interference

Sattire Attire part XVI - A day in the life of...

2011-10-02T22:00:00.000-07:00

"How can you expect a man who's warm to understand a man who's cold?" - Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

How can you expect a man who has love to understand the barrenness of life; a body without a soul. A purpose without passion. To wake up each morning with depleting hope. When "living life" becomes an irony. Would a man who was not as marooned be able to understand and be an impartial judge and jury?

A trial must be fair and it would not be so in his case. He had considered revealing himself and bringing an end to all the madness that ensued.

But would that be fair?
No.

Should the future be held hostage by the past?
Maybe.

Was he in prison?
In a way he was. And he had been all his life. He thought that with an act of madness might break free from his confines.

So let the world go on by embroiled in love and its half-brother, hate. He was not part of that world and consequently beyond the jurisdiction of its laws of love and hate.
His actions were driven by madness derived from love but not love. And certainly not by hate. Sylvester had acquitted himself.

And so he asks and wonders:
" Where do we go from here?
How will I reconcile to a lifetime without you?
My mind is fogged. If there were one thing that I could forsake, would it be love?
- its joys and its eternal pain.
This deciet-amour has cost me more than my breath; I will never smile again."

The city still burned. He could smell that fiery serpent; hate. Hate slithered through the cluttered streets of the city, making its way into citizens' dwellings through crack, window, pipe, gutter and door. Leaving behind a bitter trail of venom, fatality and revenge. It spared no one. The poison was spreading, the pupils dillating and the tempratures were rising in the middle of the coldest winter. Life and its ironys; associated with living and death.

Sylvester had his eyes closed but he could see everything through his pulse as it beat faster than a dragonfly's wings. It only slowed down when he heard a faint knock on his door...

The answer of sensitive souls to an insensitive society (2003)

2011-02-24T18:12:00.001-08:00

In a dark corner of a tiny room lies Amjad on the bare floor. Only a beam of moonlight illuminates the room, or whatever is left of it. The walls are falling apart, piece-by-piece, brick by brick, just like the Mughal regime in India. The water pipes are leaking, revealing the perpetual cracks in the ceiling. The door is hardly a barrier, being held up by a series of cobwebs indicating it's seldom use and lack of visitors in Amjad's life.

Except, perhaps, for one man called Rungoo, who would visit him every fortnight to replenish Amjad's supply of heroine. He was oblivious to his surroundings and the state he was living in or maybe the state that he was dieing in. He was oblivious because his mind was not in his head, in fact it was not even in the room.

It was amazing that how even a pinch of white powder could take him far away, further than America. He would bend over a scrap of foil, light a match, and then using a half-cut straw suck in sharply as the white dust disappeared. And then he would sit back and relax and watch the world float by. A single word spoken would sound like a faint echo. He would feel no pain. He would feel no feelings. He would continue this activity for another year.

Many fortnights later Amjad sits and stares at the door patched up by cobwebs. He is waiting for Rungoo's next visit, who is now his only acquaintance, his only friend. At least the drug dealer was honest in his dealings.

Amjad closes his eyes and opens his mind to go back, years back to the time when he had many friends and none of them were drug dealers. None of them were honest either. Amjad could still remember them discussing what they would do when they all would grow up: Run a business, cure patients, provide justice and much more. Taking and getting addicted to drugs was not one of them.

Amjad is not living the life he had dreamed of in his childhood. Things have not turned out the way he had planned them. This was not the life he had hoped and worked for. He had felt weak when he was betrayed by the insensitive society. Now he enervates even more with the very air he breathes, every particle that he inhales, every white particle that is. He had hoped for opulence in his schooldays but now he was facing the worst of indigence.

Amjad had completed his education when his father and mother both were alive. He had been a top student all his life. Coming from humble origins, Amjad had worked night and day to change his stars, to make the wheel of fortune spin his way. And he had been well on his way had it not been for the rules of society. Rules that make the world go round and rules that made the wheel of fortune spin away from Amjad over the horizon never to be seen again, not even in his dreams.

Amjad realized that being hardworking, holding a respectable degree and possessing an enviable Curriculum Vitae were not the means that would enable him to change his stars, that could take him to America. There were other things, other more important means. Means like powerful and influential relatives, social status, the weight of your wallet and the list could go on and on...

Degrees that were bought were considered to be more authentic than degrees that had bene rightfully earned because anybody could work hard but not everybody could pay hard cash. He could have handled all that. What he could not bear was the fact that nobody in Lahore would want to work under a talented Christian. Amjad Jacob was another vitim of discrimination, he was just another 'choora' of the society.

Amjad's parents were dreaming of grandchildren when he had graduated. They saw neither job nor wife as these blessings were not to be a part of Amjad's fate. He loved life when he had started; all races and all creeds. Now he was a mindless misanthrope. Hating the very sound created by human feet, except maybe the sound created by Rungoo's oversized, hairy and blistered feet.

Amjad's parents could not bear to see the dejected state of their son's life. 'Junior choora' his father would say to himself, remembering the hard times he had to face. At least he had achieved surviving in the society. They both passed away after seeing their son perpetually having all doors closed to him.

Amjad's battered ship of life had lost the only buoys in its vicinity and it hit the iceberg when Amjad met Rungoo. Amjad started sinking and now he has lost everything to heroine.

Rungoo is late again as Amjad waits in his dilapidated apartment located in the red-light district of Lahore. The apartment is an accurate description of Amjad's life. It is a work of art, the potential is there but it is left to rot; he is left to rot. "He should be here any second with some heroine" Amjad calms himself. Some heroine for Junior choora.

Life had lost meaning for him just like it does for a suicide bomber. Amjad had thought about that, his face next to the picture of an injured building. But that was just one of the many thoughts that came to him as he entered his utopia while staring through the thick white smoke.

There are many addicts in Lahore. Amjad is just one of them, his is just one story. Like him there are many. There are many sensitive souls in this insensitive society.

Sattire Attire part XV - Troubled Minutes & Dark Thoughts part III

2010-12-12T20:03:00.000-08:00

And so it had come to this. Blinded by rage, maddened by jealousy, distraught by the abandonment of all hope, Sylvester, the hero of this dramatic odyssey, had turned villian. Every morning he would wake up with his world and state in shambles, his mind racing faster than his emotions like a train being chased by a passenger that is unable to catch up. Each passing moment in conciousness was torture; he had to spread the chaos that was consuming him around him.
The silent rioter loitering in the dark was somber, calm and methodic for the first time in days. He walked at a brisk pace, with a presence of mind that enabled him to avoid the puddles left behind by the rain earlier in the day. The rain had cleansed the city. Apt for the deed at hand and a new begining.
The delicate fabric of society that inhabited this city was made up of numerous threads of various races and religions, each as ancient as the other. It was a tightly woven fabric in which the threads were all fading into a single colour, so much so that it would be hard to distinguish one from the other; the fabric had a shade of its own.
But (there is always a "But") the threads are mere metaphors and the fabric was actually made up of men. Men who have darkness in them and an animal lurking inside that is caged. And it waits for that cage to be unlocked; when all social barriers and customs are suspended. When there is chaos. There is an animal in all men. And one just has to pull at one string to undo the whole fabric and let the beast go loose.
Sylvester knew that Dmitri and Fate were not the same creed...
The fog thickened all around Sylvester and he stopped walking. This was it. This was the meeting place. The curtain of grey parted for another figure who approach Sylvester.
"Is the deed done?"
"It is done. And you? Have you taken care of your end?"
"Yes... In a few hours the city will take to the streets. By noon the society's elite and intellectuals will have been lynched by the mob. There will be a curfew by dusk and each neighbourhood will begin 'cleansing' itself."
Good. How will they reconcile with each other after their friends and families murder each other's? Is the notion of love thicker than blood? No. Nothing can be thicker than blood.
"Thank you my friend. I did not realize that it would come to this when we first met each other at the diner."
"Strange as it may seem, but it was your friend who wanted us to be acquainted with each other. I wonder why he was not part of this noble cause?"
"Who? Dmitri?" Sylvester hid the shock in his voice as fog hid his expression.
"Yes."
"Well we must not loiter around here any longer."
And as they turned their backs to each other, they disappeared into each other's past.
Sylvester's walk back wasn't as calm as his walk to the meeting.
"Dmitri's sure to know who's behind this. This idiot will surely boast his doings all over" He argued with himself. An apology was in order then?
"Apologize?! Are you mad? You fully well knew who you were offending and how much. It's not really an apology if before commiting the fault you are aware that you will have to apologize for it after. And the magnitude of it all! You are beyond pardon from mortals, you fool. Your only choice is to finish what you started."
Sylvester half thinking sheathed his bloody dagger and tossed it to the side, and he walked home with moisture in his eyes and mist in his head.

Sattire Attire - More?

2010-11-18T18:51:00.000-08:00

There is a story that I have to tell,
A story is only a story if it doesn't end well,
Time is not a healer - truth be told,
Time is just the cost of getting old.

Eat. Pray. Sing.

2010-11-06T21:34:00.000-07:00

Pakistan today is not just the victim of the worst flood of the century, it is the victim of a flood of miseries. This nation of God-fearing, pious worshippers is faced with a fresh string of tragedies regularly. The cruel reality of irony could not point its finger and laugh any harder. A question is begging to be asked; why does God not answer their prayers? For even in their worst of times, they seek shelter from Him and beg for His mercy.
After great deliberation, I came to the natural conclusion of the fact that there is a language barrier; God does not speak Urdu. Which automatically leads us to the next conclusion; God speaks English and Arabic. One need only glance over indicators like the Human-Developement-Index, the Unemployment Rate, the GDP etc. of the English-speaking West and the Arabic-speaking Middle-East to be assured of the validity of the hypothesis. The statistics speak for themselves; a R-squared value in the high 60th percentiles if AnsweredPrayeres were regressed to these variables/indicators. Plead from your Lord in another tongue (and try to conceal your accent).
The obsession with religion reaches its peak in the matter of government-issued IDs and the category of 'Religion'. Being the drawing-room rebel that I am, I resolved to take a stab at this ludicrousness the next time I went to renew my passport. But being the drawing-room philosopher that I am, I was lost in my own thoughts and forgot to take the matter up when I recently got that bit of paperwork out of the way without filling out certain categories as I had planned to; "Religion: Pagan". But then again since I can speak English and since I just renewd my license to pray to God, I might as well make the most of it and ask of Him some big favours, comfortable in the knowledge that my requests will be heard and granted.

Sattire Attire part XIV - Do or Dye (it red)

2010-07-14T23:56:00.000-07:00

"Some ships are made of gold - goldships. Some ships are made of silver - silverships. But the best ships are made of friends - friendships." - Nonsense from Class IV

"We used to be best friends" Sylvester protested.
"But we ARE best friends! What has gotten into you?" Dmitri said,as if the current state of events were the usual.
"What's gotten into me?! It's YOU who is never here. It's YOU who is no where to be found. It's YOU who never tries to make contact or respond to any efforts of mine either" Sylvester kept his voice low, so as to not attract any attention but the message was clear.
"I think we both know what has changed between now and before..." Sylvester continued, eyeing Fate from over Dmitri's shoulder. Dmitri did not need to turn around to get the message. He understood the problem; Sylvester was jealous.
But he only understood half the problem. Yes, Sylvester was jealous but of whom? In Dmitri's mind everything was nice and dandy; his best friend was jealous of his better half. But in reality and in Sylvester's mind it was not so simple. Sylvester was torn because of the lack of attention his best friend was bestowing upon him and he was distraught because the girl of his dreams was now a girl he would never know amourously.
Sylvester would take a bullet for Dmitri and he quell a storm for Fate (or any endeavour which would involve perishing) but he only has one life to give. So when asked to do both at the same time, would he start questioning his beliefs? Who would he choose and who would he choose to lose?
He had decided,prior to entering the diner, walking up to Dmitri and pulling him aside for a talk, what he would do. He could start a war with his friend or he could start a war with himself. And now that he stood in front of Dmitri, with Fate visible from over his shoulder, his decision appeared to be clouded with doubt.
"What's going on? You look like you haven't slept a wink?" Dmitri enquired out of genuine concern and out of a genuine attempt at changing the subject. It settled well with Sylvester; he needed some more time to think and he actually had not slept well or at all over the past few days. "Yea.. I'm sorry... I'll catch you later"
"Why don't you come join us?"
"I really shouldn't. I need to go." And he left.

Mere Dil Mere Musafir - Faiz Ahmed Faiz

2010-06-24T23:19:00.001-07:00

My Heart, My Traveler*

My heart, my fellow traveler. It has been decreed again That you and I be exiled.
Go calling out in every street, Turn to every town,To search for a clue of a messenger from our Beloved.
To ask every stranger the way back to our home. In this town of unfamiliar folk we drudge the day into the night, Talk to this stranger at times,to that one at others.
How can I convey to you, how horrible is a night of lonliness? It would suffice to me if there were just some count, I would gladly welcome death if it were to come but once.

*Translation by Hamid Rahim Sheikh

Latest Addition

2010-06-19T23:07:00.000-07:00

As suggested, I have 'moved' the Pengu Suicides series to blogspot.
http://www.pengusuicide.blogspot.com/
Enjoy

Sattire Attire part XIII Angel of dreams & Dreams of deaths

2010-06-18T00:29:00.000-07:00

“...dying, in short, continues for a long time after death.” Midnight’s Children – Salman Rushdie

The greatest fear of great men is to cross a path and not change its course; to wither away unnoticed, uncelebrated and unchampioned. But then, in the deepest confines of their hearts, all men consider themselves great. Why, then, only so few can live up to their heart’s greatest desire?

The greater the longing for greatness, the greater the pain after death; it is hard to forget perceived failure when reconciliation is no longer a possibility. So that even after death their souls are unable to come to terms with the finality of death and the eventual exhaustion of all their chances to become mythical and legendary. Indeed, even in death they are bound by chains of failure; failure to live again. But in life chances are aplenty in each breathing moment. And Sylvester was still breathing.

But death lingered close by. Overwhelmed by an emotion so potent, he did not know whether it was grief, guilt, anger or jealousy, Sylvester was unable to let his mind rest. And since his body was always in sync with his mind, it refused to rest as well. Sylvester had trouble sleeping. He had trouble sleeping because he feared it. Aspiring-great-men are permitted other fears besides the failure to fulfill their desire for greatness, and Sylvester feared sleep.

To be more precise, he feared what transpired after his eyelids curtained reality from his senses. He feared what he dreamt. He dreamt falling in an endless, dark pit. He dreamt drowning in the ominous depths of an unwelcoming ocean. He dreamt being torn apart by wild animals (big and small). He dreamt being consumed by an enormous conflagration, its origins unknown. He dreamt being stranded in a deserted town and left starving for days.

He dreamt many painful situations, but he failed to dream their end. He suffered relentlessly in his dreams but his sufferings never ended; he never achieved death in his dreams. And I wonder, if any of us can? But what a strange turn of events: a setting of a pseudo-alternate reality and the aspiring-great-man’s fear is no longer his Fear. His fear is now the opposite of his Fear. He fears the inability to die, irrespective of how ceremonious it would be. How must it feel to face death and know that you will live through the endeavour to eventually face it again? Sylvester, though a great-man-to-be, was struggling where both reality and imagination were concerned.

So, unconsciously he feared not dying, and when in his senses he feared an underachieved ending. But of late another thought had plagued his reality and imagination; the fateful woman, Fate.

Why was his longing for Fate so great? He had come across many a dame that had numbed his senses for a few fleeting moments. And having procured the cure to numbness, he had scurried along without any excess baggage of guilt or shame. The fate with Fate would have surely been no different. Was it just the desiring the unattainable syndrome or was it something more? Was it the making of a great love story, which would permit him to play the bereaved lover’s part who has to make the great sacrifice? Only time would be able to tell.

Sattire Attire part XII - Lionhearted, Birdbrained

2010-05-15T00:14:00.001-07:00

"We all owe death a life" Salman Rushdie - Midnight's Children

A seed is a remarkable... existance; microscopic in size, weightless in weight, a withered past and a future unknown. Every birth can trace itself to its seed. Seeds bloom into flowers, they are fed to birds, reach the heights of great tall oaks, they transform into lions and men - lionhearted and otherwise.

But we humans are sometimes so clever that we manage to defeat imagination and arbitrariness. We have classified seeds so as to predict their pattern; an apple-tree seed will grow into an apple tree, a rose-seed will blossom into a rose and a human seed will take the form of either man or woman - in most cases. But we humans, like apple trees and roses, are not perfect; we did not manage to completely annihilate all arbitrariness and imagination.

Can we fathom whether the apple-tree from the apple-tree seed will bear sweet fruit - or will the apple from the tree descend upon the head of an unsuspecting imaginist, changing the course of human history and thought, and leading to the very murder of arbitrariness and imaginiation that we so adore?

Can we, then, fathom whether the rose from the rose-seed will smell as sweet as its parent -or will it find itself strangled between the clasping hands of two lovers under the shadow of a winged midget fidgeting with its bow and missing arrow?

Or can we even fathom whether the man - assuming that the imagination of the arbitrariness of gender has been murdered - from the human seed be a poet? A warrior? A tyrant? A beggar?

At last we have salvaged some arbitrariness and some imagination, but also something else... some doubt, perhaps? Doubt. yes, some doubt. There always has to be some doubt to strike balance in these matters, as in all matters equilibrium is what settles things.

But the seed of doubt? Oh what a monsterous abomination! A curse of the worst kind; a small doubt that grows day by day, feeding itself on anything that comes in its course. A small growing doubt that spreads into branches, many twigs and branches, and it spreads and grows - and grows and spreads; assidious in its growing and spreading, till in the end it bears fruit; an accusation!

Fed and brought up on truths, half-truths, hearsay, lies and doubt, the accusation is a poisonous fruit that when ripe can kill any relationship the moment it is emitted from the serpent's glands; it kills right before the moment it finds itself on its prey.

It is a poison that eats away the insides of the tree that nourishes it until it is spat out onto its victim; expunging either the bearer or the victim from the relationship, depending on whether it manages to eat away the bearer before it is served to the victim. And sadly there is no antidote for it.

Seated there on table 8 Sylvester had finally gained some composure after the day's extraordinary happenings. He was trying to make sense of it all. But something bothered him, as he revised the course of the day in his head. Something had happened near the end of the day that left him a little unsettled and gloomy; doubt had impregnated him. That mysterious man, who only talked in question-marks, had planted the seed of doubt in his mind.

And I am sure that by now we all know that the narrative from here can only take an ugly course. But it is a beautiful cloudless night and I do not have the heart to pursue such a noctural endeavour on such a starlit night. Call it a travesty of justice and abuse of patience if you must but bear with my absence for a little while longer.

Pepsi Pepsi Pepsi

2010-05-13T19:43:00.000-07:00

Stab the dog

2010-05-07T00:18:00.000-07:00

MMM: The dog snores
Me: stab it
MMM: All in good time. I just need to win over its trust first. Then 'meat infront of a car on the road' will come in play. But zk says you need to chill and get a gf with a dog and then you will fall in love with the dog more than the gf. And then she will stab you.
Me: always count on zk to give the wrong advice. but then again you could stab the gf and throw her infront of the car and then you'll have your 'meat in front of a car on the road' play.

The hate for dogs is not without good reason. Let's say that there was a dog called snuffles. Snuffles was a bitch by definition and otherwise. I was asleep on a sofa-bed, at peace with the fact that the dog was locked outside and did not possess the physical means of rising to the height of the door handle and opening the door. I was wrong.
Oblivious to the cruel prospects that would potentially await me, I was blissfully relaxing under the shade of an apple tree with warm waters wetting my feet. I quickly realized that my feet were a bit too wet for my liking, so I pulled them out of the water. But the water followed my feet whereever they went. The level of discomfort forced me out of my slumber only to be shocked by the sight of Snuffles on the sofa-bed licking away at my feet as if it were a piece of t-bone steak that she would soon devour.
As a result of the shock my impulsive reaction was kick the dog as hard as I could. Realizing that such an act would prompt a retaliation from the beast, I jumped up and threw my blanket on the animal and kicked it a few more times so as to immobilize it. By now I was a sure shot mortal enemy; no reconcialation would be possible. After my sporadic attack on Snuffles I ran out of the room and closed the door behind, only to realized that I had locked myself out. The other two doors that faced me were locked too. I had to spend the rest of the night in the gallery, as amidst all the excitement and shock I had left my cellphone by the sofa-bed side. I was cold and without a means of communication. Stupid bitch!

What's the capital of...

2010-05-02T00:36:00.000-07:00

Another one of those nights; sitting senza fine (without aim) on the floor and surrounded by clowns. Usually most things in life should have a purpose, but then such a blatant waste of time would never be.
"What's the capital of Kuwait?" asked Feeqs
"Kuwait, that was sooo easy" answered Tinu, "Ok. What's the capital of China?"
"Sooo easy. Beijing." Feeqs said with overconfidence "I bet you don't know the capital of South Africa"
"Oh it's so easy... I watch cricket you know!" Tinu said as he went deep into meditation.
I knew every single one of the capitals but this game of trying to prove each other dumb was entertaining at first, but now they were naming countries they both didn't know capitals of.
"Pretoria!" exclaimed Tinu to Feeqs smug look. Tinu was obviously the smarter of the two. But I already knew that.
"Ok what's the capital of Argentina?"
"OOOoooh I KNOW this!!! Just give me a minute!" Feeqs said, to my great surprise. He was acting like he really knew the answer.
"Just give me a minute, it's on the tip of my tongue" he said as he started to whispering to himself some indiscernable words.
Tinu stole a look towards me which said 'This is going to be so entertaining'. And so I got ready to brace myself.
"OK ok ok! It's uhhh...San something... uhh.. Sannn... Saannnnn.... uhh.. San Marino!!" Feeqs really did put a lot of thought into it. But really, where on earth is San Marino?
Tinu acted shocked, like we do when Pakistan looses a cricket game that they've seemingly won.
"How did you know?!" said Tinu, almost acting frustrated.
Here I must admit, it was my fault for I could not contain myself any longer. I burst out laughing like a maniac that's broken out of a mental asylum.
"eff you Tinu. I bet you don't know it yourself." A summary of what Feeqs said to Tinu but in a less colourful language.
"Ok ok Feeqs I'll give you another one so you can prove yourself. What's the capital of Tanzania?"
"I Don't Know and I bet you don't either!"
"Oh but I do"
"Yea? What is it?"
"Dodoma"
"HAHA! Dodoma?! You expect me to buy that?"
We didn't even have to look at each other to know that the other hugging the floor and struggling to breathe because sometimes, and often times, Feeqs just manages to get himself into the most hilarious conversational traps. Feeqs stormed out of the room.

The Solitude of Emprors

2010-04-09T09:34:00.000-07:00

The one who stays within the limits assigned to him is a man
The one who roams beyond these limits is a saint

To reject both limits and their absence:
That's a thought with immeasurable depths.
- Kabir

Quotes of the day

2010-03-29T01:25:00.000-07:00

It was late at night, at an hour which the simple Suzies consider ungodly, when roads are devoid of cars and the scenery devoid of pedestrians. Contrary to popular belief, it is the most spiritual time of day. But for some reason the McDonald's drive-thru had a line up. That did not bother the characters in our story though; Tinu, Feeq and Biro.
After much debate they had finalized their order. A big mac meal, a big mac meal and a big mac meal. Oh and there was an apple pie.
They had finalized their order far too early though; they were still 3 cars and 10 mins of service behind.
"Don't forget my apple pie!" Feeq reminded Biro in his usual irate tone.
Feeq can be summed up in three simple words: Angry Young Man. Angry with life, money, women, friends, friends (the tv sitcom), the Tunisian government, any government... he was angry with coffee and he was angry with tea.
When Feeq wasn't angry he was staring women down. They didn't have to be pretty. He would just stare them down. It's not as creepy as it sounds; like an alarm clock that rings every morning even if it's a Saturday, Feeq would stare at women, even those that looked like men.
As fate would have it Feeq turned around to look inside the McDonald's and he saw a couple of girls of African origin. And then he decided to bestow on his friends some great insight: "You know these Nigerians, Kenyans, Sudanians..."
"Feeq, it's Sudanese" corrected Tinu.
"What? Yea, I know. Anyways, these Sudanians.."
"Its Sudanese, not Sudanians. Say it after me: Soo-Daa-Knees"
"Sudanese. There! Anyways these Sudanians..."
"Man, what's wrong with you?"
"What? So, these Sudanians..."
(Tinu to himself) "WHY do I bother?"
"...are SOOO Fucking Dumb!"

we don't need no Valetination

2010-02-10T16:40:00.000-08:00

Pick up lines courtesy our heros, Beavis, Butthead and me

"Why don't you get out of my dreams and into my car, baby?"
That didn't really work. It didn't work because the girl did not have a sense of humour. She was blonde, so I did not expect her to have any common sense either. All she had was nonsense. Which is exactly why I was drawn towards her. But I think the reason why it did not work was because I did not have a car and I don't think she thought the car was a metaphor. Which is what I was hoping for.
A metaphor for what though? On second thought, I think this was as far as I could have gotten with that line. Thank God she wasn't mildly smart enough to assume a metaphorical car.

"You need a man in your life, baby. And like, I need a woman. Let's like get into each other's life or whatever"
She said that she already had a man in her life. I told her that my life's pretty much free and she can step in whenever she wants. Her man ended up stepping ON it.

"I'm not trying to pick you up. You're like too heavy"
Some words kill a girl's sense of humour. They are heavy, fat, huge, big, twilight, bradd pit and 'that bitch'

"If you're really hot, I bet I can cool you down.."
This is where being cool comes in handy. But if you're not cool and if you're hot then you're screwed because 'If you're really cool, I bet I can hot you up' is not correct English.

"Hey that burka/niqab/shuttlecock looks great on you"
This is great because you're telling her that you appreciate her inner beauty. But when her outer beauty is under a bukra, it becomes the inner beauty. And when the inner beauty is under the burka, it becomes the inner-inner beauty. In fact, all you're really appreciating is the work of the burka-maker. But you don't really need to worry about that, they haven't really figured that out yet.

"I would like, do homework or something, for your love"
She's probably done her homework. Or doesn't plan to do it. She'll always have second thoughts about YOU doing her homework. Anyways, is it really worth it?

"Hey, are you one of those chicks who goes out with guys right off the bat? Because that's what I'm looking for.."
You've got to keep using this one till someone says 'yes' and then it will work automatically. The premise just sets it up so nicely for you.

"I wish I was in the bomb-squad, then I could defuse you... cause you're a sex-bomb"
extra chees-E. But we have a winner if you ever want to commit suicide.

A fable of old (1)

2010-01-31T15:58:00.000-08:00

This story is about the anceint tribes of Dirka. They occupied the territories between the two great rivers, which were one, of the world. The rivers had the same origin and the same end, but in the middle they strayed from each other. Like two lovers matched in heaven and then set on their separate paths at birth until their destinies brought them together.
But that was not what was peculiar about the rivers. Legend has it that one, Gurchak, flowed upstream while the other, Gurcham, flowed downstream. The land between them was called Dirka or 'The eye of a Whirlpool'.
Each river served a divine purpose. Gurchak, the river that flowed upstream, was used for fishing or fish hunting. The fish, swimming against the current, was strong and was good meat. It is what these tribes of warriors fed on.
It was forbidden to fish-hunt in Gurcham, for the fish flowing harmlessly with the current were considered innocent. Gurcham was for disposing the head-less dead.
Dirka spread far and wide. With mountains, forests and gorges abundant. The people of this tranquil though, did not lead a tranquil lifestyle. They were warrior tribes who seldom made peace. During peace they prepared for war.
This story is about one such war between the Dun and the Hur and Mok tribes. Tribal custom had it that the daughter of the Chief was heir to the throne in Dirka. She was the law maker and law enforcer. Any man could aspire to be Chief. But in order to become Chief, he would have to bring to the Queen the head of the Chief of another tribe after having killed him a hand battle.
It ensured that the best warrior was always leading the army. And it provided the Queen with a man more manly than the last. This practice did not usually result in war. But not always.
The daughter of the Queen of the Mok tribe was probably the most beautiful woman in the land. It seemed as if the heavens had conspired to mock the earth by sending to earth a woman whose grace far outgraced the mountains, whose eyes would make the sun blink, whose face the lakes would be reflected in, whose voice the winds would fall silent for. And for whose hand, the Chiefs of all other tribes had doubled their ration of fish from Gurchak.
Her mother, the Queen, was old and would not last another two moons. And so the tribe of Mok would soon need a new Chief.
Rumours of her beauty spread throughout the land. Many men came to confirm these rumours and to win her hand. But the Chiefs of all the other tribes had been eating alot of the fish.
One young man, son of the Queen of Hur, though was resolute.
On the day of her crowning, a young man brought to the (to-be) Queen of Mok the head of the Chief of Hur, his own father. The tribe of Mok had gained a Queen and a Chief in one day after loosing her mother the night before.
The Queen of Hur, though aware of the peculiarity of the situation had embraced her new position of seeking-Chief and at the same time, due to the inter-marriage between the ruling households of the Mok and Hur tribes, she declared a treaty and an alliance between the two. History was made in Dirka.
How, then, did the war begin between Dun and the Mok-Hur alliance?

Pepsi Pepsi Pepsi Pepsi

2010-01-28T13:43:00.000-08:00

Pepsi Pepsi Pepsi Pepsi
Coke sucks!

Bread, Cloth and Shelter.

2010-01-08T16:19:00.000-08:00

To be content as a peasant is to lead an honest living with the void of wanting more. But what is it that man wants more of? More of house, cars, money, electronic gadgets etc. So, if there were no palaces to begin with, would man still desire a palace?
What dreams would a man, who all day dreams of a huge palace, dream?
The peasantry serves the man in the castle. So if there are no castles, the peasantry serves no one.
His ideas, naturally, appealed only to the peasants. In a world where there were only two kinds of people, those who were with the Nobleman and those who were victims of his tyranny, this was a dangerous development. For the peasants outnumbered the Nobleman and his cohort of sophisticated employees.
One of these sophisticated employees termed this peasant and his followers as outlaws and enemies of the state. But this fool was too blind to see that the laws of nature override the laws of man. And the laws of nature clearly state that all men are equal. The peasants no longer considered themselves peasants and they no longer considered the nobleman noble.
Once the mind becomes aware of this truth, the laws of man can throw no veil over it. Such was the state of affairs and it was rumored in the courts that a rebellion was at hand.
And so from the laws of man, life was transitioning towards the laws of nature. A state of equilibrium was being achieved where peasants no longer considered the nobility of Noblemen and the Noblemen no longer tried to subjugate the peasantry.
But as it so often happens in life; it moves in circles, from disparity to equilibrium to disparity. Tis almost a man-made phenomenon 'the circle of life'. There is an addition to the Nobleman's cohort of sophisticated employees, and at the same time, there is a subtraction from the peasantry. This returns to how things were balanced in disparity. The rebellion is no more. But the peasants remain peasants and the Noblemen keep their nobility intact. Only the fate of one peasant changes. The peasant who started it all. The one that stopped dreaming of palaces and started dreaming of something else.

This Charming Man

2010-01-04T13:14:00.000-08:00

I would go out tonight
But I haven't got a stitch to wear
This man said "It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care"

Sattire Attire part XI: Be aware of the ides of October

2009-12-11T00:05:00.000-08:00

‘Some men are so great that they can be unmade only by themselves.’ Shame - Salman Rushdie.

And he sat there, preoccupied with damage control. A date with Fate was unlikely, thanks to Dmitri.
"You are close?"
Sylvester turned around to see who'd said that. He'd been too distracted by the tense atmosphere in his head to be even minutely aware of his surroundings. The man seemed innocent, mild mannered and... well he was a stranger and it's okay to tell strangers anything and everything because you may never meet them again.
There is annual gathering in town in which people conceal themselves under white sheets with two holes for the eyes, much like ghosts in pop-culture. They gather around the oldest tree in the oldest park and read out their most intimate secrets in a slow droning voice. Each year their numbers increase, the secrets increase the secrets become less and less articulate among the horde of voices. Secrets mingle and intertwine into one loud, undecipherable mumble. They all know that if they cannot keep their secret to themselves, that if they have to say it out loud, they wait for that day. For they know that on that day anything that will be said aloud will be lost in the wind.
Some people like to listen. They stand around trying to listen to the secrets of one white sheet or another. They keep moving on until they find an interesting story, or one that has just begun. It is their way of keeping secrets for people they do not know. An hour before midnight on the ides of October the people of the town know where to go if their thoughts are stifling them. In the whole year there is one hour of honesty and trust. People come and they confess, profess, listen and understand. They empty their hearts and begin filling them up again until the next year.
To their more difficult patients, Psychiatrists recommended the ritual.
Sylvester was one of the whispering ghosts. Years and years of standing in front of the old tree and revealing his most inner-self had emboldened him, and he began to trust strangers. He began to trust strangers more than his friends. It was not because he did not trust his friends. It was because he knew that his fears could never be used against him if they were not known to be his.
And so, there he was without his white sheets with holes and he was talking to a stranger.
"You are close?", he had asked. Almost in a way that depicted doubt.
"No, we just met a couple of minutes ago. I don't even know her last name" said Sylvester in a dejected voice. He was looking at his shoes now.
"Oh but I wasn't talking about her. I was talking about him."
"Oh! Yes, I would say so." As he said that he looked up in the direction of Dmitri and Fate. But they were not there anymore. He then turned to look at the man next to him. He was not there anymore either.
Sylvester felt uneasy. Not because it had not worked out with Fate. Not because Dmitri had ridiculed him in front of Fate. Not because the strange stranger had doubted the friendship between Dmitri and him. But because, for the first time, Dmitri had parted ways and not him.
Dmitri was too bitter a man to feign pleasantness with Fate. Sylvester's mind was going where he did not want it to go. But there was nothing he could do to stop it and October was three months away.

On Bakra Eid by the Poet (with takhalus) 'afsos'

2009-11-26T00:29:00.000-08:00

Pait ki faryaad hai tau aani jaani
aur guzar jata hai din baghair peeyay paani
magar afsos! saalon ki baat aur hai
keh saal mein aik hi din milti hai biryani

I wonder what was the place where I was last night

2009-11-23T19:03:00.000-08:00

I wonder what was the place where I was last night,
All around me were half-slaughtered victims of love,
tossing about in agony.

There was a nymph-like beloved with cypress-like form
and tulip-like face,
Ruthlessly playing havoc with the hearts of the lovers.

God himself was the master of ceremonies in that heavenly court,
oh Khusrau, where (the face of) the Prophet too was shedding light
like a candle.

Translation of Nami Danam by Ameer Khusro

Beyond borders

2009-04-04T04:28:00.000-07:00

"79!"
Zia had been waiting for almost thirty minutes when his number got called out. He got up and carried his belongings towards a door which led out of the waiting area, but not out of the building.
He walked into another room where many other men and women in uniforms were attending to passengers who had just landed. Their faces not distinguishable, from even a short distance they looked like uniforms with bodies. No smiles, no emotions, no hobbies. Only a most ominous and unwelcoming presence.
Behind every desk was a sign that read: "Welcome to the United States of America". A cheery message for a gloomy place. Like sunlight sneaking its way into a prison cell, it was on the other side of the barrier.
"This way, sir" called out a voice, a man's voice, from one of the uniforms from behind one of the desks. As soon as Zia was within an earshot he heard "Passport please!".
Zia complied, he handed the uniform his passport which was not an American passport but it was, none the less, Blue in colour. Though not blue enough, as the man in the uniform, while making the customary inquiries regarding the purpose of the visit and the amount of alcohol and tobacco in the luggage, said: "One bottle of wine? Looks like you're not getting your 69 or 70 virgins."
"Excuse me?", Zia unsure of what he heard. It didn't sound like a joke.
"You heard me". The uniform confirming what Zia had thought he'd heard. And it wasn't a joke.
So it became a matter of bigotry. It's not the colour of your passport but the colour of your skin, the origin of your name, Zia realized.
After a little more probing Zia heard the uniform say, " Welcome to the USA".
USA, the most sought after yet the most hated country in the whole world. If you're not welcome in heaven, it's just as bad as being in hell.

Sattire Attire part X: Sharp wit, sharper sword

2009-03-11T01:03:00.000-07:00

"The man has a gun, he knows how to use it. Nine millimeter Browning, let's see what he can do... Dirty animal." - The Gun by Lou Reed
The waitress unsure of the situation, sought to clear up any potential misunderstandings, "Together or separate?"
"Together. The three of us." replied Dmitri in a tone that was meant to remain unchallenged. "Mine, his and her's. Check please!"
"Her's too? But she's not on the table that I'm serving..." The waitress did not wait for a response. She complied and walked off, completely overwhelmed by the storm that was brewing inside Dmitri. Only the agonizing restraint in his voice and his piercing gaze gave any indication of the rage that was going to overcome his usually calm demeanor.
Dmitri's attention had now been diverted to his friend, Sylvester and Sylvester's new, ill-fated friend, Fate.
He got up and fixed his tie. Tightening it almost to a choke-hold. He put on his jacket and buttoned it up. One. Two. Three. And then he walked up to his friend, where he could hear Fate leashing his friend, Sylvester, with an almost witch-like charm... "...that's the most wonderful thing anyone's ever said to me, Sylvester."
"What did he say then?" interrupted Dmitri with a tone that lacked all emotion; neither friendly nor angry. And then with the same tone, he asked Sylvester, "What did you say to her?"
The battle had begun. Dmitri knew it. Fate knew it. Sylvester did not. With his loyalties inexplicably torn between the two, he was a casualty of war before it had begun. For now, his only two companions were pity and sadistic pleasure.
But for the present, Sylvester was caught in a strange predicament; he was confused. His friend, Dmitri, who had always been his friend was acting like an infuriated stranger. On the other hand, the stranger, Fate, was playing the part of a supportive friend. He kept staring at salt-shaker on the table, as if his supposed diverted focus would exempt him from partaking in choosing a side in this battle. A friend, not acting like a friend or an amiable stranger? Of course a friend! Except, the friend in question was pointing a gun to his head...
"What did you tell her then?"
...while asking him to point his gun towards the amiable stranger...
"If you don't want to tell me... do say it to her again. She would not mind, it's the kindest thing she's heard. She says so herself."
Fate, at this point, was maintaining a composure that only mysteriousness can. Mysteriousness backed by uncertainty.
"Are you his friend then?"
"A friend. A guide. A companion. A shepherd. A brother."
"And yet you insult him like he's your livestock...a shepherd more than anything I would say."
"That I must, for he easily gets fattened by any butcher that feeds him. His gluttony knows no bounds."
"If I may correct you, gluttony is the act of outdoing the bounds."
"You digress."
"You contradict." And she said that with a wink and a smile. Dmitri did not know whether to let his guard down or to put it up.
Meanwhile, Sylvester had managed to slip away back to table 8, where he was busy staring at another salt-shaker. He was perspiring. Drenched as if there was a cloud of the monsoon over his head. And the voice in his head spoke: "Why is it that fate is always ill-fate?"

Constancy and Change

2009-03-06T04:22:00.000-08:00

A pier in the middle of a field that was clearly used on occasion as a rubbish dump should have been absurd, or sad, but instead was suggestive of both constancy and change. I'll take constancy. Keep the change. - Kamila Shamsi

On Political groups who try to, all the time, define and re-define who we are as opposed to what we were and what we were meant to be. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

On Globalization which promulgates only the American way of life. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

On the increasing social divide and exploitation of the majority by a minority. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

On a people trying to imitate another people more and more. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

On from it getting bad to worse. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

On innocent children growing up to be rational discerning adults, who can identify with class, creed, borders and ethnicity. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

On spirituality degenerating. On the number of fatwas. On the increasing number of Zionist settlers. On the 'theories' that disprove religion. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

On dreams lost to means of living. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

On change ("Yes We Can!") that promises change but delivers constancy. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

On short-lived War and enduring Peace. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

On "what's in" and what's centuries old culture. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

On servants who, when we were young, were our friends and equals. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

I'll take constancy. Keep the change.

Random Experiments

2009-03-04T01:01:00.000-08:00

http://www.myspace.com/mcfussto

An Excerpt from a Book

2009-02-02T13:39:00.000-08:00

"That wild beast, which lives in man and does not dare to show itself until barriers of law and custom have been removed, was now set free. The signal was given, the barriers were down. As has so often happened in the history of man, permissions were tacitly granted for acts of violence and plunder, even for murder, if they were carried out in the name of higher interests, according to the established rules, and against a limited number of men of a particular type and belief.
A man who saw clearly and with open eyes and was then living could see how this miracle took place and how the whole of a society could, in a single day, be transformed. In a few minutes the business quarter, based on centuries of tradition, was wiped out. It is true that there had always been concealed enmities and jealousies and religious intolerance, coarseness and cruelty, but there had also been courage and fellowship and a feeling for measure and order, which restrained all these instincts within the limits of the supportable and, in the end, calmed them down and submitted them to the general interest of life in common. Men who had been leaders in the commercial quarter for forty years vanished overnight as if they had all died suddenly, together with the habits, customs and institutions which they represented."
Ivo Andric - The Bridge On The Drina

The Red/White Mosque

2009-01-26T01:29:00.001-08:00

"Are we there yet?" I asked in excited nervousness.
"Almost"
We drove past Melody Market to the point where the sidewalk gives way to a right turn. And there it was, the Red Mosque. Standing alone in its eerie presence. Empty. The Red Mosque now painted white. As if all the blood had been purified.
"This is where it happened" said my cousin, referring to the incident. "That was the Jamia-Hafsa, which they've demolished now... and that's the mosque"
I was being given a tour of the place of worship that had been once been a place of worship, then a place where youths were misdirected and then finally a battleground for a bloody, sickening and embarrassing end.
The paint job was awful, you could still see blood stains in a few places. Or was it just my imagination. Maybe it wasn't blood. Maybe it was just the red texture that used to be. Yet the place was empty like a cemetery. No worshipers and no call for prayers.
"It's not that big a place" I remarked. Half thinking, half talking.
"This area's always been very politically active... now, though, people are more careful. What happened, well, was scary. I try to avoid driving through here...."
"Look! There's someone in there!" I said, and indeed there was someone near the entrance of the mosque. Clad in black.
"Of course there's someone. It's a mosque after all"
"You mean... even now?"
"Yea. Life has to go on."
I went there looking for bullet holes and blood stains. But life has to go on. Some things have to be erased from memory and history because life has to go on. Whether what happened was right or wrong is not the question. It happened. Life has to go on, albeit a little haunted, a little empty... a little guilty.

Sattire Attire: Dmitri writes

2009-01-20T23:45:00.000-08:00

And we will find each other when the world becomes what we envision it to be; a fair world. For then only will we be at peace and loyal to ourselves. Till such time we will be preoccupied in our efforts to make change. But as is the will of men, this will never come to pass. For those with power and riches have little reason to compromise. And those with no power nor riches have resigned to a life of submission. Balancing the scale of justice is no easy task when there is only one weight; power and money as one. And if God is to be judge, then we will have to wait till that Day comes. And on that Day when we've come full circle, we'll find each other that one time and then go our designated separate ways. So it is meant to be. So I am without passion, and I only long for that one fateful meeting on that one fateful Day when all we envision will eventually come to pass.

Expression Against Oppression

2008-12-12T14:14:00.001-08:00

With or against you, I have to choose
I side with you, and still it's me that you abuse
You point the gun at my home and say "Now, what are you going to do?"
The hunt is on, the hunt is on it's true, Oh simple man, the hunt is on for you

Only when you've lost a limb or a loved one- do you know that you're accused
Your pride stands wounded and alone, like a tamed lion caged in a zoo
"We won't let it happen again", we said. But those promises are not for you
We won't let it happen again. But only to those who come for you.

Run, simple man run,there is no justice planned
They've come to wipe you out, from your simple land.

A mother mourns a son, and another mourns them in simple twos
But where are you going to run simple man? Your mother will still weep for you
"We won't let it happen again", they said. But those promises are not for you
We won't let it happen again, but in the end they do it to you.

Sattire Attire part IX: Hunny Bunny

2008-12-08T23:00:00.000-08:00

Magas ko bagh mein jane na dena, Na haq khoon parwane ka ho ga!
(Pray do not let the bee enter the garden, for it will lead the moth to its death) - Mirza Ghalib

For if the bee does enter the garden, it will mate with the flowers. It will then make a home, a hive and it will make honey. And in the end, the hive will become wax for candle. The moth will wander as it had always wandered; aimlessly and of little importance. The moth will linger around the flame of the candle until maddened by the obsession it will plunge into an ironic darkness. The hive will be a source of sweet and bitter; honey and death.

Like brothers in arms, like comrades in battle, the two could do little to avoid each other. Each of their lives marred by the absence of the other. Sylvester and Dmitri had their lives turn upside down and side to side. Good friends are hard to find, like seahorses in the infinite vastness of the ocean. Love follows from fate. Friends do not follow, they take a stand. By you. Around you and beside you. They are more precious than blood, for if ever any was needed, they would bleed. Like trust in a bank, faith in friends is like a fortress; unshaken, passing the tests of war, storm and time. Trust in friends is worth boasting.
You cannot choose your relatives, but you can choose your friends. You can choose your friends, but your soul-mate is chosen for you. Sylvester and Dmitri had chosen each other. And they un-chose each other for what appeared to both of them as 'fate' had planned it. Sylvester felt his trust was shaken and Dmitri felt that he was left alone, bleeding.
But fate has a funny, and a not ambiguous, way of playing things. Her name was Fate.
"Your name is Fate?" Sylvester asked his n-th obsession out of genuine alarm.
"Yes, it is. It is because it was meant to be". Her voice had the charm of hypnosis; luring Sylvester into an unconscious or, as Dmitri would put it, an idiotic and foolish state of mind.
"Meant to be? Is anything meant to be at all?"
At this she chuckled. Then she simultaneously said two things. She reprimanded Sylvester with her eyes, "You mock me with your skepticism and your skeptic friend? You mock a world beyond the deciphered laws of nature? You assume the unknown to be untrue? Therefore, you assume that untruth to be fact and a law, and then the rest becomes unknown to you. You ignorant, conformist fool"
And with her voice she had a different message, "Everything is meant to be. Me, you, this place, this time and everything else, it all is meant to be. This tension between us is meant to be, this tension between us and your friend is meant to be. The choices we make and the choices we do not make, they are all meant to be. Nothing is an independent event, it all means something. Each event connects us from the past to the future. The present is just a continuous transitionary stage where we are meant to be arriving from our past and it is a stage from where we go to where we are meant to be in the future. We, here right now, are meant to be."
She'd struck him with two blows at the same time. She had hit him hard and soft in one go. Sylvester was in an abyss of confusion where one abandons logic and clings on to the folly misdirections of the heart.
Dmitri saw in Sylvester a dog wagging its tail in front of its master; Fate. And again in another time and in another place the classical and romantic battle had begun. And Sylvester was the one caught between the two non-reconciling winds building up towards a storm. But Sylvester was a fool with a fool's hope for intuitive survival and Dmitri knew that this time God was stingy with the allocation of luck that was meant to be his. "Check please" he said to the waitress. It was time to sort things out.

Moral of the story part V: Accent Agieu

2008-11-14T01:52:00.000-08:00

You have to be a fool to be hungry again at 2 a.m., when everything is closed. I mean, 8 p.m., are you hungry? No.
But 2 a.m., Yes very, very much. It's all well in the beginning, there's the pizza that saves you. But a pizza is a pizza and it is not for everyday. You can die from eating pizza too regularly. They call it the inflamation of the taste buds. Like Aids it has no cure and prevention is the only...prevention.
When to have to revert to places like "Pita Factory", you know you're ******.
Pita Factory, a factory of Pitas. No, they're not made in China but they sure taste like they are. Would you ever eat a cake that came from the "Cake Factory"? Or would you eat fruit that came from the "Fruit Factory"?
"Steak Factory"?
"Stuffed Chicken Breast with Pineapple Sauce Factory"? You get the point.
So, once it had to be Pita Factory. Now it's not smart to walk into a Pita Factory on an empty stomach. Firstly, because you might end up eating something. Secondly, if your mind is a little preoccupied, you might... well I'll make my point with the aid of an anecdote.
I stood in line behind two policemen. They're going to be tough with the tickets tonight, I thought. One of the policemen spoke in accented English. So, naturally, I tried figuring out what it was.
I tried and I tried and then I concluded: Not Australian. Definitely not Australian. And definitely not ..."Chicken Souvlaki!". I was lost in my own thoughts, I did not realize that the policemen had left and I was next in line. Well, after the policemen I was the only one in line.
I gave the girl who was about to manufacture my pita a look of recognition; yea, chicken souvlaki... that's me.
"What would like on it?", she asked. I knew what I wanted, the same as everytime. So I said
"Some ta-mate-Os..." and out came an Australian accent.
"Some what?" She asked, a little taken aback.
"Tah-Mate-Os" I tried to hide the obvious shock that ought to have been registered on my face. I guess I managed to do so as she took it in stride and filled my pita with ta-mate-os.
Then she looked up to see what else I wanted on there.
Now I was in a bit of a pickle. I am not known for mimicking accents. I now had to tailor my pita according to the skill-level of my accent-mimicking skill. So, I pictured Shane Warne. And then, in my mind, I asked him to say onions... "un-yuns". And the girl was kind enough to oblige. So far so good, she probably thinks I'm from Australia and not just ordering in an accented speech for no reason. Which is exactly what I was doing, by the way.
Ok, next... come on Shane. "Sum cue-cambers". Haha! I was getting the hang of it. Just a couple more I thought.
But unfortunately that was it. I was looking at the deli and I couldn't pronounce anything else. Shane Warne had walked away. Finally, I cleverly managed with some finger pointing and "sum o that an sum o that..." .
I had pulled it off. I was so proud of myself.
"Would you like it for here or to go?", she asked.
"To gow please". Oh yeah. Confident. Cocky. Australian. I don't know how, I'm not even 6 feet tall.
While she was packaging my Pita in the Pita Factory, my phone rang. I answered it and spoke in fluent Urdu: "Yaar, abhee bari mushkil mein hoon. Meiney ghalti se Australian accent mein khana order kar deeya hai. Yaar, I'll call you back in 5 mins".
So much for covering up for my initial accented slip of tongue. But I didn't even realize it. Nor did my brilliant friend who had called me.
I didn't realize it even when she handed me my Pita to-gow with a look on her face that suggested that she'd just heard a joke. And then I said, "Thanks mate" and she almost burst out laughing.
And then as I slipped my phone back into my pocket, it hit me. After having painfully ordered in an accented speech, I had just blown it with that phone call. And then I almost burst out laughing. The place was pretty much empty because at 2 a.m., people usually get their pitas to-gow. Which was a good thing if any one of us was going to laugh out loud. Anyways by 2:15 am I had something to eat. Or so to say. I hail from Lahore, I like eating things that taste good.
But eating the pita was like digging a hole in the ground. You kept looking at it and hoped that it would end soon. Here's the thing with the pita, if Frank Sinatra ever writes a song about a Pita Factory pita, it would be called "One bite of warm, two bites of cold". Because the vegetables were very very cold and the meat was a little hot. It is awful. Moral of the story: Try doing it some time. Ye'll laav it mate.

The President's Speech.

2008-11-11T00:52:00.000-08:00

"Countrymen,
Lend me your ears no more. Do not listen to any lies or, for that matter, any truths and I bestow upon you. I do not want to make false promises. For I cannot promise you better days. I do not want to be your excuse for poverty and immorality. For I cannot earn you money and change your ways. I am merely one man, you are the nation.
Countrymen, lend me, instead, your arms and legs. Your minds and bodies. Do not listen for gathering hope but create hope. For I cannot change your fortunes for you. But you can. Hence, lend me yourselves.
We are at war. So do not listen to me when I say we need to show solidarity. Lend me yourselves. Show me solidarity. You are the nation. Fight this evil, do no wait to be rescued. For Nations fight, only the helpless wait to be rescued. When a group of people is united no more, it is like a cripple; waiting for help or like a king, waiting for service. You are not a cripple and you are not a king. And you have no destiny lest you make it. And this fight beckons you forward to rise and do so.
You are the nation and your fortunes are tied with what you do. So, lend me not your ears. You should know better. Show me that there is indeed a people and not a cripple nor a king that misfortune has fallen upon. Because people overcome their misfortunes by their own hands, their own destiny. Kings and cripples wait. They wait for help and aid. And they are forever unable to change what may be.
So, do not listen to me. For I will deliver no sermon and you will learn nothing. Remember, if there is no lesson, then it is not worth listening and not worth mentioning.
We have suffered so far, and for what? And no matter what we do, we will inevitably suffer more. Let's face this hardship. Let's bring it upon ourselves. Let's work longer, study harder, spend less, donate more, fight braver. So that if nothing else, in the end we will, at least, be holding our heads up. Not our hands held open. So that in end, we will at least be a people and not a cripple or a king.
Countrymen, lend me yourselves."

Sattire Attire part VIII; illegally Blonde

2008-11-05T02:06:00.000-08:00

False face must hide what the false heart doth know. - William Shakespeare

"Dmitri, my friend, it was like magic". Sylvester had started his narration before Dmitri could do anything to prevent it. They were interesting at first, his stories, but now... well, it was the same story. The same beginning, the same ending and whatever was in the middle was irrelevant.
"...she was like a breath of fresh air in the depths of a coal mine, like a sea-shell with the secrets of its voyage. She was like the answer to the question of mortal life, like unwritten poetry she has me obsessed..."
Still in the middle. How long before he finishes? wondered Dmitri.
"...what is it Dmitri? It seems like you have something on your mind. The only problems that you usually have on your mind are mine! and let me assure you, I have been through worse. Then what is it that troubles you?"
Dmitri was looking at the table, he never had the heart to say it before but enough was enough. "Sylvester, you are a poodle-faker and that saddens me."
"A poodle-faker?!" said Sylvester, more alarmed and amused than upset.
"Yes, Sylvester, a poodle-faker. An aspiring ladies' man. Though all you do is... well whatever you do, you do it wrong and it doesn't work. They're all frippets, the lot you chase, and you're a man-frippet."
"A frippet? Now don't go on calling them that. Me, well I can imagine, but they're not all..."
"Well what would have me call them? They're all quite pre-disposed to showing off and I'm being generous when I call you a man-frippet."
"That's not fair. I mean you can't..." and Sylvester was interrupted, not by Dmitri, but by a frippet who had just made her way into the diner.
Dmitri demanded attention. He half got up from his seat, bent over the table and grabbed Sylvester by his collars, "You listen to me!"
The frustration, quite understandable for us, was not so obvious to the rest of the diner. As a result, the many lights that were dispersed around the diner had all focused on table 8; Dmitri and Sylvester's table. The fine blond frippet too had turned around, a little confused.
Sylvester made use of this opportunity, "He means me, not you". To that she giggled and took her seat to see Dmitri let go of Sylvester's collar.
"Stop showing your teeth, she's not for you; you'll regret it" Dmitri told Sylvester with a little less acrimony and a little more authority.
"What do you mean? Just look at her. If I could..." Sylvester was about to go on a 10 minute monologue about a woman he didn't even know, but for his sake and ours, Dmitri cut him off, "Blah blah blah. You listen to me now. That is a dumb blonde."
"But not all blondes are dumb!!" a hurt Sylvester said in defense of the blonde-hood.
"Don't tell me that you don't know?" asked Dmitri, a little surprised.
"Know what?"
This explained a little but not all of Sylvester's foolish behaviour in the past. Dmitri explained:
"You are right. Not all blondes are dumb. Some are actually very smart. This applies to all natural blondes. However, the term dumb-blonde I use for the unnatural or illegally blonde."
"But but but how can you tell the difference?!" This was news for Sylvester.
"It's quite simple. Just look at your dumb-blonde frippet there...sorry there was no need for me to say that. You haven't taken your eyes off her still, therefore, keep looking at her. Her head is blonde. Her eyebrows are not. Connect the dots..."
"But it can't be true. Can't she be smart and want to be blonde?" Dmitri didn't need to answer that one. The blonde was overheard:
"...so I gave him my cell-phone instead of my home-phone. You know, since my home-phone does not have caller ID. Now I know when he's calling and so I can ignore him..."
And for once, Sylvester had nothing to say.

Moral of the story part III : Goals in Life

2008-11-03T01:41:00.000-08:00

The mood is gloomy. Dark clouds approach. And to make it worse, there's no cricket to take our minds off of all that's going wrong. Whenever we get thrashed by Australia, it makes us all sad; all ethnicities and all religious sects. Whenever Shahid Afridi lasts for more than fifteen minutes on pitch it makes us all happy. The same can be said for when Shoaib Akhtar lasts for more than 15 minutes on the field. Such a touchy topic, Shahid Afridi and Shoaib Akhtar. Today, we talk about Shahid Afridi, or rather we recall an interview once conducted by a sports channel. (translated)

"So, Shahid, you are making your big comeback against India?"
"Yes, of course, I had to come back in the team. Whenever the team needs me, I'm there. And right now the team needs me"
"But after such a big lay off, are you ready to make a come-back?"
"I wouldn't really call it a lay-off, I just took a break you know, spend some time with the family"
"We heard rumours that you were retiring from cricket?"
"Well yes, I was thinking about it. But now that I'm married and now that I have children, I have achieved everything that I wanted to do in life, so now I can think about playing cricket."

Clearly, anybody that makes any overtures about Shahid Afridi desiring the captaincy is not familiar with Shahid's goals in life. Regardless, our worlds come to a halt for the 15 minutes when this man walks out of the pavillion. And they only resume when he walks back towards it. Cricket is dead. All we get to watch is India churning out success stories like sodomized (commercialized) music records.

The Tribesman

2008-10-31T00:29:00.000-07:00

Sickly. That's how he felt. Sick in the head, more to the point. His allegiance torn between himself and his land. He had betrayed his land, like his land had betrayed him. Could they ever be at peace again, the land and himself? Could he? He had caused much harm. Maybe enough. He had thought about bringing it all to halt on more than one occasion. Only to betray and be betrayed again.
Freedom, they called it. Freedom, which had cost him his brother, nephew and had amputated his son. And yet what was he fighting for? Freedom again? This fight had been fought already, this hatchet had long been buried.
In a war where there were only two sides, he wondered what side he was on. Especially, since he was in the cross-fire. Behind enemy lines, beyond them and between them. When hot lead pierces flesh, there's only one outcome and a mother's wail needs no language to be understood. Then it matters not where the bullet came from. From friend or foe.
There was a third side in the war; a side that was losing. It had no enemy, yet it suffered. It had lost half its men, with no honour bestowed upon them. Just criticism. The war, that was not its own but was being fought on its land, had not just taunted but insulted its existence. He heard the explosions and he took his position.
He was an excellent shot. Almost every bullet hit home and every one that did was a shot through the heart. His own more than the others'. It was an unfair war which did not allow him to pick sides; he had to fight all of them. Lacking all elements of fear he got ready to face the storm, embrace it and then make it turn away, and he wondered whether today would be the end of it all. For if all good things come to an end, then they must first begin with the ending of a bad thing.

Before Aqaba. A-Lawrence, Auda Abu Tayi and Shrefi Ali.

2008-10-19T01:17:00.000-07:00

In Auda Abu Tayi's tent.
Lawrence: They are a tribe of slaves, they serve the Turks.
Auda: Well they are nothing to me, my tribe is the Howeitat.
Sherif Ali: Who work only for profit.
Auda: Who work at Auda's pleasure.
Lawrence: And Auda's pleasure is to serve the Turks.
Auda: Serve? I Serve?
Lawrence: It is the servant who takes money.
Auda gets up and faces his tribesmen.
Auda: I am Auda abu Tayi!!! Does Auda serve?
Tribesmen: NO!
Auda: Does Auda abu Tayi serve?
Tribesmen: NO!
Auda : I carry twenty-three great wounds, all got in battle. Seventy-five men have I killed with my own hands in battle. I Scatter, I burn my enemies' tents. I take away their flocks and herds. The Turks pay me a golden treasure. Yet I am poor... because I am a river to my people!! Is that service??
Lawrence: No.

Ask

2008-10-06T00:48:00.001-07:00

What can one do when, despite freedom, we suffer through each other?

Moral of the story part II

2008-09-26T00:18:00.000-07:00

Are you fasting? I'm slowing. This year I've only slowed, not fasted. I guess I'll have to quick later on in the year sometime to make up for all the slowing I've done so far. But I'm very lazy. It's hard enough for me as it is. I put off everything till tomorrow whenever possible. And it's not a pleasant thought to be putting the fasting off to the afterlife. I mean if it's possible tomorrow, then I'll do it tomorrow. If it's possible much much later... well you get the picture.
Sinner!! They say.
I hear, I try. I try to obey.
Strength and Honour, and Courage they say.
Mighty words they are, but maybe not today.
If not, then tomorrow will you pay?
Would you rather take on the world in haste and gamble your life away?
Je suis tres faime, je veux manger une grande petite dejeuner.
Frog Racing. That's what I was trying to get to. But somehow I drifted away from the desired topic. Maybe it's because frogs are frowned upon (are they?).
Today's lesson will be on Frog Racing. What you will need:
(i) Frog I
(ii)Frog II
(..)............
(n) Frog N
(n+1) A big pot for N number of Frogs
Instructions:
(-) Fill pot with water.
(-) Catch Frog I and put it in the pot
(-) Catch Frog II upto Frog N and put them in the pot also.
(-) Make sure each frog is differentiable or has a limit which exists when x approaches infinity(math joke)
(-) Find N-1 friends or partners in crime. Each person picks a Frog. Remember to pick first.
(-)Pick the smallest Frog. The big ones don't like to move.
(-)The race track should be straight and not meandering. A non-straight race track will result in chaos and confusion and an inevitable Frog death.
(-) Line up with Frogs in hand. On the signal put the Frog down.
(-) This is where it gets tricky. Guide the Frog (make it hop in a straight line) by stepping on either side of the Frog. This technique fulfills two purposes. The Frog does not deviate from the path and the Frog is too scared shitless to deviate from the path so it makes a real dash for it.
(-) Please do not deviate from the path yourself. There may be casualties.
(-) First to reach finish-line wins.
(-) [optional] If you loose, bitch about the track being too soft.
(-) Let the winner go free. Toss the rest back in the pot with water.
(-) Make Frog soup.
(-) Realize half-way that Frog is not Halal meat.
(-) If any Frogs are still alive, toss them into the pond.
(-) If any Frogs are dead then.... inalillahi wa inalillahi rajioun.
(-) Practice makes perfect. Do it as often as possible.
Moral of the story is, don't go too fast or you'll get a speeding ticket.

Zoo Tv

2008-09-12T02:03:00.000-07:00

It was not a starry night. The moon was out, all whole and all white. Its presence overwhelming that of any other star. The rat could understand how the stars felt that night. Everyday, his tiny presence was overshadowed by the roars of the lions, the theatricals of the monkeys and, strangely enough, even by the lazy saunter of the giraffes. Even on the days that the lions only moaned and the monkeys only scratched each other, (giraffes always had their lazy saunter) the rat was as prominent as a drop of rainwater in the ocean. He had lived his whole life at the zoo and in the shadows of other animals.
It is a depressing thought, but the rat was never depressed. He had the company of so many animals of different nationalities. And he was friends with them all. All except the elephant.
This has nothing to do with the folly notion that elephants are afraid of mice. While we're on the subject, elephants would not die for peanuts.
No, the rat and the elephant were not friends. They were not enemies either. The elephant was the star of the zoo; the main attraction. He was actually a runaway from a circus, who was later captured and delivered to the zoo. As show-business had always been part of his nature, at the site of even a small group of people the elephant would perform his tricks and display his skill. Eventually, he became very popular and the success got to his head. He only ever spoke with the lion or the zebras or some other exotic animals or birds. It is ironic that the elephant was the only American at the zoo. He had been at the circus for as long as he could remember. And he had always been very haughty.
"What are you looking at?" The turtle asked the rat. The turtle was considered one of the wisest animals of the zoo. But he mostly kept to himself (inside his shell). Legend had it that he had once beaten the rabbit in a race. Some animals believed the story, some did not. But the rabbit or the turtle never spoke of it. Ever. They did not speak to each other either. So the rat had and inkling that the legend might be true, but he would never really know for sure.
"There are no stars tonight, turtle". The rat never had frame a question for the turtle. Because the turtle would always give an answer. Even if you did not ask a question.
"But that is only because the moon is too bright and the stars are not bright enough. They are still there, the stars, but they are not bright enough" And sure enough it made sense and the rat believed him.
Silence ensued. The most valuable of silences; the one right before a lesson.
"You think the stars are too small and that is why they do not shine bright enough. But you are wrong. The stars, though they appear to be much smaller than the moon, are actually infinitely larger than the moon. But they are so far away from us that they appear to be small. Just like the giraffes appear to be smaller than the turtles from where we are because their dwelling is towards the other end of the zoo. So you see my friend, rat, that all that appears to be small is sometimes the biggest thing of all". And after that little sermon the turtle retired to his shell, leaving the rat to ponder on what he had said.
The rat made his way back home, towards the food-court. It was a long walk but it seemed short. Just like the stars.
And when he thought about what the turtle had said and looked up at the sky again, he could relate to the stars even more. For he too appeared to be small, but he was probably bigger than all the other animals in depth and kindness. Even though everyday all that the people would notice would be the full brunt of the other animals and just a small flicker of himself, he knew that if anyone looked hard enough, they would see him for how big he is. How much bigger he is than the elephant.

Work in Progress: A trip to the mosque part II

2008-09-11T10:59:00.000-07:00

Have not been there since part I (Ramadan only). No trip, no story. No guts, no glory. No money, no gori. No joke, I'm sorry.

SS182 - part 1

2008-08-16T12:45:00.000-07:00

This is the story of a young man, very much like me. So much so, that I will narrate this story in first person.
LUMS. No, not a misspelled dirty word. No, not a disease. Not even Lahore University of(fering) Marital Services. But getting warmer. Let's start again.
LUMS. Lahore University of Monday/Mid-day/Misdirected Sermons.
Finally, LUMS. Lahore University of Management Sciences. The grandest (second to Aitchison, of course) educational institution in the country. Where I spent two miserable quarters, labouring ten to fifteen minutes every week in order to get normal grade in Islamic Studies. A face showing grade. Nothing too flashy, like an A, to suggest any fanatic tendencies nor anything too third grade, like a C, to prevent the truth from being revealed. ( Please, do not misunderstand my use of the word reveal ).
'What truth?', you might ask. The truth not suggesting any atheistic tendencies but the truth suggesting lack of, how to put it politely... oh yes: the truth suggesting a lack of aptitude for the course.
I still remember the course code: SS182. The horrors and the nightmares associated with that era I cannot bring myself to divulge... my fingers shake and then I type words that are not real words.
I took the course twice. I took the course twice. Just like I wrote that last sentence twice. Twice.
The first time I ended up with a C-, a few feeble points above "FAIL!". And to think I had an A in O'Level Islamiat. Maybe it was the overconfidence. I made the mistake of actually claiming it to be overconfidence when I was confronted by my parents. At least, there is a morale to this story, albeit in the beginning of the story.
The second time, (with a serious lack of overconfidence) I set out to improve upon the C- performance; I was handed a C.
"It is Futile", was the message. Loud and Clear, sir.
But, how did I manage to end up with a C- in the first place?
It wouldn't be possible without a twist in the tale. Ten minutes a week are more than ample. When confronted, admitting this last bit was even worse than the overconfidence.
When I first took SS182, my uncle was teaching. Obviously, I had the advantage. Ha! That's what I thought.
He, a man of integrity, would never ever do me favour over other students. In fact, he would make sure there be no room for any assumptions. And me, overconfident about my integration skills alluding to integrity, never asked him for any special treatment either. And I also would go out of my way to make sure that I did not do too well in the course, to prevent the tongues from wagging.
I guess we both were a bit too careful.

(Q) Ignorance is bliss?

2008-08-14T10:54:00.001-07:00

(A) Nay, "ignorance is the parent of fear". (Moby Dick - Herman Melville)

WE

2008-08-01T01:41:00.000-07:00

"To love.
To be loved.
To never forget your own insignificance.
To never get used to the unspeakable violence and vulgar disparity of
life around you.
To seek joy in the saddest places.
To pursue beauty to its lair.
To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple.
To respect strength, never power.
Above all, to watch.
To try and understand.
To never look away. And never, never to forget."

-- Arundhati Roy

Moral of the story part 1

2008-07-31T04:00:00.000-07:00

"My name is Rambo Rambo. Jaan Rambo..."
Ok then, dear Rambo, what would you have us do today? Would you have us wear our clothes inside out? flog a dead horse? count to infinity...twice? or would you rather we cut only half the nails on our fingers, that too in alternating fashion.
Speaking of which, it just might become the new fad... (annoying female model complaining to hapless internee) "..well I think the whole alternating sequence is monotonous. Personally, I like to have a gap of two before I leave a nail uncut....tsk uncouth! Why aren't you staring at me in an awestruck manner? The couth, I mean, the youth of today na!"
And so we stumble, quite unknowingly, upon the term "na". We've all used it. Be in a "please" tone or a "I tell you" tone.
An "I tell you" tone would be:"... The couth, I mean, the youth of today I tell you!"
But the more popular use of the expression is the begging "please" tone: "give it to me na!"
or "day do, naa!"
To which some halfwit charlatan would say "acha? day do naa? yaani ke naa doun? theek hai, jaisay marzi... waisay mein tau dainay hi wala thaa..."
There's also the one that comes at the end of a question. You know what I'm talking about naa?
Before we got absorbed in this... this.. thing. We were talking about dead horses and nails.
Now, about nails...
Have you ever been stung by a wasp? If you have... tough luck. If you haven't... lucky you, but it's going to cost me the next couple of lines. When a wasp stings you, it hurts a bit and after a while you experience some swelling around the unfortunate area that got stung.
So, imagine you sitting at an outdoor cafe under the shade of an umbrella at your table. Your table is laden with osama. haha bad joke. Imagine your table is laden with orange juice and some other healthy food item (I only know of orange juice). And while you're there, under the shade wearing your shades, sipping your juice and eating your healthy food item, this wasp creeps up to your left hand, which is completely motionless and comfortably rested on the table, picks your forefinger and WHAM delivers the blow through the nail, into the skin.
Suddenly you feel pain in a part of your body that you've never felt before. The finger under your nail had always been protected by the nail.
You writhe in pain as you spill your juice and spit your food and shout out curse words that would embarrass the local hero of a dodgy neighbourhood. You're filling in the blanks from A to Z, and you don't realize that the worst is yet to come. When your vocabulary runs out at the letter V, the 'W'orst comes... the swelling beings, inside your nail.
The complication is that only your flesh swells up, your nail does not. So, your nail pops out, still attached to the top of your swelled up flesh. And your finger is shaped like a mushroom with a piece of nail attached to one end. How painful would that be? And how disgusting a sight would that be?
Moral of the story being that if you don't match your socks, you best not wear your frocks.

Sattire Attire- A bridge- Who dares wins

2008-07-26T01:49:00.000-07:00

"It had been days since they'd last seen each other. Their eyes met, after a long time, and they acknowledged each other's presence:"hello". All either one of them needed was a sign. A sign to step closer or to step away... a sign to move away from the comfort zone of the grey area where anything is still possible.
Still, no sign comes and no move is made. They wait, not willing to let go of a part of it. Not wanting to risk a part of it for all of it. They will never be fully happy or fully sad. They will remain... in the middle." Wrote Sylvester in his diary.

One Tree Hill (excerpt)

2008-07-11T06:04:00.000-07:00

"The boy saw the comet and he felt as though his life had meaning. And when it went away, he waited his entire life for it to come back to him. It was more than just a comet because of what it brought to his life: direction, beauty, meaning. There are many who couldn't understand, and sometimes he walked among them. But even in his darkest hours, he knew in his heart that someday it would return to him, and his world would be whole again... And his belief in God and love and art would be re-awakened in his heart."

The Wisdom of Dastiism, Verse I Chapter H2C

2008-07-11T05:37:00.000-07:00

"O Dastis! Believe but do not trust."

Sattire Attire Part VII: Promise by God? No, promise by promise!

2008-07-09T01:41:00.001-07:00

"No, not an oath. If not the face of men, the sufferance of our souls, the time's abuse. If these be motives weak, break off betimes. And hence every man to his idle bed" - Shakespeare, Willaim (Julius Caesar)

"You always tell the truth"
"Always. I say it as I see it"
"Why?"
"To patronize others... though that's only a half truth. The whole truth is that I cannot lie. My expressions give it away. When I say something that I do not believe, it shows and I cannot hide it. The words I speak may be lies, but I still end up conveying what is true. Be it the words, or the expression that betrays the words."
Silence. The whetherman had not opened up like this before, so naturally he was at a loss of words. Dmitri, on the other hand, was assessing himself. How good a lier was he?
"Very good" Dmitri, thinking aloud.
"What?"
"The food" said Dmitri, proving his aptitude as a liar to himself again. "But tell me, do you see that man over there? The one in the hat."
"Yes, what about him? Do you know him?"
"I will answer your second question first; yes and no. And in response to your first, I have a favour to ask of you."
"What's in it for me?"
"After you have done what I have asked of you, you will get your freedom from this slavery of honest words..."
"But what if I don't want that freedom?"
"You want it, your face says so. Do you know what else it says? It says that you've been held back in your professional life because of this slavery. Your words may be honest, but they must be complimented with honest actions. And let's just say that there's no parity between the two of them." Dmitri arched forward, restricting the whetherman's vision"You dropped out of college before you got kicked out of college. Because you cheated, and all you had to do was to deny that you did. But you couldn't, and so you left. Hence, by doing me a favour, you will be doing yourself a favour."
The whetherman was on the verge of tears. He had spoken true all his life. And all his life he had been running away from one too, the truth that Dmitri had so simply put to him; honesty is not the best policy. For you may speak true, but not act it. Or vice versa. Eitherway, you've damned yourself. Dmitri continued:
"I'll take your silence for an acquiesce. Now, that man over there thinks he's my friend. He is not, and he gets on my nerves. I will introduce you to him, and you will try to stir discord between us when I have left town in two days time. You will do that by telling him the truth about him."
"But I don't understand..."
"I'm not asking you to lie. I can't list all the things I don't like about him. In fact, I hate almost everything about him. His whining, self-obsessiveness... it's a long list and a very annoying one, and one that you'll get acquainted with very soon. And when you do, you tell that him to his face... but from me of course. So you see, all of you have to do is tell the truth. One of them being that I hate him and the other being his nuisance."
"Why do I get the feeling that two truths make a lie? Why do you want me to do this?"
"They may or may not. And you don't have to know any reasons. You may do so, if you wish to be free"
"And you promise that I shall be free and be able to lie?"
"A promise? Why, it's up to you if you seize the chance that I present to you. There's no need for promises" - but to you Sylvester, my friend, I do promise that you will be free.

When the world ends

2008-07-02T21:56:00.000-07:00

When the land beckons me forth,
I shall rise, bestow my worth,
Like a moraine, like greatness long forgotten in time,
I shall alter nature, bring the glacier back to its prime.
Like a secret word carved in the depths of a cave,
I shall seek a way out, bring it back to the land of the brave,
Like a grain of sand in the emptiness of a desert, I shall not be alone,
We shall turn the heavy tide, we shall reclaim our throne,
But if chance wills the battle turn sour and bring us on the crux,
Remember, we are of this land and this land is of us.

The Highway of Death

2008-06-27T03:24:00.000-07:00

27th Feb. 1991.

The Iraqi army withdraws from Kuwait by taking Highway 80 en route to Basra. The surrender has been announced after Soviet mediation. The troops are going back home, in surrender and in complete compliance with U.N. resolutions.
However, U.S. airplanes bomb the the beginning and the end of the convoy and trap all the other vehicles in between. The U.S. airplanes then bomb everything in sight, leaving a mile-long stretch of burning steel and flesh. The attack was unprovoked and illegal; against the Geneva Conventions.
12 years later, they march back into Iraq. The route that they took to Basra was Highway 80. There's a disturbing sense of irony to that. Clearly, one mile was not enough.

On Wolrd War I

2008-06-04T00:43:00.000-07:00

"If there is ever another war in Europe, it will come out of some damned silly thing in the Balkans." - Otto von Bismark

Sattire Attire part VI: Blame the Name Game

2008-05-28T22:05:00.000-07:00

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet." - Shakespeare, William (Romeo & Juliet)

After having finished his soup and having licked his bowl clean, our hero gathered the courage from what little hope he had to make an overture of a little chit-chat.
"Excuse me, Madam."
Calm. Cool. Collected. Like a professional of an unnamed profession. Like a hunter.
"Yes?"
Slightly puzzled. Slightly Caught off-guard. Slightly overwhelmed. Like a pretentious prey.
"Are you expecting any company? "
And he thought, not so calm and not so cool. Too fast and too early.
"No, I am not... uh are you the manager?"
Still unsure about the purpose of the dialogue. She wondered if she had done something wrong, after all she was a stranger here.
"A manager I am not. Though if you expected company, a dog in the manger I would be..."
Words not character. That's the key, he thought to himself. Feeling proud of his witty-self.
"Je suis desole, je nes comprends pas. Ma anglais nes bien pas."
She understood the words, but not the meaning of the words. It was like reading a newspaper and still being unaware of what had happened.
"Pardon?"
Just my luck, he thought. Ma francais nes bien pas.
"Oh, I am sorry. My English is not very good... Were you calling the manager a dog?"
"Haha! No no! Do not misunderstand me. The manager and I are good friends. In fact, I run most of his business." Awkward pause. Words not character! How now? "So,I gather that you are new here?"
"Is being new a crime?"
"Quite the contrary, in my opinion. Though some would consider it to be so. Though, before you start feeling unwelcome, might I ask you if you have decided what you'd like to have?"
"You say that you come here often, what is it that you would recommend?"
"The special for special people of course. I myself just had..."
"Fool's hope soup? My English is not that bad. Do you take me for a fool?"
"My dear madam, it is I who is the fool. Fool enough to try and make your acquaintance after but a glimpse of your graceful person"
"Quite the charmer, aren't you?"
"Like I said before, the special for special people..."
"Indeed. And by what name do the special people address you?"
"A man lives one life under many names. My friends call me Affable, my enemies call me something inappropriate. My team-mates call me Captain, my colleagues call me Ambitious. The beggar calls me Rich, and the rich call me poor. The women call me a Romantic, the men call me Reliable. The public calls me a socialist, whereas the politicians call me a Vote. If I were to wake up on the other side of the bed one day, I could be something else altogether. A name is but a word with no meaning. Call me an adjective that suits my person. Bestow upon me your reason, or what would you have me be?"
"What do you call yourself then?"
"Sylvester"
"Then Sylvester you are."
"And you would be?"
"I am nobody. Nobody you've met until now. I might remain that way, in fact I probably will. I beseech you, coerce me not into revealing what I call myself. Cajole me not, you do not know how deep this well is. For the time being, I am Nobody."
"Would Nobody like to go for a walk?"
"What was it that you had? Fool's-Hope soup? Aptly done."
And so, like a hunter who's run out of bullets, Sylvester had run out of words. A prey in the dark is just as dangerous as the hunter. So, when the hunter runs out of firepower, the balance of power shifts and the roles change; the hunter becomes the hunted and the prey becomes a beast. If the hunter's (now hunted) smart he will realize this change of position.
And so, Sylvester turned around to look for a friendly face. None. A familiar face? No where to be seen. Dmitri had left, he realized. He was in the jungle alone, in the dark. He felt vulnerable; she knew his name. Nobody knew his name. Ever.

Sattire Attire part V: True Say

2008-05-18T22:57:00.000-07:00

"... for truth is truth to the end of reckoning" - Shakespeare, William

They call me the whetherman. I do not predict the weather; such folly ambitions dwell not in my desires. I am the man that tells the truth when asked for it: I've never told a fat woman that she's not fat. I've never told a 'singer' that they can sing, when they can't. I've never even encouraged them. I've never complimented the chef if my gustatory sense was not satisfied by the delicacy. And I've never told a child that they could be President.
I tell the truth, and I do it because it allows me to patronize others. That's my reason and that's another truth. Knowledge is power but truth is a weapon, which when wielded inflicts a wound such that it cannot be healed. Like death, it cannot be undone.
People come to me as if I am some holy man. I am not, I don't believe in god. I am not well educated either, I dropped out of college. But truth does not need reason, truth needs no faith, truth needs no logic or science. All it needs is for someone to recognize it and not corrupt it and say it as it is without realizing the consequences. The problem with education is that you realize the consequences and then you distort to truth to suit your reasons.
I say it out aloud as it appears, "whether you like it or not" and that's where I get my alias from.
It's very simple. If you ask me what the weather is like to day, I would tell you. But if you ask me what the weather would be like tomorrow, I would not tell you for you would have asked the wrong question. It may sound an easy thing to do, but how many times have you told a man the truth when you require his favour? How many times have you told a relative that you do not like them? How many times have you spoken what is true when it would've done you ill? How many times have spoken the truth when you were under no obligation to do so?
Don't get me wrong though, telling the truth is not my occupation. It is just my disposition.
"I hear you have a way with words" asked a man not too tall. I did not notice him walk up to me, it was as if he could become invisible in a crowd of three. I was not caught off my guard and I displayed as much surprise as one does when one flips a page of a book.
It was as if I had anticipated this chance occurrence. The thing that felt odd though, was the fact that he walked right up to me and, without any sort of introduction, he had started the conversation. He got to the point immediately. I liked him already. I continued the ambiguity...
"Do I? I suppose I do. Everyone does."
"I meant, I hear you tell the truth..." said the man.
I took out and lit a cigarette, I studied his features as I did so. The look on his face was that of a veiled determination; he had something on his mind it seemed, but you could not tell what it was until you heard the strain in his voice. His voice but a sonorous whisper. He was not too broad, not too athletic at all; if he had a woman, it would not be for his looks. He had solemnity in his stride which was intriguing. Like I said before, you would not notice him in a crowd of three. But when you did, you'd want to know where he's headed. For he carried around with him an aura of mystery. There was something ominous about his presence, but in a comforting sort of way. You did not feel any danger, you just felt that you're about to be put in an uncomfortable position, as if you are about to witness occurrence that you don't want to. After the smoke cleared away I noticed that he was waiting for me, not too impatiently, to continue.
"Do I? Yes, I suppose I do"
"Everyone doesn't"
"Haha! I suppose you have a knack for it too"
"A knack for it? Suggesting a lack of it to begin with?"
"I see that you have a way with words too"
"Everyone does, as you said so yourself."
"I must admit that I did, Mister...?" It was about time I asked him for his name.
"Dmitri"
"Pleased to meet you, might I suggest we grab some grub or brew while we discuss... whatever it is that you want to discuss?"
"That would be suitable."
"I know a diner around here somewhere that would suit our purpose..."
"Excellent!"
It later turned out that the diner served only one purpose; his. But that is how things were meant to be, whether I liked it or not.

Sattire Attire Part IV: Social Geography

2008-05-06T21:06:00.000-07:00

"My God she's the one, Dmitri" said our hero for the nth time. Dmitri kept adding sugar to his coffee, so that his horrendous tasting drink would take his mind off his friend's unending nonsense.
"What do you think?" inquired our hero.
"I think I wish this coffee were Irish" uttered Dmitri with an obvious hint of frustration.
"What? She's Irish? I've always loved Ireland..." and he went on to describe his love for Ireland.
The most knowledge he'd had about the land was derived from the movie called Braveheart, and that movie was about Scotland.
I should have kept quiet, thought Dmitri, this is a pointless crusade.
"...white houses with blue doors stationed on hilltops overlooking the sapphire Mediterranean sea.." went on our hero, now describing the south of Greece.
"The Mediterranean sea!? That's between southern Europe and North Africa! And no where near Ireland!" voiced Dmitri in his voice of logic and reason.
"Oh but in my heart everything is a metaphor, everything beautiful is one and the same. It is all Ireland for now. Just as we are one and the same. Me and my Bella" Our hero said in his voice of treason.
"Bella isn't even an Irish name!" voiced Dmitri some more.
"Oh so she IS Irish?"
Dmitri poured some salt into his coffee and then he said with strained politeness,
"Remember what I told you about the mirage and the desert?"
"Well I remember you telling me about a desert and a mirage, I don't exactly remember what though. But there are no desserts in Ireland, there are some, though, in Northern Africa. You mean to say that she's from there and that she's not Irish?"
"In your language of metaphors, yes. Yes, she is from the desert. Your whole life is a journey through that desert. You see her and you are drawn to the idea of her. The journey has made you thirsty, and in your suffering you see an oasis which is not your... destination. Or if I may put it more poetically, your destiny." said Dmitri, trying very hard to maintain character.
"Can we call it destiny-tion then?" Our hero, ever reliable in his stupidity.
Dmitri took a sip of his coffee, which by now contained a considerable amount of sugar, salt, pepper, pancake syrup and soup. He winced and shrugged off the bad tasting coffee and comment. He then got up and walked out of the diner.

Where did the spoilt sport go for vacation?

2008-05-05T02:19:00.000-07:00

The Bahanas

Troubled minutes and dark thoughts (part II)

2008-04-21T18:10:00.000-07:00

Thick fog. So thick that it blocked his view of the sky. Or maybe it was just too cloudy up above. Either way he had no way of telling, and it mattered little. The clarity of the sky that is. The fog, however, was the reason why he was awake at an unholy hour. What he was about to do was probably illegal, that fact did not stiff his conscience. Whether or not it was the right thing to do did.

The question of 'how an illegal act can be the correct and moral thing to do?' was what had prevented him from taking action earlier. Now, in the dead of the night, which was pretty dead itself, he was going to commit the crime. No external influenced had cajoled him save his own reason. Which is why there was no turning back, it was going to happen tonight.

It was cold but he walked, he loved the winter smell. Winter smelt different. It felt different. It felt cold, yes but it brought out a side in him that he feared himself. He felt calm, like an ocean with no wind. Steady but deep and dark. The deeper, the darker and more ominous. And the worst part of it all being that he felt no remorse for feeling that way. Just fear.

Darkness is synonymous with evil. The dark lord is evil where as the bright lord, if there ever were any, would be anything but evil. The good in man fears the dark when the evil in him revels in it. The evil in man fears the day, when the good in him longs for it. It is but a cycle of the contrasting natures of man in relation to the nature of the world.

So in winters, when the days are short and the nights are long, it was but natural for him feel the way he did; slightly evil. All his reasonings were tainted by that very nature of him and so he felt that what he was about to do was just. An act of evil motivated by a repercussion for the good. Though reasoning, now, was a thing of the past. He had reasoned and he had decided. And he thought of nothing else but the task at hand. Tonight, under the cloak of darkness, he was going to do it, he was going to plant the seeds of a riot. (To be continued in part III)

Sattire Attire part III: deserting dessert

2008-04-21T02:14:00.001-07:00

‘I want to break free from your lies, you’re so satisfied I don’t need you. I want to break free’ Queen – I want to break free

And so it happened. All that had to happen eventually: A modern-life altering event. They had walked not too distant from each other for only a short distance and he was trying to keep pace and catch up. He never did. She was always ahead of him and still gaining speed. It was as if she was luring him into a never ending false hope. Like holding candy over a child’s head and then whisking it away when the child jumps at it.

He cursed himself in his own head and the hat kept remitting the ill-feeling back. He cursed Dmitri when he was in his company; cursed him for not keeping his vigilance intact for him.

Though Dmitri knew better than to take those offhand words to heart, he’d been in a similar position before. He’d seen it all before and he’d heard it all before.

“That damned diner is cursed” said he who’d been smitten with ill-fate. They both knew that it was he himself who was cursed. It was he himself who’d always fallen for a trap.

“You make a dash for the mirage” said Dmitri, “when you should stay on course”.

“A mirage?” inquired he.

“Yes, my friend, a mirage. A sense of infinite hope though be it only false. Like a piece of glass likened to a diamond in a stash of coal. And when you reach for it, it inflicts upon you a gash. You bleed due to your own greed.”

She had walked away from him. And he had walked to her. She had vanished like a mirage, like hope that was artificial. And she had left him in a desert after pulling him off course. Was he to blame himself or was he to blame her? He had to break free from her trap. He blamed himself. He had to break free...

“I’m hungry, let’s go to that diner” he said finally.

“That damned diner?” Dmitri mocked.

Not yielding any attention to that bit of rhetoric, courtesy another ill-fated mirage, our hero responded “Yes that damned diner. That’s the one. And today’s special will be special, I can feel it”. His eyes transfixed. "Yes, I can feel it... that's the one, I can feel it..."

“I’m sure of it. Do you feel stupidity?” Dmitri read the situation as accurately as an open book.

“..I can feel it!” His eyes, mind and heart transfixed on the oasis. He had broken free from her. He had not, though, from the cycle which governed his shame. Deep inside he knew that he should know better. But he could feel it. He failed to see, though, that in the entire universe it as only he himself that could feel it. Only him.

When they entered the diner, the sign read "Today's Special: Fool's Hope". Dmitri read it, our hero on the other hand was trying to fathom something else.

"Today's special for me" ordered he.

"One too many you've had" said Dmitri, "Just coffee for me. I'll watch him eat and then complain. Thank you."

St. Crispin's Day

2008-03-15T18:49:00.000-07:00

EXT. DAY. Agincourt

King Henry:

What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmorland. No, my fair cousin:

If we are marked to die, we are enough

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God's will, I pray thee, wish not one man more.

Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart. His passport shall be made

And crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man's company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is called the Feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a-tiptoe when the day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall see this day and live t'old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say "To-morrow is Saint Crispian":

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars

And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he today that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now abed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day!

Shakespeare, William - Henry V (Kenneth Branagh version)

Facts of Life => Fact of the day part 4: Thank you for Joking

2008-01-10T01:22:00.000-08:00

So it's Pindi we discuss today, in briefs (error led pun intended) though. Islamabad's twin, not identical ofcourse. The two have as many similarities as does an unmatched pair of cotton socks; they both share the weather, and the socks share the cotton.
Islamabad may be Islamabad during the day, but at night it belongs to the Pindi boys. And why not, they're twins. Which brings the comparison between the two to a close and we zoom in to a Nihari hang out in Pindi, where the delicacy being manufactured, unspoiled, by too many cooks. The owner has clearly been feeding on Nihari every since his Cerelac days; he does not need a naala for his shalwar. He squats in front of his register, next to the broth, stagnant like a caterpillar. Cater-'pillar' indeed. He pinches the mole on his left cheek and he straightens his beard with his fingernails. He sticks his pinky in his ear and then he shakes it with so much vigour that his skull shakes. He then stealthily makes the culprit hand disappear and oddly enough at the end of the night his shalwar has rust-like stains around the knee-cap area. And to top it all of, he would belch like a man who's had his fill of nihari... well that naturally makes sense. This man is all about the Nihari and sometimes the Nihari is all about him. His joint though, not his shalwar-knee-cap, is very popular. So popular that it even creates interest in the Islamabad part of town. At a time too early for the Pindi boys, but too late for the Isloo-sers (a term coined by the Pindi boys to get back at the Isloo-sers for calling them Pindi boys as opposed to Pindi bouays), a group clinching their upward pointing nostrils walks in. The obese man takes notice: cha-ching! There is a sense of urgency among the staff, the chotas are prompt to the calls, the dirty dishes are wiped twice before being served and the obese man belches with his mouth closed. The nihari though, thanks to the too many cooks who don't spoil the broth, lives up to the word that had spread. One of the new-commers then gets up to face the obese man to pay for the experience: cha-ching! "I'm alright Jack, keep your hands off of my stack". While he's paying through his upward pointing nose a cat drops out of no where between him and the cater-pillar man. "What the hell?! Ye kya hai?" inquires the young man in accented Urdu. "Billi...urrrrp" comes the prompt reply. A moment later the look of disgust on the young man registers with the cater-pillar man and he placates him by telling him that the cat is the part of his masterplan for getting rid of the rodents in kitchen. Enough said.

Comming Soon

2007-12-14T10:04:00.000-08:00

They told her she couldn't.
And so, she had a reason.

The Tree

2007-12-11T09:01:00.000-08:00

Deep inside the warm lands, where flowed grand and ancient rivers, stood tall the tallest mountains, where slept the still and silent deserts, where the pasturelands stood proud, lived a boy in a village. The boy did as all the other boys in the village; he woke up at dawn, worked in the fields, went to school, fed the animals and played with the rest of the children in the village.
But all the other boys in the village did not do as he did, for he sat under a tree, a big old tree, the oldest in the village and the horizon that encompassed it. He sat under that tree at dawn for breakfast; he watched the birds get at up first light and sing their morning tune as their search for crumbs and worms began. He sat under that old tree when he wanted to rest from working in the fields and he would enjoy the shade and the fresh breeze that it brought him. He would sit there and think. He would think about his past and the tree’s past. As far back as he could remember, when he first came across the tree, it had not grown much. It still had the same number of leaves, branches and twigs, yet he had grown to almost twice his size. Maybe the tree was immortal.
He would sit there and think about his present and the tree’s present. He would think of why the tree bore no fruit. Maybe the tree was wise. He would think that for a long, long distance, no tree could rival this one. But a lot of boys could rival him. He would also think that the old tree was his tree, but was he the old tree’s boy? He was the tree’s friend, but was the tree his?
This question made him uneasy and he would sit under the tree and he would spend many an hour thinking about it. One day, when he could take it no longer, he decided to ask someone. He asked his friends, they told him to go ask someone wise. He asked his siblings, they told him to go ask someone wise as well. He asked his father, he told him to go ask someone wise. When he asked who in the village was wise, his father said go ask your mother. He asked his mother, who in the village was wise; she said that his father was. He asked the workers in the field and they told him that they were wise, but they did not look it. If they were wise they would not be working fields, instead they would be sitting in the shade and talking in the city.
No one he knew was wise. People he knew were either honest, dishonest or fools. If they were honest, they would tell him to put forward his question to someone wise. If they were dishonest, they would claim to be wise. If they were fools, they would claim their husbands or masters to be wise.
The days went by, and he stopped going to the tree for the question caused him much pain. He would work slow, eat less, not play with the other children anymore, he would just sit and think and worry. His father saw that the boy was disturbed, and he asked him why he would not go to school regularly. The boy told his father what disturbed him and he told him that nobody in the village was wise. His father laughed, as he did when he knew everything, and he told the boy not worry, for if he went to school everyday, he would one day become wise and answer his own questions himself along with those of others.
His father was wise, the boy thought, but not the sort of wise that would answer questions for him. And his mother was not a fool; she was wise to marry his father.
The boy then never missed another day of school. He would be the first one to reach school, and the last one to leave it. His teacher could not help but appreciate the boy for his enthusiasm. He did so one day after school, and he asked him what it was that brought about this change. The boy told him all. He told him of the tree, of how there was nobody wise in the village save his father but he would not answer his question for him and wanted him to be wise, which is why he came to school; to answer his question for himself. The teacher then asked the boy about the question that bothered him. And he did.
The boy thought that the teacher, too, was wise, as he did not answer his question for him. The teacher told the boy, that the tree is not an enemy of whoever does not harm it. Yet it is not a friend of whoever does not harm it either.
The tree gives so much, what does it get back? Thought the boy on his way home and there he found his answer. The next day, he went to the tree to eat his breakfast. He did not eat all his bread and he did not drink all his water. He spilled the water near the roots of the tree, to feed the tree and he left the small pieces of bread on the grass for the birds of that tree, so that they won’t have to leave the tree that loved them so much so as to let them build their houses on it. The boy then knew that the tree was his friend as well.
The boy went and told his friends and siblings that he had answered his question. He thanked his father for the advice he gave, he told his mother that she, too, was wise. He told the workers in the field that if they were wise, they would work extra hard on the fields this year and he told his teacher that he wanted to learn more.
That night the boy slept peacefully after many days. He slept so soundly that even the storm, that kept half the village awake that night, did not stir him in his sleep. He awoke to a morose morning mood in general. The roofs leaked, the firewood was half-wet, the floor muddy along with the usual platter of post-rain problems. None of that would dim the boy’s mood. The boy grabbed his breakfast and walked towards his friend.
When he jumped across the canal, the spot where he would first get a glimpse of the tree, he saw it not. He saw all the other trees, the shorter ones but he did not see his friend. With dread in his heart he ran to where the tree once was and saw it lifeless on the ground; dead birds scattered near and under it, and the homeless ones mourning their loss.
The boy ran home and told everyone of what had happened. It did not seem to bother them too much. They were not the tree’s friend and the tree was not theirs'. He told his father and his mother, they told him not to worry, and that another tree would take root. But the tree was his friend. He told his teacher, and he told the boy that everything in life must one day come to an end, and that the boy should not worry as another tree would take root.
The words of his teacher did bring calm upon him but only managed to do so for a little while. Nobody was the tree’s friend, hence nobody cared. He sat next to the fallen tree in the heat; he sat next to his shade. He thought about the future that he had imagined; his and the tree’s. That when he would be old, the tree would be the same and they would still be friends. He alone felt the pain that day; only he was sad for the tree. If another tree were to take root, would it also be his friend?
The boy did not move from where he sat all day. The longer he sat, the angrier he became at the cause of the tragedy. He was like a boiling kettle left on the stove. An old man sat down beside him and tried to make conversation with him. The boy kept silent. The old man told the boy that he too was sad for the tree, and that he too was angry and wanted revenge but his weak bones would not allow it. The old man said that he would not live long enough to see another one take root and that he would only be at peace when he’d avenged the death of his friend.
Confused, the boy asked the old man how he planned to attack storm and lightning and the will of God? At this the old man laughed, he told the boy that it was not lightning and storm that brought down the old tree, but evil men from far away lands.
There was cunning, vile and deception in the old man’s eyes. Yet only he understood his pain and suffering. The boy did not know whether to believe the old man or not. It was almost dark and the boy got up to leave, the old man said that he would camp next to his friend that night and in the morning he would leave for his revenge.
The boy got home, still sad and silent. That night, the village was to celebrate the beginning of the monsoon season, there was to be food and dance and singing. He got to festival to see that his face was the only sad one among the hundred that surrounded him. It was as if nothing had happened and no one had died. He thought of the crazy old man, untrustworthy though he seemed, but he was a loyal friend to the tree. He thought of the crazy old man and his crazy ideas. And then he thought that grief had stricken the old man too hard. But grief had stricken him too... not hard enough?
The celebrations were cut short by another storm. That night, however, everyone slept soundly. The boy, too, it seemed slept soundly. The storm, however, was just as fierce as the last one. When morning came, the tree’s friend was missing from his bed and so was the old man from his camp.
Months later they found the boy, wounded and taken prisoner in a desert land far away. In the time spent with the old man, the boy was exposed to a cruel world where injustice was law. He then harbored injustice. Any friend of the tree was also his friend, and prejudice and war against the friends of his friends was unacceptable. He then harbored prejudice and war. He let the tree fall; he was not going to let his other friends fall. The old man was his counsel; he had brought him this far.
He would take revenge for all the pain and suffering that he’d witnessed. He felt he was fighting the fair fight, for when he was mortally wounded and was being carried away, he did not fret at all for he knew that after he would be gone, another one would take root.

That's not Cricket.

2007-12-03T01:39:00.000-08:00

Throw, throw, throw the ball, gently down the seam
Murali, Murali, Murali, Murali, chucks it like a dream
Bowl, bowl, bowl the ball, gently through the air
Murali, Murali, Murali, Murali, here comes Darrell Hair ... No Ball! - (Cricinfo)

Cricket, a synonym for abysmal in Urdu, is what we will disguss(t) today. Pardon me, I meant Cricket is what we will dis and cuss today. Oh damn! What I really meant was, Cricket is what we will discuss today.
It will be tough though, I'm not in good form, though it's not as pointless as Mohammad Sami's place in the side.
With the greatest regret I'll attempt to mock our team's cricketing skills. Yes, for once that is a bigger joke than their English speaking; is well done by PCB, the boys is presentable off the field. Though not so much on the field, and I wonder which matters more. I present to you the Cricket Dictionary:
Salman Butt: See Imran Nazir
Yasir Hameed: See Mohd. Hafeez
Younis Khan: (Adjective) The act of spanking the bottoms of the team-mates at every bottom.. I mean, every opportunity that presents itself.
Mohdammad Yousuf:(not a verb) Trying to walk in Inzi-imam's oh so nimble footsteps.
Shoaib Malik: (choke/joke) Captain.
Misbah-ul-haq:(noun) Hero to Zero (or vice versa).
Imran Nazir: See Yasir Hameed
Kamran Akmal: (flat out liability) Liability.
Shahid Afridi: (class act) Resumed career after achieving his life's dream of building his own Afridi XI at home.
Shoaib Akhtar: (super-star) Sex, drugs, alcohol and the heart of a tiger.
Rao Iftikhar: (fact) Had batting average of 75 in ODIs. Bowler by profession.
Mohd. Hafeez: See Salman Butt
Sohail Tanveer: (joke) Not right-footed, but wrong-footed.
Danish Kaneria: (aspiration) One inning wonder.

On Votes

2007-09-08T16:41:00.000-07:00

In each man’s hand lies the nation’s fate,

Each man is a star of nations great.

-Allama Iqbal-

The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test

2007-09-05T11:22:00.000-07:00

Can you hear me now? Am I coming through? Is this sweet and pure and true?
Devil came by this morning, said he had something to show me. I was looking like I've never seen a face before. Here we go now, let's slide into the open door.
Pictures and things that I've done before, circling around me, out here on the floor. I'm dreaming this and I'm dreaming that, regretting nothing. Think about that.
I'm seeing waves breaking form to my horizon. Yeah I'm shining. I'm seeing waves breaking form to my horizon. Lord, I'm shining .
Are you hearing me? Like I'm hearing you?
You know I always lost my mind, I can't explain where I've been. You know I almost lost my mind, I couldn't explain what I've seen. But now I think I see the light.
Lend me your hand.
I'm happy now, I'm too late to find that the images are fading away.
Did I pass the acid test?
You'd better go to bed now...

The Chemical Brothers feat. Richard Ashcroft - The Test

Deal, No Deal.

2007-09-02T12:21:00.001-07:00

The lull before the storm is a phrase that's become obsolete in politics. As the much anticipated general elections are, apparently, just around the corner, the political climate is anything but lull-ly; it's stormy.
BBG (B.B. Jee) is negotiating deals. And the 'innocent' brothers are relying on pure brute force and street politics to seal a hypothetical deal. However absurd both of their positions may sound, they still thrive on popularity.
For one, it's difficult to comprehend how two individuals can reach a deal where more than 1.4 billion individuals are involved. It's not democratic; which raises the obvious question of why the deal has the good blessings of the time-and-again-proven-to-be-nothing-short-of-idiotic American government officials.
"Let's strike a deal. You rule and let me stay too." The important question of the democratic process of voting seems to have brushed aside by a murmurous "oh pfft". BBG, these days popular in the farce known as the American media, has made significant progress in the popular game-show known as "America's next top puppet". The winner signs a deal, and as a bonus gets their corruption charges dropped.
The last bit is a punch line echoed by absurdity. It ought to be a difficult fact for non-smokers to swallow.
There's no grey area in such a scenario. Any entity, barring the independent court (holler!), that mentions 'dropping of corruption charges' is, as 2 + 2 would suggest, corrupt itself. Shame on you BBG and SSG (Commando)! if you want your charges dropped, contest them in court.
Today's headline read "No Deal". Seems like BBG's Swiss accounts are far from bankruptcy status,as she's confident that she can survive for four more years without taking any bribes and/or the like. Hence, judge Judy, the jury and common sense rule "Guilty as charged" to the previous charges of corruption because BBG did not win any lottery (whether the Prime-ministership is a winning lottery ticket or not is debateable).
Come play the game some other time. For the winner, we have a luxurious four year trip to Islamabad with unlimited access to the tax-payer's money transferable to numerous bank accounts in Zurich.
For the Runner-up (who has played this game before), we have four more luxurious years in exile... oops, we have four years of vacationing, sponsored by our dear friends known as the tax-payers. If, for some very, very odd reason, that does not materialize, we also have for the runner-up a not so luxurious yet memorable stay at the infamous resort known as the Montgomery Jail.
And now a word from our sponsors, "We will liberate eye-rack".
Time to divert our unimportant attention to the not lucky players of the game, who are in the ill-favour of our sponsors. Those too 'innocent' for the game; the one and only, no wait... no double duo of the 'innocent' brothers. Not happy with their winnings of the stay at the resort, the brothers decided to abandon the game show and not play again for another 10 years. They even signed a deal/contract with another network to that effect. However, now that the new season is about to commence, the situation is drastically changing. The producers of the game show at WhiteHouse productions are still displeased with the misconduct displayed earlier. If the innocent brothers do decide to cause havoc, they will displease their new beneficiary as well.
So, what do we do? What do we do?
About what?
About eye-rack!
We weight
We wait!?
We weigh in our options and we ummm sign NO DEALS!
Look what they did to eye-rack after they signed the deal. They took them off the air (maybe a little too literally).
The storm is afoot. The die is not cast yet; no deals are signed. Let's keep it that way; uncorrupt. The votes should count, and more importantly the votes should be counted.
Thank you for watching Deal- No Deal, let's hope nobody wins in this pig-fest ordeal.

Troubled Minutes and Dark Thoughts.

2007-08-27T11:13:00.001-07:00

He lay in darkness. Since the electricity had decided to take a break, he could only hear the clock, the sound of which was otherwise... invisible. There was only the ticking, no tocking. No talking either. He lay on his back, almost motionless as if out of humble fear. He lay there till he could deciphire different shapes in the code of dark. He saw the lamp, in shape but out of life. The chairs, the window, the clutter in the corner, he saw it all in shape but out of life and colour. He felt lesser fear and more comfort. He recognized his room enough to make an educated guess of what lay where. He could not, however, make an educated guess of when the electricity would be called back from its recess.

Electricity, a fool's paradise almost a century ago, is now an economist's inelastic good. Kingdoms and empires were built and held strong without electricity forever before a hundred years. And yet if it's taken away now, life becomes still. Electricity is the equivalent of a beating heart, and maybe within a few years, in more ways than one.

Thoughts like these hardly ever bothered him. He was busy in demarcating the point of discomfort; the level of moisture that his shirt ought to reach in order to prompt him to get up and change. In the darkness he picked his nose and rubbed his finger on his shirt, he WAS going to change eventually; showing no confidence in the electricity's loyalty. And with fair reason, electricity acted like royalty, often sought and seldom found.

As the ticking grew monotonous it grew fainter. The beating of his heart now took center-stage. He thought of the phrase, "heart skipping a beat". And he tried, oh so hard, to skip one. However, he could only manage to make his heart beat faster and faster.

He was awake, but he hadn't moved much. He lay there like a twig in a puddle, ready to embrace whatever future it may have to endure. The negative tone and the word 'endure' reflecting the pessimisstic nature of the man. He had already thought of seven different deaths which he might end up enduring in the blackness of dark. None of them, though, was suicide and half of them involved the super-natural. Black was his favourite color, but he was secretly afraid of its essence.

Once he had completed the gory list, he decided his least favourite was getting bit by a snake in his sleep. That thought had distrubed him a great deal on an earlier occasion. He decided however, that he did not mind dieing of shock. Yes, he would not mind that.

So, he said whatever prayers he could think of and he started preparing himself for a shock.

Luckily the shock that came did not kill him. The electrical shock was back; electricity had returned. In less than a minute he had disposed off all of those ill-thoughts and changed his shirt. In another minute, the only sounds you could here from his room were that of the air-conditioner, the fan and himself. The clock became non-existant, like all that supported it; a nail in the wall.

And ( just for fuck's sake) he lived happily ever after...

well said

2007-07-18T22:11:00.001-07:00

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/6902368.stm

Pearl Jam

2007-06-20T23:34:00.000-07:00

"Well then, sit down, my friends, and I'll tell you everything I've just learned from a book on Ceylon and the Cingalese."
Ned and Counseil sat down on a couch, and the first thing the Canadian asked was: "Monsieur, just what is a pearl?"
"Ned," I answered, "to the poet, a pearl is an ocean tear; to Orientals it is a drop of hardened dew; to women it is an oblong jewel with a glassy sheen which they wear on their finger, around their neck or on their ear; to the chemist it is a mixture of calcium phosphate and calcium carbonate with a bit of gelatin; and finally to the naturalist it is merely an abnormal secretion from the same organ which produces mother-of-pearl in certain bivalves."
Source: 20,000 leagues under the sea by Jules Verne

Sattire Attire part II : Carpe Diem

2007-06-08T00:30:00.000-07:00

"There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures."

Source: Julius Ceasar (Shakespeare, William)

Inspired by the Shakespearean influence, our friend in the hat was thinking along similar lines; Carpe Diem. The other individual in the hat asked for the bill, and he followed suite. He left his companion, Dmitri, with the customary responsibility of the change and tip transaction and he made for the door. The closer he got to the exit, the less speedily he walked; not with the intention to intercept the other individual but to confirm with his vague reflection in the glass that all was shipshape and Bristol. Satisfied with his appearance, he walked out into the shelterless world, the thoughts in his head replicating a sort of a Brownian motion getting more and more restless as the target of his attention approached the exit. At this point, had the thoughts under his hat been material they would have knocked his hat off. Such was the intensity and volume of ideas, bitter and sweet thoughts.

He had stood in this position before, both materially and mentally. And every time he had done so he had failed himself. His pessimistic half had always prevented him from initiating a dialogue with a party of interest. So much so, that Dmitri dealt with his responsibility with added laziness everytime; so as to give our hero ample time to procure an excuse for his failure. Today, Dmitri decided to deal with the issue in terms of pennies, for the other individual in the hat seemed to have the grace of a queen and the charm of a circus master. From the moment she'd walked into the diner, she'd had a gravitational pull effect on our friend analogous to the Earth and the Sun's. He was drawn towards disaster, thought Dmitiri, like a moth to a flame. All the while that Dmitri was counting pennies and contemplating the unpleasant, all of our hero's thoughts had converged into one: Carpe Diem.

Today was the day that he was going to seize. Words unspoken are words unheard. Words unheard are words unheeded to. Suddenly their eyes met and , surprisngly, he seized them this time. Not letting go of the initial connection established, he took off his hat, as was customary for gentlemen to do so in times of morality and civil behaviour. As he did so, his thoughts set free; they abandoned him and flew away, leaving him speechless and palefaced. All the poetry and somberness in his method and movement left him. All that she could do was giggle at the our hero's misery. Prompting our hero to abandon his campaign and retreat. He put his hat back on, dumping the plethora of thoughts back into his head...

Dmitri had counted the change and sorted it out in an alternating head and tail sequence. When he looked up, to his surprise he saw two hats moving away from the diner, not in oppositte directions but not too distant from each other either.

Touch is Touch

2007-06-02T01:11:00.000-07:00

O ye Dastis!

Remember that touch is touch. Baptize yourself in dastiism, for that is the way prescribed. Touch is touch, and let it be dasti. Be dasti and be touched. You will reach the Nirvana of dastiism and be aware that there is no better state...

Be dasti in your ways.

Source: The Wisdom of Dastiism Chapter II Vol VI

Sattire Attire part I

2007-04-21T12:36:00.000-07:00

"You've got me there" said the man in the hat, referring to some pun-ful personal attack by the gentleman sitting on the other side of the table. The comment whizzed past his head like an arrow aimed at an apple. For his sight and conciousness were the slave to another hat in the diner. Not wanting to be rude, he did not abandon his companion. Well, atleast not literally.
The other hat grasped his attention by the throat and did not let go. He was done with his food but had not asked for the bill; he wanted to time it such that he would have an oppurtunity to make acquaintance with the other individual in the hat.
"What's with the hat? Why are you wearing it indoors?" inquired the companion. "It's not just a hat, Dmitiri, it's a thinking hat. Keeps my thoughts from flying too far off, keeps them close to my head" was the witty reply.
What his thoughts were, could only have been guessed by his companion. But we shall be generous enough to share with our audience. It is ironic, however, that the thoughts which the companion was attempting to guess, were guesses themself. Everytime he guessed what the thoughts of the other hat might be, his hat would keep it close to his head. In a way, his companion was guessing at guesses.
All hats hold thoughts. Once you've worn a hat, be it imaginary, and if chance wills you to wear that same hat again, there is a recollection of thoughts which has to be sorted out before new thoughts can be inducted into the hat. Hence the term "Thinking Cap". It makes you think and sometimes about things you've thought already thought of.
When I blog I let my hat do the typing. Ofcourse it's the Pakistan Cricket cap in questions, as all silly thoughts can be associated with it without much friction. Silly is to that hat what yolk is to an egg; intrinsic.
It's interesting to note what thoughts magicians harbour, as it enables them to pull rabbits out of their hats. Vegetarian rodents they are, them rabbits, nibbling away their leafy fodder bit by bit, at lightning speed.
This is a divergence anthem which I intend to pursue at a later time.
Merci .

The Wisdom of Dastiism: to be at sea.

2007-03-30T15:24:00.000-07:00

Some ships are made of gold
Gold ships
Some ships are made of silver
Silver ships
The best ships are made of friends
Friendships
But the dastiest ships are made of guys
Guyship
Let the guyship save you!

The Wisdom of Dastiism: marcS

2007-03-15T19:52:00.000-07:00

"O fellow Dastis, when you chance upon a washroom with no urinals, it be best that you SCRAM!(fast!!)"

The Wisdom of Dastiism
Chap IX Verse 32

Facts of Life => Fact of the day part 3 : Bye, babe Bunting, Good till hunting

2007-02-20T00:31:00.000-08:00

Wasting time. One of the few things which are easier to do than to claim. Easier as a verb than as a noun; wasted time. Unless, you emphasize on one word, "wasted" time. But I guess that reverts back to the former (verb). So much for pseudo-philosophy.
Out with reality. Real problems. Like the distance between you and an accessible not-so-public-bathroom. That's a real problem. You only start keeping track of accessible not-so-public-bathrooms after you've had uh.. an experience.
The experience in question is, obviously, not a pleasant one. Even more unpleasant than wearing a red fur coat, and pretending to be Santa during Christmas in Australia. For the weak hearted, pray don't proceed. For the weak bladdered, this might come in handy. Not making any suggestions about MY bladder here obviously.
Like they say, the pros con and the ears have corns. With the love for rain forgone, chiky chiky bon bon. Mid-blog rhymes are my specialty...... not!
Borat jokes are though..... not not!
The reason why I do not prefer shoes with laces is... knot not knot not knot not knot not.
Tongue twister eh? But not really, the K is silent.
Anyways, as a certain Mr. Carebear would say " My care-o-meter is off " . Now, if a certain Miss CareBARE were to say that, MY care-o-meter would've gone off the charts.
What's this straying from the topic and forgetting about the poor bladders. And so it starts with:
Food from 'Bomber'. Ironically, the food in question is just impossible to fuck up. Or so I thought until that unfortunate yet eventful day. Who fucks up chicken fingers? Who can ruin chicken fingers, even after trying to do so?! Chicken fingers are like rubber, they're supposed to be... uhh (encountering difficulty in drawing an analogy)... you get my drift I suppose.
Anyways, reverting to the really tense past-tense... even before the bill was on the table, the food from 'Bomber' had started its bombardment, and in no subtle way. The insides of my stomach were getting tossed around like a half-filled barrel on an old ship, experiencing the very NOT charming Pacific weather. I know, I fucked up a knot joke.
After the time on my watch read 'quarter past eternity' the bill was payed with an illegible amount of tip and under the circumstances, the waitress should be glad that my care-o-meter was still on. Then came the awkward goodbye.
"I'm going, bye. I'll see you in half an hour."
No need to wait for a response. Ha ha.... No need?!?! Time was gold then, in fact, I got it wrong, time was like money for food; not a luxury, an absolute necessity without which I could've been subject to ample social embarrassment.
And so the dash began... and I planned on saving the best for last. Yes, the big explosion after the bombardment. But time's stopped acting like a luxury. I'll have to fill you in on the much anticipated ghastly details some time later. I know you'd rather this than the pseudo-philosophy... aah yes the token of time's goodwill... and the lonely flower by the riverbank...

It's Noon time.

2007-02-19T12:01:00.000-08:00

http://justthenirealised.blogspot.com/2007_02_01_justthenirealised_archive.html

(haha haha haha)

The Red Sea

2006-12-17T05:17:00.000-08:00

"...But Captain, since you have seem to have made a special study of this sea, could you tell me the origin of its name?"
"There are many explanations for it , Monsieur Aronnax. Would you like to know the opinion of a fourteenth-century chronicler?"
"Yes."
"This writer tries to maintain that it got its name after the passage of the Israelites, when Pharaoh perished in the waters which closed in at Moses' command:

'As a token of this wonder

When the sea was rent asunder,

Turning red, it was then known

By the colour it had shown."

20,000 leagues under the sea - Jules Verne

What's up? Nothing.

2006-11-30T02:06:00.000-08:00

There's much to share. But talk often, we don't. And then the words are left behind in the infinite web of time as could-have-said memories which fill the widening ridge and distance.
"What's up?"
"Not much"
There's always an unsaid story...

Why do people blog?

2006-11-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

Ho (hypothesis naught):
To write about something profound and dramatic, which rarely occurs. Hence, overly simplified situations are portrayed in an overly dramatic cloak, suggesting overly profound meanings with an overly buttered up vocabulary.
Hi (hypothesis one):
To check by how long they can delay their trip to the bathroom as a result of writing non-stop.
-->
-->
Apply K distribution and find out the value of c for a 95% confidence interval. Then, drown in a well and/or watch Hostel.

taroB

2006-11-20T16:21:00.000-08:00

A word of advice. Do NOT watch Borat with relatives. Even if you're sitting 5 rows away, at the end of it when you're bombarded with the "What nonsense" and questions asking you whether you enjoyed it or not, it's really hard to lie and say "No, I did not enjoy the perverted humour" with that stupid, overlit smirk on your face. Atleast, don't suggest watching it, but DO watch it.

Banned

2006-11-03T07:37:00.000-08:00

Asif's banned. Shoaib's banned. Might as well ban cricket.
And verdict should be passed on the basis of law not the moral code. Intikhab Alam on Shoaib Akhtar, " occasionally smokes...he drinks (alcohol), is sexually active..." like 99% of the cricketers. Ban the PCB.

2006-10-09T17:48:00.000-07:00

Cisco Disco Molvee

Still funnay. Even after 20 viewings!

a trip to the mosque...

2006-10-06T02:08:00.000-07:00

The feeling can only be described as guilt. Like when you plagiarise and get credit for it. Upon being aware of the fact that there's free food for iftar at the local mosque, my first visit to the place of worship came about. Never ever had I any intentions to visit. But if you're brown, the word 'free' is kryptonite. An empty stomach contributes is key as well.
An empty stomach, in fact, is very very evil. Alot more is spent during grocery shopping. Everything looks apetizing and delicious and edible and the impulse factor is high. And because you can't actually eat anything, you imagine it being eaten as you put the items in your shopping trolley. Those chocolate chip cookies looked delicious, my instinct actually forced me to buy those overpriced cookies. Now, 5 days later, they've expired and have to be thrown away. What a waste. The waste list is long, and I'd not like it to be brought up and published. Enough about empty stomachs.
The initial evil plan for the evil-doers was to wait outside till the namaz ends and then join in afterwards for the feast. The guilt-factor in that scenario was too much. The rain saved me from being mutinuous and the gang moved through the empty parking-lot and towards the entrance. In an attempt to take the shortest route possible to shelter, I looked to enter the mosque with first door that came my way. And I was almost startled when I read the sign that said "sisters entrance". And it said so without the apostrophe. The temptation needle had ticked beyond 90 degrees, but refrained from bringing it up with the rest so as to keep the sanctity of the place.
Upon entering the mosque it became apparent that we had pretty much missed the prayer, much to the joy of the gang. A few moments later, a young bearded man approach and put forward the question, "Brothers, would you like to pray in congregation?" . He too had missed the prayer. I walked after the man to pray in congregation. and then I prayed in congregation. And finally, I was taken to where the free food was being served.
Free food has a taste of its own. And it's NEVER bad. Pigging out is not a good idea when you're surrounded by pigs. You don't want to them to start pigging out... so you refrain from triggering.
Upon entering the feast late, obviously I had to deal with problems that had to do with scarcity of plastic spoons and seating space on the floor. After taking a small helping from the dish that was being passed around, I became the quiet, passive observer standing in a corner. That's when I was accosted by the old man who was carrying out the proceedings in an almost non-orderly fashion. He asked me, incorporating the word 'Brother' in the begining of his sentence, why I was not seated. As he asked me that question, I felt as if I was surrounded by prying eyes and nodding heads. I told the old man that I do not have a spoon and that I was looking to be helped in that regard. He motioned his hand towards his mouth and said "take hand!!!!" and then pointed towards some space on the floor on the eating mat. The nodding heads nodded harder.
Two things befuddled me. The fact that a 60 year old man called me brother and, more importantly, the fact that I had to eat korma with my hands. Roti and Rice exclusive. Luckily some rice managed to make their way towards me.
After sorting me out the old man then turned to the other bystander and asked of him why he had no plate nor spoon in his hand. The bystander was obviously performing the act of takaluf... hahaha takaluf with free food, must be canadian born was the thought that revolved around the eating mat. The old man, though, put forward to him the ultimatum. That either he grab a plate and eat or that he grab a pot and serve. The bystander was not judged and was accepted when he chose the plate.
I meantioned pigs earlier. If you've witnessed the mannerisms of most men at wedding dinners, you would not be alien to the sight that was before me. Nor was I. But this one man. He'd be the KING of wedding-eaters. The King Pig. When the old man came back to finish off with the korma, the last bits of it, he asked if anyone wanted any of the little korma that was left. This King wedding-eater, shot up from halfway across the room, made to the entrance, his plate half-full, being observed by other self-proclaimed kings, their jaws nailed to the floor. He hopped and leaped and made his way to the door and just managed to drop one piece of meat. The old man, however, was no flimsy dictator. His eyes immediatly shot fire and his reproach reached a new level of sting when he said " This is the house of Allah! What do you think you are doing!??!?!"
The King, however, payed no heed. There was silence among the other fifty 'brothers' towards whom the reprimand was not directed. But the king, calmly and coolly as if nothing had happened, quickly nodded towards the pot, his mouth too full to ask for more. That was like a sign for me, to make it my last visit to that particular mosque. They serve free food everyday and I have not visited since. I should be superman.

Clampdown

2006-09-28T03:42:00.000-07:00

The judge said five to ten-but I say double that again,
I'm not working for the clampdown!
No man born with a living soul
Can be working for the clampdown!
Kick over the wall 'cause government's to fall,
How can you refuse it?
Let fury have the hour, anger can be power
D'you know that you can use it?

The voices in your head are calling
Stop wasting your time, there's nothing coming
Only a fool would think someone could save you
The men at the factory are old and cunning
You don't owe nothing, so boy get runnin'
It's the best years of your life they want to steal

The Clash

RamaDan

2006-09-25T15:47:00.000-07:00

An empty stomach precedes an empty mind. I have nothing to write and nothing to write about. The last couple of hours of the fast are the most absolutely useless, the marginal productivity of a being tends towards the negative. I have tactfully, and probably not too smartly, overlooked the fact that now I have to prepare my own iftari and instead I'm blogging. The end result being the adaption of the 'Bismillah Halal' policy. The policy in question states that the chicken, be it brown, white, black, yellow or orange is a muslim chicken once the holy words are recited before the feasting of the beastling. The holy words may not necessarily be called upon if the chicken in question is brown ( good probability that it's halal ).
Bloody vegetable samosas. Technically, the curse is void. "Vegetable" samosas cannot be "Bloody". Anyways, vegetable samosas are a total waste of stomach space.
Also, I can never comprehend why we've been taught the word as Ramzan where as the whole world has to pronounce it as Ramadan. I hope we're not saying it wrong, or worse, doing it wrong.
Well, some of us do anyway. I always thought that during a fast one of the battles one fights is to curb one's anger and control one's tongue. Today, I inquired from an esteemed colleague of mine, whether he was fasting or not. The reply was along the lines of...
"Haan bhenc-toot- meri b-toot- pha-toot- gaee hai "
In retrospect, I think the B-Halal policy works.

vous comprenez?

2006-09-24T21:57:00.000-07:00

je ne comprends pas!
je ne comprends pas!!
je ne comprends pas!!!
je ne comprends pas!!
je ne comprends pas!

The Rain Song

2006-09-21T22:36:00.000-07:00

It is the springtime of my loving - the second season I am to know. You are the sunlight in my growing - so little warmth I've felt before. It isn't hard to feel me glowing - I watched the fire that grew so low.
It is the summer of my smiles - flee from me Keepers of the Gloom. Speak to me only with your eyes. It is to you I give this tune.Ain't so hard to recognize - These things are clear to all from time to time.
Talk, Talk - I've felt the coldness of my winter. I never thought it would ever thaw. I cursed the gloom that set upon us...But I know that I love you so.
These are the seasons of emotion and like the winds they rise and fall. This is the wonder of devotion - I seek the torch we all must hold. This is the mystery of the quotient - Upon us all a little rain must fall.
Robert Plant (Led Zeppelin)

Yan can cook

2006-09-18T21:29:00.000-07:00

And so can I. But only matar-palao.

Stumped

2006-09-16T22:43:00.000-07:00

Think about walking down by the river in an abundance of unnatural silence. Think about being accosted only by harmless insects and unnaturally silent falling autumn leaves. It seems that on first impact with the earth the leaves have finally reached home and rest. Have they? Have you?
In the image of a blue sky with familiarly-shaped scattered white clouds, unstoppable and uncontrolable running water winding its way to the end, surrounded by an infinite carpet of lush green and dewy grass with the umbrella shade of thick tall trees blocking the horizon, have you reached home? In this image can you nap? Or would you prefer napping with just the imagination?
What brings you peace of mind? The peace of mind or peace between borders? Can you rest without the remote-control in one hand and the airconditioner on the wall? Can you rest with both hands empty? Are you dependant on today? Would you rather choose the imagination or would you rather choose today?
Do you want to pluck an apple off a tree or order from a menu? Where do you reach home and tranquil? How dependant are you? Would you rather choose today over paradise? Or has paradise changed? Does it have playstation?
Stumped.
Will there ever be any rest...

Ekoj

2006-09-12T20:52:00.000-07:00

What do you call a banana that wears a vest?
"A banyana"

Confession

2006-09-11T23:30:00.000-07:00

I saw Sonu Nigam perform live. All the valid excuses in the world can't acquit me. Point and laugh, assholes.

Yo Bush!

2006-07-21T11:49:00.000-07:00

Bush: Yo Blair How are you doing?
Blair: I’m just…
Bush: You’re leaving?
Blair: No, no, no not yet. On this trade thingy…[inaudible]
Bush: yeah I told that to the man
Blair: Are you planning to say that here or not?
Bush: If you want me to
Blair: Well, it’s just that if the discussion arises…
Bush: I just want some movement.
Blair: Yeah
Bush: Yesterday we didn’t see much movement
Blair: No, no, it may be that it’s not, it maybe that it’s impossible
Bush: I am prepared to say it
Blair: But it’s just I think what we need to be an opposition
Bush: Who is introducing the trade
Blair: Angela
Bush: Tell her to call ‘em
Blair: Yes
Bush: Tell her to put him on them on the spot.Thanks for [inaudbible] it’s awfully thoughtful of you
Blair: It’s a pleasure
Bush: I know you picked it out yourself
Blair: Oh, absoultely, in fact [inaudble]
Bush: What about Kofi [inaudible] his attitude to ceasefire and everything else … happens
Blair: Yeah, no I think the [inaudible] is really difficult. We can’t stop this unless you get this international business agreed.
Bush: Yeah
Blair: I don’t know what you guys have talked about but as I say I am perfectly happy to try and see what the lie of the land is but you need that done quickly because otherwise it will spiral
Bush: I think Condi is going to go pretty soon
Blair: But that’s that’s that’s all that matters. But if you, you see it will take some time to get that together
Bush: Yeah, yeah
Blair: But at least it gives people…
Bush: It’s a process, I agree. I told her your offer to…
Blair: Well…it’s only if I mean… you know. If she’s got a…, or if she needs the ground prepared as it were… Because obviously if she goes out, she’s got to succeed, if it were, whereas I can go out and just talk Bush: You see, the … thing is what they need to do is to get Syria, to get Hezbollah to stop doing this shit and it’s over
Blair: [inaudible]
Bush: [inadubile]
Blair: Syria
Bush: Why?
Blair: Because I think this is all part of the same thing
Bush: Yeah.
Blair: What does he think? He thinks if Lebanon turns out fine, if we get a solution in Israel and Palestine, Iraq goes in the right way…
Bush: Yeah, yeah, he is sweet
Blair: He is honey. And that’s what the whole thing is about. It’s the same with Iraq
Bush: I felt like telling Kofi to call, to get on the phone to Bashad [Bashir Assad](9a and make something happen
Blair: Yeah
Bush: [inaudible]
Blair:
Bush: We are not blaming the Lebanese government
Blair: Is this…? (at this point Blair taps the microphone in front of him and the sound is cut.)

The Best in the WORLD

2006-07-09T15:54:00.000-07:00

Before the world cup started, Lippi told Cannavaro that if Italy were to make it to the World Cup Final, it would be Cannavaro's 100th appearance for his country...
You don't loose on your 100th appearance. Italy are the best football team in the world. Better than Brazil, Argentina, Germany, Portugal etc. It's a proven fact. They are world champions. Any one who chooses to argue has definetly had a hard pill to swallow this season.
All those who are of the opinion that the italians dive... only the french dive in the world cup final to win a penalty, oh so talked about. They don't play the boring game because they do not play in the English League.
P.S. What was Zidane thinking? Wanted to make headlines one way or another? So out of character...

On a roll

2006-07-02T16:05:00.000-07:00

mahir says:
haha
mahir says:
necessity is the mother of invention
mahir says:
and profit-margin is the father
****- says:
okay SHUTup

Smells Like Team-Spirit

2006-07-02T05:32:00.000-07:00

FORZA AZZURRI

7.6 reasons to still care

2006-06-30T15:51:00.000-07:00

The sun was out and blazing, it was just another ordinary day with clear skies. No one was aware of the darkness that was about to ensnare everyone for the years to come. That’s the thing about earthquakes isn’t it? You don’t know when they’re about to hit you. There is no warning and not everyone is blessed with the sophisticated machinery that could throw caution to the cruel and hard wind.

You know it’s going to rain when you see dark clouds and grey skies. You know it’s going to snow when it’s really cold. And you expect there to be fog when there’s due and moisture. You don’t expect earth-quakes. Sometimes you don’t even feel them. They come and go while you’re asleep and the next morning the late-night owls ask you whether you ‘felt it’ or not. Yes, sometimes you don’t feel them but sometimes you don’t get to…

She was worried if there was enough salt in the food. The delicious aroma of spices explored the kitchen area like a ghost in a tower. She brought forth the spoon to face her gustatory test. There was enough salt and she was tempted. But she was waiting for her husband to come home. She’d see him after three months. He was a soldier and was serving far away from home. The anxiety and the excitement had kept her awake for most of the night and as a result she got up later than what she had planned next morning.

Cramped for time, she was cooking with her best dress and jewelry. Looking and cooking her best at the same time. She looked at the clock and breathed a sigh of relief; there was still plenty of time before she could start expecting him. Everything was going according to plan, everything was perfect. She looked outside the window; bright sunlight. A blink of an eye and then there was bright darkness. It was perfect no more. Muzaffarabad had fallen. One tick of the clock separated the city and the Ghost Town.

Tragedy! Thousands dead and countless homeless. The Doctor in Islamabad watched the news with horror stamped on his face. His jaw had anchored. It dropped and it stayed there. And he thought of those who’d been destroyed and had no help; those too far up North and away from the infrastructure. He was a doctor, he would help them. But who would bring them here? No one? Alright, he thought, he’d go there himself. He invited a couple of colleagues who were just sniffing for the like, they packed up some supplies and they were off to be the saviors.

They saw human civilization brought down to its knees, close to the dust of the ground. There was no rich or poor, no walls to separate a household from another. Everyone was poor, everyone was homeless. There was no hurt or healthy. Everyone was hurt. There was death in the air, death of man but hopefully not human spirit. There was death all around, but there was worse. There was crumpled life. They rescued a man from the rubble by cutting off his leg. He would’ve died if they let him be. He was not given the choice of life, he was unconscious. They saved him, they cut his leg. His family under the debris, did they do him a favor? Dilemmas like this were scattered all over the place like sand on a beach. Who was to play God here? Who was playing God when this happened?

They hadn’t planned this out too well at all. They were short of medical supplies and trained hands, hell they were short of hands. They headed back to get both, driving by hundreds on the road who’d lost everything. The exodus has begun.

She awoke to hell. There was no fire but it was hell. She was stuck under her dilapidated house. She didn’t know whether her legs and feet were burnt from the hot food or broken from all the concrete or both. Agony gripped her perpetually. They say that if one withstands pain for long enough, one gets used to it. It’s not true. When your house falls down on you, pain always hurts anew; it’s always as intense as before every time you realize that you have broken bones and a broken house. It’s always in the foreground. Like a surprise every second.

On top of the pain there was the hunger and thirst. She wished she had more than just tasted when she checked for salt. She herself was not aware of how many times she had passed out and woken up. Her eyes felt heavier every time she came to. Her arms swelling up to stiffness. She awoke to a choice; she knew that if she passed out again she wouldn’t come to again. She had to choose whether or not she was going to struggle for life or quietly accept death. She thought of her husband and she chose life. She did not know that her husband was under a landslide an hour away from the was-home. And you don’t survive landslides.

She awoke to a choice but she awoke because of a commotion. She could hear footsteps and talking and shouting. The rescue teams, she thought. She struggled to get her swollen arm through the tiny gap on top of her to catch someone’s attention. A man came and said something she did not understand. Maybe she’d damaged her hearing too. Though, he did sound a lot like a familiar foreigner. He grabbed her arm and started pulling. Pain seared through her shoulder and she tried to pull back her arm but his grip was too firm. She cried aloud in pain but the pulling did not abate. She soon realized what he was after. He wanted the rings and the gold bangles on her swollen arm and fingers. They wouldn’t come off, her arm had swollen to such an extent that they possibly couldn’t. She could feel her skin slowly being peeled off by the metal. And then she heard herself scream so loud that she thought she’d deafen herself, she did for a split second deafen her whole world. When she opened her eyes next she saw herself in a pool of blood and her arm reduced to half. She survived, she lived but something else in her world had died; human spirit.

Their second trip lasted much longer and was much more successful than the first. They had more supplies and more doctors, more hands. When they were going back they were worried about where to find more supplies and help. They only had to get to the clinic to find a small truck filled with supplies ready to go. Everyone had heard of what the Doctor had gone to do and everyone wanted to play their part even if God hadn’t, he thought, God was testing them? The first trip lasted a few long hours, the second lasted a couple of days and now they were headed back.

He’d always wanted to ride in the back of a truck and this couldn’t have happened at a worse time. This couldn’t be punishment he thought as he felt the wind in his face, he felt refreshed as if after a lifetime. Why would God punish these people? He should punish him, almost atheistic he was. The Doctor battled his thoughts in his head as he rested it against the edge. Little did the doctor know that he was indeed about to be punished. A Cobra, black as death was loitering near his head, by the railing. And just as it was about to strike at its prey one of his men struck at it with a stick and it fell off the railing and onto the road. Onto the road? No! It fell on the Motorcyclist’s helmet, he was already struggling with all the medicine bags that he was carrying and at the point of impact he lost control and fell.

They came to an immediate stop. The doctor rushed to motorcycle to check for vital signs. But as soon as he got to the injured man he saw a face smitten with snakebites. And he cursed everything around him, for a good man who was out here helping these helpless people on his own, had died for no reason. His eyes fell on the bags and he thought they could make use of his supplies on all the towns that they would come across on their way back. He opened the bag to a stench so bad that it made his olfactory sense want to collapse. Inside he found arms and hands, swollen and adorned with blood and gold…

The death that killed thousands which came silent as night during day time, not only just brought out the animal in many, it also brought out this amazing side which can only be described as human. It happened a few months ago but a house takes more than a few months to build. The question is, how long will it take for a city?

The earthquake was recorded at 7.6 on the scale, the death toll in thousands. Where were you when it had happened, at home? So too were the thousands who died. You lived. Was it for a good reason though? Some survived and lived, give them reason, let that be your reason.

[Thank you BQ, for the title]

Random LaLa

2006-06-20T18:47:00.000-07:00

Apple, twist and soda. Tissue bright delight. Rainbow, dress and savage. Three floors of flight. Random random random. La LaLa LaLa. Fathom tathum fathom. Honey tikka kabab. Intoxication in clouds. Of the backward alphabet. Don't, no and never. When's the what time to get. No further questions please, I am in exhaustion phase three. Honorary members of the cloak, only hot women can save me. I want to digest abstract philosophy. Paint the scars on skin. Turn from lemon to lemony. Trees and badgers akin. Rest in peace Yoda, elderly Jedi Knight.

Look away girls

2006-06-20T18:44:00.000-07:00

http://www.pkblogs.com/danibhai/2005/10/womencant-live-them-cant-live-without.html#comments

This is so funnay.

The spring, moraine, fort, loo, farm and the lady finger

2006-06-09T06:11:00.000-07:00

Dry beyond exhaustion I stepped aside for the old-man. Everything was ancient about him but his eyes. He mocked my youth with them and said "thuk gaya??". Just as I was about to reply my eyes fell upon the otherwise unmissable load of wood on his back. I was speechless and pointed to my bottle of water as I shook my head, indicating that I was just excercising the proper manners of drinking water; sitting down. It was then that I re-realised that a blow to one's ego is enough to rejuvenate. I shall come back to this after I've described the horror of the 2 day bus-ride to our destination. The ride to Karimabad was spent in a haze, with short-term anticipations of food and long-term anticipations of clean, humanly accessable/useable toilet facilities. The trip made sure that we don't anticipate either ever again. The one night stay at Bisham is probably my worst night this year. Now I know how homeless people feel. Having no place to sleep and eyelids dropping by the weight of several anvils. Also, it was the first that I was introduced to the 'Aalo Anday' dish. Eggs and Potatoes. Yuck is the first thought that comes to mind. But I wasn't thinking when I ate my first roti. The first plan of action upon reaching Karimabad was climatizing. Acclimating oneself to the umm washrooms and the water that resides therein. Cold showers with grey water. It's clean drinking water they said. I did want to believe them but water's supposeds to be nothing but crystal. Then there was the Baltit fort, which I visited twice. Once with friends and the second time with friends and the Chief Justice. The guide was clearly more relaxed the first time. He was making jokes then. The second time it was the Chief Justice who was making the jokes. Almost everyone laughed both times. The Trek to Rakhaposhi's basecamp was indescribable. Tired and alone, having eaten just a brownie for breakfast and carrying a miscalculated amount of supplies, I enjoyed every bit of it. Even when it was raining and I had no waterproof clothing. You walk better when you're tired. Four hours was the turn around time and I went all the way. Almost all the way.
The first climb was all sand and dust and rocks and wind. You asking yourself "why am I here?" is inevtible. But patience bears sweet fruit, as the walk for the next couple of hours can be described as nothing short of magical. Walking almost at the foot of snow capped mountains, apparently at an arms reach, has to be magical. In short, I'd do it again. But the end, the last climb throug the moraine along with the weather caught me off-guard with my time calculations and I had to turn around but not without another view fixing itself at the back of my mind. The walk back was uneventful, except for a donkey urinating in a stream. And on my climb down from the huge compilation of barren rock and sand I met the old man who inquired if I was tired. He was carrying five times the load I was. I pretended (oh, so badly) that I was fit and that I had just stopped for a water break.
The Trek to Ultar Meadows the next day was pretty much uneventful except for the initial dangerous climb onto the track. I don't have the vocabulary to elaborate on that bit, and I don't want to bore my self by writing about it. Skipped.
After this trip my knowledge about precious and semi-precious stones has increased ten-fold. Err I won't elaborate on how though... not now.
The return stop at Bisham was another high point in the trip. I decided not to sleep the night again and make up for lost sleep during the bus ride to Islamabad. We climbed down to the Canadian-like artificial beach next to the hotel and the dam construction. It wasn't even sunrise and the water was COLD. There was a late realization that I was walking in the river Indus, that's a thought. I put my foot in Indus. All ten toes.. hence in-'dus' . These names make sense all of the sudden. This wasn't really a beach, it was a riverside.. literally.. but I'll call it a beach. It would beat most beaches, especially the Clifton beach in Karachi. Bisham Beach.
At Islamabad we witnessed the most avidly anticipated wait for food at KFC. Nothing more, nothing less.
The should've been easy ride to Lahore was torturous thanks to horrible music and dead battery on my mp3 player. Not being ungrateful, I'm glad I didn't have to sit through the repetitive Abrar ul Haq tape and the circus that came along with it for the other four fifths of the way. Not meaning stamp on anyone's feelings but that's just not for me.
Upon reaching Lahore one felt relief and grief. You never associate the two with the city. And after that I slept and watched the World Cup. Forza azzurri!