Hey joe,
i heard you shot your lady down
You shot her down in the groud, yeah
Yeah, yes, i did,
i shot her, you know
i caught her messin' round
messin' round town
- Hendrix, Hey Joe

Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore,
be sure of it - III(iii), Othello

...no need to talk it right here just park it right here keep it undercover
from me love how you fit inna you blouse and you fat inna you jeans and mi waan discover..
-Sean Paul, Temperature

hendrix was about music and not lyrics. the venue last night (at the Babar Khan tribute) was beautiful. excellent sound, nice stage with the dome of St.Lawrence's Cathedral in the back, lit up against the glowing Lahore sky. Lahore at this time of the year was meant for starry sleep-outs on the terrace, fanned by heady sultry breezes carrying the scent of dry bricks and dying flowers. the men on stage were in their element, the sound was beautifully rich and deep, played with all the coarse humour of a londa jam and the ease of veterans doing what they do best. maybe one day women will be that talented, to go up on stage in a baggy tshirt with filthy hair and belt out the riff to "money for nothing, chicks for free." and then laugh themselves silly on bootlegged beer and Peshawars best chars, stagger into a bar for a game of pool before crashing senseless onto the floor of thatonesbrothersroomatesuncles apartment, regaining conciousness at one am the next morning and heading over to the Rawind studio to finish up the project.
women just arent that talented. Led Zepplin was talent. its amazing how for years we've worshipped people who want to be our "backdoor man," call us whores and bitchez, want to give it to us way way down inside.

so we're not the only nation in the world that glorifies honor killings. its good to know that Jimi Hendrix would have really hit it off with the Jamiat. Othello reads like an Punjabi mainstream movie. it was tragic because Desdemona was, in fact, innocent. if she (god forbid) hadn't been, the entire play would've been a self-righteous orgy of the redemption of the male ego. it still is, but then thats just being picky.

but so much of feminism is. picky, picky. you're educated, rich, will probably have an income of your own. now what do you want? ok, so we control economy, culture, politics, religion, academia and art. ok, so even CEOs of company's are responsible for making sure their husbands have good food to eat at the end of the day. ok, so you cant be head of the household until death or divorce do you apart. nomenclature. why waste you life fighting it?

recently, a very dear friend of mine attempted to explain the logic behind the hidden woman in islam. a woman carries her beauty as a burden, and she is exceptionally well taken care of by islam is she chooses to sacrifice her life to it.
which is such shit, when you think of how women struggle to scrape a living every day. islam really failed to emancipate, protect, care for or empower women the way it claims to. i wonder why this god person couldnt come up with a better way to make people's lives easier. surely islam isnt linked to patriarchy.

you know whats wrong with feminists, e? they dont know how to negotiate. look, its like.. you want seats in Parliament, right? chalo, i'll give you seats in Parliament.
we dont want seats in Parliament.
ok, fine, I'll make you the President. i'll make a whole women affairs department, get you special benefits and all that.
jd, we dont want special benefits.
see, thats your problem. i'm giving you everything, what do you want?
we want you to get out.
what? but thats ridiculous.. thats revolution.

hi, i'm deaf and dumb and need to send my five children to school will you have sex with me i will give you a discount - painting at Cucoo's Den, Lahore.

[ ... ]

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/6441133.stm

"Asked why the CJ was confined to his residence and was not allowed to meet anyone at his own will, (Information Minister Mohammad Ali Durrani ) said that Justice Chaudhry was a judge and he was not expected to be a politician." http://dawn.com/2007/03/12/top2.htm

“There are no restrictions on him,” Minister of State for Information Senator Tariq Azim told Dawn. He said the opposition was trying to politicise the matter, which was regrettable. http://dawn.com/2007/03/12/top1.htm

what are the charges against CJ Iftikhar Mohammad Chaudhry? this is not the first time someone has been made a scapegoat by a President. but there have always been some charges, some details beyond simply "abuse of power." this is exceptionally interesting (and infuriating) because it is within the Constituional rights of the Head of State:

Part VII, Chapter 4, Section 209

(5) If, on information [231A] [from any source, the Council or] the President is of the opinion that a Judge of the Supreme Court or of a High Court,
(a) may be incapable of properly performing the duties of his office by reason of physical or mental incapacity; or
(b) may have been guilty of misconduct,

the President shall direct the Council to [231B] [, or the Council may, on its own motion,] inquire into the matter.
(6) If, after inquiring into the matter, the Council reports to the President that it is of the opinion,
(a) that the Judge is incapable of performing the duties of his office or has been guilty of misconduct, and
(b) that he should be removed from office, the President may remove the Judge from office.

I dont think this involves declaring him non functional and filing a case against him and locking him up in his house.

Unless, of course, we've all lost our minds and are blindly accusing Musharraf in spite of him acting within his rights. Unless we have collectively failed to investigate and make public the henious crimes of the CJ.

I wonder who will be chosen to prosecute and judge this man. And on what charges. Finally,

NEW YORK, March 11: Pakistan Muslim League leader Chaudhry Shujaat Hussain has refused to comment on the presidential reference against Chief Justice Iftikhar Mohammad Chaudhry, saying that it is an internal matter between the army and the judiciary. http://dawn.com/2007/03/12/top3.htm

what the hell is that supposed to mean? either our top management really enjoys shooting itself in one foot and placing the other one in their mouth, or they really dont think public sentiment amounts to much, at the end of the day. one can understand why it is so hard to put faith in our political parties, given the utter greasiness and apathy of the people that run them.

so spaketh the Chory. I wonder what Bibi and Nawaz are upto. Khan Sahab has put in his two cents, bless his heart. it will be funny if Khan gets a sizeable amount of the independent vote this year: if elections go on as scheduled, that is. whoever it is that is attempting to blow up bridges under Musharraf's bum really needs to get their act together.

[ The Ego Feeder ("ubiquitous") ]

Some time ago, I posted the love song of Prufrock. I think I was attracted to Prufrock because it made me better than you.
I understand what it must feel like to hide behind a good story, or a poem. Its like wearing a costume. Like Alfred, struggling into his dress. But in letters, we attempt to stay naked.
I want to talk about Prufrock. I think I miscalculated, somewhere, the warmth of yellow smoke rubbing against a window pane. I wish I could marvel at the way a cat turns a corner, or slips over a platform, and follow its long and liquid step.
then i will speak of Michelangelo.
I should write about more relevant. Have you been keeping up? Some day, I'll be deeply satirical.
Each letter is heavy, a link in chain-mail, like armour. The walls of the feeder, and a tiny perch, where the ego can sit and peck at the grains inside. If your eye is trained, you'll know where to find the chinks. And you'll know where this water-tight leaks.

If I were to come back here, I'd remove Alfred, because no one knows him or where he's from. Who cares about the Sabine women? Why was something so gruesome so damn funny?
Then, I'd take out the quote. No one cares. And the thing about the cat. Unnecessary.
I iron my clothes from top to down, front and then back.

Then, I'd take out Prufrock. But as I hit "Publish", I'll still know i'm better than you. Somehow, in my secret dark heart, I'll find a way to believe that much about myself. That I know more, see more, understand more. Can write more openly, sincerely, honestly. I am the best, and you can check my resume if you like.

"My Id knows what it wants. My ego knows better." and we laughed and we laughed.


I wanted to be centre of the universe, once. In retrospect- where else would I be?

never attend alumni [ homecomings ]. not even by accident. every attempt by the administration to call back its rich and successful graduates results in an assimilation of the lowest dregs of society; the losers, moochers, assholes and CEOs of their own companies accompanied by hoardes of children. and i thought it was a obligation that some people had to go through maybe once, twice in their lives. but no. there will be people there whose paunches date back to the mesazoic era.
so this is what bankers, CEOs and market analysts do after they leave college. proliferate like fucking bunnies and produce several offspring- each as hideous as their parents- in a matter of years. we're talking up to four children in a go. because condoms are clearly for paupers. you'd think that educated people would make smart parents. i am being proved so wrong, continuously, vis a vis this educated=smart equation. dressed hideously, trying to look professional and young at the same time and ending up looking awful, they'll come in pushing preambulators with another addition of stupidity to the human race. when the thing in the pram senses that its pet monkey has ceased to push it, it begins to whine pitifully. the monkey- mother swoops to the front of the pram and brandishes ten different plush toys in front of its face simultaneuosly: "ooh lookit thisss innit ekshiiiting oooh lookit shoo niiiiceeee!!!" because that is the spirit of education and learning- to perpetuate idiocy, forever and ever.
"spouse," i have learnt, is codeword for "my anaemic prosthetic limb." because life would be so much simpler without the endless "this is my wife/husband, . these are my college buddies, dear. now you know why i turned out so pathetic, look at the company i kept! har, har, har."
if life were about truth, there would be none of that. a conversation would go like this.
"oh, man. you were the fuckhead who never shared his class notes with anyone."
"im amazed you got your tounge out of the professor's arse long enough to notice. man, you were such a bitch. this is my anaemic prosthetic limb."
"mail order?"
"Dawn Classified."
"tsk. how prole. mine's from the rapidly shrinking gene pool of second cousins. d'you shag a lot? any kids yet?"
"just a couple."
"wheres the one you conceived behind the tennis courts, back in final year? har, har, har."
"look, i gotta go TC the senior executive of Shell over by the coffee counter, so why dont you just cut the crap and get on with the CV-strip tease?"
"im working for Nestle. i kill babies, sell non-biodegradable packges of useless things and occasionally hump a desk at office parties for a promotion. ive been promoted twice already, and i've only been there for two years."
"really? who's ass did you kiss to get there? can i have their number?"
"no, fuck off."
"bitch."
"asshole."

theyre very religious, ill give you that. they'll even stop stand-up performances twenty minutes into the namaz because hufkndgdfwoieg... you know. sami shah has a new act these days. those guys should learn that all the money in the world isnt worth the hell that is an audience full of the class duffers. of every class. in every batch. (note: batches, like cookies. this is lums' latest batch, fresh from the oven of intellectual dozakh. beelzebub himself spat on these shytes- please, wont you buy a few?)
and now the monstrous cookies are home. the term "homecoming" is actually quite appropriate, in reterospect. inn jaisey ghaddon ka yeh hi ghar ho sakta hai.


finally. in loving memory.

P&G mein kaam karney key
dekhtey the hum khwaab
ab CDO ney kar diya hamara
jeenaa azaab
homecoming par mera dil jo
tutaa hai isshi tarha
socha "kya main bhi banun gaa, kisi din,
chutiya isski tarha?"

alumni sey allah bachaye
P&G sey allah bachaye
CDO sey allah bachaye
jaaney kyun hum LUMS aaye.

[ding, dong, teh witch is BACK.]

there are things you can get away with saying in Magic Realism. the imagery is full of flesh. the cock and angel symbolise fertility. given enough time and practice, a magic realist can write about fuckin'anything, i kid you not. so here's the low-down on one of the biggest wastes of my time... Love in The Time of Cholera.

it is now a well-known scientifically proven researched and documented fact that women have fewer teeth and therefore smaller, weaker and less-capable-of-knowing-whats- good-for-them brains than men. so punydick protagonist Ariza ends up meeting these hoardes of stupid, childish, psychotic, twisted women who end up sick, dying, dead, raped, murdered or with a pacifier stuck in their mouth after he's done with them. important lesson, boys and girls: no matter how inane a man's life is, there will always be six-hundered and fifty-two women who are willing to have sex with him. because thats the male right (refer to bit on less teeth, etc).

having recovered from the more brilliantly inspiring aspects of Ariza's personality, you might just get a glimpse of a few other characters before the throbbing in your brain forces you to throw the book down. the doctor, urbino. i dont remember much of him, except that he was.. er.. um... pretty much exactly like every other Marquezian model of the modern major-general-colonel-doctor-insert noble profession here. to be very fair, i dont know urbino too well, except that he pissed like a horse and died trying to catch a parrot. very manly, godpromise.
i never reached the end. i think i got past ariza's final declaration of everlasting obsession (and his now long forgotton virginty) to Fermina Daza before screaming ENOUGH!!! and tearing all my hair out. what was Daza doing at the time? crying, tolerating, riding a bicycle and flying in a hot air balloon with her husband in order to keep him happy at the same time never forgetting the idiot who once proposed to her. what does that matter? it is art! and i have it on good sources that it is tres chic to rape warm corpses of young virgins until someone from the anti-surrealist, post-modernist school of thought is brave enough to raise his noble pen and shout "STOP! you cowards. if you were MEN, you'd rape them ALIVE, good sirs!"

sigh. i think im done for the day.

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.