strange to say this but I'm content, almost happy. It's almost as if I'm laying my demons to rest one by one and thats a hard thing to do. I don't know and more importantly, I don't care. I've only know such peace for about 2 and half years of my life, give or take a month, and now to have attained it by myself, I feel complete. Yet, I feel more alone now than I ever have before and thats how it will stay I guess. There's nobody to share this feeling with and that feels kind of bad I guess. In God I trust however :).
*Smiles and goes to sleep*
Thursday, May 11, 2006
A One Week Trip To Murree
I recently went to Murree for like a week to visit my sister(Hooria) and my brother-in-law(Abbas). This was done more out of guilt than anything else as I had just learnt that my sister was quite upset when I had refused to go with my mom and dad, when they had been to visit. Usually this would be a day-by-day account but since my routine didn't differ much, I think I can wrap this up in one go.
We set out around 10:00-ish on tuesday in a car that belongs to my brother-in-law's brother, who is also my cousin. It was a red suzuki Margalla, with no air conditioner and no sound system. To top it off, there were also two babies and this little kid who's supposed to play with the babies occupying the backseat. The alarm bells in my head were strangely silent. All was well I guess, except maybe for the heat, until we were on the Burhan Motoroway, where we blew a tire. This turned out to be a bigger problem than I had first anticipated because the trunk was totally loaded with stuff. To get out the spare, we had to get everything out, spend a good fifteen minutes talking to a police officer and convincing him we were alright. Finally got the tire fixed and I was screwing in the bolts when the (oh joy) mobile workshop arrived. 'Hogaya hai sir' is all he said to me. I've often been told I have a very deadly looking glare. I was like 'What the hell do you think asswipe?? I'm tightening the nuts on a tire. Obviously HOGAYA HAI'. I just thought that of course, I'm a fairly peaceful person and I didn't want any trouble. Had a hell of a job putting everything back in though. Broke a couple of plastic rods that had something to do with a babies chair or a plate holder. Don't know now cos we couldn't make head or tails of everything when we unloaded.
Stopped in Islamabad for lunch and had a pizza at Rahat Bakers and I must say, it was delicious. Leaves Pizza Hut dead and buried in the dust. Plus, they make it right in front of you. I also found out that carrying a baby in a crowded place has some benefits:
1) Gets all the chicks to check you out, cos you have a cute baby in your hands.
2) You get to check out chicks while they're checking the baby out.
After that it was on to Murree. The air progressively got cooler as we climbed higher and higher and by the time we got to Mall Road, it was properly cold. The house itself is well placed. Five minutes up the road and you get to a cool little amusement park and five minutes down the road and you get to Mall Road, which is all there is to see in Muree besides the trees I guess. There's two bedrooms, a lounge, a kitchenette and a drawing room. The coup de grace is delivered posthumously by a terrace that overlooks a huge garden with a solitary tree, standing right in the middle. It's a beautiful view and it's stunning when it's snowing. I had left my trusty laptop at home and the only links to my tech savvy world were a TV with cable, which enabled me to keep upto date on Premiership matches, and my cell phone.
Life was beautiful and I quickly fell into a routine. I would wake up, have breakfast, stretch around a bit, play with the babies and then watch TV, while messaging people. Then I'd have lunch and would proceed to go out for a smoke. I would walk around a little and then come back and watch more TV. Around 4 - 5-ish my brother-in-law would come back and we'd go out somewhere in his company car, which happens to be a kick ass pick-up truck, cos you need those things to go to far-flung places in Murree. After that he would go off to visit some of his friends and I would either accompany him or just roam around on Mall Road. During one of these visits, I happened to visit PC Bhurban's Electricity Meter (You see, my brother-in-law is a Sub-Divisional Officer for the Islamabad Electrical Supply Company, so he gets to do cool things like that). That thing was pretty awesome. You needed like a special key to activate it and then it would proceed to tell you what date it was, what time it was, followed by Kilowatt Hours consumed and a bunch of other numbers. Their electricity bill came out to be 850, 000 Rupees. The game arcade was probably responsible for half of that amount. Then when it would get late and we'd realize it with a 'd'oh', we would both set off for the car and buy the food for dinner. It was off to home and after dinner, while everybody else was asleep, I'd be watching TV, while the open windows let a cool, calm breeze play around the drawing room.
This was all part of the break, I had decided to take earlier. There's nothing better than getting away from it all for like a week and just letting all your old habits fall into desuetude. It wasn't all peace and calm though, at any given second, my nerves could come under attack from one of nature's most lethal weapons: A little baby screaming at the top of it's lungs. Either one of the two buggers could start bawling in a split-second and cause you to forget every human sensation, process and feeling, except for, maybe, bladder control.
The older of the two is called Umar. He doesn't look like a overly-developed one and half year old; he looks like a retarded three year old, but he's a smart little baby. He's very sensitive (a bit like his uncle), very curious (ditto) and ONLY plays with Annie, who happens to be the only female baby in their little neighbourhood (what? I told you he was like his uncle). He doesn't like Murree too much though, because he grew up surrounded by the infinite love of his grandparents, whom he loves to bits as well, and two dozen or so other relatives. He feels strangely out of place in Muree where there are only a measly 6 people in the house. Only 4 of them are family and out of that 4, 1 is too young to count for anything. So nobody can blame him for resorting to random acts of naughtiness (his bib says its all: Zero to Naughty In Sixty Seconds). Murree isn't too big on basic necessities like gas or clean running water in some places, so to be on the safe side, my sister boils the drinking water. Muree is high up, and in other dimension, so it takes quite a while for water to boil. We were guarding the boiling pot against Umar, who feels his presence is a ceremonial appurtenance wherever there is boiling pot of water or a boiling pot of anything. For the longest time, he used his tried and tested methods to shift our attention (basically these methods are: pointing randomly, rubbing his tummy, holding his head, making little purring noises and embedding his head between two pairs of knees) but having failed, casually made his leave of the kitchen and set about kicking a ball. We thought no more of him for the damn pot had finally started boiling. My sister announced that it would now sit there until it cooled down, so we went off on our ways, me to watch TV and she to her room. After some five minutes, I made my way to the kitchen so I could move the contents of the pot into a water cooler and various bottles.What I saw was not pretty. Umar, in his adoring, sweet, child-like curiousity, had wanted to see what happened when you mixed pee and water (not really, he just likes liquids falling into other liquids, thats all) and was in the process of, ummm, relieving himself into the pot of the, now, cooled down water. I knew his mother's wrath would be quick and furious. I would have gladly have taken the blame for him and said I had done it, had she not walked in at that very moment. I'm an arrant supporter of not hitting children (atleast not before they're three) but there's nothing you can do once a mother decides its time her little brat had better have a smack or two. So poor little Umar had to take his medicine. He was screaming his head off and emptying his vocabulary into that soul-less, God forsaken screaming. As I carried him outside, he started 'Deega (kick) Ball (ball) Baba (his grandfather) Na-nun (his grandmother) Alaa (his mother) Aba (his father) Bolo (his belly button)'. Having exhausted himself, he then went to sleep. He's the bestest little baby in the whole world. It's true :).
The younger of the two buggers is called Aye Noor (Turkish for Light from the Moon). She's about 4-5 months old and there's not much I can write or say about her, because she only feeds, burps, poops, cries and goes to sleep, then she wakes up and repeats the cycle. She also got smacked one, but from Umar and that's a funny story too. As I mentioned before Umar is quite a sensitive little child who hates seeing people and other babies cry, so his parents, God bless their twisted souls, hit each other and pretend to cry. This activates Umar's 'Na' ability (when his 'Na' ability his activated, he starts saying 'Na' in a like a million different tones) and he tries to make them stop, which ofcourse they don't, until he starts to cry. Then they both cuddle him and all is good. This one time, after a hearty little dinner, Abbas and Hooria started up on their little game again and drove the poor child into a maniacal baby-ish rage. He went up to Abbas and slapped him a couple of times, then he went over to Hooria and tugged at her hair and, finally, he went over to Noor, who was probably dreaming of poop again, based on the vacant expression on her face, and hit her as hard as he could on the side of the face. Then they both started to scream and cry. They're living in one dysfunctional family but they get all the love in the world, which is the important thing.
This, my dear friends, is how I spent a week of my life in Murree. I came back on the 8th day. I still don't know why I did that.
We set out around 10:00-ish on tuesday in a car that belongs to my brother-in-law's brother, who is also my cousin. It was a red suzuki Margalla, with no air conditioner and no sound system. To top it off, there were also two babies and this little kid who's supposed to play with the babies occupying the backseat. The alarm bells in my head were strangely silent. All was well I guess, except maybe for the heat, until we were on the Burhan Motoroway, where we blew a tire. This turned out to be a bigger problem than I had first anticipated because the trunk was totally loaded with stuff. To get out the spare, we had to get everything out, spend a good fifteen minutes talking to a police officer and convincing him we were alright. Finally got the tire fixed and I was screwing in the bolts when the (oh joy) mobile workshop arrived. 'Hogaya hai sir' is all he said to me. I've often been told I have a very deadly looking glare. I was like 'What the hell do you think asswipe?? I'm tightening the nuts on a tire. Obviously HOGAYA HAI'. I just thought that of course, I'm a fairly peaceful person and I didn't want any trouble. Had a hell of a job putting everything back in though. Broke a couple of plastic rods that had something to do with a babies chair or a plate holder. Don't know now cos we couldn't make head or tails of everything when we unloaded.
Stopped in Islamabad for lunch and had a pizza at Rahat Bakers and I must say, it was delicious. Leaves Pizza Hut dead and buried in the dust. Plus, they make it right in front of you. I also found out that carrying a baby in a crowded place has some benefits:
1) Gets all the chicks to check you out, cos you have a cute baby in your hands.
2) You get to check out chicks while they're checking the baby out.
After that it was on to Murree. The air progressively got cooler as we climbed higher and higher and by the time we got to Mall Road, it was properly cold. The house itself is well placed. Five minutes up the road and you get to a cool little amusement park and five minutes down the road and you get to Mall Road, which is all there is to see in Muree besides the trees I guess. There's two bedrooms, a lounge, a kitchenette and a drawing room. The coup de grace is delivered posthumously by a terrace that overlooks a huge garden with a solitary tree, standing right in the middle. It's a beautiful view and it's stunning when it's snowing. I had left my trusty laptop at home and the only links to my tech savvy world were a TV with cable, which enabled me to keep upto date on Premiership matches, and my cell phone.
Life was beautiful and I quickly fell into a routine. I would wake up, have breakfast, stretch around a bit, play with the babies and then watch TV, while messaging people. Then I'd have lunch and would proceed to go out for a smoke. I would walk around a little and then come back and watch more TV. Around 4 - 5-ish my brother-in-law would come back and we'd go out somewhere in his company car, which happens to be a kick ass pick-up truck, cos you need those things to go to far-flung places in Murree. After that he would go off to visit some of his friends and I would either accompany him or just roam around on Mall Road. During one of these visits, I happened to visit PC Bhurban's Electricity Meter (You see, my brother-in-law is a Sub-Divisional Officer for the Islamabad Electrical Supply Company, so he gets to do cool things like that). That thing was pretty awesome. You needed like a special key to activate it and then it would proceed to tell you what date it was, what time it was, followed by Kilowatt Hours consumed and a bunch of other numbers. Their electricity bill came out to be 850, 000 Rupees. The game arcade was probably responsible for half of that amount. Then when it would get late and we'd realize it with a 'd'oh', we would both set off for the car and buy the food for dinner. It was off to home and after dinner, while everybody else was asleep, I'd be watching TV, while the open windows let a cool, calm breeze play around the drawing room.
This was all part of the break, I had decided to take earlier. There's nothing better than getting away from it all for like a week and just letting all your old habits fall into desuetude. It wasn't all peace and calm though, at any given second, my nerves could come under attack from one of nature's most lethal weapons: A little baby screaming at the top of it's lungs. Either one of the two buggers could start bawling in a split-second and cause you to forget every human sensation, process and feeling, except for, maybe, bladder control.
The older of the two is called Umar. He doesn't look like a overly-developed one and half year old; he looks like a retarded three year old, but he's a smart little baby. He's very sensitive (a bit like his uncle), very curious (ditto) and ONLY plays with Annie, who happens to be the only female baby in their little neighbourhood (what? I told you he was like his uncle). He doesn't like Murree too much though, because he grew up surrounded by the infinite love of his grandparents, whom he loves to bits as well, and two dozen or so other relatives. He feels strangely out of place in Muree where there are only a measly 6 people in the house. Only 4 of them are family and out of that 4, 1 is too young to count for anything. So nobody can blame him for resorting to random acts of naughtiness (his bib says its all: Zero to Naughty In Sixty Seconds). Murree isn't too big on basic necessities like gas or clean running water in some places, so to be on the safe side, my sister boils the drinking water. Muree is high up, and in other dimension, so it takes quite a while for water to boil. We were guarding the boiling pot against Umar, who feels his presence is a ceremonial appurtenance wherever there is boiling pot of water or a boiling pot of anything. For the longest time, he used his tried and tested methods to shift our attention (basically these methods are: pointing randomly, rubbing his tummy, holding his head, making little purring noises and embedding his head between two pairs of knees) but having failed, casually made his leave of the kitchen and set about kicking a ball. We thought no more of him for the damn pot had finally started boiling. My sister announced that it would now sit there until it cooled down, so we went off on our ways, me to watch TV and she to her room. After some five minutes, I made my way to the kitchen so I could move the contents of the pot into a water cooler and various bottles.What I saw was not pretty. Umar, in his adoring, sweet, child-like curiousity, had wanted to see what happened when you mixed pee and water (not really, he just likes liquids falling into other liquids, thats all) and was in the process of, ummm, relieving himself into the pot of the, now, cooled down water. I knew his mother's wrath would be quick and furious. I would have gladly have taken the blame for him and said I had done it, had she not walked in at that very moment. I'm an arrant supporter of not hitting children (atleast not before they're three) but there's nothing you can do once a mother decides its time her little brat had better have a smack or two. So poor little Umar had to take his medicine. He was screaming his head off and emptying his vocabulary into that soul-less, God forsaken screaming. As I carried him outside, he started 'Deega (kick) Ball (ball) Baba (his grandfather) Na-nun (his grandmother) Alaa (his mother) Aba (his father) Bolo (his belly button)'. Having exhausted himself, he then went to sleep. He's the bestest little baby in the whole world. It's true :).
The younger of the two buggers is called Aye Noor (Turkish for Light from the Moon). She's about 4-5 months old and there's not much I can write or say about her, because she only feeds, burps, poops, cries and goes to sleep, then she wakes up and repeats the cycle. She also got smacked one, but from Umar and that's a funny story too. As I mentioned before Umar is quite a sensitive little child who hates seeing people and other babies cry, so his parents, God bless their twisted souls, hit each other and pretend to cry. This activates Umar's 'Na' ability (when his 'Na' ability his activated, he starts saying 'Na' in a like a million different tones) and he tries to make them stop, which ofcourse they don't, until he starts to cry. Then they both cuddle him and all is good. This one time, after a hearty little dinner, Abbas and Hooria started up on their little game again and drove the poor child into a maniacal baby-ish rage. He went up to Abbas and slapped him a couple of times, then he went over to Hooria and tugged at her hair and, finally, he went over to Noor, who was probably dreaming of poop again, based on the vacant expression on her face, and hit her as hard as he could on the side of the face. Then they both started to scream and cry. They're living in one dysfunctional family but they get all the love in the world, which is the important thing.
This, my dear friends, is how I spent a week of my life in Murree. I came back on the 8th day. I still don't know why I did that.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
School Trip to Islamabad - Part 3
The journey back to Peshawar was one long dance party. We had bought a cassette or two at Illusions and one of them featured some exquisite dance titles. I don't usually dance, unless there's like a wedding in which case I dance like there's no tomorrow, but this was different. Maybe it was because I felt so good, because once I got up, there was no sitting down. There was nothing at that moment, just me and Uzair, trying to come up with new and wacky dance moves to try out on the run. That cassette must have run its course three times before I finally sat down gasping for breath. For a fat guy, Uzair sure can dance. There was nothing much of note to write about coming back except maybe for a deep feeling of regret; of having wonderful friends right there but not knowing it. The person in question and me texted each other like a dozen times or so, telling each other about the trip, bitching about other people and their undignified behaviour and how we were both sorry we hadn't realized the fact that we could have been best friends earlier and so on and so forth, but all in all, this was one trip I will never ever forget.
Laser Tag Rules!!!
Laser Tag Rules!!!
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Nobody Knows It But Me - Tony Rich Project
I pretended that I'm glad you went away
These four walls closin' more every day
And I'm dying inside
And nobody knows it but me
Like a clown I put on a show
The pain is real even if nobody knows
And I'm crying inside
And nobody knows it but me
Why didn't I say
The things I needed to say
How could I let my angel get away
Now my world is just a tumblin' down
I can say it so clearly
But you're nowhere around
The nights are lonely, the days are so sad
And I just keep thinkin' about
The love that we had
And I'm missin' you
And nobody knows it but me
I carry a smile when I'm broken in two
And I'm nobody without someone like you
I'm tremblin' inside and nobody knows it but me
I lie awake it's a quarter past three
I'm screamin' at night as if I thought
You'd hear me
Yeah my heart is callin' you
And nobody knows it but me
How blue can I get
You could ask my heart
But like a jigsaw puzzle it's been torn all apart
A million words couldn't say just how I feel
A million years from now you know
I'll be lovin' you still
The nights are lonely, the days are so sad
And I just keep thinkin' about
The love that we had
And I'm missin' you
And nobody knows it but me
Tomorrow mornin' I'm hitting the dusty road
Gonna find you wherever, ever you might go
I'm gonna unload my heart and hope you come back to me
Said when the nights are lonely...
The nights are lonely, the days are so sad
And I just keep thinkin' about
The love that we had
And I'm missin' you
And nobody knows it but me
Monday, April 03, 2006
School Trip to Islamabad - Part 2
Plans had been made beforehand to charm the socks off everybody with Waris Baig's beautiful, haunting melodies. Therefore, the bus was treated to such classics as 'Aik aankh milli dilbar say, woh bheegi shaam suhaani thee' and 'Kull shub mae nay daika chaand jarokay(?) may, uss ko keeya salaam tumhaaray dhokay may'. Many a protest was held but since nobody else had a cassette, they had to make do *hehehehehehe*. Not that we didn't sing songs ourselves, far from it; many a beautiful song permeated from the back seat that we occupied, and many a cigarette was lit and held near a window so that the smell didn't accompany the song. These cigarettes had to be disposed off after a quick drag from everybody because the only thing that spreads faster than cigarette smoke is a fart, and thank God we had none of those.We screamed, we laughed, we sang, we jumped, we sat on the seat back rests and took pictures, we danced but importantly we had fun. As time went by, I slowly realized that I was having fun after God knows how many trips. Don't ask me why because I won't tell you even if you do but it felt, oh soooooo, good.
First stop was Shakkarparriyan. It's pretty little place cut up into the hills somewhere above Islamabad. Marble benches and columns dot the place and there's steps everywhere. Going up, down, sideways. Nice little place I guess. I'm always drawn to vistas where I can spend some time alone and just gaze out at like a forest or a city or something. Oh well, spent some time there. Some of us went on a pirate boat, some of us climbed trees, some of us got into a police pickup van and took pictures in the back (yeah, that'll happen one of these days for sure), some of us got high on hash and I just sat on a stair step writing down what I thought about a friend in her diary. Then, onwards to Jinnah Super, where one of us actually went to get a hair-cut. Was well funny as the guy messed up his hair. The only thing worth mentioning here (cos it gives me brownie points) is the fact that I bought a pair of earrings for another friend who had to miss the trip and who I had spent most of the night texting and consoling. I felt really bad she had missed it, cos she's like my best friend and I hate it when I hear her crying. Had lunch and then it was off to that MegaZone place cos people wanted to bowl and play laser tag and stuff. Now this place gives me bad bad vibes; this is the place where I broke down on the last trip and cried for like a good one hour. It's a bad bad place. There's always a million songs running through my head, only one was playing on my insane jukebox at the moment: Nobody Knows It But Me by Tony Rich Project (the lyrics to which I shall post in my next post). My pulse thundered in my ears as I walked past that very chair and table I had sat on that evening. Everything was in shart focus and I could hear every little sound clear as crystal. There were classmates behind me talking about how cool laser storm is; there was my friend who's clothes were rustling as she walked with me; there were footsteps emanating from all directions, echoing in my mind. I saw myself at that table with my teachers and friends around me. Through that window, looking at a vacant chair and table, I realized what I had become and it was a release. It felt good. I even played a round of laser storm and you know what? It is pretty cool. Between donuts and milkshakes, I had come across a beautiful epiphany. I had been ready to give up yesterday, but today I had stumbled across the fact that in my many and varied miseries, I had completely over-seen some things and it was time to make up for them. We set out for Peshawar somewhere around 8:00.
First stop was Shakkarparriyan. It's pretty little place cut up into the hills somewhere above Islamabad. Marble benches and columns dot the place and there's steps everywhere. Going up, down, sideways. Nice little place I guess. I'm always drawn to vistas where I can spend some time alone and just gaze out at like a forest or a city or something. Oh well, spent some time there. Some of us went on a pirate boat, some of us climbed trees, some of us got into a police pickup van and took pictures in the back (yeah, that'll happen one of these days for sure), some of us got high on hash and I just sat on a stair step writing down what I thought about a friend in her diary. Then, onwards to Jinnah Super, where one of us actually went to get a hair-cut. Was well funny as the guy messed up his hair. The only thing worth mentioning here (cos it gives me brownie points) is the fact that I bought a pair of earrings for another friend who had to miss the trip and who I had spent most of the night texting and consoling. I felt really bad she had missed it, cos she's like my best friend and I hate it when I hear her crying. Had lunch and then it was off to that MegaZone place cos people wanted to bowl and play laser tag and stuff. Now this place gives me bad bad vibes; this is the place where I broke down on the last trip and cried for like a good one hour. It's a bad bad place. There's always a million songs running through my head, only one was playing on my insane jukebox at the moment: Nobody Knows It But Me by Tony Rich Project (the lyrics to which I shall post in my next post). My pulse thundered in my ears as I walked past that very chair and table I had sat on that evening. Everything was in shart focus and I could hear every little sound clear as crystal. There were classmates behind me talking about how cool laser storm is; there was my friend who's clothes were rustling as she walked with me; there were footsteps emanating from all directions, echoing in my mind. I saw myself at that table with my teachers and friends around me. Through that window, looking at a vacant chair and table, I realized what I had become and it was a release. It felt good. I even played a round of laser storm and you know what? It is pretty cool. Between donuts and milkshakes, I had come across a beautiful epiphany. I had been ready to give up yesterday, but today I had stumbled across the fact that in my many and varied miseries, I had completely over-seen some things and it was time to make up for them. We set out for Peshawar somewhere around 8:00.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
School Trip to Islamabad - Part 1
Many had spoken at great lengths about this fabled trip to Islamabad. Many had doubted it and still, many more had advocated it. The date was finally set as Sunday the 19th. Many must have lived that week in anticipation for the Big Day, but life (read: Beaconhouse) has a tendency to drop bombshells when you least expect them. At 10:00 at night on saturday, the ALC called me up and told me to tell everybody that the trip was cancelled. Such rumours had filtered throughout the past hour but he confirmed them. 10:00 was far too late to go around calling people's houses. About a bajillion calls to the principal by our esteemed head girl made sure that the trip was on. God alone knows what venom she spewed in the principal's ears. The catch was this: Only A2 was going. A1 would get it's trip the next sunday. Good enough we decided, but not before calling up Khizer, who is in A1, but part of the gang and assuring him that we'd take him along, come hell or high water, or the ALC, as it turned out to be.
Getting there at 5:30, I thought to myself, 'Man, after like 16 years spent in Beaconhouse, you still trust the bullshit they put on their permission slips??'. The school gate was still closed you see. After a good 10 minutes, somebody came along on a bicycle, scaled the wall and opened the gate from the inside. A slight drizzle heralded our arrival. As usual, I was the first one on the scene. They slowly started to arrive, but the high point of that morning was when one of the girls from A1 came along with her dad, who was looking mighty irritated at being woken up at 5:00 in the morning (hey, who wouldnt be irritated at being woken up at 5:00 in the morning). I, personally, undertook the honour of telling her that A1 wasn't going after she had asked, 'A1 waaaali koooooii naheeee aaayeeeen??'. The girl has a tendency to pull her words and I felt sorry for her when she asked me, 'Aaaaree yooouuu guuuyss plaaaayiiiinggg, liiiikeee, a praaank on uuuss?'. I told her she could go with us if she wanted to, but she said no. Oh well, that's life (read: Beaconhouse) for you. With a good 20-25 people present and counted for, we were waiting to board the bus when from far away we heard the faint echoes of a drum or something of the sort. Slowly, the roar of an engine was discerned; a toyota came into view spraying water all over the place; sound system playing at full blast at 7:00 in the morning. It was Abdur Rehman, ofcourse, another one of them A1's. To put the icing on the cake, he backed the car into the fence around the garden. When I saw that, I knew this trip was going to be good. The moment of reckonging finally arrived as Sir Tauseef (our beloved ALC) laid his eyes on Khizer and announced that he wouldn't be joining us on the trip. All the guys refused from boarding the bus and finally, I volunteered to call the principal again. Woke the poor woman up and told her the sad, woeful tale of how Khizer had left a wedding in Mardan to come back especially for this trip and now his house was locked up and he had nowhere to stay. It was decided that he could go on this trip but would miss the trip for A1. This suited him just fine as he used to be our class mate back in 10th grade, and he hasn't quite fit in with A1. Off we went at around 7:15-ish.
Getting there at 5:30, I thought to myself, 'Man, after like 16 years spent in Beaconhouse, you still trust the bullshit they put on their permission slips??'. The school gate was still closed you see. After a good 10 minutes, somebody came along on a bicycle, scaled the wall and opened the gate from the inside. A slight drizzle heralded our arrival. As usual, I was the first one on the scene. They slowly started to arrive, but the high point of that morning was when one of the girls from A1 came along with her dad, who was looking mighty irritated at being woken up at 5:00 in the morning (hey, who wouldnt be irritated at being woken up at 5:00 in the morning). I, personally, undertook the honour of telling her that A1 wasn't going after she had asked, 'A1 waaaali koooooii naheeee aaayeeeen??'. The girl has a tendency to pull her words and I felt sorry for her when she asked me, 'Aaaaree yooouuu guuuyss plaaaayiiiinggg, liiiikeee, a praaank on uuuss?'. I told her she could go with us if she wanted to, but she said no. Oh well, that's life (read: Beaconhouse) for you. With a good 20-25 people present and counted for, we were waiting to board the bus when from far away we heard the faint echoes of a drum or something of the sort. Slowly, the roar of an engine was discerned; a toyota came into view spraying water all over the place; sound system playing at full blast at 7:00 in the morning. It was Abdur Rehman, ofcourse, another one of them A1's. To put the icing on the cake, he backed the car into the fence around the garden. When I saw that, I knew this trip was going to be good. The moment of reckonging finally arrived as Sir Tauseef (our beloved ALC) laid his eyes on Khizer and announced that he wouldn't be joining us on the trip. All the guys refused from boarding the bus and finally, I volunteered to call the principal again. Woke the poor woman up and told her the sad, woeful tale of how Khizer had left a wedding in Mardan to come back especially for this trip and now his house was locked up and he had nowhere to stay. It was decided that he could go on this trip but would miss the trip for A1. This suited him just fine as he used to be our class mate back in 10th grade, and he hasn't quite fit in with A1. Off we went at around 7:15-ish.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
A Delightful Little Trip to a Fruit and Vegetable Market
Recently this uncle of mine dragged me along with him as he went to buy fruit and veggies from this place he knows where everything is cheap. Now I have nothing against this uncle of mine. He's a great man. Served with honours in the military, played his part in the war, got a medal for it and served out the rest of his term with the ISI. He also has like the coolest collection of guns ever. He even lets me fire some when I visit him in the village. The only thing that bothers me is the fact that he always take a shot at me whenever I'm with him. Usually that means he discusses a) my love life (of which there is none, but that does'nt stop him) and b) when I'll get married (never). Sometimes an in-house version of Shaadi Online is not my idea of fun. I cursed my luck as he pointed to the passenger seat of his battered Peugeot, but you really can't say no to your elders and betters, now, can you? At this point, I didn't even know where we were going, which was good I guess, cos ignorance is bliss.
When I got out of the car, the first thing that assaulted my senses was the smell. Think rotting vegetables plus caged chickens and birds with all their excrement plus horse shit on the roads plus the gravid odour that permeates your very being when a seething mass of humanity is left together for too long. My uncle seemed unfazed as he started off briskly. My respect for the man increased ten-fold. What lay ahead was something truly out of this world. Nowhere else but in Peshawar will you fruit stalls and parked cars atop railway lines. The filth of the place was just incredible, yet the fruit and veggies were all immaculately clean and tidily arranged. So far so good I thought. The place was huge. It just isn't a fruit and veggie market. It's has garage sales, bird shops, spice vendors. The wares for sale were varied and far too many to list. The interesting thing was the Sikhs in their little turbans always tended to the spice shops, the bird-keepers were all Afghans, the fruit and vegetable people were Pathans and the garage sale people were urdu and/or hindko speaking, or Peshawaris (Contrary to popular belief, peshawaris actually speak hindko. This is because during British rule no self-respecting Pushtun would work for the English in the capacity of a peon or a clerk, so people were transported from all parts of the sub-continent so as the fill the peon-clerk vaccum. The descendants of these people now call themselves Peshawaris and still speak urdu-hindko. Sometimes they're very nice people, I'll tell you why some other day).
From a short little sikh guy my uncle bought like a whole lot of powdered mustard. I found him to be very courteous and that was a whole ton-load of mustard for just 20 ruppees. I was beginning to see the charms of the place. There was also a whole lot of food on display. My uncle asked me time after time whether I would like something to eat, but I couldn't say yes because of conventions. Everything is so complicated. Why couldn't have the conversation gone something like this:
Uncle: Would you like some of those 'tikkas' Ahmad, they're very nice.
Ahmad: You bet your boots I would, and throw in a glass of a orange juice while youre at it, will ya?
Conventions be damned :(. Oh well.
Our next foray was into the bird shops, of which there were many. We did'nt buy anything but it was amazing. There were little huge parrots which cost like 200 a pair and then there were these little tiny multi-coloured birds, whose name I do not know cos, hey, I'm no birdman of the alcatraz, that were worth 5000 a piece. There was even a mongoose in a little cage, slinking around. I thought it was well cool and would have bought the bugger had I money on me at the time. The next destination was the fruit and veg stalls. A whole lot of stuff was bought here, of which I had no intention of committing to memory, except that it all cost something like 80 ruppees. More vegetables than two people could carry and all for less than 100. The shopkeeper was even nice enough to return the money my uncle over-paid him by mistake. Great place I thought as I walked back to the car.
With both my arms full of plastic bags and bundles of veggies, I looked back and realized that I was wrong when I first stepped out of the car and looked down at the place. That one market place defines my city and my culture better than a thousand books. It's what I am, it's a part of me and I was so so wrong in denying it at first. It only takes an old guy in a bird-shop to offer you some green tea for you to realize that you're part of something truly great and you're slowly but surely losing it.
If only the damned place did'nt stink.
When I got out of the car, the first thing that assaulted my senses was the smell. Think rotting vegetables plus caged chickens and birds with all their excrement plus horse shit on the roads plus the gravid odour that permeates your very being when a seething mass of humanity is left together for too long. My uncle seemed unfazed as he started off briskly. My respect for the man increased ten-fold. What lay ahead was something truly out of this world. Nowhere else but in Peshawar will you fruit stalls and parked cars atop railway lines. The filth of the place was just incredible, yet the fruit and veggies were all immaculately clean and tidily arranged. So far so good I thought. The place was huge. It just isn't a fruit and veggie market. It's has garage sales, bird shops, spice vendors. The wares for sale were varied and far too many to list. The interesting thing was the Sikhs in their little turbans always tended to the spice shops, the bird-keepers were all Afghans, the fruit and vegetable people were Pathans and the garage sale people were urdu and/or hindko speaking, or Peshawaris (Contrary to popular belief, peshawaris actually speak hindko. This is because during British rule no self-respecting Pushtun would work for the English in the capacity of a peon or a clerk, so people were transported from all parts of the sub-continent so as the fill the peon-clerk vaccum. The descendants of these people now call themselves Peshawaris and still speak urdu-hindko. Sometimes they're very nice people, I'll tell you why some other day).
From a short little sikh guy my uncle bought like a whole lot of powdered mustard. I found him to be very courteous and that was a whole ton-load of mustard for just 20 ruppees. I was beginning to see the charms of the place. There was also a whole lot of food on display. My uncle asked me time after time whether I would like something to eat, but I couldn't say yes because of conventions. Everything is so complicated. Why couldn't have the conversation gone something like this:
Uncle: Would you like some of those 'tikkas' Ahmad, they're very nice.
Ahmad: You bet your boots I would, and throw in a glass of a orange juice while youre at it, will ya?
Conventions be damned :(. Oh well.
Our next foray was into the bird shops, of which there were many. We did'nt buy anything but it was amazing. There were little huge parrots which cost like 200 a pair and then there were these little tiny multi-coloured birds, whose name I do not know cos, hey, I'm no birdman of the alcatraz, that were worth 5000 a piece. There was even a mongoose in a little cage, slinking around. I thought it was well cool and would have bought the bugger had I money on me at the time. The next destination was the fruit and veg stalls. A whole lot of stuff was bought here, of which I had no intention of committing to memory, except that it all cost something like 80 ruppees. More vegetables than two people could carry and all for less than 100. The shopkeeper was even nice enough to return the money my uncle over-paid him by mistake. Great place I thought as I walked back to the car.
With both my arms full of plastic bags and bundles of veggies, I looked back and realized that I was wrong when I first stepped out of the car and looked down at the place. That one market place defines my city and my culture better than a thousand books. It's what I am, it's a part of me and I was so so wrong in denying it at first. It only takes an old guy in a bird-shop to offer you some green tea for you to realize that you're part of something truly great and you're slowly but surely losing it.
If only the damned place did'nt stink.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
The Wailing Lament Update - I
The Wailing Lament Update is simply a paragraph or two or ten about what's happening in my life right now.
*puts hands in pocket, sets cap on head and stares at a signpost pointing four ways*
I stand at the proverbial crossroad. I can either give a full complement of Science Subjects in full or I can change to Sociology and Psychology. A gap year does me no real harm, yet I want to get on with this. I'm sick and I'm tired of A Levels. It represents all that is wrong with my life. It was like this, when A Levels started, I used to think, dude you can do this, its only 3 subjects. Work at it, you can get thoes A's. After a couple of months, I was like alright, A's might be hard to get, but try for B's atleast. They're good enough to get you into AKU. Then the Mid-Terms came along, and I was like dude, just do enough to make the grade at AKU, thats it. You'll do something at the interview, just do enough to get there. Fast forward time another month or two, and I said to myself forget AKU, do enough to get into any Medical College. After the first year in A Levels, I kicked myself mentally in the butt, and I was like wtf were you thinking? You can't do medical. Just get decent grades. Gave bloody AS in November again, and finally I was like this can all bloody well go to hell. Just pass. Finally, now, today, I think to myself, you know what? A Levels can bite my ass. I just want this to finish. I want this to end so I can get out of here. Why did all this happen you ask?? That my friend, is a long story (and I mean LONG) and at this point in time, no answer is forthcoming. Some things happened that should'tn have and totally derailed me. Shit happens.
There is a little story about why I wanted to do Medical and why I wanted to go to AKU. Maybe I'll weave that tale for you at some point in the future.
So yeah, here I am now with my A Levels Registrations Forms. I'm going to give Sociology in May/June, provided I get off my ass and make my Identity Card, go to some bank, deposit an insane amount of money for one paper (with a second level penalty probably), go back with the receipt for insane amount of money deposited and give all those papers to some guy in the British Council. I can always give my two papers in November as well, in which case I can just sit back, relax for once, catch up on movies and songs. Give proper time to my writing and this blog. Blow some dust off my guitar and start practising again. That's cool too.
Me being me, I don't see the purpose behind this. I love to write, therefore I want to pursue a career in Journalism, however, there are a whole lot of people who think that is not practical because there is no money in it. Well I really don't care if there is no money in it. Doing what you like is freedom. Liking what you do is happiness. Maybe I'm just naive, but you know what? I like it that way. I'm happy being ignorant, so there. I'm going to BNU, I'm doing Journalism and that is that. I'd like to see anybody, barring my dad and their admissions officer, stop me.
On a more non-academic front, I've quit smoking and started praying again. 5 times a day in the mosque. I want to smoke right now but I'm not going to. I'm well happy with myself.
*whistles and walks away from signposts*
*puts hands in pocket, sets cap on head and stares at a signpost pointing four ways*
I stand at the proverbial crossroad. I can either give a full complement of Science Subjects in full or I can change to Sociology and Psychology. A gap year does me no real harm, yet I want to get on with this. I'm sick and I'm tired of A Levels. It represents all that is wrong with my life. It was like this, when A Levels started, I used to think, dude you can do this, its only 3 subjects. Work at it, you can get thoes A's. After a couple of months, I was like alright, A's might be hard to get, but try for B's atleast. They're good enough to get you into AKU. Then the Mid-Terms came along, and I was like dude, just do enough to make the grade at AKU, thats it. You'll do something at the interview, just do enough to get there. Fast forward time another month or two, and I said to myself forget AKU, do enough to get into any Medical College. After the first year in A Levels, I kicked myself mentally in the butt, and I was like wtf were you thinking? You can't do medical. Just get decent grades. Gave bloody AS in November again, and finally I was like this can all bloody well go to hell. Just pass. Finally, now, today, I think to myself, you know what? A Levels can bite my ass. I just want this to finish. I want this to end so I can get out of here. Why did all this happen you ask?? That my friend, is a long story (and I mean LONG) and at this point in time, no answer is forthcoming. Some things happened that should'tn have and totally derailed me. Shit happens.
There is a little story about why I wanted to do Medical and why I wanted to go to AKU. Maybe I'll weave that tale for you at some point in the future.
So yeah, here I am now with my A Levels Registrations Forms. I'm going to give Sociology in May/June, provided I get off my ass and make my Identity Card, go to some bank, deposit an insane amount of money for one paper (with a second level penalty probably), go back with the receipt for insane amount of money deposited and give all those papers to some guy in the British Council. I can always give my two papers in November as well, in which case I can just sit back, relax for once, catch up on movies and songs. Give proper time to my writing and this blog. Blow some dust off my guitar and start practising again. That's cool too.
Me being me, I don't see the purpose behind this. I love to write, therefore I want to pursue a career in Journalism, however, there are a whole lot of people who think that is not practical because there is no money in it. Well I really don't care if there is no money in it. Doing what you like is freedom. Liking what you do is happiness. Maybe I'm just naive, but you know what? I like it that way. I'm happy being ignorant, so there. I'm going to BNU, I'm doing Journalism and that is that. I'd like to see anybody, barring my dad and their admissions officer, stop me.
On a more non-academic front, I've quit smoking and started praying again. 5 times a day in the mosque. I want to smoke right now but I'm not going to. I'm well happy with myself.
*whistles and walks away from signposts*
Monday, February 20, 2006
Emisarry - III
For Zahra, who awaited Retribution with bated breath.
3. Retribution
She flicked the light-switch up and down, not really knowing why because she knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Her blood turned cold as he started to speak. The voice was faintly familiar, as if she had heard it in a different lifetime, yet it was also smooth and radiated strength as he said, “You really did not think that I would leave it at rest did you?”. She was trembling now, because she had recognized exactly who was sitting across the room to her. He pointed to a chair on the other side of a desk and continued, while she sat down obediently, “Nothing you say now is going to make a difference to me, you took away a person I loved and you never stopped to think what it would do to me. Now you shall know how that feels”. Before she could stifle it, a moan escaped her lips and it quickly turned into a scream as she saw the room itself ripple and vibrate. The darkness seemed to twist and change into shapes. It was slowly giving birth to limbs and bodies. Within seconds it was complete, as about half a dozen creatures, shaped like humans, yet composed entirely of the darkness, stood deadly still in the room. All at once they started to move towards her. She pushed the chair back and ran screaming out of the office. She was running past the corridors again and the hospital seemed strangely empty and quiet. The shadows overtook her on all sides, and one passed right through her. She felt cold when that happened and stopped. Within a second, the screaming began. It seemed to emanate from the building and it violated every part of her. She shivered in terror and slowly made her way forward. There was only a little light filtering in through the windows and she realized it was nearly dawn. She could now discern where the screams where coming from and she tried to follow the source. It was the children’s ward she realized and after another dozen steps or so she was standing at its door. She opened it with great trepidation and her very first look made her sick. She fell to the floor and vomited, as one of the shadows transformed its hand into a scythe and ripped out a little child’s intestines with it. Something nudged her and she recoiled in horror and screamed as she saw it was the severed head of an 8-year old she had treated for pneumonia that very day. The screaming stopped and she knew it was because everybody else was dead. She got to her feet and ran towards the exit. She stumbled over the remains of a nurse and nearly fell but kept her balance somehow and managed to get to the entrance. She pushed against it with all her will but it wouldn’t budge. She screamed again, out of sheer frustration this time. She looked towards the security desk in vain, but the guard sitting at his desk could do nothing to help her, not with his throat slit wide open. She started running again, not knowing where and screaming for all it was worth. Finally she fell out of sheer exhaustion and just lay there.
“You surely did not think it would be this easy, did you?” he asked. She couldn’t bother to look up and in response, coiled up into a fetal position. “I told you I would take away somebody you loved. Not these people who have already died for your sins” he continued, but she could detect an edge of sorrow in his voice, as if he was not happy with what had happened. Then the true meaning of what he had said hit her. She raised her head and her worst fears were realized. Standing between the shadows behind him was her little daughter, not yet 6. “Leave her alone, for the love of God, she’s innocent” she pleaded. “I could have used the same argument years ago” he replied. He turned towards the shadows and pointed towards the girl. One of the shadows stepped forward and raised its hand as it slowly shaped itself into a blade. “She loves my daughter!!!” she screamed, just as the blade started to slice through the air. The next thing she knew was a flash and the report of his revolver as the shadow’s head exploded, sending a shower of blood and brains everywhere. His hand had moved far too fast for her eye to register the movement and the only thing that was silent testimony to the fact that he had even fired was the still smoking Rose in his hand. He put the weapon back into its holster and stood silent as if in thought. She slowly moved forward and beckoned her daughter to come to her. She hugged her to her chest and tried to soothe her as the child gently sobbed in her lap. Another one of the shadows stepped forward and started saying something in a language foreign to her ears. He slowly turned towards her. She could see him clearly now, as he started to unsheathe Rune. His face was no different than it was all those years ago and yet it was. There was deep etched sorrow there, but what really stood out were his eyes. The same shade of hazel she remembered from so long ago, but they were empty. That is the only way she could define them. Empty. He let the sword hang by his side for an instant and then turned in a wicked arc, slicing upwards through the shadow’s torso. He turned towards her again, letting the end of the sword touch the linoleum. Blood flowed along its length and started to collect in a puddle at his feet. Behind him, the shadow dropped to the ground, neatly, in two pieces. He turned to address the rest of the shadows. “Disobedience will not be tolerated. Now be gone, all of you” he commanded. There was power in his voice, and he himself commanded an overwhelming presence. It was supernatural and hypnotic she realized. The shadows backed into a wall and melted into nothingness. He looked at her for a while and then sighed. “I cannot say I am sorry for what has happened because I am no longer capable of such emotions. For what you did, I cannot and will not forgive you. All that has happened here today is akin to what you did all that time ago” he said. She was angry at the comparison, “The slaughter of innocent children is the same as me stopping my sister from loving you?” she replied. “Sadly yes, I do not speak for her, but you certainly killed the child in me that day. What I am now, I am because of what you did”. She gritted her teeth and replied, “What you were doing was wrong. It was wrong, all right, and nothing you say can make it right. What I did, I did for the best. For the both of you”. She knew that she had gone one step too far because his eyes were no longer empty, they looked ominous. His face showed no emotion, yet his eyes betrayed anger. Anger such as she had never experienced before. Rune rose to his side and slashed across her feet. For a moment she felt nothing, then a pain so intense it blotted out everything. He had decapitated her below the knee and whenever the bleeding stub would touch the floor, a white-hot pain would shoot through her whole body. She lay there screaming as her child hugged her. “You have forced my hand. Her very mention became your dues ex machina but you have forfeited that right because you underestimated our emotions then and you still do so now”. He raised the blade and it seared through her rib-cage, right below her breasts and she could feel the blade go between ribs, slide right through her heart and come out the other side. She gasped and every breath was harder to come by. She looked at her daughter, who had crawled to a corner and witnessed the execution. She looked at him, and saw the unmistakable shimmer of a teardrop on his cheek. He closed his eyes and went down on his knees. The barrels of Aces and Rose were the last thing she saw.
He was lying back again. He felt no different. Not bad, not good. He felt nothing except overwhelming loss. The same as it had been for years. He kept staring at the fan; nothing was justified still.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Draw A 'Cartoon' In Denmark And Watch People Die Down Here.
3 People killed; 45 injured in wide-spraed riots in Peshawar and Lahore over the cartoons drawn in Denmark of the Prophet Muhammad (P.B.U.H).
Strange how that one works is'nt it?? If I had any misplaced doubts about it before, they're certainly gone now: I live in a country/city populated almost entirely by morons. I'm pretty sure not that more than 10 people in a crowd of 500 could have claimed to pray 5 times a day and here they were, standing ready to defend their religion's name and honour. How? By tearing down the road-signs/traffic lights/telenor towers of course. *Throws rock at store-front window* Take that you damn dane *tears out the trees planted by the side of the road* Make a carricature of my Prophet will you?? *runs, creating a stampede, killing a 7 year old* That'll make you think twice you try anything that dastardly again. No, you dumb bastards, it does'nt work that way. Those newspaper editors don't care about how many protests you hold, how much damage you cause to public property and how many people die. Is it some some arcane, archaic desideraturm in Peshawar that compels you to turn violent when in a group?? Don't you see that it's you who will eventually have to put up those street signs/traffic lights up again?? Ever wonder where the money goes when you pay your taxes (if you pay your taxes)? Anyone?? Nobody?? I'll tell you: IT'S USED TO TO PUT UP STREET SIGNS/TRAFFIC LIGHTS YOU IGNORANT FOOLS. Well some of it anyways; the meagre amount left after the military and corrupt politicians take their share. Still, something is better than nothing.
Maybe it's just the way the people are nowadays, angry, frustraded and disheartened and they're just looking for an excuse to let loose. I mean who would'nt want to break stuff just for the heck of it?? It's human nature, but hey, don't take out that anger on your own people. That's like my father being angry at me for doing something wrong, and me going and beating the crap out of my brother. The rest of the world, whom we have to view as a disparate entity unaware of the respect and honour we have accorded to our Prophet (P.B.U.H), is going to see this as an Islamic outburst and just how many times have we stood proud and proclaimed Islam as a Religion of Peace? If I were one of them, I'd just be happy Islam does'nt preach expansionism.
Coming towards the editor's in question. They used freedom of speech/expression as their scapegoat. I was always under the illusion that there also existed a freedom of belief. Apparently I was wrong. Hypothetically speaking, I kill someone because I want to. That is freedom of action. They draw cartoons of a figure much revered by millions. That is freedom of expression. I did what I wanted to do, they drew what they wanted to. I transgressed on a peron's right to live, they transgressed on the rights to belief of hundreds of millions of people. I always thought you were free to do and say whatever you wanted to as long as you did'nt tread on somebody elses rights. If we were to go by their logic, the world would surely fall into anarchy *Judge: So you raped her because you wanted to?? Hmmm, under the Denmark 'Cartoon' Accords of 2006, the court of law finds you not guilty. Next*. I dont see flags of Iraq or Afghanistan with 'Support Rights to Freedom' on them. It's just a modern day story of Us and Them. The only real thing that surprised me about this whole fiasco was the fact that 'they' refused to apologise. Until recently, I had considered Europeans to be a very civilized people. Guess I was wrong there too.
You know there's something wrong when you see torched franchise stores on the main road and broken glass on the pavement everywhere. There's something wrong with the psyche nowadays; something in the air. Naaah, that's just the tear gas from the last salvo of shelling.
Strange how that one works is'nt it?? If I had any misplaced doubts about it before, they're certainly gone now: I live in a country/city populated almost entirely by morons. I'm pretty sure not that more than 10 people in a crowd of 500 could have claimed to pray 5 times a day and here they were, standing ready to defend their religion's name and honour. How? By tearing down the road-signs/traffic lights/telenor towers of course. *Throws rock at store-front window* Take that you damn dane *tears out the trees planted by the side of the road* Make a carricature of my Prophet will you?? *runs, creating a stampede, killing a 7 year old* That'll make you think twice you try anything that dastardly again. No, you dumb bastards, it does'nt work that way. Those newspaper editors don't care about how many protests you hold, how much damage you cause to public property and how many people die. Is it some some arcane, archaic desideraturm in Peshawar that compels you to turn violent when in a group?? Don't you see that it's you who will eventually have to put up those street signs/traffic lights up again?? Ever wonder where the money goes when you pay your taxes (if you pay your taxes)? Anyone?? Nobody?? I'll tell you: IT'S USED TO TO PUT UP STREET SIGNS/TRAFFIC LIGHTS YOU IGNORANT FOOLS. Well some of it anyways; the meagre amount left after the military and corrupt politicians take their share. Still, something is better than nothing.
Maybe it's just the way the people are nowadays, angry, frustraded and disheartened and they're just looking for an excuse to let loose. I mean who would'nt want to break stuff just for the heck of it?? It's human nature, but hey, don't take out that anger on your own people. That's like my father being angry at me for doing something wrong, and me going and beating the crap out of my brother. The rest of the world, whom we have to view as a disparate entity unaware of the respect and honour we have accorded to our Prophet (P.B.U.H), is going to see this as an Islamic outburst and just how many times have we stood proud and proclaimed Islam as a Religion of Peace? If I were one of them, I'd just be happy Islam does'nt preach expansionism.
Coming towards the editor's in question. They used freedom of speech/expression as their scapegoat. I was always under the illusion that there also existed a freedom of belief. Apparently I was wrong. Hypothetically speaking, I kill someone because I want to. That is freedom of action. They draw cartoons of a figure much revered by millions. That is freedom of expression. I did what I wanted to do, they drew what they wanted to. I transgressed on a peron's right to live, they transgressed on the rights to belief of hundreds of millions of people. I always thought you were free to do and say whatever you wanted to as long as you did'nt tread on somebody elses rights. If we were to go by their logic, the world would surely fall into anarchy *Judge: So you raped her because you wanted to?? Hmmm, under the Denmark 'Cartoon' Accords of 2006, the court of law finds you not guilty. Next*. I dont see flags of Iraq or Afghanistan with 'Support Rights to Freedom' on them. It's just a modern day story of Us and Them. The only real thing that surprised me about this whole fiasco was the fact that 'they' refused to apologise. Until recently, I had considered Europeans to be a very civilized people. Guess I was wrong there too.
You know there's something wrong when you see torched franchise stores on the main road and broken glass on the pavement everywhere. There's something wrong with the psyche nowadays; something in the air. Naaah, that's just the tear gas from the last salvo of shelling.
Emissary - II
For Momo, who always stands by me
2. Redemption
She stepped out of her car with the assurance of one who is secure of her life and of her future. Her first look told her it was darker than usual. Looking around she realized one of the streetlights had gone out. Underneath it, she could discern the shape of a man. He seemed to be a part of the darkness itself. Only the cigarette, glowing like a red-hot poker, marked his presence. She was chilled to the bone and couldn’t figure out why. To her it felt like she was standing in the eye of an electrical storm. Sweat burst through every pore in her body as her chest tightened and the hair on her arms and on the back of her neck stood on end. Wanting to turn away, she found that she could not move her gaze, let alone her feet. The cigarette dropped to his side, and then it went twirling through the air, blinking out, as it fell into an open drainpipe. The shadow seemed to move away. She could see a little clearer now as he neared the halo of light the adjacent streetlight was producing. Just as he was about to step into it however, the bulb spluttered and went out. He moved through the darkness and the spot where he was standing just a moment before was suddenly illuminated by the streetlight which had been out just a second ago. She turned and fled into the hospital where she worked.
She could not understand what had just happened and, like most people, what she did not understand scared her. She walked fast past the corridors into her office and locked the door behind her. She sat at her desk for a couple of minutes holding her head in her trembling hands. Her thoughts slowly untangled themselves as she sought some logical explanation for what she had just felt. I’m over-doing it she thought to herself; I need a break or a vacation or something. She opened her drawer and took out a small phial. Opening it into her palm, she threw a valium down her throat and replaced the phial. Something she only did in dire situations. The trembling stopped after a while and she felt strong enough to go out and check on her patients.
She started her round and was soon lost in concentration as she answered page after page drawing to her attention everything from gunshot wounds to a broken leg. The final straw came just as she was about to come off duty as half a dozen young men were brought in on stretchers. She heard ‘Gang Warfare’ from an orderly and groaned to herself. By the end of the night she had lost count of the number of wounds she had sutured shut, but it was finally over. She sighed with relief and started off towards her office. It happened then as she felt a draught of ice-cold wind pass her as all the over-head lights flickered out. She leaned against a wall as the life went out of her legs. She slid down and sat on the floor waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. She sat like this for a couple of minutes but she could discern nothing at all in the opaque darkness. She got up and started to make her way forward and before she had taken two steps, the lights came back to life.
‘Just an electricity shortage’, she said to herself and started moving towards her office again. She turned the corner and came to a stand still. The lights in her office were still out and she always left them on. She could not control herself as she started walking towards the door. She reached for the knob and turned it violently and entered. She could sense the presence even before she saw him.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Emissary - I
For Celine, the less said the better.
1. Reason
The brown eyes were so intense they seemed to vibrate in their sockets. His long dark hair lay matted to his forehead with sweat. He kept staring at the fan; his mind was a maelstrom of emotions. Nothing was justified. He couldn’t blame her no more than he could blame the sky for being blue or the grass for being green. In an instant his mind focused, like a pinpoint of light, on a face and on a name. Her sister. In a defining second everything fell into place. He got off the bed and took of his boxers. They were black. Like his room; like everything he owned. Like his mind, like his life. He stepped through a door and into his bathroom. The gleaming black shower taps turned under his gaze and cold water sprayed forth. He stepped under the ice-cold jets of water and stood still for fifteen minutes. Finally, he stepped back. The splashing water going down the drain reminded him of his life. He glanced at the taps and they turned violently, cutting off the supply to the showerhead above.
He opened his closet, trying hard not to look in the bottom. Failing. Again. The cards, the presents, the wrapping paper still there. He forced himself to look up. A fortune in clothes greeted him. All black. He took out a shirt, pants, a tie and a suit.
He opened another closet and took out the scabbard. It held Rune: his katana. He slid the blade out and ran a finger along the edge. Satisfied that is was as sharp as it always had been, he put it down. It was black steel and chrome with Emissary forged into the blade front. He took out his gun-belts next. These held the Implements of War: his two Revolvers. Rose and Aces. They were identical but for the designs on one side of their butts. Rose had a rose inlaid into the chrome while Aces had four cards. Four aces. He broke the chamber and spun it. The dull rattle soothed his mind as it always did. The Implements of War also had Emissary stamped on their barrels.
He started to dress. Slowly and methodically, he put on his shirt, buttoning it with one hand. With the same steady actions he pulled on his pants, knotted his tie and slid into his coat. He didn’t need a mirror. The knot of the tie was immaculate, the coat fit perfect and there were no creases in his shirt and pants other than the ones he had ordained. The Scabbard he hung around his waist, and the gun-belts he tied around his hips with the holsters coming to rest on his thighs. They completed him, on anybody else they would stand out. He stepped out into the night pulling the hood of his coat over his head.
Confessions of a Broken Heart - II
The grass is dead, the sky is dark
The flowers gnarled, the pastures stark
I die before the day is through
My life goes by all I see is you
My cigarette burns, burns my pain
My mirror reflects, reflects my shame
I’m told to quit and I don’t see why
I’m too far gone and I won’t try
In the light a razor gleams
Through skin and flesh it leaves a stream
The stream turns to a river raging
I know I’m losing this war I’m waging
This should hurt, this should scare
I’m used to this and I don’t care
It’s my sanity I cannot find
My eyes close, she’s on my mind
I died before the day was through
I died again, wouldn’t have you?
Confessions of a Broken Heart - I
Confessions of a Broken Heart
Walking along in a fog so dense,
where all my thoughts they make no sense,
my stars, once so bright they shone,
they shine no more, I'm all alone
my body is battered, my soul is sore
its never felt this way before
my senses are numb, my heart is stone
this path I tread, I'm all alone
a light I seek, a way to shore
through storms to calm, a life in store
See, try as I might, I cannot find
a peace they say, that is mine
try as I may, I cannot see
a life they say, belongs to me
You’re tone so hard, your gaze so shy
I lost all that when you said goodbye
My Orkut Profile - The Part That Was'nt About Me -
The youth and mentality of today is depressed beyond reprieve. That's why we come up with all sorts of meaningless ways to make ourselves happy like celebrating New Year when we all know that this year is going to be as crap (possibly crappier - pretty hard in my case, but I live in hope for other people) as the last one. Wake up and smell the coffee people. We're in a massive nose-dive and we're not going to bounce back. Is'nt life beautiful?
I don't know if it's just me but sometimes it seems that, with a few exceptions, everybody I know, including me, is sooooo going to hell. I don't know whats wrong, it's like nothing has meaning or substance, and there's certainly nothing to look forward to. The most I can do is philosophize about it. Helplessness is such a crap feeling, especially when everything around you is spiralling out of control and all you can about it is twiddle your thumbs. We were fine outstanding young men once upon a time and 18 is NOT an age to feel like your life is over because our lives haven't even begun yet. The only question I want answered from a certain person is: WHY?
A german shepherd by the name of Janie who Mike (My Pet German Shepherd) got, errrrm, intimate with, has given birth to puppies. I now have two more dogs: Ralph and Lauren.
I don't know if it's just me but sometimes it seems that, with a few exceptions, everybody I know, including me, is sooooo going to hell. I don't know whats wrong, it's like nothing has meaning or substance, and there's certainly nothing to look forward to. The most I can do is philosophize about it. Helplessness is such a crap feeling, especially when everything around you is spiralling out of control and all you can about it is twiddle your thumbs. We were fine outstanding young men once upon a time and 18 is NOT an age to feel like your life is over because our lives haven't even begun yet. The only question I want answered from a certain person is: WHY?
A german shepherd by the name of Janie who Mike (My Pet German Shepherd) got, errrrm, intimate with, has given birth to puppies. I now have two more dogs: Ralph and Lauren.
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