smokerings

I drive home late these days. In a car full of people I don’t know. It beats taking the bus back. Or having to drive myself. The headlights pick out a dog’s arse trotting down the road, grey balls jiggling. A kid stands in front of Bhutto’s gaping face, his dirty clothes hidden next to the billboard’s bright colours. I feel bad, now. The glossy teeth, the lifted hand, the hansom face of her father with pigeon shit on it seem strangely out of place now, like poster advertising a carnival long after it’s over. All over Clifton, watching the tired cars sullenly wait for traffic lights to turn green, shadows picking through rubbish heaps, waiters shifting feet, arms crossed behind them on this quiet Friday night. The radio prattles on, some genius of a housewife earnestly wishing all those poor people hadn’t, all these horrid politicians wouldn’t, and our wretched government didn’t and I feel my brain gently glide off the side of the brick its been slammed against. Thank you, I’m barely alive, just tingling at the edges. You may now take your pound of flesh, condemn the senseless violence, bark on about the evils of corruption and the malignancy of democracy and the goddamn shame, the pity of it all.

KH said, last night, just before I went to sleep “Saima I wish you could be here, this… words fail me. The atmosphere her is electric, it’s absolutely amazing.”

You’ve won, you were right, I hope you’re happy. I was happier last night.