its a strange thing, lonliness. its the feeling of walking away very fast and realising that no one is following you. or entering an empty room and hearing your own breath echo off the walls. when we were kids, we'd run away and hide in very secret and clever places and if no one came looking, it would hurt. inexplicably.
we drove forever, it seemed. drove miles and miles along winding mountain paths, the van lurching this way and then that. compassion is a universal language, isnt it? at some point i wonder why people dont throw me out of their houses, when i come around in my shapeless grey kurta and surveyor's rude hiking boots and clipboard. because no one ever crossed their thresholds, sat on their charpais, drank their tea and asked them.. so, how's life? so, what do you think? so, how are the kids? how's it going? no, tons of people are in and out every day. why welcome the outsiders? oh, and its not a kashmiri thing. its not a rural-people thing. its not a muslim thing. i don't, i don't understand why they've always been so goddamn nice to me, the outsider.
(the rudest, most reluctant respondents ive ever met, in my years of surveying and interveiwing, are the uncles and aunties of Sector U, Defence.)
so anyway. if you're interested, the WB/ERRA 3000 bucks program was the biggest joke, the most pitiless scam i have ever seen played on poor people. im not even going to start with what they've lost already, between the earthquake of oct 2005, the landslides of jan 2006, and the mudslides of august 2006. on top of everything, we've driven them crazy with roumers instead of just letting them get the hell on with their lives. god alone knows what the designers of this program were thinking. just goes to show that the only people worse than the senseless technocratic assholes that run this country are the senseless technocratic assholes who give them the money to do it.

and...

Green paint

Journalists and wonks treated by the Whitehall PR machine to early drips of Stern have made much of the report's likely impact on the world stage.

That's not surprising, as those journalists and wonks are British, and we just love to see ourselves painting the world green as we once covered it in pink.

On the international stage, getting Stern accepted and acted upon faces four major problems:

* continued resistance within the US to the scientific consensus
* the reluctance of major developing nations to accept any constraints on their economic growth
* the absence of global economic drivers which will make it more profitable, say, to invest in clean coal technology over conventional plant
* in democracies, parties advocating any degree of economic pain typically fare poorly

If those arguments look familiar, that is because they should be; they were major obstacles to climate action even before the Kyoto Protocol was born almost a decade ago.

They are as real today as they ever were; and until we see politicians the world over prepared to campaign on a platform of pain today in exchange for a smaller reduction in jam tomorrow, the jury must be out on whether the Stern report will bring any change to the international climate field.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/6098124.stm


clearly, conventional economics doesnt have much room for long term growth at all. only you have to be a Ph D in Economics to be able to say things like that and get heard. and how likely is a PhD economist to say "well, lets face it, everything i've studied so far is mostly bullshit"?

[ mine ]

we forgot to leave
breadcrumbs,
i can't trace
your start, your end
(you are
a non-issue)

[driving back from
the beach, your hand
in mine
in yours.]

do you want to go
a little
crazy, tonight?
ill lose my mind,
and move,
like you've never seen before.

all this,
and i only ever mean to say
the one thing.
between my letters is a place
you know how to get to.
is it lonely where you are?

i'll take
this dance, if you
will.

she sensed, now, that something was wearing thin at the edges, fraying so slowly that it was hard to notice. they rubbed their arms unconciously, walked just a little quicker; the sheets didnt end up as a twisted rope at the foot of the bed but stayed wrapped around their warm limbs. she sensed that if something must be said, now would be the time to say it.
i dont love you anymore, she said to herself in the dark. the words were clumsy, they didnt flow as well as she would have liked. so many places to stumble, so many syllables to trip over. would "i dont love you" be better? no, but that sounded so finite. it obliterated everything else. "anymore" was more.. hopeful. that once, she did.
i am incapable of anything beyond this. my whole life will become about it, and then i will cease to exist. i will be lost, like a face in the crowd, like a group of students chanting at a rally, i will be lost behind leaders, behind ideals. i will never be me.
"i dont think this will work out." but why resort to euphemisms? isnt that the same clearance we give everyone in our lives, like we terminate contracts, like we quit jobs? but really, it is like a job. if it works out, well and good. if it doesn't.. well, thats life, right?
i am never going to be that good. im scared that you might leave me, so im leaving you first. so that it doesnt hurt me, that much. besides, youre not good enough for me, and you never will be. i'm just here because you flatter my ego. you're just here because no one else would want you. we're just here because we're desperate and lonely.
...

Kafka's Metamorphoses is a brilliant example of how meaningless our lives are, how we will always struggle to give them meaning but the world, the people we love, will be the very ones to turn against us and crush us like bugs. we are eternally opressed by society's expectations and will never be able to go beyond those because there is no way out of this trap unless and until we die.
...

i want to take up a sport. i want to narrow my world so that i focus my entire mind and body on a single act and just push it, perfect it, until i am capable of doing things that i was never capable of doing. it doesnt have to affect anyone else, i can do what i want with my life. its my liberty, my freedom, to not care about anyone else.
...

i understand the world. i understand the suffering i cause other people by just being an upper-middle class person whose sole interest is earning enough money to send their kids to school and college and to have a nice house to retire in. i convince myself that by struggling to achieve this i acheive "success", and by being successful i am contributing to society and to the benefit of other people. i didnt change anything, i didnt even stick up for the people who were trying to change anything, but thats ok. my kids went to school and i had a house and really i dont care about anyone else. besides, its too much effort to think about anything else.
...

i love him. and maybe i should get over my own insecurities and believe him when he says he loves me, but its too much effort to change the way i am, its too much effort to think..
...

i'd rather just be safe.
i'd rather not think.
its too much to believe.

----------------------------------------




it's your fundemental human right not to give a fuck about anyone but yourself.
i'm just always going to be on the other side.

Angular Momentum:
Warning: this comic occasionally contains strong language (which may be unsuitable for children), unusual humor (which may be unsuitable for adults), and advanced mathematics (which may be unsuitable for liberal-arts majors).

sweetest thing :) thanks, a.

it takes a lifetime out of me, when ive got to say goodbye to you before ive even said hello

full moon, 14% larger, lunar eclipse. [ 8th sept, 2006. ]

gotta be some kinda lucky.

[ this will be the most extraordinary thing that two people have ever done ]

cities dont get more twisted. guts on the road, we're used to the inches, the millimeters that seperate us from this and that. the slivers of space, crawl your car through, rocks on the road, this is the way, turn here, autopilot, autodrive. the heat, the sun, glaring you down. the buildings are torn and the air is cooler than most. im driving, again, sandwiched between a Kompressor and a Surf, cars with names like household appliances, its easier to nudge away big shiny cars when you're half their size and dont give a shit about your paint job. pedestrians flatten themselves against the edges of the road in order not to get squished. fresh bread with dahi. what did her mother tell her in the morning? dont come back until.. but what will we eat? impatiently, go to the doodhwalla, he'll throw you scraps. how much for an iced coffee? we dont ask that here. the best waffles in town, i wrote. its very easy, writing. rooftops busted, the trees and banners scraggle but the shamiyanas are alive and well. the shops are plump, like well fed budgerigars. you watch your parents get old and sick and die, you watch your friends get jaded and move away. nothing changes, not for long. "we're landless, dont you see? it wasnt the drainage or the infra-fucking-structure... we're LANDLESS. we'll sell to anyone who gives us anything." come back, naa, back to where the streets arent straight and the water tastes like shit. come back to where your driver thinks of the next porn movie while staring at your little sister, come back to the strikes and silences. its not catastrophic or dramatic, its not crumpling or crushing it's just crumbling, slowly, sinking, the fish and weeds will take over, this giant stinking atlantis, but come back, do come by, do come and visit, wont you. and bring a boat. i can mark out the routes on a map for you, the bits i know, tell you which roads to take, what times to avoid, what to notice, what did they destroy, oh my god are those people? no, fuck no, just beggars, just hijras, turn right at the petrol pump, drive straight down the pylons, stare and stare before you turn around and fly away.

that which you fear the most will meet you half-way there.

(it already is.)

leaving, tomm. i miss you already, meri jaan.

"shes very pretty" yourevery pretty, when youre there wishiwishiwish i was pretty, i wishiwish you could be
me
the postcards will come oneatatime, oneatatime, the pictures will upload and im living on thumbnails, looking through keyholes, scrabbling at windows, comebackcomeback he said dont go somewhere i cant follow you (iwishiwishiwish and the candles blew out on the birthday cake)
its been a year and a half since i saw him. and the last i remember was at the airport, when he dropped me off and not a word, not a word since forever i wonder what it is that makes people leave and never come back. picturepicture upupandawayupload isnt that wonderful? isnt she wonderful? because she can fly, she flies everywhere. what do you see here, what is it that you love, why do birds still come back every winter? and oh, the places you'll go, i can see them in you, im so hungry, so hungry, so hungry. whatever happens (not much, not a lot) and whatever goes (this that, nothing really) one day i will fly to the stars and you'll see them in my eyes, and i'll wear them on my back and i'll touch the ocean on the moon and you'll see it where it met my skin and you wont be there, you'll want me back, you'll wonder where ive gone, i can be there too, i can be there.

[ in passing. for a. ]

"Memory's images, once they are fixed in words, are erased," Polo said. "Perhaps I am afraid of losing Venice all at once, if I speak of it. Or perhaps, speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little."

~ Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

"Comparative Politics down 20!"
"Ok, hold it.. keep waiting.. how we doing on Macro?"
"Still 59.."
"Ah, shit. What have we got so far?"
"IPE, History of Decol, Humanitarian and French."
"French?! Who the hell wants French?"
"But.. it was empty!"
"..alright, whatever. When Comparative Politics hits 10, drop French."
"Macro up 72!"
"What?! Damn those freshies!!"
"Comparative down 12! Should i drop?"
"Ok, er... ah.. ok, drop, drop!! Apply for Macro before it shoots up!"
"Section 2 of Macro down 60!"
"Brilliant! Who and when?"
"Burki, 8.30, Tuesday Thursday."
"Burki? Argh... alright, whatever, just apply.. Add Comparative as backup!"
"You're over the unit limit!"
"What?? Thats not possible..."
"Hold it! Time clash!"
"Shit!! With what?"
"Macro and French!"
"I'm not taking French!! Why does it want me to take French?!"
"Ok, hang on.. French dropped, Macro up 65.."
"Get a move on!"
"Wait.. hang on.. why is this..."
"What??"
"Course Reg not responding."
"Nooooooooo..."

- a day in the life.

you cant keep a bit of the sky for days when it rains. wouldn't it have been great, then, to have had a tiny slice of bright blue, a sliver of sunshine, maybe? but then you'd want the leaves, and the way the light glows off their back. and then i'd want the ocean when its cool and dark and still and not roaring, tearing off great hunks of sky and swallowing them like a mad hungry monster.
fish season, vegetable season, flower season, mango season, monsoon season. mosquito season, moth season. the month where the heat seeps into your skin and lungs and the week where the mornings are shrouded in cool mist. november 11th, the perfect day to go to the beach. two days in february, when spring will arrive. one day in june, when it will rain just for the lovers who stay up all night, watching the sky rip and tear and descend around them, who will remember the way it tastes in her hair, at his throat, on their lips. the season of the hatchlings, the season of pink sunsets, the times when all the children come home, dropping like bright ragged leaves from planes, trains, parachutes. the season when the birds fly back to distant lands, refuel at Haleji Lake en route from Siberia to East Africa. wouldn't it be wonderful to fly, like birds do? can they see the sky even when it rains?

i'd live with you
in a heart beat, in an
instant;
just tell me
when
and where.

he said, her hands clutched at his hair and her nose and mouth crushed into his throat. im running out of words, meri jaan, im running out of words.

[ sard mulk key aaqaon key naam. ]

my country is torrid...

let me wear its dust and wrap its distances around me

-Kishwar Naheed




found, floating, like leaves caught up in a eddy of wind. mujhey iss dhhul ko pehnney aur musafaton ko orhney do. dusty traveller at the edge of world, waiting, wanting to disappear, dissolve into the rock faces and the sun light, leaving no traces in the sand liking (i think) makhtub's hukm of lonliness. will you come with me, ay musafir?

"yaar, i think i'm going to get out early today. *honk into tissue* we don't have any meeting, do we?"
"nahin, go ahead. got the flu?"
"no yaar i just forgot to take my antihistamines in the morning.. its the allergy acting up..."
.
"...take what?"

"er... antihistamine?"

*blank look

"anti-allergic."
"ohh."


alright, so i'm never thirsty, i'm dehydrated. hey, get me some water. im de-hyd-rated. (as opposed to X-rated). i dont get food poisoning, i get gastroentitis. my four years of Bio O and A level are just about enough to get through a dinner conversation between Dr. Dad (MB.,BS. Cardiology; FCPS, FRCS) and Dr. Mum (MB., BS., Radiology) because its not a baby, its a feotus (which is actually a term of endearment at our house), its not a cough, its inflammation/ wheezing, its not an ointment, its hydrocortisone, and its never "have lots of water" its "take plenty of fluids, betaa, have fun!"
you could never get out of a day of school. must have at least 100+ fever or take two Panadols and shove off. never the flu, always the allergy. what do you do when you have an entire drawer of medicines devoted to everything from UTI to cystic fibrosis?
...oh come on, everyone knows what those two are!


apologies to all those who have pointed this out in the past and have had to put up with me denying all allegations (and crocodiles). yeah, you too.

voule-vouz tabliq avec moi? (part of the fantastic upcoming musical, the Mullah Rouge)

three of us from Collective were at a field visit to SITE. we were eating lunch at a dhaba in labor square, when two men in green turbans came around distributing pamphlets. the guy must have lost it when he saw me, sitting there with the sleeves of my kurta rolled up (i was eating, for fahks sake!), the dupatta barely covering my head, looking pointedly at everyone and everything in the establishment. we've found a live one, boys. anyway, so we all got pamphlets too. back at the office, HG couldn't stop laughing. we usually have to hunt these guys down... you're telling me they came to you?! apparently every once in a while Hon. M. Illyas Atar Qadri Rizvi jazbeh mein aa keh khawateen par chand alfaz likh leytey hain. so here's Zakhmi Saanp, #42 (what else?)

Khushboo laganey waali zina
a woman may not wear perfume and pass by a gathering... "kyunkeh woh is khushboo key zariye logon ko apni taraf ma'il karti hai chunkeh islam ney zina ko haram kiya hai is liye zina key asbab sey bhi roka hai." (because by wearing perfume she calls attention to herself and this is conisdered sinful in islam, wearing perfume and passing by a gathering should be avoided.)

extensive documentation is provided on the consequences of bey-pardagi: "aik aurat balon sey latki huwi thi aur uss ka demakh khol raha tha." allow me to rhapsodize on my love for the urdu language. if this is read as iss ka demakh khol raha thaa then it basically means the something was gouging the woman's brains out. on the other hand, if one takes it as uss ka demakh khul raha thaa, it means her mind was opening up. which is worse, i wonder.
oh, right. her crime: "yeh aurat apney balon to ghair mardon sey nahin chupati thi" (she did not hide her hair from strange men)
very briefly, the pamphlet states that being widowed, having to work, having to look after children etc is no excuse for not observing purdah. women who do not observe purdah will never marry in to good families, if they marry at all.

the finer points of the remaining document:

aurat ka chehra dekhna?
"aurat ka chehra agarche aurat nahin (yaani keh ussey chupana farz nahin)magar fitney ke khauf key sabab ghai mehram key saamney munh kholna manah hai. issi tarah iss ki taraf nazar karna ghai mehram ke kiye jaiz nahin aur chuna tou aur bhi ziydah manah hai."
although a woman's face is not the woman (meaning it does not have to be covered) but for fear of anarchy she should not open her mouth in front of a man who is not forbidden to her in marriage. for this man to look at her is not correct, and for him to touch her is worse.

(fitnah, anarchy. couldn't find a better translation, but over the years i've fallen in love with those two words and everything they connotate to the point where i can spend hours just holding them on my tounge, turning them, tasting them, over and over again.)

baariq pajama mat pehniye (do not wear a thin shalawar)

aurat ke kanghi ke baal (the hair from a woman's comb) (hide them, non-mehram men should not see them)

aurat key zewar ki awaaz (the noise of a woman's jewellery/accessories) (are as bad as her voice. should not be heard by non-mehram. should speak softly even when at home because the neighbours might hear.)

gair aurat key saath tanhai (being alone with a woman) (is a sin. unless shes a "badsoorat burhiya keh jo shahut key kabil naa ho" which im assuming means "an ugly old woman incapable of having sex")

anyway. thats enough for now. i'll try to get a hold of editions 1-41. i'm sure they can't all be about women.

i wonder which jamaat this is. it's interesting how migrants can be even more strictly conventional about purdah than they are in their home land. i suppose the danger of non-kin men is greater, the increase in income means they can afford the luxury of keeping women at home, the threat of crumbling values is greater in an urban environment, the implicit loss of status from a land-owner to a wage labourer reflects adversely on the way men excercise power over the one thing that's till theirs, the women.
i don't know how long it takes before people realise that "piety" doesn't do fuckall for them. neither does the jamiat. i'm going to stop attributing all their success to the organizational capacity of the jamaat. i just think they're getting so much money from everywhere.. the donations, the goverment, external groups, their own rackets. its no coincidence that if anyone has the money to set up schools, the jamat does. if anyone has the funds to print pamphlets, banners, pay activists, lead processions, provide food shelter jobs... the jamat does.

so much for great moderate liberalism.
aren't the amreekans lucky? more excuses to liberate the masses. and even more excuses to do nothing of the sort. jamaats like these are probably so happy with the money they're getting from industries and trade that they'll never really do anything to upset ties with the west.
so where are they, the roots of dissent? for great justice, haha, haha. things have to get bad. really, really bad. and when none of the right ways work, and all of the wrong ways do. fitna, laughed medusa.

if you dont stop beating yourself down for once, maybe things would be a little easier. nevine and ali act so juvenille sometimes. its so easy to get angry. walking back and forth was strangely calming. watching blood spurt out of her hand was not. it wasn't even funny. she was tired, the kind of tired you are when you're turned away again and again, always talked to, never listened to and you figure that if they don't care, neither should you. its hot, and you can't go through the day without breaking into a sweat. you can't hold someone in contempt for having a watermelon bed and matching curtains? watch me. everyone wants to leave this house. that door has seen more people escape than enter, and that's not illogical. nevine and ali are people. so am i. and i'm the one who will break the cycle, hoo-ra. and up she goes. will you marry me?

[ founding eveneverland. ]

three bright orange oranges, tossed up into the sky, into the air, we laugh, the universe split and the sun was created in that moment, and the clouds rushed to cover it up, to dim its brilliance. paper planes soared through the sky, we went flying that winter, wingtip to wingtip, drinking the ocean, crushing sand beneath our toes. we danced like we dreamt like we slept and we said goodbye, everytime we say goodbye again and again i keep forgetting but one day i fear that is all i will remember. this feels hideous as the world looks on, these are things we all stopped believing in, that we threw away, that we fear, loathe, hate. and here i am, an outcast of an age, the girl who never grew up (or who grew old, died, and was born again, because of someone she knew) and here i am, celebrating things that dont exist, because either i lied before or i am lying now when i say there is no such thing, no such thing (if you believe in fairies, clap your hands or the last one will die) and i am telling you that there is.

and there is this giddy silence, this hideous, beautiful moment when we were poised at the place where two mountains met and there were rocks and sand between and a sheer drop to the roaring river below and our heads spun, dizzy with fear and then there was that moment (we felt) this manic grin split our face, grit our teeth, laugh at the sky and let our feet run across showering loose earth in our wake. it doesnt matter. at that point, nothing does. i'd rather dieonmyfeet than liveonmyknees.

the evenings are beautiful, these days, brightly pink because of the heat and the smog. karachi is so much to look forward to. tiny trill-prickles jump under my skin at the sparks that bristle at the very fingertips of pylons, sparkling gold against the neon night sky. i love the rush you feel when you stand on a roof and the city just sprawls to all sides of you, and you can feel it pulsing as if were connected to you, physically, organically, that if you flex your fingers half of the lights in KDA will glow brighter and dim, that the sound of motorcycles at 3 am is just resonating to your own tired restlessness. i love waking up, even. the air in the morning (7 am) feels like your skin (goldenbrown, texturelikesun). i've woken up at 7 for as long as i can remember, even if i do go back to sleep. wake up, eyes stare blearily at the clock, mind slightly confused, skin smiles in happy reassurance (he's there. good.) and we go back to sleep.

..it's never been this way before. stones don't make cities. people do.

coruscate, coruscate, aster minifique..

it is interesting and much joyful to know that the reason i can barely afford fuel for my own car is because i am paying for the ministers' cars. and mobiles. and luxury bills. and (who knows?) utility bills. and the water, leave us not forget that. --->

which reminds me. LAHORIS, THERE'S NO BLOODY WATER IN THIS COUNTRY. KINDLY STOP DEPLETING WATER RESERVES. KINDLY READ THE NEWSPAPERS. WAKE UP.

finally (and this is to crown it all off, this is when i start thinking that the world has truly gone mad) :

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

FIR against Khuhro, 4 MPAs

KARACHI: Treasury Member of the Sindh Assembly (MPA) Eshwar Lal registered a first information report (FIR) on Tuesday against five MPAs, including Opposition Leader Nisar Khuhro, for beating him up on June 21. The FIR has been registered against opposition MPAs Munawar Abbasi, Murad Ali Shah, Salim Hingoro and Mohammad Nawaz Chandio, besides Khuhro. The FIR was filed at Preedy police station under Section 506-B of the Pakistan Penal Code (threat to murder) and Section 324 (attempted murder). No arrests had been made by the time this report was filed on Tuesday evening. On June 21, the opposition MPAs beat up Lal during a Sindh Assembly budget session for sending a “love note” to MPA Shazia Marri of the Pakistan People’s Party (PPP). The opposition MPAs and Lal were suspended by the assembly speaker. The four MPAs from the PPP defied the ban and continued attending house proceedings. The Opposition in the Sindh Assembly announced on Tuesday that all its members would court arrest as well should the police arrest the five MPAs. “We have been informed that an FIR was registered against me and four other MPAs,” Khuhro said at a press conference in his chamber. “I am proud to have been named in the FIR.” He said that the FIR was a “plot hatched by the Sindh chief minister”. Qaim Shah of the PPP said that the speaker had punished Lal for the incident by suspending him for the remainder of the session on that day, but had banned the other MPAs for two more days. “The MPAs have been punished and they cannot be punished twice,” Shah said, adding that the FIR had “no legal status”. staff report

and as long as you're reading that, yeh bhi parh lo:

Should women get a dressing down for dressing up?

By Zarnageen

KARACHI: Men and women belonging to different professions spoke to Daily Times about their perception of the Eshwar Lal-Shazia Marri incident. They were specifically asked how a public figure should dress and how should they be treated.

Ruet-e-Hilal Committee Chairman Mufti Munibur Rehman said that women of the assembly should follow the dress code as laid down by Islam and also display the expected mannerisms as taught to them by the teachings of the religion. He said that every Muslim knows that it is mandatory in the religion for every woman to wear complete hijab. Women in the assembly should have separate seats and as far as Shazia Marri’s case is concerned it just goes to show that only modern women face such problems.

PPP MNA Fauzia Wahab said that a workingwoman should be modest and simple in her dressing and mannerisms. Love letters are always showered on women but to blow a little “chit” out of proportion was not appropriate. Eshwar Lal’s beating does not prove bravery or heroic behaviour. Shazia should not have created such a big issue out of nothing. She ended up making a fool of herself.

PPP MPA Rubina Qaimkhaani said that a workingwoman is allowed to look after herself in the form of dressing nicely and grooming herself. MPAs, especially women, should be role models. She said that a woman’s work is judged by her physical appearance and it is important to look nice. Shazia’s incident has nothing to do with the fact that she dressed well, if this was the case then Mukhtaran Mai would have never gone through such an ordeal.

Sindh Hilal-e-Ahmar Vice-Chairperson Shamim Kazmi said a working woman is looked down upon in our society no matter what profession she is a part of. Jamaat-e-Islaami MNA Laeeq Ahmed said like seats for MPAs should be segregated. Men of the Sindh Assembly should respect their fellow MPAs. A woman is worth respecting no matter which field she belongs to.


we spend days and nights throwing the concept of empowerment back and forth. i realise i am left out of that loop because i dont really believe in empowerment of women at all. it doesnt mean that the harrassment and discrimination, the stares and leers and aggression will stop; it only means that women will learn to deal with it on the streets. its a daft word. it suggests that by tolerating a man's gaze long enough to ride a bus a woman is powerful. more powerful? marginally? maybe.
the funny thing is, if we tell our parents (ok, fine. the patriarchs) about the harrassment we face on the streets, they'll only put us back in the house. nothing changes. because we're not talking. isn't it amazing, that metal grill that seperates lecherous male hands from chaste female backsides? i've seen cages in the zoo made of lighter material. we're animals, aren't we?

one day, this country (its people) will realise that nothing matters. not religion, not god, not morality. those books and stories, priests and soothsayers tell you nothing, they have no idea of what you are going through. you trust only yourself, and the people stuck in the same prison. let the rich fly away and become shit-scrapers in other countries. turn around and tell me that your life doesn't have any significance for anyone but yourself. at this point, i really dont care what most of us think about it. what will matter (only, ever, in the end, ultimately) is what any one of us choose to do about it.

so i've been told i stopped blogging. acheeeain. you mean people still check? i am sorry. nothing more disappointing than a un-updated blog [hint hint, UA Tribe].

i am in karachi. this much is known. i went swimming today. there were some fat balding CEOs, a retired millionaire, five screaming kids, two ants and bits of grass in the pool. after blowing everyone away with my spectacular freestyle and less-than-spectacular stamina for two laps, i realise that swimming is actually bloody hard. and bloody exhausting.
i stood at the shallow end, stooping slightly, scoping the scene, looking cool, nonchalantly gasping for breath. zia-ul-haq in goggles drifted in from the deep end, two lanes to the left. two CEO's bitched out a third (not present). you know that one? kal hi i saw him. he came in a Corolla. the new one. acha? haan, haan. must be doing well. god knows, yaar. where these people get their money from.

bhaiyya, you're supposed to go on the higher one! the boy looked 14, until i noticed the bulging arms and abs. 17, perhaps. he bounced up and down on the lower diving board, bouncing like one of those olympic medalists. he grinned, skipped in front, pinched his nose and jumped in, bum first.
make that 16.
the retired pensioner came down the right lane, pah, pah, like a small, very slow motor boat. pink goggles sat at the bottom of the pool. a small fish-like child in a bright blue two-piece stared at them through goggled eyes. the boy swam around and dove inside. resurfacing, he snapped the pink rubber around his own head. bhaiyya, you're a girl.

i pushed myself for five laps, trying to concentrate on the way skin looks when it glistens in the sunlight to distract myself from the burn in my muscles.

it's hot today. tapish. i feel myself going darker. feels nice. for those of you who remember the paper that was presented at the SS conference right after our student panel... the one on the politics of beauty in SAsia.. there was something on the way the darker one is always the wayward one (fitnaa).. none of this white purity chastity bullcrap. i hate being mistaken for a gora in my own damn country. offices, cool white tiles, protective concrete, none of the sun-heat-unskilled labour stuff for us. might as well be gora.

its not Chicago Manual Style. its Chicago Manual of Style, like Vogue or Cosmopolitan. get the latest copy today.

[ my little town ]









complete story: BBC News, or check Dawn.com's updates.


blogging has become a lot harder lately, since they blocked the isp. apologies for not updating more regularly. no newspapers in pakistan today, because of eid milad-ul-nabi, which is also why that bus is burning. the press should be ashamed of itself.

we think its ok to act condescending towards a people if we share a nationality with them. so if a white man says "Africans are so deeply rooted in tribal culture that they cant progress" he's a racist and a bigot. but if a black man says "take an African, give him a bit of power, and he will likely become bumptious, arrogant, intolerant, and jealous of his prerogatives" (p 70, Etouna-Mangelle, Does Africa Need a Cultural Adjustment Program?) he's enlightened. and moderate, leave us not forget.

Does Africa Need a Cultural Adjustment Program? a Cultural WHAT?? are you fucking insane? how do you pass that off as fucking academia? how? how? I'm having fits trying to get through this. i have to dig my nails into my palms, bite my teeth to keep from tearing this book up (edited by Lawrence E. Harrison, author of Underdevelopment is a State of Mind.) oh lord, give me strength.

this is for all those who hoot on mightily about "low levels of interpersonal trust in Pakistani society" and how the poverty and totalitarianism we're facing is an outcome of the "Pakistani mentality." there is no such thing as a "mentality", alright? not since the colonials left, and believe me, they're GONE. they only live on in the way we think. who is the "the average Pakistani": the guy who snatched our mobile phone, the jirgas and rapists, the mob that burnt the bank, the lady who cleans for you, the woman with ten children? how stupid, right? how stupid and lazy and UNEDUCATED and jaahil, right? when was the last time you shared a meal with "the average Pakistani"? when was the last time you embraced "the average Pakistani"? when was the last time you worked besides her? then what the FUCK made you authority on her?

but arrogance aside, how does such bigotry make it into a field that is supposedly governed by academic rigor and careful, conservative emperical-based judgements? people have nightmares about the statements they make based on even slightly dubious data, and you just get up and call an African fat, stupid and narrow-minded and thats ok? did i miss something? is no one worried about this.. at all? or are we going to hold our tounges for fear of being "ideologically loaded?" as if anti-capitalism, anti-consumerism is the only IDEOLOGY. you know when that happens? in the middle of a goddamn HEGEMONY. and we play along, insecure in what we feel and know, scared of being left out of the loop, scared of not gleaning knowledge that might be TRUE, just because, well, everyone says its true.. there must be some truth to it, right? lets be objective, now. they are intelligent people, there has to be something to what theyre saying.

boil, toads, boil.

[ for the SS kids. hilarious. ]

All you’ll ever need to know about the arts
Stephen Moss

History
...
English freedom was enshrined in Magna Carta in 1215; the Wars of the Roses were long and largely impenetrable; Richard III was a monster (he may be due for a spot of revisionism); Henry VIII was fat, decapitated a couple of wives but created the modern English state; civil war raged in the 1640s (actuated by religion, politics or economic change? — discuss), but this being England, everyone soon wearied of ideology and gladly embraced the sex-and-shopping era of Charles II.

The Glorious Revolution was glorious; the 18th century can be largely skipped; we won the Napoleonic wars (Scotland was on board by this point and we had become “British”); the “Great” Reform Act of 1832 gave a few more people the vote; the greater (but largely ignored) Reform Act of 1867 gave a lot more people the vote; Ireland was given home rule, except for the northern bit; the first world war was bloody and pointless; the second world war was bloody and just. Since then we’ve lost our empire, though we did win the World Cup in 1966, regained the Ashes in 2005 and like to send small detachments of troops to global troublespots....

Philosophy
...
Plato, who was born in Athens in 427BC, was a pupil of Socrates. His key work is The Republic, which examines notions of justice and morality. Plato thought the ideal society was one ruled by bright, aristocratic Greeks — a bit like himself. Everyone else should be factory workers, farmers and Big Brother contestants. He was pro state education, anti the nuclear family (believing family loyalties undermined the state), and very keen on philosophers and poets. He was also fixated on shadows in caves — a metaphor for the difference between the visible and the true.

Other useful footnotes supplied by Aristotle (whom he taught), Spinoza, Hobbes, Locke, Hume, Rousseau, Mill, Marx and Nietzsche. Might also be worth mentioning Heidegger, Kant, Hegel, Adorno, Descartes, Schopenhauer, Wittgenstein and anyone mentioned in the Monty Python philosophers’ song. And, yes, they’re all men — see Social anthropology.

....

English literature

“Lo, praise of the prowess of people-kings/ Of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,/ We have heard, and what honour the athelings won!/ Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,/ From many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,/ Awing the earls”, etc, etc for 3,000-plus lines. English literature starts with the eighth-century poem known as Beowulf. It is not an encouraging beginning.




fun sunday afternoon reading for bugger'd SS majors wondering what, exactly, to do with a liberal arts education. just hope my parents dont see this- they might take it seriously :P