Random Ruminations

Ink and Paper

2012-02-11T04:00:00.000-08:00

Okay, so today I've written a short story as a guest post for Furree’s awesome blog. Thank you so much, Furree, for giving me the opportunity! You can read my guest post on Furree's blog here.

Or you can continue reading below, because I'm posting the story on my own blog right now as well.

This guest post is a short fiction story I’ve written about a broken family, titled ‘Ink and Paper.’ These are two entries from the respective journals of a father and daughter. Sadaf’s parents are divorced and she lives with her mother, Tanya, in Pakistan. Sadaf’s father, Haroon, lives abroad in the United States of America. He lost the custody battle, and is permitted to see his daughter only once every five years. The first time Sadaf traveled to see him was when she was eight years old, when Haroon lived in Washington DC. The second time was when she was thirteen, and he lived in San Francisco.

Ink and Paper

Sadaf’s Diary:

Dear Diary,

It seeps into me, that poison known as ‘depression’, overcoming my defenses and rendering me helpless, like a rat trapped in a snake’s clenched jaws. An inevitable, destructive venom coursing through me; pulsing through my veins, sweeping me along in its wake. Like a tidal wave too powerful to battle against so you just succumb and let yourself float along with ease. I can feel it in my bones when it’s coming, drawing closer. I would run if I didn’t already know that it has the power to overtake me instantly.

When I was little, Amma would tuck me into bed every night. She would lay me down, and sit awhile next to me with the lights off, the two of us submerged in impenetrable darkness, chattering about everyday things. Sometimes as I jabbered on about meaningless topics – the frivolous activities I indulged in with friends, the minor indignities of being reprimanded in class, never-ending complaints of homework – she’d trace a hand along my forehead lightly. I’d feel her fingertips against my skin, skimming my temples, gently tangling in my hair. I’d close my eyes briefly and accustom myself to the feel of it. I remember clutching onto those moments. They were the epitome of everything beautiful to me.

The conversation between my mother and me usually lasted half an hour, dying out as sleep stealthily sank its firm clutches into me. When I drifted in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness – lingering in that no-man’s-land before crossing over – she’d stand up. Taking the blanket folded into a neat square at the end of my bed, she’d open it, grasp it fully by both hands, and shake it over me powerfully, so that it would flutter down and cover me. I could feel it when she did that. I would feel the blanket twisting, rippling above me like a living thing, causing stirs in the atmosphere, light bursts of billowing air. I could feel it free-falling, as the air abandoned it in the hold of gravity, as it settled on my body.

Depression, as it approaches – I’ve come to find out – does so in much the same way. It loiters, hovers over me like that blanket. It stays in that position for days, sometimes even weeks, before falling and settling with a lasting finality.

Depression slows me down in every way. It tires my body, numbs my mind, and slows my reflexes. I feel dumber, mute, my intelligence and willpower draining out of my system. The very thought of making plans with friends exhausts me. Conversations seem daunting, requiring more energy than I could possibly spare. Silence becomes my sanctuary.

Sometimes, in those nights when we talked, I would chirp brightly, “Amma, when is Papa coming back home?” That was before I knew the word ‘divorce’, before I was old enough to comprehend the ugliness of it. She would normally shush me, but sometimes she’d indulge me, allow me my fantasies. I’d lie there as she’d spin tales of us going to live with my father soon, promises that kept me enchanted. She’d boldly state assurances of him visiting us soon. Such beautiful lies to believe in, punctuated by excuses of why all of it only existed in the future. “Your schooling here, his job abroad isn’t steady yet.” Excuses that my subconscious was more than willing to accept; like a drowning man clutching onto a drifting log of wood.

I realize now that when she told them, she actually indulged not only me, but herself too. She’d let herself believe, just for a few minutes, in the words she was speaking. And in that darkness then, the mirages she’d just depicted seemed almost substantial, shimmering in the distance; puddles of gleaming water that had yet to disappear, vanish before our very eyes into nothing.

Haroon’s Diary:

Dear Journal,

The gym is the one place I feel gloriously alive. The only place really, where I can feel powerful again. I exalt in the strength of my body, in the miraculous beauty of it, muscles, sinews and cords working in tandem to create effortless movement. I revel in every drop of sweat trickling down my skin, in the flushes of heat suffusing me as I push myself to my limit. I feel reborn again. Like maybe I have a second chance at life, a do-over; like maybe the events of the past can be undone and my doom can be reversed. Like maybe I haven’t annihilated my marriage or haven’t lost the custody battle.

I have many memories of my daughter. I’ve seen her only twice in my life – the first when she was eight, and the second when she’d newly turned thirteen – but the memories are still clear as crystal. They’re lodged in my mind, vivid and sharp, just bursting to come to the surface. Work keeps them tamped down, restricted. The pressures of my multiple jobs, knowing I have massive debt and loans to repay, doesn’t allow me to waft in nostalgic reminisces. But when I’m at the gym, I feel free. The memories overpower their boundaries, envelop me. I see Sadaf then, her bright glowing brown eyes and her quick, impish smile. The deftness with which Sadaf moves that came only through me; Tanya, my ex-wife, is known for being a klutz, her clumsiness a defining trait of her character.

During Sadaf’s latter visit, when she walked down the ramp into the San Francisco airport, on the brink of womanhood, her eyes searching through the milling crowds for my face, I was blown away. I was astounded by the confidence with which she moved, and the grace with which she conducted herself. I was transfixed by the change in her accent, how it had deepened and matured to something unrecognizable. Weekly Skype-ing sessions hadn’t done justice to my daughter, hadn’t portrayed the vivaciousness of her personality or the beauty of her nature. She was an alien thing, a foreign creature. No matter how hard I searched, I couldn’t see myself in her. I couldn’t sense myself being reconstructed in her. I couldn’t find a solid part of me within her being, a part that would allow me to state with relieved conviction that this girl was indeed my daughter. She was her own and completely so, untouched entirely by me. Two islands who’d once been interconnected, but now the bridge had crumbled away, isolated each.

But when she’d first come to me at the age of eight, things had been different. I’d been living in Washington DC then. She arrived in December, when snow was coating everything thickly; a girl with curly black hair and rosy dimpled cheeks, bundled up in a sweater and a scarf and a thick fluffy jacket. I’d been embroiled in work then, and couldn’t afford a holiday. I left Sadaf with a trusted sitter for the entire day, until I returned in the evening. I’d find myself rushing through my job, hurrying through the mandatory tasks and clipping away everything that could be clipped, just in an effort to get back to her as soon as possible. When I reached home, I would quickly open the door. The sitter would stand up, a college girl of about twenty, eager to depart. I’d proffer her some bills, she’d take them, and a confirmation of tomorrow’s timings would be exchanged. And then she’d go, leaving me alone with Sadaf.

It was a routine we both knew by heart.

“Sadaf! Sa-daf!” I’d cup my hands around my mouth, call her name loudly, stretching the syllables. A giggle could be heard, and then the bedroom door would be pushed open tentatively, a small crack out of which her eyes peeped through. I knew my part in this game, and played it well. With a friendly roar, I’d lunge towards the door, and she, shrieking, would back away, jump on the bed. We’d chase each other then, cat running after a mouse, Tom & Jerry being enacted right in our bedroom. I could’ve caught her easily of course, but what fun would there be in that? And so I chased her, holding back just enough so that she’d be able to escape, making it look like she really could elude me.

She’d leap off the bed and race into the kitchen then, down the hallway, into the living room. I’d run after her, making a deliberate effort to produce exaggerated pants and huffs, giving Sadaf the joy of believing in her speed and that it out outrun mine.

And of course I knew, even before I entered the living room, where she would be. A large cupboard stood next to a sofa on a far end of the room. She’d scramble on top of the sofa, from where she’d leap up onto the roof of the cupboard. And there she’d stay poised, a huge smile curling her lips, waiting for me.

And I, the perfect partner in this game of dance, would step up gallantly and hold out my arms. And with a shriek of pure, unadulterated joy, she’d launch herself – literally heave herself and catapult into the air – right into my arms.

The trust with which she did so – the unwavering belief that I would never let her fall; not catching her not even being a possibility to be considered – never failed to bring tears to my eyes.

Sometimes, even now, the mere memory is enough to dampen my eyes, blurring my vision with a sheen of wetness. But these are just memories, a way out of reality. Memories of moments that are long gone; faded and blended into shadows. Of perfect moments that can never be recaptured or relived, but only remain encapsulated forever in the pages of this journal, in ink staining white paper, maiming it purposelessly.

Tell me sweet little lies

2012-02-04T14:05:00.000-08:00

I thought I knew Pakistan but when I said as much she onlylaughed
and pointed at me with her rough, ugly fingers capped with filthy blackenednails
that spoke of a lifetime of scrubbing people’s toilets and washing their dirtyunderwear
and laughed and laughed
and in her cackling, vile laughter, I heard mockery and disgust and delight
but most of all just simple, plain pity.
What do you know about

Pakistan

?she wanted to know.
You, with your feet propped up on the sofa
asking your servants to fetch you a glass of water,

thinking that all Pakistan really consists of is Islamabad,Karachi and Lahore
just because those are the only places in all of this godforsaken country youever known, ever truly seen
and what do you know with your three cars and Stylo shoes,

and cupboards of shalwar kameezes made by tailors to yourspecific design.
Tailors who sit in dingy little shops batting away flies,

sweat trailing downtheir necks
and coating their bodies in an unbroken layer of grease
as the sun smiles wickedly down on them above and radiates a light so bright

that the whole fucking world can see the good from the bad,

the real Pakistanis and the ones who’re just kiddingthemselves…

And when the lights on a traffic signal switches to green,
when have you ever really listened to the rapping of insistent knuckles againstthe windowpanes of your car
as a beggar-child wilting before you like a flower that’s seen too much cruelsun and too little fragrant water,
strives to be heard
Rescue me.
Rescue me.
What have you ever done except ignore him

and curse at the sun-burnt boy lifting up a muddy wiper to swipe across your car screen
just so that he doesn’t have to feel like a total piece of shit as he splays hishands open before you for charity.

Is a little mud going to destroy your car?
Is a little dirt going to rape your chastity?
And as the moon sets on Pakistan,

you lift your cup of chai to your smooth, Vaseline-protectedlips
dip a Tuk biscuit into it just for taste
and tell yourself this country is yours, yours for the taking, yours for thecalling…

And you don’t see.
You don’t see that the moon is weeping,

you don’t see that the liquid falling and drumming on therooftops like steady, rhythmic music
Isn’t actually rain.

but tears
sacred tears
tears from the moon
tears of the Karakoram and the Himalayas and the trees
and yes, even the wicked sun
which turns out not to be that wicked after all, or at least less wicked thanyou
tears from the women eight months pregnant, their bellies straining
as they bend before you, crouching on all fours,
so they can rub lotions onto the soles of your feet, press your legs.
But who is there to press their legs when they get home?
Who is there to feed them tender mouthfuls of halwa puri and sticky rings ofsyrupy jalebi or soft, steaming platters of colourful goat biryani?

And when the dust settles and you meet your Maker,
He won’t give a fuck about how many times you thumbed your prayer beads lyingneatly on the table beside your bed
or just how many times you mouthed the words Allah-o-Akbar
no, He won’t give a fuck
no, He won’t
and He won’t give a fuck about whether you read the five prayers everyday ornot either, because He’ll know that the first thing you did after rolling thepayer mat -
was to go out and stick your tongue down your boyfriend’s throat.
No, all He’s going to ask is,
why did you spend six thousand rupees on concerts while children fainted in thestreets?
and why did you spend hours looking for that perfect shade of deep plum lace tomatch the pale mauve of your kameez

while mothers wept brokenly
raising their bony arms to the heavens for sustenance because they could feeltheir babies shriveling inside their wombs
dying before they even had a chance to live,
before their lungs even met air,
and their tongues found the cloying sweetness of a mother’s breast.

But I’m gone, I’m pushing away wildly, barreling in all directions,
Like a sheep lost from its herd, an injured bird, or a taxi driver who’sconsumed one to many brownies loaded with pot -
I don’t want to hear anymore.
I don’t want to hear any of it anymore.
I don’t want to hear anything anymore.
Because I’m tired of knives of guilt sinking into me
piecing through soft, malleable skin
crushing bones that turn out to be more fragile than expected,

…and I’ve learned to fear words.
Because they can cut through me like icicles,
spreading coldness and numbness through my bones,
freezing the very blood that runs through my veins
scarlet liquid turning to crimson solid, to granite stone
and I’m tired of drowning in tears shed by others,

of tasting the saltiness of their regrets.

If I could collect every drop of sweat ever shed by alaborer
I’d have the stuff of monarchs,
maybe even enough glittering sweat droplets to outnumber stars and galaxies
and if I could lay each drop side by side
like dew lying precariously perched on blades of green, green grass
why then, I could almost reach Pluto.
Oh, there are so many ways to be rich!
green papers notes are the not only things that constitute wealth…
If I could count the number of times you’ve told me you loved me
and ultimately not have enough joints on my fingers to match the tempo of thecount
I’d be richer than Saudi Arabian oil sheikhs and more powerful than fuckingObama himself.
So tell me that you love me.

Tell me that you love me.

Even if they’re only sweet little lies.

And tell me that if I give zakat
and in the evening spend thrice that amount throwing myself a birthday party inSerena,
I’m still a beautiful person.
Tell me that even if it’s only a sweet little lie.

And tell me that if I give all my old clothes to my cook’sdaughter,
just so I can have an excuse to buy myself twice more
(and of the latest fashions too),
I’m still an incredibly selfless person.
Tell me that.

Even if all it is, is a sweet little lie.

And tell me that if I hoist flags on my terraces
and string lines of jhandis across the brick walls of my house
and watch them flutter in the breeze
and burn sparklers on 14^th August

but rig my electricity lines to my neighbour’s connection

and toss my tax bills down the gutter,
I’m still a good Pakistani.
And if I fast during Ramadhan
and have a knife plunged into the belly of a goat on Eid-ul-Adha
but allow the sons of my parent’s friends to fondle me
in the backseats of Lianas and Honda Civics,
I’m still a good Muslim.
Tell me all that.

Even if they’re only sweet fucking lies.
And I’ll love you forever.

Right Now

2012-01-22T05:20:00.000-08:00

Right now, the breeze is rustling through the trees outside. It makes anice sound. Like soft whispers, velvety rustles. I sit on the sofa and listento it.

And I feel scared. I feel scared because of what’s to come. And that’sdisappointment. I’ve known too much of it lately, and I’ve no desire toexperience anymore now.

Somebody’s listening to a song. It floats over, carried by the obligingbreeze. The tune is painfully familiar.

“Kay dhoop chaaon ka…
Kay dhoop chaaon ka aalam raha
Judai na thi…
Woh humsafar tha
Woh humsafar tha…”

I want to scream. I want to say, Pleaseshut up. I’m annoyed. It’s the annoyance that comes from listening to asong too many times, until its lyrics are etched in your brain permanently. Youcouldn’t forget them even if you tried.

I would block my ears if I could. Except I would get tired of holding mypalms up to my ear drums eventually. So it wouldn’t work. I just have to sithere and listen to it.

But look at me. Complaining of my ability to listen. Oh, wouldn’t a deafperson hate me right now, if he could see me. I feel almost repentant. I’d feelcompletely repentant though, if it weren’t for how irritating the song was.

The listener starts singing along. Somehow, he gets the wonderful strokeof inspiration that the song will sound even better with his voice lending strengthto the words. His voice warbles, rising up and down, screeching, hitting notesI didn’t even know existed. He moans the words, exaggerating the tone, until itsounds like he’s almost crying himself, gripped in the throes of agonizingmisery. I feel like laughing and shaking my head at the same time.

Right now, I’m eating pasta. Usually, I like pasta. But today I don’t likepasta as much as I usually do, because I already had some the day beforeyesterday.

What is it with things like songs and food becoming less pleasurableeach time you indulge more in them?

Oh but wait, there’s an economic term for this. I’m pretty sure thereis. I rack my brains, flitting mentally through all my economics notes, tryingto remember. I read this. I learned this for a test. I know I did. Come on,memory, don’t fail me now.

And then it comes to me. Instantly, suddenly, out of nowhere. Like abolt of lightning in a clear blue sky. I stiffen in remembrance, in awareness. Ohyes. The Law of Diminishing Marginal Utility.

I almost feel compelled to pat myself on the back. What a good littleeconomics student I am. And I feel like rolling on the floor, hiccupping inlaughter over my own antics.

Why won’t the song end?

Right now, I’m also caressing the cover of my latest purchase andlooking at tenderly. It’s a book. Of course it is. I only reserve suchaffection for books. I only spend my pocket money on buying them, too. A Clashof Kings by George R. R. Martin. I began it yesterday night, diving into thepages with unbridled enthusiasm. I’ve read a quarter of it now, and so far, Ilove it. It’s the second volume in A Song of Ice and Fire. An acquaintance, anold school fellow, whom I was texting with in the early hours before dawn, bothof us being late sleepers and late risers, recommended the series to me. Hetold me that it’s good. And his opinion held true. It is. Bran, Sansa, Arya,Lord Eddard and the rest of the Starks. And Jon Snow too, because he’s still aStark, even if he is a bastard. Tyrion Lannister. RobertBaratheon. The incestuous twins, Ser Jaime and Queen Cersei. And all theothers. Their lives will sweep you along. Winteris coming. You’ll be sucked into their world. Into the land where summerscan last decades and winters a lifetime. And you won’t be able to escape then.Because as the Queen softly stated, “Whenyou play the game of thrones, you win or you die.”

It’s thick too. I love thick books. It allows me to believe that thestory will never end.

But all things have endings. Which is a great thing, in some cases.Because look, the song’s ending. And now, I think I shall too. The last strainsof the song fade away into silence, reverberating lightly, as the last lettersappear before me on the screen. And the outpouring of words stops, along withthe music, the consumption of pasta, the breeze, the singing and everythingelse.

On Death and Time

2012-01-16T11:14:00.000-08:00

On January 14^th, Arfa Karimpassed away. The news spread like wildfire. Facebook statuses revolved aroundonly one topic of discussion. People passed on the shocking news to theirfriends, family, relatives. Television channels mentioned it, the news reporters’voices laced with heavy sorrow. And collectively, Pakistanis mourned together.They keened together. They bowed their heads together. A solid banner of greenand white, united, enjoined in unanimous, shared grief. Arfa Karim had breathedher last.

I never knew Arfa. I was only madeaware of her existence by a Wikipedia article, and we were linked solelythrough our shared nationality. But my love for my country was expansive enoughto envelop her, include her in its midst. I value her because she contributedso much to the country that I love. She gave us a real reason to hold our headup high in the international community. She gave us a purpose to feel proud, tofeel happy, to feel accomplished. To feel all the good things.

She was cherished perhaps also becauseof the dreadful lack of intellectual wonders in our Pakistani education system.Her rarity made her all the more wondrous. I confess I felt a deep sense ofshock and profound heartbreak at her death. It’s poignantly sad, how death isalways the only thing that truly allows us to appreciate the wonder of ourfellow beings. Why must something so awful be required to instill gratitude? Idon’t have any response. I’m terribly good at asking all sorts of twistingquestions, it’s true, but unfortunately my tongue isn’t so loose when it comesto answering them.

I never met Arfa. I never smiled orexchanged glances or even shared a few thoughts with her. I have no idea whatshe was like. She studied in my school once. But she left, before I ever joined,and our paths didn’t cross. I ponder over it now, over the incrediblepossibilities. We could have met. Our lives had the potential to overlap. Itwas just a case of different timings. Suppose we crossed paths in the hallwaysof my school, looked at each other. We could have talked, we could have beenfriends. And then she would’ve been my friend, the friend who was brilliant,the friend who died. But she wasn’t. I never knew her. Yet I do know the thingsshe did, the exams she passed and the medals she received, and that’s enough tomake me respect her. It’s enough to make me hurt over her demise.

It’s frightening, how sudden and howpowerful death is. One day you’re sixteen and laughing with Bill Gates andgetting interviewed on television and passing professional-level exams, and thenext you’re in a coma and battling a losing struggle for your life. It’sterrifying, how effortlessly you can soar but how swiftly you can crash andburn. It’s unfair almost, even vicious. To be so high, and then so low. Itscares the living daylights out of me. I think it would out of just aboutanyone.

What is it they say, about the Lordtaking away his loved ones while they’re still pure and virtuous? Seems likeonly the beauty is evaporating. Only the good are leaving nowadays. We have toomuch ugliness marring our world anyways. Don’t You realize that, O dearmerciful Lord? Don’t you see that we need more good now, need it more badlythan we ever did? But of course You do. You see everything. So I don’tunderstand then. I really don’t. Butperhaps, You whisper softly, perhapsI’m not meant to understand. Did I ever consider that?

But life goes on. Arfa Karim was adoredand she was treasured and she died. But time still forges on ahead; peoplestill go to work, to school. They still earn for their roti, kapra, makan. They still get homework, and they still makeplans to go see Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol with their friends at thelocal cinema. And they still go to Tutti Frutti and Bareeze and Hot Spot and otherplaces. Clocks still move forwards unanimously, irrevocably, determinedly.Nothing affects the ravages of time. It continues to trickle through thehourglass, sift through the cracks between your fingers like slippery waterseeping out of your cupped palm. So that’s why they say Carpe Diem. I get itnow. It’s because of how sneaky and insidious time is. Sneaky, clever time, whydo you cheat us so?

Oh, but don’t you know? It’s not timethat’s cheating. It’s us. We close our eyes, squeeze them shut and let the daysdrift by. And then when we finally open them again, we manage to unfailingly pointour fingers at time and blame its shortage for being the cause of our failures.Oh Amma, I’m sorry I failed the History test, I just didn’t get enough time torevise. Oh sorry I couldn’t call, I was out all day, just didn’t have any time.Man, fuck my life, I just didn’t get enough time to work on my universityapplications properly. Now fucking Harvard won’t fucking accept me.

But it’s not time’s fault, because theyalready warned us. Those who were in our place before, standing in our shoes,ready to make the same mistakes we’re on the verge of committing now. Yearsago, in the prime of their youths, they stood on the same cliff that we’re teeteringon in our present. And they told us, Carpe Diem. Seize the day. Seize it beforeit’s too late. Seize it before the water in the Indus River and its tributariescompletely dries out, before the money finishes, before the sun sets, beforethe world explodes, before the death angel comes to take you home.

Rest in peace, Arfa Karim. You gave toPakistan unselfishly and unreservedly. You reached your fullest potential, andin doing so, inspired thousands of others to follow in your footsteps. I hopeit’s as pretty up there in heaven as my junior school Islamiat textbooks toldme it is. But most of all, I hope that I’ll be able to meet you up there, andjoin you in the crowd of people flocking through the gates to heaven. I hope, Iwish, I pray, I plead, I beg, I yearn. Perhaps then we could be acquaintancesor friends in another lifetime, in other worlds, in newer dimensions, when wecouldn’t be so in this one. May Allah grant you Jannat-ul-Firdous. Ameen.

The Land of Dreams

2012-01-14T14:27:00.000-08:00

I sleep a lot. I love to sleep.It’s like an entertainment within itself. I love not having to think, or feel,or worry, or do anything whatsoever for those continuous stretch of hours. Ithink everyone needs an escape from reality, and from stress. Reading books,watching funny movies, or simply relaxing does wonders on its own, but the mostliteral and easy form of escape is sleep. It’s like the sun, I guess you couldsay. You take it for granted. But when it eludes you, only then do yourecognize the immense value of it.

I dream a lot too. Funnydreams. Crazy dreams. Nightmares. Soft, poignant dreams. Sometimes, I dreamgibberish nonsense, disjointed flashbacks that make no sense to me when Ifinally wake up. And other times, the dreams I dream are so sad that when Iwake up, my pillow is damp with tears I unknowingly shed in my sleep.Thankfully, those aren’t very frequent.

So I wrote a poem about it, titled, “TheLand of Dreams.”

Perhaps when I go to bed, I shall see you tonight
As I meander along, you I might sight
And with a low cry of joy, I rush to you in glee
So thrilled that you are to accompany me.

“Where are we?” you query in dismay
I smile in response and blithely say,
That this is a place free of anxiety or worry;
Here exists no concept of rush or hurry.

There are no restrictions, no barriers at all
And no obstacles over which we shall tumble and fall.
And so I declare, smiling with the radiance of a thousand sunbeams:
“Welcome, my good sir, to the land of dreams!”

Here we shall encounter everything beautiful;
Be submerged in a peaceful lull.
Everything here is limitless and full of possibility
For this is the closest to heaven that a living soul can be.

“Oh my, may I stay hereforever?” you excitedly cry

But I shake my head in response and sorrowfully reply:
“Alas! No, you must wake up eventually,
The land of dreams can only be a temporary refuge from reality.”

- N.T.

Yes. That was the poem. Now Ishall depart. For ’tis late. Past three in the morning. I need to regulate mysleep cycle, so I can manage to attend my early morning class for once. I must sincerelyattempt to become more studious from now on. I need to do well in the paperscoming up. They’re still four months away, but considering the dizzying lengthof all my syllabuses and how little of them I actually know, as well as the endless reams of notes I have to learn, and the heftytextbooks I have to go through, even four months will be barely enough. And Ibelieve in the fact that you can never attain too much knowledge. No matter how much you amass, you’ll stillalways be painfully short.

I’m looking out the windowright now. The sky is pitch-black. My heater is comfortably warming my toes,and I’m grateful to it for doing so. It’s so cold right now, but it isn’tsnowing. I wish it would. At least then there would be a reason to endure thechill. The soft, pretty snowflakes drifting down leisurely from the heavenswould make the unpleasant weather worth it. But perhaps, there doesn't alwayshave to be a tangible, solid reason to endure things.

Oh Pakistan, I would weep rivers for you, if my tears could change anything.

2012-01-10T05:44:00.000-08:00

Sometimes,I feel guilty. I feel guilty because I love Pakistan more than anything else,with every fibre of my being, but I also know that if push comes to shove, Iwouldn’t die for it. If ever there comes a time when I have to choose betweenstanding up for Pakistan and fighting with weapons or moving to another countrywhere clear skies stretched all across the horizon and the air reeked with theliberating stench of freedom, I would pack up all my belongings and departinstantly.

Itshames me sometimes, but I know that I can’t battle against my instinct forsurvival. I’m human, and am subjected to the limitations of being one. If Ihave to make choices, then all my decisions will ultimately be influencedsolely by my will to live. Judge me if you like, but it’s easy to do this now,easy to say that you’d do the opposite in a situation that is still merely hypothetical.But wait till it isn’t. Wait till the bombs start raining upon you likedroplets of water pouring in an incessant shower, and wait till the smell ofgunfire comes up your nostrils, and then decide. Then tell me. Tell me, whetheryou will stand upright here and hold your ground, or whether you’ll book aflight ticket to Europe or America. A place where people wouldn’t be able topronounce your name without messing it up and wouldn’t even understand what thehell you’re talking about when you tell them of how tasty the paan in yourcountry was, how crunchy and spicy, how sweet and succulently juicy the mangoeswere. Anwar ratoles. Sindhri. Chaunsa. Oh,oh, the mangoes! you would say to a confounded American. Your mangoes areyellow fruit. Yes, yes, yellow fruit,and that’s it.

And then you’ll sniff nostalgically and sayyou miss everything about your city and your country, everything, even thoseglaring, obvious stares lafangey mengave you every time you ventured forth in Jinnah Super wearing a pair of skinnyjeans from Stone Age. At least, that is what I would say, and how I would feel.That I’d do anything to have Pakistan. Have it the way it is. And I’d love itthat way too, both the good and the bad. Because Pakistan wouldn’t be Pakistanwithout ogling men. And if I need to put up with hordes of such men just to beable to feel the soil of my beloved country underneath my feet, then that’s asmall price to pay. I’d pay it gladly, eagerly.

Buteven though leaving Pakistan would break me, I wouldn’t don armor and tie myhair back and march into battle with the national anthem on my lips andPakistan in my heart. That’s what I wantto do. That’s what I want to tell people I woulddo. That’s the kind of person I want to say I am, a person who would die forher country, her homeland. But it’s a lie. A blatant lie. Because I know it,that I wouldn’t. I’d let other people fight instead, and slink off abroad withmy tail between my legs, where I would sit and watch the news on my newlybought television with its crystal-clear reception and shake my head and cry. “Oh,Pakistan!” I would sob in miserable abandon, but the tears would beadulterated, devoid of purity. Because I’d have abandoned my own country, and soI don’t deserve to weep for it.

Icould say here that I’m a female, and it isn’t the job of women or girls to fight,that it’s expected of males instead. But for a feminist like me, who believeswhole-heartedly in the equality of men and women in all aspects of life, Icannot bring myself to say this. I cannot.

ButI know the reason, anyway. I know why I would leave. I’d leave because all hopewould be lost, and there comes a time when there’s nothing worth suffering foranymore. And you need to know that time, and you also need to accept theconcept of such a time’s existence, no matter how grating the prospect is.People say that Pakistan will survive, that we’ve hit rock bottom and the onlyway left now is upwards. I hear it on the television all the time, on the politicaldiscussion programs my grandmother so likes to watch. Pakistan Zindabad! And “ab Pakistan sirf ooper jaye ga.” AndImran Khan of course, the embodiment of all positivity. Allowing people tohope, giving them the courage to dare to believe. I love him for giving me suchsweet, blinding faith. But I hate him also because the practical part of me can’tbelieve in his words, even though I order it to. “Personally, I don’t thinksolving corruption is such a big problem.” Imran Khan said those words. And Idon’t agree with them, and I refuse to think that they are correct. No,PTI-obsessed supporters, it doesn’t matter if you throw eggs or shoes at me, Istill won’t think that every word that drops from Imran Khan’s chiseled lips isa pearl of undisputed, omnipotent wisdom.

Butit doesn’t matter what people or Imran Khan say. There’s no guarantee. There’sno guarantee that Pakistan will go upwards. There never is, there never hasbeen. And there never will be. We just have to live with uncertainty. And there’sno way to banish that uncertainty. Live with it, and try not to let it infectour prayers, as we pray that Pakistan will be saved, and pray that our prayerswill be heard. And that there never comes a time when we have to make choices,choices that will break our heart, gash it open. Because when it comes toPakistan, our hearts beat as one.

Analgesia

2012-01-07T05:03:00.000-08:00

(Note: Twoand a half years ago, I read a short story by Kanza Tariq. That story has beenthe basis of loose inspiration for this one. However, aside from inspiration, Icredit her story with nothing else. This piece of fiction has been writtenentirely by me, and is a work of my own imagination.)

The room is dark. My grandmother’s snores are loud, rasping. Ineed to cross her room to get to the hallway leading to mine. I’ve lived inthis house for seventeen years, I can walk through it eyes closed. Buttonight, there is a suitcase laid out on the floor. My grandmother has beenpacking for a visit to Lahore. But I don’t know that. So I walk forwards inoblivion and meet the suitcase. I stumble. I fall. My ankle hits the metalposts of my grandmother’s bed. The movement rocks the bed; she snores evenlouder in response.

My ankle throbsrelentlessly. Bone struck metal, and now there is pain. Vicious, raw pain. I want to scream, I want to scream, I wantto scream. But I cannot. My grandmother is sleeping here. I cannot scream,even though the pain makes me want to.

I sit on the floor, thedarkness swallowing me. I cradle my ankle gently with both hands, tenderly,soothingly. I rock back and forth, tears streaming down my cheeks in uncheckedrivulets, dripping off my chin and landing on the plane of my chest. The painsubsides. I stand up, hobble forwards a step. The pain floods back. The moonlightfiltering in from the window illuminates the hallway. I take another step. Sharp, searing pain. Ipause. The pain melts away with the cessation of movement. I look at thehallway. Look at my bedroom door, standing wide open. I get down on my handsand knees. I crawl.

* * *

My phone buzzes suddenly, persistently.I look at the screen. It’s you. We’ve been fighting, and we haven’t called eachother for ten days. I haven’t called because I’m terrified of saying more naïve,blundering things that will drive us further apart, widen the cracks in ourrelationship. You haven’t called because you’re not sure whether you still loveme anymore.

We talked on text yesterday,though. You messaged me, asked what I was up to. I replied that I was drivinghome from the parlour, that I’d gotten myself waxed for the first time. ‘Did it hurt?’ you ask. ‘Yes.’ ‘Good. I’m glad.’

You don’t know how I reactedbecause I didn’t message you after that. I switched my phone off and cried weaklyfor six hours, on and off, like a leaking water tap dripping sporadically. WhenI powered my phone on this morning, there was nothing from you. No text, no call.

But now you’re calling. Andhope flowers in my heart, bursting open, uncurling its velvety petals. Buddinghope. Pulsating hope. Hope that you’re calling because you’ve realized that youstill love me, that you can still be the man that I fell in love with two yearsago; a man who used to buy me flowers and chocolates without any reason ofoccasion to justify the action, a man who would cradle me at even the smallestounce of pain, like a paper cut or fingernail breaking, a man who would startbreathing more audibly every time I entered the room and smiled knowingly,sexily.

I pick up. Your voice isclear and sharp. I wish it wasn’t, because then I could pretend that I misheardyour words and blame the phone connection. But it it’s not the connection, andit’s not my hearing. “I don’t think weshould be together anymore.” I wouldargue with you, plead with you, but I can hear the finality in your voice, andit’s that conviction in you that destroys me. I can’t fight when you’ve decidedthat there’s nothing worth fighting for.

I close the phone. I kneadmy knuckles into my chest. The petals of hope have shriveled, dead, morose,blackened things. And there is pain blooming now, soft, puncturing pain, tricklingthrough my nerves, pooling right here, in my heart.

* * *

He stands, scuffing hisjoggers against the earth, clenching and unclenching his fingers. He is bored.Everyone else is on the far end of the field, moving figures chasing after thefootball. They haven’t come this way at all for the past twenty minutes. He’stired of waiting in vain for a ball that looks like it’s never going to come.He’s tired of having to wait for something as useless as a ball. If it was upto him, he’d be in his room right now, studying for the upcoming SAT andworking on his Common App essay. But his parents want him to be more athletic,so here he is instead, dressed in shorts that are exposing his scrawny knees,made the goalkeeper because he always gets in the way of his teammates when he pursuesthe ball. He sighs, puffing up his chest and blowing the air out, exaggeratingthe noise. But there is nobody around to hear him. His shoulders slump.

“Hamza! Hamza!”

He looks up as several ofhis teammates cry his name, their voices shrill. A boy is racing towards him,expertly maneuvering the ball. His eyes are focused, his smile dazzlingly confident.He knows he can get the ball past Hamza. And he is right. Hamza dives wildly.The ball shoots past him, over his head, colliding with the net wall of thegoal. Hamza stands up slowly, gingerly, meticulously. The movement causes himpain. He looks down at himself and understands why. His knees and elbows arescraped, the skin torn off, clinging to him in tiny, fleshy little pieces. Hebanged his ankle against a rock during his lunge. He looks up and meets theeyes of his teammates and comprehends even further why there is such agonizingpain. Their furious, annoyed glares bore into him. He has to turn away, shieldhis eyes. But even then, there is no escape. Even then, he can still feel theirhostility, the incessant burn of that lingering, shameful pain.

* * *

I am thirteen years old. Myfather stands beside me, tall, imposing, unyielding. I don’t want to do this,but he doesn’t care. He thinks I should learn to ride a bicycle, and because he thinks so, then there can no more ifsands or buts about it. He orders me sharply to mount the bicycle. I mumbleweakly, “I don’t want to do this.” He hears me, but he doesn’t listen. He foldshis arms, taps his foot impatiently, the sole of his polished shoe striking thepavement. Tap, tap, tap. His eyes areblue stones. I hate him right now, more than anything, but I also know it’s notreally me that despises him, it’s just the fear of pain polluting me this way,corrupting my love.

I do as he says. “Now pedal,”he instructs, and I obey. My throat feels thick, the saliva drying inside. Theflat gray of the road transforms into a moving blur, the trees on both sides whippingpast. The wind slaps at my face, making my hair billow, my clothes flutter. Thecoldness of it feels delicious, jolting me awake, causing my eyes to waterslightly. I am flying. I feel exhilarated, but the excitement is tainted withpanic. Because I’m wobbling, because I know that despite how smoothly I’mcycling right now, this bicycle isn’t really within my control. It’s onlyhumouring me, putting up with me, and the moment it has had enough, it’s goingto throw me off its back, like a teasing, untrained colt.

A fence is looming up, solidand painted white. I need to turn. I must turn. I stare at the fence as itdraws even closer, at its slats of wood, the green, green grass lying beyondit, fresh and enticing. I’m enraptured. I’m like that stupid deer that’s caughtin the headlights, the one that’s going to get run over if it doesn’t act. ButI can sympathize with the deer now. For the first time in my life, I can putmyself into its shoes – oh wait, pardon me, I mean hooves. Sorry deer, for not understanding your plight till now. But now I can. Ohyes, I can.

My father screams at me toturn. I feel like laughing, wildly, breathlessly, mirthlessly. Does he really think I have that muchcontrol?

Crash. I careen into thefence, striking it, banging against it, soaring over it, powerfully,majestically, like an eagle, before landing in a crumpled heap on that meadowof bright grass. I land on my wrist; I hear a sickening crack. My entire facefeels numb, my limbs paralyzed in shock. I open my eyes. The grass in front ofme is sullied red. Blood red. My blood.

One hour later, I’m stretchedout on clean hospital sheets as an African-American doctor with intelligentbrown eyes leans over me. The needle of the injection he is holding aloftgleams coldly, evilly. Prick. And there is pain. Pain from the injection. Painfrom my injuries. Pain from the indignity of my fall and subsequent flight overthe fence. But most intensely, pain over how tragically short it was; that justas I was beginning to believe I could fly, reality inexorably intervened and punishedme cruelly for believing in such futile, unproductive thoughts, such whimsical daydreams.

“I would love you until my last breath, if you allowed yourself to be loved.”

2012-01-01T09:06:00.000-08:00

Crossroads. Choices. I don’t knowwhat to do. I don’t want to deal with them anymore. I feel like a frail,struggling butterfly pinned up against a wooden slate, wings fluttering,strength draining, death hovering. Well, perhaps the death part is a littlemelodramatic. But the tendency to exaggerate has always been dominant withinme. I feel trapped, anyhow. Not because I don’t have any choices, but because Ihave too many. That sounds pretty shallow, now that I reflect upon it. Afterall, who complains of having too much freedom? But you do. Oh, you do. Youcomplain when you want everything and you realize that you can’t haveeverything, and the thought of choosing one path twists your heart because ofthe benefits of all the other paths you’re leaving behind. Opportunity cost, asthey say, something an economics student like me should be well accustomed tonow. Or maybe it’s as Sylvia Plath says, “Perhaps when we find ourselveswanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.”That line confused me when I read it first, but now it makes absolute,beautiful sense. An ominous sign. Oh yes. A perilous thought.

I don’t know which of the choicesI want more. But the one thing I do know I want is you. I want to be with youagain, feel your arms wrap around me, your lips brush against my forehead. Iwant to sit out with you on the steps leading up to my front porch, darknessdescending, swallowing us, the air warm and thrumming softly in silky silence, theperipheries of trees turning black against the deepening sky. And I would lookat you then and know that I have come home, understand that there can be nogreater joy than this, no matter how many continents I traverse, how manyoceans I sail over. To love and to beloved. It’s the greatest bliss of all. And as the birds retire, and thestars emerge, I would sit and rejoice in our harmony, in the simplicity yetwondrous multiplicity of it. But such thoughts are painfully futile. Becauseyou aren’t on the list of choices I have. You’re crossed out completely. And Iwould give everything I have just to be able to pencil you into the sketch of mylife once more, ease you in like no time has passed. It wouldn’t be difficultfor me even, to close my eyes and pretend that years can be compressed to the equivalentof mere hours. It would be effortless. But then, it isn’t up to me any longer.Sometimes I think it never was, and I was a naïve unsophisticated fool to thinkotherwise.

A bitch whines morosely outsideas she limps her way up the street. I stand up; wrap my sweater around metightly. I remind myself that it’s not summer anymore, it’s the depth ofwinter, and years cannot be hours, no matter how many times I declare they are.Magic wands and happy endings don’t exist here, only in Disney movies. Andthere’s only so many of them you can watch before you outgrow them, like a pairof jeans you can no longer squeeze into, no matter how robustly you hold yourbreath. I remember the first time I shifted from cartoons to television showswith actual human beings acting. I felt so proud, so grown-up, so utterlymature, established newly within a higher plane of existence. I laugh mockinglyat myself now. I pity the child I used to be, whilst desperately envying her aswell. Paradoxically self-denying self-indulgence. I must stop being such a blurof conflicting absurdities.

I open the pages of my oldjournal, read the words I wrote about you on wishful autumn afternoons longgone, your essence contained in my familiar, sloping handwriting. Memories of occasionsthat are long gone; faded and blended into shadows. Of perfect moments that cannever be recaptured or relived, but only remain encapsulated forever in thepages of this journal, in ink staining white paper, maiming it purposelessly. Foran instant, my hand stills, fingers splayed across the page. And they bend atthe joints, suddenly and sharply, fingertips digging into the paper as an uninhibited,unbridled outpouring of bitter frustration bubbles over, nails leaving smallcrescents into the paper itself, imprints of half-moons. I consider tearing outthe papers, stuffing them swiftly into the trash bin that stands expectantly inthe corner of my room. But the impulse vanishes as suddenly as it came. Ismile. I caress the cover of the journal tenderly, absentmindedly. My minddrifts again, but I don’t admonish it for doing so. Instead, I encourage it,acknowledge the importance of mental escape, the beauty and infinite value ofit. I place the journal carefully inside my cupboard again, underneath piles ofclothing, tucked away out of sight. I push at the cupboard door, and it obligesunderneath the pressure of my palm, falling shut with a gentle, satisfying click. I leave the room, emerging intothe brightness of the hallway, my feet light upon the floor, almost prancing,my shadow trailing along behind me, gliding soundlessly across the walls, thefloor, solidly black, sinuously rippling.

2011 and 2012, tied together.

2011-12-31T03:46:00.000-08:00

Outside, from the window ofmy living room, nature looks beautiful and enchanting. The leaves of the treesare dappled with late afternoon sunlight; the golden is soft and glowing, andhighlights the dark green strikingly. The sun hangs in a pale, washed-out bluesky, a bright orb suspended high above, whose radiance intimidates you, forcesyou to shield your eyes involuntarily. Birds chirp faintly in the distance, thesoft sound floating over to me on the stillness of the afternoon. I would goand sit outside right now, on the front steps of the porch. But it’s winter,and despite the sun, there’s a bitter chill permeating the air, causing me toabandon the idea. Nature is beautiful, but torturous as well. The greenery islush, the flowers are blooming, the soil is wet and freshly turned, and thegrass newly moved. But amidst the beauty, there is a certain distastefulness aswell, tainting the exquisiteness of the scenario. After all, the bees do sting,the mosquitoes do bite, the cold does dig in your bones cruelly, and the crowsdo caw evilly and whiz past dangerously close to your scalp, sharp talonsextended. Perhaps I am a pessimist, always seeking out the drawbacks, combing minutelyfor flaws, where others would simply be content to lean back and allow theblemishes to escape their notice. Not allowing myself to be contented with the veneerof perfection before me, I always attempt to crack it, to see the layers of rottingmisery underneath. Or maybe I am just a realist that sees both sides of thepicture, not blinded in the way that optimists are.

Today is the last day of2011, and right now I am reflective. I am remembering every little thing aboutthe past year, reliving it inexorably. I wish I could say otherwise, but thisyear has not been kind to me. However, I blame nobody but myself. Life is whatyou make it, and I chose to make this year terrible. It started out unconsciously,the errors made in innocence; but when the pieces started falling, I did notattempt to stem the flow, only sat back in guilty placidity, hands clasped, andwatched the dominoes topple over, one by one. Mistakes led to more mistakes,and before I knew it, they were mistakes no longer, only wrong actions and iniquitousdecisions executed deliberately and intentionally. I let my anger and sorrow overpowerme, allowed them to sweep me along in their wake. So sick at heart was I overwhat I had mistakenly done in the past, that I forgot that the future was stillfree and unencumbered with regrets. Ivow never to let that happen in 2012.

It is time for change. Ineed to believe that, otherwise I will never be able to get through the newyear. I know, with a certainty embedded deep in my bones, that I cannot endureanother year like this one. For my own sanity’s sake, I need to believe thatthe person I was this year is not the real me. Otherwise, I will abhor myself.And that would be the greatest tragedy of all, the point where all hope wouldactually become futile. And in all honestly, I do not believe that the person Iwas this year was the real me. If it had been me, I would have been happy withmyself. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t happy or delighted or even remotely satisfied. Iwas only discontent and repulsed. And that’s an encouraging sign! I should have been discontent and repulsed.If I hadn’t been, well then, that would have been a cause for proper, justifiedconcern. It would indicate that I was already past saving. But I’m boundlesslyhappy to acknowledge that I’m not. I can be saved, and will be saved, by no onebut myself.

Of course, the concept ofsaving myself does consist of all those basic goals, steady and reliable,unsurprising, predictable. Study harder, work more efficiently, try to eathealthier, exercise more regularly. I want to lose the extra weight I have beenlugging around with me for far too long, peel it off me like a snake sheddingold, deteriorating layers of skin. I also intend to continue writing in my journalfaithfully, as I have done for the past two years, and to blog with enhanced frequency.I want to interact more with other bloggers, gain new followers and discovermany more wonderful blogs. I want to read other blogs with an increased levelof devotion, involve myself more in other people’s lives, even if only indirectly,through reading about them, about what they have to say.

But other than thosesimpler, fundamental goals, I have more diverse ones as well, that are uniqueto me and my life. I pledge to finally finish my novel this year. Even if itsucks, even if I hate it, even if I think it is the worst piece of bullshit ever written in the history of literature, Iwill not abandon it. I have had one too many failed attempts. I will not leavea novel half-way through again. I haveto see it through to the end. Because knowing me, I will never be trulysatisfied with anything I like. So it’s time that I stop letting that be theinfluencing factor. Instead, I’ll put my own self-annihilating opinions into abox, lock it tightly, and toss the key down a metaphorical well. I also need tocontinue with my university applications with renewed enthusiasm, as opposed tothe lackluster, lethargic attitude I’ve been exhibiting towards the task lately.This year shall be the year of upheaval, of new beginnings. That will bebecause in this year, I’ll end A Levels, and embark on the universityadventure, an undertaking entirely and completely new. It will be the biggest,most shattering change ever for me. The first half of 2012 will be spentpreparing for the university experience, anticipating it eagerly, breathlessly,and the second half will consist of wallowing in it, reveling in the experienceitself, living it out. I have many roles in life, but at this stage in time,being a student is my primary one. Therefore, the university experience will bemy major experiment, terrifying and thrilling all at once.

2011 has not been a completewaste of time, however. It has allowed me to see certain pivotal realizations,and these shall be crucial in helping me to succeed in the coming year ahead.When you have an already existing model of all the things you are not supposedto you, then the plan for the entire year ahead suddenly becomes very focusedand clear-cut. Just do the opposite. In a nutshell, 2012will be the opposite of 2011. That’s my only aim, the only thing I will keeprepeating to myself when I forget what it is that I should do next. What to do? I wail in pitiful confusion. And the reply instantaneously bubbles to the surface, reassuring in its synchronized simplicity. Why, just the opposite of what you didlast year, silly!

2011 made me see importantthings that I would not have understood otherwise. It made me see firstly thatyou cannot run or hide from your problems, because they follow you around likeyour shadow. They are a part of you; you cannot slice them away from youwithout splintering yourself. And because your problems are in essence you,escape is impossible. You cannot escape yourself. No matter where you go, there you are.

This past year also made merealize the value of enjoying life. I spent the entire year so involved inplanning for the future, that I forgot about relishing the present. I unwittingly allowed myself to despise the present, which in turn, madeeverything bleaker, including my hopes for the future. It was a vicious cyclethat fed on itself, depression relentlessly leading to further depression,stretching on ahead with no possible end in sight. This year, I shall endeavour todestroy this cycle, rip it out from the root. As Vivian Greene famously said, “Lifeisn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in therain.” Such a soft, beautiful line! I’vealso realized that it’s true, what people say, about the fact that you thinkthat you want to die… but in reality, you just want to be saved. That’s sotrue. I’m never going to forget that simple actuality again.

In 2011, Alice InWonderland and I were one and the same. I had the same problem as her, aproblem that she outlined clearly, in the following lament: “That’s the troublewith me, I give myself very good advice, but I seldom follow it.” 2012 shall beall about following the advice I give myself. But I also promise to be lessharsh on myself, to expect less of me, to be gentler and less demanding. I don’twant to expect wonders from me all the time. I’m going to remember what JohnnyDepp declared: “We’re all damaged in our own way. Nobody’s perfect. I think we areall somewhat screwy, every single one of us.” And other than not expectingmyself to be untarnished, I’m not going to harbor unrealistic expectations aboutlife either, desiring it to be perfect or smooth all the time. As someonewisely and anonymously said, “Peace comes not from the absence of conflict inlife, but from the ability to cope with it.”

And in 2012, I will be stronger. Iwill learn to not fall apart or crumble at small, trivial things. I need toroll better with life’s little punches, take the curveballs it throws at me inmy stride. I did not accomplish that this past year, but I will do so now. Becauseas Albert Camus so poignantly said: “Blessed are the hearts that can bend; theyshall never be broken.”

Okay, I think I’veinsinuated more than enough quotes in my prose now. But I’m quotingothers to illustrate my opinions because they’ve already said all that I feel,expressed it in beautiful, all-encapsulating words. I couldn’t have said it allof it better myself, even if I’d tried. Finally, I will end this by announcingthat in 2012, I plan on behaving like a duck: it keeps calm and unruffled onthe surface, but paddles like hell underwater. A brilliant model of behavior, Ithink, and certainly one I would like to employ as well.

The Versatile Blogger Award

2011-12-27T03:26:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I’ve just been nominatedfor the Versatile Blogger Award! I’m delighted, since this is the first time I’vegotten an award for my blog. And being awarded makes me feel super cool. Ha ha.

This award suitsmy blog, because I do write about all kinds of things. I post random thoughts,poems I’ve written, articles on specific topics, as well as short storieswritten by me. So I think the award is justified, and I’m thrilled about being receiving it.

See how very happyI am? ^_^ Okay fine, that's more of a pout than a smile. -.- But whatever. It's a happy pout, okay. :D

But with this award comes certainrequirements that I have to fulfill:

Nominate 15 fellow bloggers.

All of these blogs are awesome,and I absolutely love reading them. Check them out if you want to be inspired,encouraged or thoroughly entertained.

A Myth inCreation: Awais Aftab's Blog

Bleargh!

BourgeoisPigs and Misguided Rants

To turn andknow all the rules have been changed.

Yellow EyedDelusion

Zebra Talk

Inform the bloggersof their nominations.

I’ll get to that right after writing this post.

Share 7 random thingsabout yourself.

-I have terrible eyesight. Without my contacts or myglasses, I’m blind as a bat.

-I adore reading. My favourite authors include: KhaledHosseini, Daniyal Mueenudin, Mohsin Hamid, Frances Hodsgon Burnett, TenesseeWilliams, Jane Austen, George Orwell, Harper Lee, Christopher Paolini, J.K.Rowling, Stephenie Meyer, Alice Sebold, Jhumpa Lahiri, Mitch Albom, James Frey,Jodi Piccoult, John Grisham, Jeffrey Archer, Judith McNaught, Sophie Kinsella,Sheila O’Flanagan, Meg Cabot, Sarah Dessen, Patricia Scanlan, Sean Covey, JackCanfield and Mark Victor Hansen.

-Naps do not apply to me. When I snooze, I’m out for hours.

-I have a habit of replying promptly to e-mails, and I getirritated if other people do not award me the same courtesy of replyingquickly.

-I’m terrible at mathematics. Like literally, abysmal. I loathethe subject and my understanding of concepts is appalling. Calculus especiallyhorrifies me. But I still managed a B in O Level Math, and I’m extremely proudof that.

-My problem is that whenever I’mbored, I eat. I plan on working to defeat this habit. But because I’m aprofessional procrastinator, I keep delaying doing so.

- I’m not altruistic. But I amloyal to those who are loyal to me.

Thank the blogger whonominated you.

Thank you so much, LoveAshley.net,for nominating me for the Versatile Blogger Award. You’re awesome!

Add the Versatile BlogAward logo on your blog post.

'I am as bad as the worst, but thank God, I am as good as the best.'

2011-12-25T11:51:00.000-08:00

It’slate at night, but not late enough for me. Nighttime is when I feel trulyawake. There’s nothing better than curling up next to the heater armed with mylaptop and a few tidbits of food to replenish my sagging energy levels. A barof chocolate, a packet of instant Knorr noodles, or a bottle of Minute Maidjuice. The orange one, not the tropical flavoured one. The latter was just too sicklysweet for my taste-buds. A few drops of it, and they were crying out powerfullyfor mercy. I had to toss the nearly full bottle into an empty bin. Profligateof me, I know, but I’ve lately understood that in my quest to clean plates anddrain glasses to avoid wasting the food, I’ve unknowingly let a few poundscreep stealthily onto my frame. From the moment this realization dawned on me, Ivowed to battle against it, even if it means throwing perfectly good food awaybecause there is no one around to eat it. I would rather be wasteful thanunhealthy. I know my limits.

Logictells me now that perhaps I should hand out the food to the beggars stragglingacross the streets of Islamabad, banging their knuckles against windowpanes ofirate drivers, fingers splayed pathetically in hope. But I’m torn over this. Idon’t approve of begging. I think that instead of wasting their days trailingover the black asphalt of roads in search of a few pennies, these people shouldat least try to find gainful employment.Life is hard to them, I understand that. But by laying down their arms andresigning themselves to defeat, they will not get anywhere. Instead, they’llonly breed children before dying out, spawning an entirely new generation ofbeggars to take their place.

Mystomach rumbles, but I don’t feel inspired to embark on a hunt for food. I’mtired, because I’ve written for the past three hours. It’s been productive, butonly mildly so. Three thousand words at most. Not one of the most efficientdays I’ve ever had, but definitely not one of the worst. I’m still not evenhalf-way through the story yet, either. I still have a lot left in me, and thecharacters are not ready to end their tales at this point either. There is a lot left tobe said, to be felt, and I cannot walk away without letting them churn outtheir hidden essences. At the same time, I must be careful not to drag thestory unnecessarily. I must distillate on the quintessence of what needs to beexpressed, and allow the rest to be left open to assumptions, interpretations.

Ifeel insecure telling people that I am writing a novel. Not because I’muncertain that I will finish this novel, but because I’m not sure of whether itwill ever make it into print. I’m not confident enough in its quality to know withuntarnished, absolute conviction that my novel, once completed, shall be worthyof publication. I especially feel disoriented when people ask, as theyinevitably do, “Are you a good writer?” I don’t know what to offer in response.I’m ambivalent myself, you see, so how can I be expected to state such adecisive, clear-cut opinion? How can I tell people what kind of a writer I amwhen, deep down, I’m clueless about the answer myself? Some days I wake up thinkingthat I’m the most brilliant writer on the planet, that everything I writedeserves miles of adoration and reverence, abundantly lauded glorification.Other times, I feel despondent, convinced that I’m the most terrible writer toever maim perfect sheets of white with degrading, unworthy black letters. Ifinally found a quote that I feel fits me snugly, like a shoe that's soprecisely comfortable in all the specific points that you almost feel as thoughit was designed exclusively for your individual use. Walt Whitman uttered it,and it goes as follows: “I am as bad asthe worst, but thank God, I am as good as the best.” An all-encompassing,all-encapsulating description of my writing. I think I finally know what myanswer shall be now whenever people ask me that dreaded question, present onthe tip of my tongue and waiting to be fluidly, automatically recited, preventingthe usual stumbling and stuttering that had normally occurred, embarrassing meintensely.

Winterhas finally arrived in Islamabad with a vengeance. I’ve taken to wearing athick, cable-knit dark gray sweater now. It’s loose and unshapely, and does notflatter me even slightly. On the contrary, it makes me look unwieldy, ungainly,misshapen. The sleeves are too long so they conceal my hands, and whenever I wavemy hands expressively to punctuate the impact of my speech, the sleeves flapnoisily, comically. But it keeps me warm, so blessedly warm. It even allows meto do away with socks! And that is simply wonderful, because I hate howterribly restricting socks can be. And they used to make my feet sweat. Adisgusting sensation, indeed. I’ve also started wearing deep, blue-based rednail polish, re-applying the coat each time it chips instead of painting them afresh colour. No, it is not laziness. Nor is it the general, inescapable feelof Christmas in the air that I breathe, permeating involuntarily though me,overpowering my Islamic barriers. I simply love the colour red on my nails inwintertime. A simple enough, uncomplicated concept. I adore winter. I used todislike it at first, feeling compressed by it, but now I don’t. That sense ofcompression vanished entirely, all on its own. Maybe because, like Albert Camusonce said, “In the depth of winter, Ilearned that there lay within me invincible summer.” How fantastic, how awesomely superb.

Lately,I’ve been re-reading Jhumpa Lahiri and Daniyal Mueenuddin regularly, with an almostreligious devotion. I love their respective short story collections. They’relike breaths of fresh air for me. I can see the books now, piled haphazardly onmy living room sofa. Wherever I go, a trail of books inexorably follows me,scattered around like confetti, unmistakably marking my presence in a specific area,giving away the fact that my footsteps once padded across that space. LikeHansel and Gretel leaving breadcrumbs in their wake. It is a romantic notion, thevery idea of marking my territory, and it appeals to the whimsical part of me,the part that usually remains suffocated under the crushing confines ofpracticality.

Thefirst day of winter vacations now draws to an end. I have much to worry about,but I think I need to let go, because the time for anxiety is still a few weeksahead, and I shouldn’t cross my bridges before I come to them, or prolong my angstunnecessarily. I shall fret when it is time to fret. But because now is notthat time, so I shall forget that there are things lying ahead waiting to befretted over, and shall instead languish about easily. A rich prospect, nodoubt. To bed now, I shall depart. But perhaps I may sneak a spoonful of mangoice-cream from the freezer before doing so. Oh I know, how shocking, how crazy of me, ice-cream in winters, what a blasphemy!But here, I offer nothing to verify the strength of my sanity. I think I’ll manageto abstain from such biased aspersions.

The Pilgrimage

2011-12-20T01:39:00.000-08:00

Oh what wonders we shall see!
Together, you and me
As hand-in-hand,
We shall eagerly traverse new land.

Come, follow me, mydear
And abandon all fear…
Indeed, it is with the purest of hearts that I say:
“Don’t worry, I shall never lead you astray.”

We have much to do, you and I
So why then do you in idleness lie?
Hurry, stir yourself, so we may travel far
With nothing to guide us but the faithful north star.

Our shadows will merge as one
As we walk resolutely under the sun;
And when we march forwards hence,
We shall trust the universe to provide bountiful providence.

And who knows whom we might meet during this pilgrimage
A bard, a noble scholar, perhaps a wise sage?
And when this journey ends, love will replace hate,
As together we shall unearth the secrets of our fate.

Perfection

2011-12-19T10:12:00.000-08:00

Maria’s fingers groped along thewall, skimming lightly over the smooth surface of the tiles. They encountered aprotruding object, a light switch. She flipped it, and illumination flooded thebathroom, chasing away obscurity instantaneously. Pushing open the door, Mariastood motionless on the threshold, her expression curiously unreadable. Secondsslowly trickled by; yet movement did not course through her limbs.

Far away, somewhere in the depthsof the expansive, spacious house, a telephone began ringing shrilly. Thecacophonous sound jarred the unbroken silence that had permeated the house, settlingover it like a thick, billowing blanket, both suffocating and placating hersimultaneously. She ached to escape the silence, flee from its clutches; yet apart of her yearned to embrace it, found in the silence an omnipotent,unparalleled source of ultimate salvation.

The telephone pealed again, apersistent commotion. It roused her out of her epiphany. In one fluid motion,she tugged at the strings of her night-dress; let it fall to the ground in apuddle of silk. Naked, her body free of any restrictions, she stepped into thebathroom. Closed the door behind her; letting it fall shut with a gentle, briskclick.

* * *

Tanya’s craving for her native cuisinewas growing unbearably overwhelming. Her stomach grumbled, urgently demandingfood – Pakistani food. Her eyes swept the crowded streets, searching in vainfor any sight of a restaurant or a stall serving eastern dishes.

Her husband turned to face her,raising his tone to be audible over the din and noise of traffic, cars andpassersby. “I’m starving, let’s get a burger!”

Tanya sighed miserably, a frownmarring her forehead. Another meal comprising of fast food, and she might justscream!

“There’s an In-N-Out Burger justa few blocks ahead,” Abdullah prattled on, oblivious to his wife’sfrustrations.

“No. I want some Pakistani food,”stated Tanya decisively.

“But you can have Pakistani foodany day back home!” protested Abdullah. “I thought we decided to vacation hereso we could ‘indulge in a total foreign experience; let ourselves be swept awayby the culture of another country.’” He raised an eyebrow, making quotations marks inthe air with his fingers.

“Yes,” admitted Tanya. “I did saythat, but now I want desi food. It’s been two weeks, and everything I’ve eatenjust tastes so – bland.”

“Fine,” agreed Abdullah,accustomed to giving in to his wife’s impulses. “There’s this thing up ahead.Harold told me.” Harold was the name of the landlord of the rented apartmentwhere the two of them were staying.

“What thing?” she queried.

“Um, this kind of fair, he said.It’s a bunch of different stalls, showcasing items from different countries.And of course, selling them too. We might get some kind of desi food from aPakistani stall.”

“Yeah, that sounds good to me.How far is it?”

“Just a few blocks,” he replied.“You want to walk it?”

“Okay.”

They began striding forwards,lengthening their pace, sometimes jostling against passersby. Abdullah’s cellphone vibrated in his pocket, and he drew it out, squinted at the brightlyglowing screen. Shooting a quick glance at Tanya to indicate it was awork-related call, he flipped the cell phone open. “Abdullah Rehman,” heaffirmed, and then fell quiet, evidently listening to what the person on theother end had to say.

Tanya pursed her lips, struggledto suppress the flow of resentment suffusing her. Though she acknowledged thather husband worked to maintain their luxurious lifestyle, at times she couldn’thelp despising her husband’s work and his buys lifestyle, remembering all thosehours she roamed the house alone; her children busy at school, husbandembroiled in his work. For all her comforts, there was one money couldn’tpurchase: the pleasure of companionship. It eluded her continuously, determinedto avoid her forever. And the more it was denied to her, the harder she desiredit.

Abdullah was speaking now,issuing clipped, proficient instructions, and Tanya found her mind wandering.It left the buzzing streets of San Francisco, floating upwards like a heliumballoon, landing, as it always did, upon her children. Bilal, Fatimah and Maria,the three people her life had revolved around since the past twenty five years,like the earth orbiting the sun. They were her centre, the one permanent thingkeeping her grounded, the anchor embedding her to the existential andpreventing her from being washed away. Bilal was now twenty-five and studiedeconomics at the University of Chicago, Fatimah approaching twenty-three andmajoring in Organic Chemistry at Cornell. Both had aced their O and A Level,winning hundred percent scholarships to pursue higher education. At eighteen, inher final year of A Level, Maria was still the ‘baby’ of the family, poised totake flight from the nest, just teetering on its very edge. Though they had emerged from her womb, theylooked nothing like her, inheriting her husband’s paler skin, his jet blackhair, and his tall, lanky figure.

They were grown up now, each ofthem adults, independent, no longer bound to her. She remembered them squirmingin her arms, suckling on her breasts, so vulnerable and fragile, her name thefirst words escaping through their lips after a nightmare, when they fell down,bruised a knee. Though she cherished their stupendous success – each of themevery parent and teacher’s dream – a part of her longed to unravel it, reversetime and start all over again. Like a string unwinding, unsnapping, falling tothe floor, free and uncontained; the process of being rolled up again yet tohappen then, and therefore holding limitless possibility.

But these were ramblings,pointless musings. The reflective ponderings of a woman growing old, a womanwhose life had been so busy, so full of things to do, to manage, to lookforward to; but despite that, a life that still felt wasted, ultimately endingin a summation of nothing concrete and valuable. She hoped – hoped greatly –that her children would never feel this way. They were content with theirlives, of that she was certain. Lately though, she had sensed a rising restlessnessbudding within her youngest Maria, a sense of dissatisfaction thrumming withinher like a discordant chord. She could feel it within her daughter, gainingmomentum with enough strength to gather Tanya’s attention. But before she couldfocus on it fully, begin to entirely acknowledge its existence, it would disappear,seeping out of her daughter like a plug had been pulled out, the emotionsswirling away like dirty water down a bathtub drain. Then Maria would return toher normal happy self, a smiling child with dreams that knew no boundaries, norestrictions.

She thought to giving it morenotice sometimes, probing and delving in deeper, investigating more. But shebanished that thought almost immediately when it occurred, dismissing itconfidently. She knew her children, did she not? She had spent years, endlesshours, making them the only point where her life converged. No one knew thembetter than her. No one was closer to them than her. I know my children, she would think to herself. I know my children inside and out, and Iknow they are happy. They had no reason not to be. She would not pickfaults, or find flaws where there were none. Perfection, many said, wasunattainable, but her life proved them wrong. She had perfection – had it inthe one aspect every parent wants – in her children.

* * *

The mirror showed a girl with apale, heart-shaped face, raven locks tumbling down to her shoulders in gentle,tousled waves. Green, almond-shaped eyes framed by long lashes stared out fromthe mirror. The nose was small and upturned; the lips pink and small, full tothe extent of being swollen – as though stung by a bee. “A rosebud mouth,” Omarhad often murmured in the whorls of the ear, before leaning down to kiss it.The girl had a slender neck, a voluptuous body. She would have been considereda vision, an epitome of pure, unadulterated beauty, had it not been for the redcuts slashing across the skin of her arms, her thighs. They were grotesque,cutting this way and that, marring the beauty of her image, crushing itentirely. They stood out, vivid scarlet stripes patterned into her ivory skin,the red harsh against the white.

Maria gazed back at herreflection intently, unblinking, as though committing it to memory. A heavy,substantial weight had been settling down on her chest throughout the course ofthe day, stealing her breath, robbing her of energy. It was like a rock, toobig for her to push against. She needed to get rid of it, needed to get it offher chest before it killed her.

She reached for the button and flickedoff the light.

The silvery light of the moon filtereddistinctly through the windowsill, illuminating Maria dimly as she dropped downto her knees, eased gently onto the bathroom tiles. Her movements were carefuland wary, for contact of any surface with the cuts inevitably brought pain. Asthe floor met her mutilated skin, her wounds screamed in protest. She gaspedinvoluntarily at the agony, an agony that was as blessed as it was cursed. Shelay on her side, her face upturned towards the glow of the moon, likesunflowers embracing the sun’s glittering radiance. Maria curled up into afetus-like position, her knees digging into her stomach.

The memories came to her then,enveloping her as they always did. They overpowered her, consuming her peace ofmind mercilessly, like a hunter devouring the helpless prey. A picture of Omarswam in her mind. He was the most beautiful boy in the entire school,carelessly handsome, brilliant in academics, sports, everything. She couldhardly believe that he had wanted her – her, Maria! At times it had felt like ahallucination, a mirage just waiting to vanish, dissolve into thin air. Butthree years had passed, and he was still there, and her friends were stillchanting to her about how lucky she was.

And then, he graduated. Obviouslyhe was a year older than her so he was bound to graduate ahead of her. She hadknown he would go abroad, study in the US, but what she hadn’t anticipated wasthat he would want to end things then. In her mind, their future life togetherwas mapped out clearly, just waiting to be lived. Clearly though, that was notthe case with him.

“It’s not you, it’s me.” Thatclichéd line he had uttered, and then she knew, knew with undeniable certaintythat he was determined to leave her, that he had possibly never even intendedto stay. Before, she had been holding onto the belief that this was just aphase – a case of ‘cold feet’, so to speak – but with that line, that beliefwas demolished. She gave up after that.

Four months later, and his facestill floated before her, shocking in its vividness. She closed her eyes,swallowed. It was time to lessen the pain. It was time to decrease misery, toend suffering and gain control again, in the most effective solution discoveredby her.

The knife glittered in the lightof the moon as she raised it in the air, brought it down. In the distance, thetelephone began ringing again, the sound echoing over, reverberating throughoutthe house.

* * *

In San Francisco, thousands ofmiles away, Tanya licked her fingers, sucked on them in delight. “Oh my, wasn’tthat amazing!” she exclaimed, sighing with fulfilled satisfaction. The showarma she had just consumed from thePakistani food stall had been absolutely heavenly.

“I know,” moaned Abdullah, who’deaten three. “I’m so full I can barely move.”

“You shouldn’t have eaten thatmuch,” admonished Tanya, leveling a severe gaze at him. But even she herselffelt uncomfortably full, lethargy creeping over her. “Here, let’s sit for amoment.” She pointed to benches clustered together under the shade of a bunchof trees growing in the periphery, where the stalls ended.

Abdullah obliged, shufflingforwards and throwing himself onto the bench with abandon. Tanya perched on thenext one, opposite him. She rummaged through her handbag, drew out her cell phone. Abdullah, who had been observing her, raisedan inquisitive eyebrow.

“I’m calling Maria,” she explained.“I rang the landline earlier, around thirty minutes ago, but nobody answered. SoI’m trying her cell phone now.”

She pressed the phone to her ear,listened to it ring. Nobody answered. A recorded voice announced clearly: “Hi,you’ve reached Maria! I’m not home right now, but leave your name and numberand I’ll get back as soon –” She hit the End Call button.

“She’s probably out with herfriends,” Tanya watched Abdullah yawn, one hand covering his mouth. He noddedin reply, and she put her cell phone back in her bag again.

She knew her daughter was toovivacious to ever be expected to sit home alone, when she could be out with herfriends. No, her daughter was too outgoing, too happy for that. She smiled,thinking of how engaging her daughter was, how bold and bright and colourful.Tanya closed her eyes and leaned back on the bench, letting the sunlight washover her.

Matters of the Heart

2011-12-18T07:10:00.000-08:00

Sohere’s a poem written by me. I penned it down around three weeks ago, sittingby the heater on a cold October evening. It’s not one of my favourite poemsever, a tad bit too ‘emo’ for my taste, to be critically honest. But despitethat one flaw, I do like it rather, because it describes a situation I wasembroiled in during the past. A situation that I think most of us have probablyexperienced, at one point or another in our lives.

Promise me you'll never forget me because if I thought you would, I'd never leave." - Winnie the Pooh.

Matters ofthe Heart

My eyesprickle with unshed tears
“Please don’t do this,” I plead.
But my words are futile…
You pay me no heed.

You hang upbriskly –
And in rage, I hurl the phone to the floor.
Tears fall thick and fast now,
I have a headache and my entire body’s sore.

I curl upinto a ball and collapse on the sofa,
My limbs heaving and shaking.
I close my eyes and whimper in discontent;
I can feel my heart breaking.

I wake up abruptly,
The cushion’s damp from tears that fell whilst dreaming;
Minutes or hours of perhaps an eternity’s passed –
Outside, the sky is deepening.

I rise andswitch the heater off
For the stifling warmth is making me nauseous.
And as I watch the sun sink, I resolve
In matters of the heart, to be more cautious.

– N.T.

See?A bit too emo, as I said. But never fear, a healthy dose of over-exaggeratedemotion is good for the soul sometimes. Meanwhile, I must now sadly remindmyself that I have a paper tomorrow and go read some Sparknotes summaries on ‘APassage to India’ by E.M. Forster. I did like the book itself, but answeringessay questions on it is another matter altogether. Winters, I’ve noticed, havea tendency of making you feel inadequate. The sun sets so early, and before yourealize it, it seems as though the day’s over, and you still haven’t managed toaccomplish anything. But anyways. Pangs of hunger are tormenting me at thismoment in time, so this is all for now.

Everything Random

2011-12-16T18:24:00.000-08:00

Pistachios are delicious. Exceptcracking them open breaks my nails. That part isn’t so nice.

Biryani, ftw.

Thank god for small miracles.Like push-up bras.

A Levels has fucked up mypreviously perfect existence.

Mathematics sucks. Especially calculus.

I still watch the PowerpuffGirls, and Kids Next Door. And I’m not ashamed of doing so.

I like Twilight. But I amterribly ashamed of doing so. *covers face*

I love the printed word. Books> e-books. Always.

I’m a professionalprocrastinator.

Narnia is my hometown.

I love to read, and people whoread. I love to write, and also people who write.

Diet Coke is amazing.

I hate to run. In fact, sometimesI even dislike walking.

Cigarettes and smokers disgustme.

I love painting my nails.

I don’t do sheesha. Not even alittle bit.

Landlines > cell phones. Theyjust are. At my house, we’re staunch supporters of the beautiful tradition oflandlines. We have five.

The Diary of a Wimpy Kid seriesmakes me laugh. I read those books every time I’m depressed.

I’m sexy.

I look awkward when I’m dancing.Like really, really awkward.

If you love me, tell me that youdo. Yes, I need to hear you say it.

Sparknotes has saved my life, especiallywhen it comes to History and Eng Lit. Bless you, whoever created Sparknotes. Andwhile I’m on the subject of blessing people, I’d like to bless the inventor of make-upas well.

I can talk for hours on end withcertain people.

If I don’t like you, I won’tpretend that I do.

I’m a chocolate whore. I will eatthe last chocolate in the box.

My mood swings are random,unprecedented, and frequent.

You have a blog? RESPECT.

All my friends who think theyknow me inside out – don’t. I promise. They’re only seeing the tip of theiceberg. The only person who knows me, is me. And even then I sometimes dothings that surprise me, as well.

I become mysteriously deaf whenAmma orders me to clean my room.

We had homework?

Punctuality is my middle name.NOT.

Me, jealous of you? Bitch,please.

No, I shall not screw the capback on after using the toothpaste.

90210, Gossip Girl, DesperateHousewives, Friends, How I Met Your Mother. <3 <3

I am a Muslim. Occasionally,however, I do question my faith, I won’t deny it. I’m not proud of it, but Idon’t judge me for doing so either. I’m only human, after all. And human beingsare very flawed creatures, indeed.

Hug me, please.

Being financially independent is,in my opinion, the greatest kind of freedom.

I’m not altruistic. But I amloyal to those who are loyal to me.

Castles in the Air

2011-12-16T14:39:00.000-08:00

I have a paper in exactly six anda half hours, but I don’t feel inspired to study. I know I should – for Ireally don’t know anything at all – but I just spent the past two hours staringat my notes, and at past papers online, and the only thing I kept thinking was ‘Crap. I don’t know any of this.’ Andthere’s so much of it, too. Pages and documents and e-mails and endless texton past events of history – the Truman Doctrine, the Cuban Missile Crisis, theVietnam War, the Soviet Union, the fall of China at the hands of Communism. Allevents of the past, left behind in the unstoppable wake of time.

To me, it seems pointless tostudy about any of this, seeing as how I’ll never use it in real life, becauseall I plan to do is write literary fiction. But then, in my heart of hearts, Ido understand the importance of studying history, because it develops your mindand broadens your horizons. That, in a nutshell, was why I took World Historyin the first place. But so far all that the subject has done is manage to causeme endless heartache. No so-called ‘broadening’ taking place, whatsoever.Though, to be painfully fair, I suppose a good deal of it is my fault. After all, I don’t attend lectures, I bunk classes,sleep in the few I do attend or else tune the teacher out and doodle scribbleson the margins of my notebooks. I don’t bother poring over the e-mails he sendsme, nor do I even try cracking open my notes until the last few hours beforethe paper. And then, when I do finally muster up the willpower to do so, thewords feel alien, foreign to my eyes, none of the concepts ringing any note offamiliarity in my memory. And the sheer dread envelops me then, theoverwhelming sense of panic about the mountain of work left to do, the vastunchartered seas of things I don’t know at all.

I have a victim complex, I think.I seek refuge within excuses, such as lack of time, the teacher’s incompetencyor vagueness regarding the lectures etc. But in truth, the teacher is competent enough, I do have time, and I can study. I just choose not to. I whine plaintively about theinfluence of peer pressure, the insurmountable lure of other highly attractiveactivities like partying, gossiping with my best friend about all our otherfriends on the phone, watching Masterchef USA on Starworld, or 90210 onSidereel. I argue that it’s not my fault I don’t study because my mother’sconsistent nagging inspires in me the urge to rebel the constraints ofacademics – and how can I be expected to battle such an overpowering urge? Butdespite all that, I do have a choice. And it’s no one’s fault but my own that Ikeep making the wrong one.

I’m exceptionally good at lyingto myself. And believing all the lies I tell myself as well. Yesterday was my Englishliterature paper, and one of the texts included in the syllabus was TennesseeWilliams’ play, ‘A Streetcar Named Desire.’ While preparing for it, a suddenrealization dawned on me. Blanche and I – we were the same! The similaritiesbetween the play’s protagonist and myself suddenly became obvious, apparent,visibly shocking. She spun fantasies for herself, ran from reality, madecastles in the air. And beautiful castles, the kind that were like balm to herfrazzled soul – a chivalric hero, a Shep Huntleigh type gentleman, a knight inshining armour riding up to sweep her away. She indulged in the make-believe, to an extentuntil that was the only thing that felt substantial to her anymore. Romanticnotions blotted out practicality, erased it altogether. And her tendenciesapply to me as well. Like her, I bury my head in the sand; ignore the calls oflogic, or reasoning. Logic tells me that unless I study I will never attain mydreams of being accepted to high-ranking universities or being financiallyindependent. But like Blanche, I continue to conjure castles in the air. Ichuckled weakly to myself as these thoughts permeated my brain. Blanche DuBoisand Neshmia Tahir – two peas in a pod! Hilariously funny to the point of beingtragically sad.

But this is turning into a bunchof ramblings now, threatening to heave me overboard in the sinking waters ofself-pity. I must return to the anchor of sanity now, because I have no wish ofsharing Blanche’s fate. Will I study right now? Yes. Will I pass the examtomorrow? No. In World History, two hours of cramming right before the papergets you nowhere. It does help you not fail toomiserably. But to attain marks in this accursed subject requires understandingconcepts, attempting dozens of essay questions, doing consistent prep over along period of time. But in the end, allyou can do is learn from your mistakes. Beating yourself up over them isfutile. Because you’re never going to stop making them, you’ll only beatyourself down to self-annihilation. Regret and remorse are barnacles that willonly drown you under. Knowledge of your flaws and the determination to dobetter are the wind in your sails that will propel you forwards. It’s been ahard-earned lesson for me, but a lesson definitely worth acquiring.

Silent Delusions

2011-12-04T10:21:00.001-08:00

Amma’sin a rush, she doesn’t have time to toss together a salad. “Do it yourself,Minahil,” she instructs me sharply as she scurries quickly out of the door, onehand adjusting the chiffon dupatta slipping down her shoulder while the otherrummages around in her beige oversized bag for her car keys. “I’ve a full-timejob too, you know. I can’t fix all your meals all the time,” she barks inirritation. Items in her purse clack together loudly as she tosses them aroundcarelessly, fingers scrabbling. “You’re seventeen years old, for god’s sake,”she adds in admonishing tones, “it’s about time you start doing some more workaround the house.”

I’mhungry, and I’m disoriented, and deprivation of chicken, pasta, bread or anyform of dessert is causing me to feel infuriated and crabby. But I clamp mymouth shut, and don’t reply. Experience has taught me that the worst moment tocommunicate with Amma is this, right before she is departing for work. Amma isperpetually late, a habit instilled within her that she is unable to shatter.Her pay gets cut if she doesn’t make it to the pathology department of ExcelLabs on time, and so the lateness is fraying her nerves now, the pressure tomake it to work within the next few minutes burdening her. I can see sparks ofimpatience radiating from her eyes, a scowl etched across her forehead. Iretreat silently into the kitchen, teeth locked tightly together.

“Leavesome salad for me, I’ll be home by ten,” Amma shouts over her shoulder as shefinally locates her elusive keys and vanishes out the front door in a whirlwindof pale green and white chiffon. I pull open the fridge door roughly and obtaincarrots, cabbage, cauliflower, capsicum, broccoli and green chillies. Placing themon a cutting board, I grab a knife from the drawers, along with a bottle ofolive oil from the cupboard. The knife flashes suddenly and abruptly in thebright block of sunlight streaming in from the kitchen windows as I raise ithigh in the air and bring it down upon the cauliflower head. It slices cleanly,splitting apart into two. “Dieting sucks,” I mutter, as the knife dancesbriskly along the cutting board. I’m fairly good at cooking; I can producereasonably tasty dishes. But it’s the act of fixing them, the effort involvedin the process that I detest. Laziness is what dominates me. I finish choppingup all the vegetables, drizzle them hastily with olive oil, salt and pepper,tip them into a large bowl, and pop them in the microwave. The machine whirs upto life, and I sigh with relief. There. Done. Television is calling to me, andI hasten to oblige its summons.

* * *

Saulehawas fat, and she knew it. The mirror before her clearly presented theunavoidable reality. She turned this way and that, tossed her long brown hairaround, placed her hands on her hips as she scrutinized her reflection. Therewas no denying it. She, Sauleha Arif, was fat. That was the simple truth of thematter. Everywhere she looked, a bulge there, a roll of fat here met her unwillingeyes. She closed her eyes, prayed inwardly, opened them again. She was stillfat. She was fatter than her mother, for Christ’s sake – and her mother hadpushed out four kids! How shameful, to look worse than your fifty-year oldmother in a pair of jeans. Truly, therecan be nothing worse than that, she mused pensively. And then she felt thefamiliar prickle of tears well up behind her eyes, that burning sensation thathinted at the onslaught of a flood. This moment, right here, perfectlyencapsulated the simple truth behind why she despised thinking about herweight, acknowledging it. Doing so made her cry, uncontrollably.

Perhapsthe time had come to go on a diet. Her class mate Minahil had just begun a dieta few weeks ago, and Sauleha could see that it was working. Minahil’s waistlooked flatter; her double chin had reduced significantly. She wondered whetherto team up with Minahil, but that girl was living on vegetables only, andSauleha adored meat far too much to give it up. I can’t munch on greens every day like some kind of pathetic rabbit,she grumbled gloomily. Perhaps exercisecould be the key to my weight loss dreams, she murmured inwardly, and then snorted in disbelief and self-deprecating amusement; she despised all forms of exercise as well. Shedisliked the stickiness of perspiration, and any fast movements always made herdouble over, panting for breath. It drove home, even more vigorously, the realizationof how unwieldy and uncoordinated she was, drilled it even more firmly into herhead.

Hercell phone beeped from where it lay buried under the haphazard piles ofclothing strewn across her bed. With one last sweeping glance at the mirror,she swiveled around, groped for her phone. The brightly lit up screen displayeda new text from her friend Sameena. HotSpot, today at 4. Z came back from Karachi last night and is coming too. Youin?

Saulehapondered, her fingers momentarily frozen over the keyboard as her mind churnedbusily. Yeah, she typed out suddenly,coming to an abrupt, immediate decision. Seeyou there, babe.

Dietingcould wait, until she’d worked her motivation levels up further. For now, she’dturn her focus onto more important matters, like what to wear to Hot Spot thatwould highlight her generous bust without calling attention to the equallyample stomach underneath. And perhaps drape a cloth over the mirror in herbedroom as well. Ignorance is bliss, as they so rightly say.

* * *

Zarmeenatapped her fingers at the sticky tabletop of the booth she and Sameena weresitting in, her eyes roving over the numerous posters crowding the walls of HotSpot. Next to her, Sameena glanced at the pale brown wristwatch strapped acrossher wrist, and sighed. “Honestly, that girl is always late,” she moaned inirritation, and Zarmeena nodded her head in silent agreement. Sauleha reallyhad no concept of punctuality, being unfailingly, persistently late foreverything in all the six years Zarmeena had known her. But Zarmeena didn’t letthat rouse her anger anymore, unlike Sameena, who invariably got riled up overSauleha’s tardiness. Certain things in life were facts and you couldn’t changethem no matter how much you wanted to, and Zarmeena knew that perfectly well. Saulehawas who she was, would always be who she was, and Zarmeena’s sighs and groanswouldn’t effect anything.

Thewaitress shuffled over, pad in hand, and Sameena told them the usual. Thewaitress didn’t bother noting it down, simply nodded quickly in recognitionbefore disappearing. A sign of how oftenthey were here, thought Zarmeena, and shook her head ruefully. But Sameena and Sauleha both liked it here, and she was loath to tell her friendsthat she wanted to cut back on the calories. They’d both shout her downanyways, insisting on the adequacy of her weight. But they just didn’t get it,and Zarmeena knew, deep in her bones, that they never would. And attempting toexplain it to them would not only be futile, but simply unnecessary.

Thedoor pushed open as Sauleha raced through, her plump figure a whirl of pink asshe made a beeline towards them. She plopped down, flicked back her long, lightbrown hair, and smiled as she leaned forwards to hug them both. Zarmeenaexchanged the perfunctory hug, and then watched as her two best friends felleasily into conversation, chatting about the same, trivial matters. She leanedback and observed idly how low-cut and figure-hugging Sauleha’s top was, thepush up bra serving its purpose as it shoved her cleavage even further out ofthe neckline. Zarmeena fingered the modest neckline of her own loose-fittingtop and frowned. She wished intensely that she was as comfortably with her ownbody as her friend. Sauleha was overweight, but she had no qualms about it. Shenever tried to restrict her food, always eating cheerfully and without guilt,and never tried to hide her body underneath shapeless clothes. She walked witha confidence that Zarmeena was painfully aware she could never emulate.

“Whyso glum, chum?” joked Sauleha, and Zarmeena glanced up to see both of herfriends eying her with concern, having stalled their conversation to focus onher. She forced her lips into a smile, and tried to speak, but her throat feltlike it was coated in a thick layer of bile. Clearing it, she spoke again,offered jet lag from her flight last night as an excuse. She made more of aneffort to join the conversation, but her head was pounding and her stomach wascramping excruciatingly, and though she racked her brains desperately, shecouldn’t think of anything to contribute. The waitress arrived with a traybearing their customary three vanilla and chocolate nut sundaes and three tallglances of sweet orange juice, and Zarmeena leaned forwards to eat, nearlymoaning in relief as the sugar hit her bloodstream, decreasing her headachealmost at once.

Anhour of chit chat and ice-cream later, they finally looked at the time andmournfully concluded that it was time they set home. “Before the parents flipout,” Sameena sighed, shaking her head in disdain. Sauleha fished her cameraout of her bag, and looked for any random person to take their photographtogether, but nobody seemed to be around. Zarmeena quickly offered to do so;she didn’t like being photographed anyways. For some reason, she always cameout looking weirdly gaunt and rigidly, awkwardly tense in photographs, but she simply guessed thatattributed to a lack of being inherently photogenic.

Theyhugged, and the friends split up then, each heading for different parts of thecity. Zarmeena reached home fifteen minutes later, to see that her mother’s carwasn’t in the driveway. She lived with her mother, an only child, and thoughher mother worked long hours, it didn’t bother Zarmeena. She’d always been alover of solitude.

Pullingout the scale from under her bed, she stepped on it, biting her lip, clenchingher fingers in anxiety. The number blinked resolutely up at her, and shegasped, breath rushing out of her in a sharp, thick torrent. She closed hereyes. 40 kg. She’d gained almost an entire kilo since yesterday. Well, there’s nothing else for it, shethought grimly. Walking into her bathroom, she stuck two fingers down herthroat and threw up neatly, cleanly, with an efficiency that was the result ofmany months’ practice. She flushed when she was done, averting her eyes deliberatelyfrom the yellowy mix at the bottom of the toilet seat. Her limbs ached, and asshe reached for the wash basin counter to help herself propel herself uprightagain, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror opposite. Her cheekswere flushed red, her eyes overly bright, shining. She felt purged, blessedlyabsolved.

Goodbyes

2011-12-03T07:39:00.001-08:00

Yes, I acknowledge that lately mymood’s been geared towards a particular type of emotion, with specific thoughtsbrewing in my mind. And if my blog now seems to be affected by my persistent,unwavering reflections on the same mundane matters, then do not fret. Myfeelings have this peculiar habit of being stubbornly fixed at one focus pointfor an inordinately and unnecessarily long time, before suddenly disappearing.Bam! Yes, just like that. I wake up, and they’ve vanished. And I’m oh-so-glad.But while I wait for that happy moment to arrive, I’ll continue penning mycurrent emo-ness down in the form of poetry. Here’s another one I wrote a fewweeks ago. Nothing inspires my inner poet more than abject misery, it seems.

Goodbyes.

I spent months clinging haplessly to you,
Remembering all our mistakes with sorrow and rue.
But now I’ve opened my eyes, I finally see
You and I, we were never meant to be.

You never played the game or went all the way
Only negative things, you had to say
When you looked at me, all you saw
Was a person crippled by a plethora of flaws.

You never saw the light or reached for the stars
It’s almost as if we were moving on different orbits, like Venus and Mars
Around your heart you placed barriers for resistance
Even in my arms you remained at a distance.

You sucked up my air
When I needed you, you weren’t there
And you had the nerve to say that I didn’t care
Now how on earth is that fair?

So you just keep on blaming me –
Don’t open your eyes, don’t see.
Go run, hide in your sanctuary
That’s where you’ll always be; ignoring reality.

Breaking me strengthened you, on my fears you fed
But now I’m done weeping, enough tears have been shed
You’re welcome to keep spinning your lies,
I don’t care, because I’ve said my goodbyes.

Forever’s Metamorphosis

2011-12-03T06:23:00.001-08:00

Once upon a time, three words were enough;

You couldn’t have asked for anything more.
My love for you was something,
Of which you were rigidly sure.
In my eyes you saw your future
My smile brightened your days like the sun –
Each other’s company we desperately craved
Separation we would shun.

But alas! ‘Forever’ suddenly took on a new meaning
When we encountered days bleak and dire.
When uncertainties and doubts plagued us mercilessly
And our friendship fell in the line of fire.
Dark clouds loomed, the silver lining disappeared
And all I felt was confusion and pain.
For your absence felt like a warping of the world;
And in company, even polite smiles I couldn’t feign.

Perfection was what you and I had,
And when perfection is tarnished it cuts deep.

Agonizing emotions raged within me –
The only escape was sleep.
And in my slumbering dreams I saw:
You and I under a sky so vast
As we laughed and rejoiced and defeated time;
Forever, that moment seemed to last.

What About Forever?

2011-11-21T04:37:00.001-08:00

Over the past forty-eight hours, my mind’s been churning,centered solely around one word, one thought: Forever. In the past, I knew what‘forever’ meant to me. But lately, recent developments have made me question itin a totally unanticipated manner, created fissures of doubt and confusion inwhat was previously only the smooth concreteness of certainty. I used to thinkthat friendship lasted forever. Oh sure, I didn’t think that way about all myfriendships, certainly; but there were one or two relationships that I wasconvinced would never end. I could never fathom an ending for them – so when itdid occur, it hit me completely out of the blue, and took the wind out of mysails. No, I’m not going to stop here and crumble. Life does go on, as usual.The minute hand still ticks on, my teachers continue in resolutely pilinghomework and tests upon me, I still have to shower and eat and do all thosethousands of minute routine activities that characterize my existence. Butstill, I’ve been shaken. Questioning what was once sacred and absolute hasdisoriented me, more than I ever thought it would. I know I’m being vague here,and I’m rambling quite a bit, but bear with me, because I’m going to end thismisfit, confused piece of prose here anyways. I’ll conclude with a poem of minethat was inspired by my recent ponderings on this subject of forever.

“But what about forever?” I ask
And look o’er at you for a reply.
But you simply shrug and grimace
And leave without uttering goodbye.

I gaze up at the heavens for assistance –
And the blessed answer dawns on me.
Why, forever is the sky above so blue,
And the rolling, foamy waves of the sea.

Forever, I realize, is the wind
That carries withered leaves upon its back;
Forever are the caves that bears hibernate in,
And the stalactites that never crack.

Forever are the caskets bearing the deceased;
Buried in the ground so deep.
And forever indeed is the rest their souls lie in,
That eternal, dreamless sleep.

Forever, it must be said, is many things indeed,
But here I pause to sigh…
For ‘tis with a heavy heart I acknowledge:
Forever is not you and I.

Apathy

2011-11-11T02:56:00.001-08:00

Sheclosed her eyes, and lay in bed for over an hour, but couldn’t manage to drift offto sleep again. Sighing, Mahnoor pushed the covers off and swung her legs overto the side of the bed. She was tired; submerged in that awful, dragging kindof lethargy that seemed to sink into her very bones and settle therepermanently. She shuffled to the washroom and peered at her reflection throughpuffy eyes. Remnants of yesterday’s mascara still clung to her lashes, and blackheadscoated her nose. She stripped off and stepped into the shower. The gushing,steady flow of warm water hitting her shoulders felt luxuriant, and so sheallowed herself to stand there limply, savouring the very act of doing nothing.She wasn’t in any rush, nor did she posses the energy to make herself moveefficiently, briskly. As a result, she was typically the last to arrive in theexamination hall. It didn’t help that the examination centre, Dreamland Motel,was located so far from her home; a good forty-five minutes away. Rows ofpupils already sat, pens laid out, Statement of Entries displayed. She clappeda hand to her forehead in a sudden, blinding realization. She’d left herStatement of Entry home. She could visualize it clearly, that sheet of paperwith that hideous photograph of her stapled in the upper right corner, lying foldedunderneath her heavy Chemistry book. “What’s your candidate number?” Theinvigilator, dressed in the customary acid green net jacket donned by allemployees of the British Council, looked down at her expectantly. Mahnoorclosed her eyes. Shit.

* * *

Ammadoesn’t understand. “Why don’t you want to go out with your friends, Shehzil?” sheinquires, and I turn my head away in irritation. I’m tired of having toelaborate, explain myself in an attempt to satisfy her endless appetite forinformation. Her incessant probing annoys me, but I’m getting better atshutting it out. I open the fridge and take out the carton of orange juice. Idon’t bother taking a glass from the cupboard. I intend on sprawling on my bed,tipping the carton up and draining its contents directly whilst watching thelatest episode of Gossip Girl online. That’s my life, summed up, in one precisesentence, and Amma can’t wrap her head around it. She follows me stubbornly now,as I plod out of the kitchen and turn towards the staircase leading to mybedroom.

“Ihonestly don’t understand you, Shehzil,” she declares uncomprehendingly. Yes, you don’t, I want to reply inaffirmation, but with Amma it’s always best to keep your mouth tightly shut.Responses only encourage her to draw her lectures out, continue prattling withrenewed vigour. Persistence is the one trait that dominates my mother’spersonality, defines it wholly. “Marrya’s always out, at internships, or withfriends. Don’t you get tired of lying in bed all day?” I mount the stairs, oneat a time. I’m tired of a lot of things,I feel like saying, but no, lying in bedisn’t one of them. I reach the landing, and cross over quickly to mybedroom. I know she’s still standing at the bottom of the staircase, peering upat me, waiting for an answer, but as usual, I disappoint her. The door closeswith a soft snap behind me.

* * *

Moosadidn’t know what to say. The psychiatrist, Dr. Ambreen, smiled encouragingly athim, pen poised over the clipboard in her lap. Moosa disliked coming here, notbecause he had anything against the psychiatrist herself, but because shevoiced questions he didn’t know the answers to. He didn’t know what he wasdoing here in this bright, open room, sitting in this plush black leather chairthat swiveled comfortably, facing opposite a woman with bright green eyes and aneatly contained bob of graying hair. As far as he knew, none of his friendswere ever subjected to such circumstances.

Heshifted in his seat. He was wearing shorts, and the heat of June was causing athin film of perspiration to develop between his thighs and the leather of thechair. He could feel it sticking here, an unpleasant sensation, causing aslight squeaking sound to be emitted with every movement of his legs. The psychiatristwas still gazing placidly at him, that faint smile etched across her mouth, andMoosa was gripped with a sudden urgency to end the silence. His head waspounding. The minute hand of the clock hanging on the cream-painted wall seemedto slow down, tick by sluggishly, lethargically. He felt suspended, trapped ina moment that stretched on into infinity. Dr. Ambreen’s mouth moved, her lipstracing the outlines of words, but he heard nothing. What had she said? Heracked his brains wildly, his thoughts shooting out in a dozen differentdirections. He scrambled after all of them, but couldn’t combine them togethereffectively, fluidly.

Asudden musical tune interrupted the stillness. Dr.Ambreen’s phone wasvibrating, and she frowned, glancing at the glowing screen. “Excuse me, Moosa,I have to take this,” she said crisply, rising out of the chair and steppingoutside. He nodded sycophantically in reply, relief blurring his senses. Herclipboard lay abandoned on her chair. He leaned forwards, turning it around sohe could read the sentences penned neatly on paper. He glimpsed words anddisjointed phrases: ‘apathetic, reserved,ADD, not as intelligent as normal ten-year-old boys, overly spacey and unmotivated,’written in a small, swirling handwriting, before the door clicked open. Heleaned back in his seat quickly, heart banging against his ribs. Thepsychiatrist’s attention was still diverted by her phone. When she announcedthat today’s session would regretfully have to be cut short, he felt like a kitecut free, released from the taunt tension of the string, spiraling off into thevastness of the horizon, the blue sky. He scrambled up and moved hastily towardsthe door, forgetting, in his hurry, to say thank you or even Allah-hafiz.

Eid-ul-Azha

2011-11-03T09:08:00.000-07:00

The kameez was white, with elaborategold embroidery around the neck. Hashim hadn’t bothered going to the tailor orpicking out the design himself; allowing his mother to preoccupy herself withsuch mundane details on his behalf. He pulled the kameez over his head, and rana hand over his mop of thick dark brown hair in an attempt to flatten it. Athick golden ray of sunshine was streaming out of the open window and landingon his bed. He walked over and glanced outside, squinting in the bright morninglight. His father was standing in the driveway, hands planted on his hips, hisclothes bearing wet patches, the sleeves hurriedly rolled up, issuing rapidinstructions to a group of men. The carcass of a recently slain bull lay in acorner, seeping thick, crimson blood than ran in rivulets and diluted with thewater pumping steadily out of the garden hose pipe in Hashim’s elder brother’shand.

Hashim was glad the qurbani was over and done with. And hewas relieved that his father and brother were capable of managing the situationwithout him. Watching the poor, petrified animal being butchered to its deathhad always repulsed him slightly. He understood the cause behind the action,and respected it; but that still didn’t stop him from flinching at the sight ofthe knife first meeting flesh, drawing forth a spray of crimson.

He hated Bakra Eid. Not theoccasion itself, but what it reminded him of. He’d met her here, for the firsttime, two years ago. Aleena, she’d introduced herself as, with a pretty dimpledsmile. She’d been a guest at the dinner feast his mother threw annually on Eid-ul-Azha,the daughter of one of his mother’s circle of old childhood friends. The feastwas a tradition in their household ever since he could remember, with closefriends and family filling the house and eagerly tucking into his mother’smouth-watering dishes. That day, Aleena had been wearing a pale green shalwarkameez that matched the colour of her eyes, the cut of which flattered herfigure. He’d struck up a conversation, and that was where it all began, evolvinginto a relationship that was everything he’d ever hoped and dreamt for. Cheesy, he acknowledged, but it was true. At least up until lastmonth, two years down the line, when she’d looked at him with troubled, brimmingeyes and confessed that her parents had suddenly arranged her marriage with hersecond cousin. He’d been angry by that, but even more agitated and bewilderedby the fact that she refused to stand up to her parents, choose her own husband– choose him. Today would’ve been their two year anniversary. He sighed,squared his shoulders, tugged at the collar of his kameez sharply, beforedescending the stairs.

In the kitchen, his mother wasalready attired in an elegant coral pink sari, her dark hair coiled up into abun, held in place firmly by a small, jeweled clip. Her hands were stained withspices, and all the fires on the stove were burning, pots and pans of varioussizes sitting atop. Chickpeas submerged in a bowl of water lay on the kitchencounter, mounds of peeled carrots and potatoes and chopped, prepped meatresting on cutting boards. She bustledabout the kitchen with the energy of a woman who thrived in cooking, theexpertise of one who’d been doing so for a long time, and the brisk hastinessof a hostess who knew she only had a few hours left before she had to feed overtwo dozen people.

The doorbell rang just as hismother started up the blender, the contraption whirring to life noisily. “Getthat for me would you?” she asked, glancing up at him as she poured a cup ofyoghurt into the blender, reaching simultaneously with the other hand towards aplate bearing several sliced green chillies. “My hands aren’t clean.”

He complied, walking towards thegate, taking care not to step into any of the puddles of scarlet water that stilldotted the driveway. A wrinkled, stooping old woman with leathery skin stoodhunched up in a shawl. A small girl with bedraggled, matted hair, dressed intorn and dusty shalwar kameez was by her side, peering up at him with large, solemnbrown eyes. The girl held a swaddled baby at her hip. The baby was sucking itsthumb busily, industriously.

He wished the old woman EidMubarak, telling her to wait as he retraced his steps inside. His mother,displaying the efficiency that dominated her personality, had already preparedmeat for any beggars; putting the portions into plastic bags, knotting themtightly, placing them side by side on a tray. He picked up a bag, walked backand deposited it into the beggar’s outstretched hands. She mumbled her thanksprofusely and as she did so, her shawl fell back a little, exposing grayinghair dyed crudely with henna. The bright orange emphasized the thinness of herhair, made the scalp more visible. He turned around.

“Who was that?” his mother wantedto know as he returned inside. She dipped a spoon into the blender, held it outtowards him. “Not too spicy, is it?” she queried, as he tasted the spoonful ofchutney, savouring the bold flavour spreading across his tongue.

“No. But don’t add any more spice,now. And it was beggar,” Hashim added, swiveling around and walking in thedirection of the living room.

“Which meat did you give? Iseparated it already, the portion to give away to the needy was lying on theday on the dining table, I –”

“Yeah, I know,” he interrupted,tossing the words over his shoulder. He had no patience for his mother’sfussiness, her meticulousness towards details. Hashim plopped down onto theliving room couch and closed his eyes, covering his mouth to stifle a tiredyawn. Maybe after this day was finally over, he’d go upstairs and research possibilitiesof university transfers on his laptop. He was getting a bit sick of Pakistan,anyway.

* * *

Dear Diary,

I love Bakra Eid! It’s just somuch fun! I woke up early today, and went outside to pet the goat. Then Mamacame, and told me to take a bath, and she dressed me up in my new pink clothes.She combed my hair and pinned it back with sparkly clips. I stood in front ofthe mirror and looked at them for a while, because they looked so pretty in myhair.

Eid is a special day. It’sspecial because there’s no school, and Mama let me play all day, and hasn’tasked me even once if I’ve done my homework or not. And Rabia Aunty and SanaChachi and so many other people all came, and Mama gave me Fizza to take careof as well. “You’re a big girl now, so take care of your sister,” she told me,and I felt so proud when she said that. But Fizza was being naughty, shewouldn’t sit and play with her dolls – well, my old dolls, to be exact – quietly,but kept squirming out of my arms. I went to get myself some water, and when Icame back she had crawled outside, all the way towards the gate. I ran afterher, but there were people at the gate. There was an old woman with weird hairand a shawl, and a girl who looked about my age. She was holding a baby thatwas crying loudly. The noise startled Fizza, and she crawled back towards me,uncomprehending. “Don’t worry, I know what to do,” I told her in my bestgrown-up voice. I’d seen other people who looked like this before. They’dapproached our car at traffic lights in the afternoon, when Baba drove me homefrom school. They knocked their knuckles against the car windows, and Babashouted at them, flapped his hands at them. I remembered what he said, and I repeatedthe words now. “Duffa ho jao!” I cried, waving my hands just like Baba had thatday.

“Zoha!” Mama comes over. Shehands the old lady some meat and tells me that you must be nice to everyone onEid day. And then she went back inside. But I was just so confused. Are we onlysupposed to be nice to beggars on Eid? You know, Dear Diary, sometimes I justdon’t understand grown-ups. They’re so weird.

* * *

Minahil rolled up her prayer mat,tucking it back into the cupboard. She put the prayer beads and the Quran onthe highest shelf in the cupboard, and running her hands down the front of herdress to smooth it down, she exited her bedroom. Downstairs, all the lightswere on, her mother carrying platters of freshly cooked food into the diningroom. “Let me help you, Amma jan,” offered Minahil, rushing forwards. In a fewminutes, the table was groaning under the hefty weight of half a dozenplatters, dishes and bowls. Her little siblings fidgeted impatiently around thetable, inhaling the fragrant, heady smell of the food wafting throughout theroom. Zain picked up the cutlery and amused himself by playing with them. Theknife squeaked against the plate, and Minahil frowned slightly in hisdirection. Abashed, Zain laid down the fork immediately.

She settled into her chair. Heryounger sister Hiba reached for the water pitcher. Unable to manage its weight,she let it tip over precariously, water sloshing out of her glass and poolingon the table. Minahil reached over, mopped it up, and dumped the sodden tissuesinto the waste paper basket. The food was hot, steam spiraling from the dishesin billowing, wispy tendrils. There was goat biryani coloured with saffron,meat with potatoes and gravy, chickpeas and meat in a spicy tamarind sauce,meat rubbed with spices and grilled, brain masala, breaded potato cutletsstuffed with minced mutton, a stack of rotis wrapped up in cloth to retaintheir warmth, samosas filled with cubes of meat and cheese and deep-fried inspitting hot oil.

She and Amma jan and her secondeldest sister Zahra had prepared everything, and it had taken them over sixhours. She was fatigued from the work, exhausted with washing, chopping,preparing meat, and when she’d put the samosas in the wok, she’d forgotten tostand back far enough, so droplets of hissing oil had landed on her upturnedwrists, prickling and burning her. Yet, as she leaned back in her chair,watched her siblings loading their plates and heard her father’s words ofpraise regarding the food, she felt a flush of contentment sweep through her.She hadn’t realized until now how much she’d missed her family this past year.She enjoyed her life at LUMS, had gradually adjusted well to the transition,but there was truly nothing like returning home and being enveloped once againby the welcoming affection of her family. Lahore was a magnificent, happening city,but the quiet, subtle grace and charm of Islamabad appealed more to her nature.The subdued pleasures of Islamabad, it’s neater, cleaner roads and beautifulgreenery were things she had missed. It only hit her now, as she speared a pieceof cutlet on her fork, how much she had sacrificed in going to university,fulfilling her quest for higher education.

She felt immensely glad that itwas Eid. There was something about rituals, the act of tradition that appeasedher. Everything in her life might alter in unrecognizable ways, yet there wouldalways be that one day in the year when everyone she knew and loved would bepresent under one roof, buzzing with the excitement of qurbani, withanticipation of the feast that lay ahead, still to be relished. Though she’deased into university life gradually, she could not deny that the transitionhadn’t disoriented her at first. Her world had always centered around herfamily. Being parted from them had been gut-wrenching, and the first few monthssaw her miserable and disheartened. And she was glad that she was finally back,that Eid-ul-Azha had gifted her a few precious days with the people she lovedthe most, whose company she reveled in.

The doorbell rang. Her mother rose, but Minahil motioned to her to stay put. She walked outside. Thesky was dark, stars winking like diamonds in the carpet of black. She switchedon the porch light, and saw an old lady hunched over, a few bags of meathanging from her emaciated wrists. Bony fingers topped with cracked fingernailsclutched at her shawl. A little girl with pale skin and large somber eyes balanceda sleeping baby in her arms. The baby’s breaths were even and measured, theshadow of a smile tugging at the corners of its lips. It looked like it wasdreaming wonderful dreams.

She returned inside and put someof the leftover meat into a bag. The glow of contentment was still simmeringwithin her, the emotion prompting her to put some of the cooked food from thefeast into an empty, rinsed carton of ice-cream as an additional gift ofcharity. She listened to the woman’s words of gratitude, and then watched asthe woman and the girl turned around and shuffled their way further down thestreet. Minahil smiled involuntarily. The night was quiet, resplendent withonly goodness.

When October Ends...

2011-10-29T10:33:00.000-07:00

Though two more months still stretch ahead, I find myself anticipating the end of the year. I’m waiting eagerly, desperately for salvation; and in my mind, that can be attained with the demise of the year. As this year fades into dust, perhaps all my sins will melt with it. I want 2011 to dissolve into nothingness, to diffuse into the air; like the gale that rages across the desert and the miniscule, infinite grains of sand it whips along in its wake. If this year was a tangible, solid thing I would tie it to the back of horses, like a carriage, and make the horses trot away. I would stand and watch and wave exultantly as the horses gallop away into the distant gloom. Clip-clop, clip-clop. Bye, bye, 2011.

I pause in my thoughts now, and the cursor winks steadily at me from the screen, waiting for me to resume my rapid typing. I adjust the fawn shawl draped around my shoulders, smooth it down firmly and shiver briefly, involuntarily. Winter is approaching insidiously. Though many grumble at the change, I find I enjoy it, revere in it. Winters sound more forbidding and unappealing than summers, but they possess a specific charm of their own. A subtle enchantment different from the flash or obvious exuberance of summers, but equally wondrous nonetheless, buried deep within.

I find pleasure at how I can open my hair; shake the long, dark tresses loose, without feeling damp sweat coat the nape of my neck. I’m glad at how the long sleeves hide that slight extra plumpness on my upper arms that is hardly noticeable, yet still irks me so dreadfully. I derive comfort from the warmth of the heaters, seeping through the room and sinking into my skin, permeating slowly through me and thawing me from inside. I enjoy the late showers at night, so cold and difficult at first, the act of shedding clothes almost painful; but once it’s executed and I’m under the blast of hot water, I feel so blissfully relaxed, I can hardly make myself get out again. I like the silence that resonates due to the lack of fans, their whirring and thrumming replaced by welcoming quiet. The warmth from a mug of hot chocolate, the steam rising from the liquid in billowing, swirling tendrils. And in the mornings, when I step outside to depart for college and exhale, squaring my shoulders in preparation for the onslaught of monotonous classes, I feel a faint sense of delight in how my breath fogs up, a shimmering cloud of light mist, hanging momentarily suspended before dissolving away.

I look up now, rousing myself from my peaceful stupor to focus on the clock hanging on the wall opposite. An hour’s gone by, and even though I’ve written less and wallowed in reveries more, I still feel satisfied as I sit curled up on my usual spot on the sofa. The heat radiating from the laptop is warming my thighs. A dog barks in the distance, the sound floating over to me on the stillness of the frosty night. I’m in one of my writing moods, when the words just pour from me effortlessly, and I don’t really care whether they sound particularly well-written or graceful to anyone else, because they make perfect, lyrical sense to me. Sometimes I doubt the fact that I’m really meant to be a writer, but these moods are one of those rare moments when all my uncertainties are vanquished. The question ‘Am I meant to be a writer?’ feels worthy of ridicule at this point in time. Of course I am. What else could I ever be?

Someone Worthy

2011-06-15T18:22:00.000-07:00

Sooner or later in our lives, if we’re fortunate enough we meet someone who stays with us. A person so beautiful – inside and out – that they inspire you to better your own life. Someone who remains imprinted vividly in the chambers of our memories; forges a permanent lasting home in our hearts. A person who teaches us lessons about life – not through tiresome preaching, but simply through the way they act, how they speak and behave and conduct themselves on a daily basis. That person, in our mind’s eye, represents the epitome of all that can ever be considered only goodness.

For me, that person has always been Saima Khala.

Life can be bitterly unfair sometimes. It rewards those who get ahead through devious means, doles out success to those who cheat, lie and steal. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, it gives out punishments to those truly worthy of reward instead. The people we don’t need in this world are the ones allowed to flourish, attain power; whereas those we do are met with sickness and ill health.

Those we need for our own survival, for this world to transform for the better, are being cut away. What a self-destructive game Nature likes to play; like someone hacking an axe on their own toe. An act that only hurts yourself, immeasurably. Or maybe, perhaps, like someone pruning away a garden, but pulling out flowers instead of weeds. What a hopelessly erroneous act, maybe even a sin.

Saima Khala, being visually impaired from birth, yet never let that hold her back. Always cheerful, grateful and determined, she refused to let her handicap deter her, working instead to better the lives of other blind people in our country. She founded Pakistan Foundation Fighting Blindness, and strived tirelessly to make it grow. She worked, for no self-benefit, for no self-fame, for no money. She worked for free, toiled daily just for the satisfaction of knowing she could aid others. Being blind wasn’t going to stop her from doing anything, oh no!

But what can one do when Nature decides to take matters and spin them out of humanly control? What can one do when paralysis locks you, binds you helpless? When your own body refuses to obey your wishes, when your limbs cease moving, no matter how hard you will them to? Desire to help others can only take you so far. Even mountains can only be moved if you actually possess the ability of movement. What can you do then?

But I want this woman, a true lady in every connotation of that word, to know that she’s made a difference. She’s made a difference in the lives of countless blind people, helped them experience a spot of radiance in a world of black. She’s touched the hearts of everyone who has been fortunate enough to know her, just through her smile, the things she says. And she’s made my life a thousand times better, just through her existence, by being in it.

I wish I could change things. I wish I could command fate, mold it; shape it differently, like Play-Doh underneath my fingertips. But what’s the use of aching over irrevocable reality? All I can do is embrace acceptance, and never forget. Never forget the beautiful acts done by someone worthy of being remembered, performed by them when they still possessed the ability to execute them.

* * *

ODE TO SAIMA KHALA

She knows her might
She’s aware of her strength,
She never gives up
Goes the whole length.

She smiles at everyone
Minds her P’s and Q’s
She’s always perfect in appearance
From hair to shoes.

She’s a wonderful hugger
In her arms you feel
As though all your worries are erased
And you’ve absorbed her zeal.

She lends me hope
She’s someone I strive to be
Just through her actions she becomes
A source of inspiration daily.

She’s touched the lives of many
For despite all that she’s had to face
She’s never stopped trying
To make the world a better place.

Cherished by everyone
Cared for by all
She should always know that we’re here
To never let her fall.

Oh, Saima Khala!
Words cannot ever portray
How deep my love for you is
Growing stronger day by day.

A Kind of Lady

2011-06-15T17:43:00.000-07:00

The sun is setting, dipping away into the horizon, as dark blue creeps over and begins dominating the sky. Mosquitoes are beginning to emerge, buzzing persistently around our heads as we flap our hands at them in aggravation. My summer frock is billowing loosely around my knees. It’s such a pretty sky-blue colour, splashed with a pattern of tiny white daises, white lace lining the neckline. I ball fistfuls of the material in my fingers, crumpling it lightly into my palm, as I swish around from side to side, sway gently in a circle. My long black tresses are contained in two ponytails above each ear, and my favourite white slippers – the ones with the tiny plastic heels so shiny they almost look like glass – are strapped onto my feet.

I feel like a princess.

I feel like Cinderella, on the arm of her prince, as he waltzes her around elegantly. I just watched Cinderella last week on the VCR Player, and beautiful, illusionary images of a prince rescuing me still dance in my mind.

My servant Sonya sits on the ground a few paces away, legs folded beneath her and a frown crumpling up her forehead as she bites persistently on her nails. Nibble, nibble; chip, chip. This is not an unfamiliar sight. For as long as I have known her, it’s always been like this, in this position. And every time I conjure her forth in memory, this image of hers always springs instantly, effortlessly, to mind. Sonya without a frown or fingers in her mouth was a shocking sight, a splendid rarity.

My brother sits nearby her, his plump little legs splayed out in front of him, hands clutching a bright red ball to his chest. He throws it away every now and then, utters a gleeful cry as it rolls, and then clambers up to retrieve it, before plopping back down on the earth to repeat the process again. He is four years old, and at this moment, I am eight, a gap of four years setting us apart.

I take another swirl, dipping my knees slightly as I do so. The grass roots catch my heel, make me stumble. I gasp in shock, arms flailing. Sonya’s too absorbed in the tasty delights growing at the ends of her fingers to notice the rest of the world. As I right myself, the gate opens and a sleek, black car purrs into the driveway. My curiosity is sparked, for I recognize that this car is not ours.

I head forwards, just as the back door opens and my grandmother – whom I refer to as Nano – emerges. Spotting me eyeing her silently, she beckons me, utters my name. I move forwards quietly, join her side, just as another foot touches the gravel, emerging out of the cool interior of the car.

A lady steps out. Her right hand holds onto the door of the car, her fingers gripping onto it lightly. She doesn’t look directly at me, or at my grandmother. Instead, her eyes fixate on a point beyond us, unfocused, vague. She has short cropped brown hair, a thick, perfectly straight bob lining a square-jawed face. Her features are bold, and distinct; a large, perfectly straight nose, full lips painted with a deep scarlet lipstick. A thin rope of gold bearing a diamond drop hands from her throat. A crisply pressed grey shalwar kameez, lined with silver lace, molds to her slightly overweight figure. She is, quite plainly, a vision of immaculateness.

“Neshmia.” Nano makes the introductions, laying one hand on my shoulder. “This is Saima Khala.”

“Oh, hello.” Her lips move, slashes of scarlet in pale ivory skin. Her eyes are pale brown, but something about them is eerie, bewildering me slightly. Her voice is measured, polite, bursting with warmth.

I stand where I am, making no audible noise. At eight years old, I wasn’t particularly verbose with total strangers. And this lady in particular gave off I vibe I had never encountered before. Like a deer trapped in the headlights, I simply stood fixated on the spot, eyes unblinking, lips pursed. To my horror, the lady’s arms start moving, slashing through the air – as if she is attempting, endeavouring with all her might, to scoop it up in her arms, hug it against her bosom. I take a sharp step back, startled, perplexed.

“It’s okay.” Nano’s fingers dig into the small of my back, urge me forwards. I stumble forward at the unexpected pressure, and the lady’s outstretched, anticipatory fingers meet my flesh. At the contact, her fingers react, feeling along my outline, before grasping my arms and tugging me gently into a tight hug. She smells divine; a mixture of crushed jasmine and vanilla. I inhale deeply.

“Who – who are you?” I query, in a voice full of wonder. I’m burning with curiosity to know who this creature is; this heavenly-smelling, most put-together woman I’ve ever encountered, who can’t seem to embrace me herself.

“I’m Saima Ammar. A dear friend of your grandmother.” Her face is inches away from my own, yet her eyes aren’t looking at me. They stare off past me, blank, incapable or merely refusing to absorb me. Her breath fans my face as she utters the words; it smells sweet. “I’m Saima Ammar, and I’m a visually impaired person.”

* * *

“Sweetheart, you look beautiful.”

I am twelve years old, hovering on the brink of womanhood, at that tender age where I’m just beginning to learn of the significance of conversation and company with the opposite sex, yet retaining the uncorrupted innocence of youth. At Saima Khala’s words, a smile licks my face, and I smooth a conscious hand over my hair. I just straightened it today for the first time, only singeing just the very tip of my index finger but otherwise successful. Lip gloss is smeared over my lips, and although I dislike the sticky texture of it, I appreciate the difference it makes.

“What are you wearing, sweetheart?” are her next words.

I smile, accustomed to the familiarity of these spoken words; for this is a routine, learnt practically by heart. Whenever she sees me, every time we meet, these are the first two sentences that escape Saima Khala’s mouth. I speak, describing in minute detail my shalwar kameez, it’s pretty flowery pattern, its pink colour, the different hues, varying from deep shocking pink borders, trimmed with baby pink lace. She nods at my words, taking it all in. Her interest in my clothes – a topic of great interest to me – inspires me, encourages me to detail my outfit in overwhelmingly tiny detail, going on in a breathless, seamless, uninterrupted flow of description. Eventually, I roll to a stop, slowing down to a halt, the final word uttered.

“Oh wow, you must look splendid right now,” exclaims Saima Khala, and only then, at her statement do I belatedly remember that all I just described to her, she can’t see. They’re just empty words that she’s clinging onto, words registering in her mind but holding no visual meaning.

“Thank you. You look beautiful yourself,” I smile. And I mean it. For as long as I have known her, she’s been absolutely flawlessly dressed – every aspect of her appearance matching and complimenting each other, right from the colour of her lipstick, to her shoes, her bracelet, the earrings hanging from her lobes; all perfectly aligned and suited to the colour combination of her dress. I lightly touch her hand as it rests loosely, the fingers relaxed, on her lap. She responds to my contact, squeezing back gently, a butterfly touch as I draw my fingers away.

* * *

It is Eid-ul-Fitr and I sit primly, my back straight, hands folded in my lap as a servant rolls in the trolley loaded with food into Saima Khala’s drawing room. Another servant appears, holding aloft a tray bearing tall glasses of orange juice. I accept one, curling my fingers around the stem of the glass and lifting it towards my mouth. The orange juice is home-made, sweet and refreshing.

“Do you have a tissue?” My younger sister, the middle sibling, asks. There’s none on the trolley that we can pass to her.

“Wait, I’ll go get some.” I stand up, but Saima Khala, the ever-perfect hostess, waves me down. “I’ll go,” she assures me. She stands up and nearly collides into a sofa. She just moved to a new apartment, leaving the one she’d lived in for the past decade. Shifting for a blind person can be very disorienting, for disrupting the familiarity of their environment leaves them utterly helpless. I rush forwards, my natural instinct to aid overpowering me. But then I restrain myself, fall back. In all my years of knowing a blind person, the one thing I’ve learnt is that they cherish the limited independence they have. They seek it, bask in it, experience glory in it. Having already lost their vision, their being stripped of their self-independence, their right of being treated as a normal human functioning human being is every visually impaired person’s nightmare. It torments them, breaks their heart. The greater control you give to a visually impaired soul, I’ve discovered, the more joyful they feel. The bumps and bruises on their shins as they bang headlong into objects is nothing, minute – compared to the peace of mind they attain, knowing that others can still find them useful despite their handicap.

Saima Khala’s totters back into the room, clutching a box of tissues, not knowing where to turn or whom to hand it to. This is where I allow myself to step in, permit myself to take this much control. I relieve her of the tissue box, hand it to my sister. Saima Khala’s mother, sitting next to my own, begins a spirited conversation with my grandmother regarding her garden, and my mother perks up, joining in. My siblings are too engaged in the delicacies temptingly laid out on the trolley. So I get up, deposit my empty plate on the coffee table, and ease down next to Saima Khala. There’s a question trapped in my throat, struggling for release.

“Saima Khala,” I speak.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Her face turns toward me, warm, open, inviting. The face of a woman whom at first encounter I’d feared, but someone I now adored fiercely. She’d won a place in my heart, just through her daily actions. The nobility, the strength, the perseverance with which she operated, the gratitude she showed Allah for being gifted with her remaining senses – I never ceased to admire any of it.

“I was wondering.”

“Hmm?”

“How can you know?” I feel awkward, blushing slightly. An unusual loss of words overtakes me, I don’t know how to proceed, how exactly to frame the thoughts swirling in my mind. This idea just came to me yesterday, shocking me in its novelty. The very fact that I’d never thought of this before stuns me. I’m fifteen now, nearly twice the age when this angel of a woman entered my life and pulled me towards her. And it took me this long, all this time, to fully realize this. All these years, perhaps, this thought had unconsciously been fermenting at the back of my mind, hidden somewhere in the depths of my subconscious, failing to emerge in my vision until now. How truly, ironically blind does this make me, I contemplate.

“All this time when you asked me what I was wearing and I told you all the colours. But now, now I just realized: what use was that? I mean, you always nodded like you understood, but you were blind since birth. So red, green, blue, you have no idea what they are, do you? So how could you even say I looked beautiful -?” I’m stumbling, and I don’t quite understand what I’m getting at myself.

Saima Khala’s frowns, as though she’s giving my question serious thought.

“You’re right, I don’t know,” she acknowledges. “But green and blue I’ve always associated with something cool, and colours like red and orange and yellow with warmth. Grays represent gentleness, and white’s unadulterated purity. Black is enveloping, consuming, impenetrable. Purple is soft and welcoming, and pink is pretty. That’s how I distinguish colours in my mind, through emotions. And you.”

She pauses, not to think, but a hesitance created to emphasize the importance of her next words. “You, I don’t need to look at to know you’re pretty. I can feel it. I can sense your beauty in the words you speak to me, in how you’re always ready to help me, in how gentle and sure you are when you take the crook of my elbow and guide me. I can feel it in how you make sure to fetch me food first at gatherings, in your laugh, in your tone. I can feel it when your fingers brush against my skin. Your beauty’s inescapable, Neshmia. I can feel it. I can feel it in here.” She lifts a finger, taps it against her chest, where her heart beats inside her ribcage. “I can feel it in here.”

I blink. I’m glad Saima Khala is blind, that she cannot see me; that she cannot see the tears seeping out from under my eyelids. I close my eyes, and revel. I cling to that moment, here next to a lady that changed my life in subtle, yet so powerful, irrevocable ways, just through her existence. A kind of lady I hope I grow up to be.

Who Am I?

2011-06-02T08:30:00.000-07:00

Who am I?

I am many things.

A passionate writer.

An avid reader.

A student.

A loyal friend.

A caring listener.

Nothing specific “defines” me. I do not let a few simple words sum me up, because I am vast, limitless, evolving. Every day I learn, and every day I grow, in every aspect of life. I do not consider myself anywhere near perfect – I have flaws just like every other human being inhabiting this planet. Yet I am, on the whole, proud of myself and the direction I am going in.

I am a professional procrastinator. If there was a job for procrastination, any form of employment in that sector, I would be rolling in millions. Sadly however, there isn’t, so I am striving to eliminate that unwanted part of my personality. However, the progress made in that regard is not very significant – mainly because I keep procrastinating the very act of not procrastinating. Sigh. It is an endless cycle that feeds on itself.

I can be moody sometimes, irritable and upset. However, I do not want you to judge me on this, because I have made honest efforts to deaden this aspect of my temperament. I am pleased to inform you that those endeavours have been quite successful, and I have gotten a great deal better at learning to roll with life’s little punches.

To balance out the negatives that always exist, I have my own strengths that set me apart. I am fiercely loyal to my dearest friends, and there to help them out in any way I can. I listen to my parents to quite an extent, taking their wishes into consideration on nearly every matter. Occasionally, I may put a toe out of line – testing the parameters, so to speak – but never have I crossed all boundaries. Generally, exempting minor divergences, I dwell within the periphery of my parent’s rules.

I do not have an ego. One of the few things I cannot stand is arrogance, and I’ve always taken great care to ensure that it is not a part of my personality. I try to be self-modest, try to the best of my abilities. Oh, don’t get me wrong. Self-pride is important, and to be valued. But there is a clear distinction between self-pride and vanity, a line that ought not to be crossed.

I love to read. Oh boy, do I love to read! Give me a book, and I leave this world. I do not return until the last page has been turned.

I adore writing. It is my sanctuary, the one place I seek refuge from everything. A form of mindless escapism, you can say. Becoming a bestselling novelist is the goal in mind, but in order to accomplish that, I have to end my procrastinating tendencies. While I work on achieving that phenomenon, I’ve started a blog.

My blog isn't about any specific topic as such. Rather, it is a collection of all the random stuff I write. My writings are expressions of my opinions, my feelings, and my beliefs. They are random musings, aimless ramblings. They reflect my background, and where I come from.

In my humble opinion, the best kind of writing is the kind you can completely and utterly lose yourself in. Those writings grip you powerfully, drawing you into their world with a force that is irresistible, not letting go until they have reached their conclusion. The stories that make you forget about everything else that is going on in your life; all your anxieties, concerns, urgencies being washed away by the flood of words sweeping you along in their wake. Like a tidal wave, too magnificent to battle against, so you just succumb, and let yourself float along easily.

When I find such a book, I simple curl up on a sofa, and read, read, read. I abandon daily life and its humdrum pursuits. Is that a totally good thing? Probably not. But a few indulgences are allowed in life on an occasional basis, if only to keep your hold on sanity.

I want, more than anything, to be able to produce that kind of writing. Therefore, I strive at that ambition daily, and although perfection in writing (or anything for that matter) is unattainable, I want to get as close to it as possible.

So there you go. That is me. I cannot be encompassed in mere words. Paragraphs are devoted, and even then when you are smug enough to think you know me completely, all you are probably seeing is the tip of the iceberg, as it protrudes over obscuring waters.

All I Ever Wanted

2011-06-02T02:28:00.000-07:00

Writing articles and stories is something I feel at home with, an act that brings me peace, and much-needed comfort. Escaping into the rhythmic pattern of clicking buttons on the keyboard of my laptop, watching the typed black words evolving rapidly in front of my eyes; it is an experience I love to indulge in.

I wish I could say the same for poetry; but much to my profound dismay, I cannot. When it comes to writing poetry, I stammer, I stutter, the words continue to elude me. I spend hours over one poem, erasing, re-writing, editing; trying ultimately to produce something my subconscious can feel pleased with. However, the perfectionist in me is hardly ever content, particularly when it comes to the poems I produce. Many a poem have I tossed into the bin, tearing the sheet into pieces, or crumpling up the paper in frustration. Mainly, I think this is because when I re-read the poems I write, I feel, deep inside, as if they are meaningless. Just lines struggling to find something, anything, to say; but ending up wandering aimlessly without any direction or purpose.

Oh well. I suppose one cannot be good at everything. Writing involves many sub-branches and categories; just because you may be good at one does not necessarily ensure your success at them all.

Still, that does not mean I quit. Oh, no. Along with my beloved stories, I still endeavour to pen poems that aren’t completely pathetic, that I can seek some limited measure of satisfaction in. One such poem, I now choose to share with you.

ALL I EVER WANTED

I thought my heart was yearning

For money and fame

Heads turning,

Whenever I came.

I thought I desired

Appreciation and praise

Wherever I retired,

After me, people would chase.

I thought I coveted

Control and power

So that before me,

Everyone would cower.

I thought I strived

To be glamorous and bold

My whole life derived

Of glitter and gold.

Finally I attained them, only to see

Much to my horror and gall

That all I'd strived to be

Wasn't what I wanted at all!

So now I finally know

And with sadness I sigh

As I realize, in sorrow

That my whole life has been a lie.

Oh, what was I playing at?

How stupid of me, it is true!

To think I wanted all that

When all I ever wanted is You.

Sweet Nostalgia

2011-06-02T01:37:00.000-07:00

The sky is a vivid blend of pink, gentle orange, gold and light blue. Thin, velvety strands of fluffy clouds decorate the sky, obscuring the sun from my view. Dawn has always been a beautiful, pleasant moment, when the pearly dew on the grass is still intact and the birds are chirping their sweet melody for me to dance to.

The sun has begun to blaze fiercely, and all traces of the light drizzle that pattered against my bedroom window at three in the morning are slowly drying up. I stare at the green leaves of the large trees framing the northern border of my house, at the dappled golden sunlight making the raindrops precariously balanced upon them glint and glow like diamonds.

I think. I remember.

Every time I am alone, in a stunning world like this, when there is nothing but an unbroken stretch of beautiful silence, I remember the fond memories of one of the most beautiful times of my life so far.

I relive the days of my trip to California.

* * *

“Hello.”

The word is stiff, stilted and awkward; but considering the circumstances, it is good enough. After all, how is it supposed to sound when you are saying it to someone you haven’t seen for five years? Someone whose sight you have been anticipating for months on end?

I stare at my father’s face. He looks different. Stare as I might, I cannot place it. His hair is still black; his eyes still green, his nose still hooked. The tiny black dot above his upper lip is still there. His physique is the same – athletic as ever, due to his habit of working out every day; a habit that is never broken, despite crises or situations of urgency.

His smile is the same.

It’s just me, I decide. I was only eight last I saw him; maybe I just don’t remember him right.

Is it seeing him in the flesh? All alive and well, hale and hearty, strong and healthy, smiling at you; close enough that you could reach out and touch him. Except that instead of feeling the flat paper of the photographs, my fingertips would be met with real skin – that stretched over the real features of his actual face.

That is when I discover that memories aren’t truthful. Neither are photographs. I’ve stared at countless snapshots of him, yet he looks different here than he did in them.

He relieves my little siblings of their suitcases. As they caper around him excitedly, I wonder whether they noticed.

I glance back and see my mother staring too. Perhaps she noticed. I hang back and wait for her. Slowly, we trail after them. Our eyes are fixed on the tall figure just a few paces ahead. What is it like for her? I wonder. I can only see it from the daughter’s point of view. But what is it like to see your husband after so many years?

Neither of us breaks the silence. And so we walk on, out of the airport, into the car park, into the car and then we emerge out of the gloom of the car park (that is located in the basement) and shield our eyes as the sun blinds us, and I get my first glance of the place my father has been living in for so very long.

* * *

I hog the front car seat.

It is the first afternoon of our trip to California. My mother, exhausted from packing and the flight, crashed out straight on the sofa. But my little siblings and I were far from tired; in fact, our energy was bubbling out of us and excitement was making us bounce in our car seats.

Our first sight of the ocean.

It is awe-inspiring. As I stand over the jagged shelf of hard rock, staring down at the waves, I feel surreal. Four days ago, I was lying on my bed, panting in the sweltering heat of June in Islamabad, my eyes fixed on the clock, waiting for the load-shedding to be over. Now, I was watching the sea-green waves curl and toss as if they were alive, foamy and white-tipped at their peaks. I take the camera out.

“Pictures,” I announce.

It’s a gorgeous snapshot. My father, whom I affectionately refer to as Pops, dressed in a casual T-shirt, is sitting in a crouch, his hands big on my little brother’s thin waist. My sister, wearing a colourful orange and red striped T-shirt, her hands on Pops' shoulders as she leaned forward, a big, glorious smile stretching from corner to corner of her face. Her black hair, shorter than mine, flies in the wind. And as I take the picture, I too feel like I am flying. Light as a feather, carefree as a bird.

It’s happiness as its peak.

But there’s more. I want to experience it all. I don’t want to just view the ocean atop a cliff. No, I want to go to the beach, feel the damp, grainy sand between my toes and the water rush around my ankles.

And so, half an hour later, we are on our way to Half Moon Bay. An hour later, and I am carving my name into the sand with my big toe. My jeans are rolled up, yet they managed to get thoroughly wet and full of sand, and I feel thankful that my mother, who paid the healthy bill for them, is not here to see them now. My little brother and my father have abandoned their shirts – heaven knows where they are now. Unwilling to get his shorts dirty, my brother borrowed a spare pair that Pops found in the car. The orange shorts are too big for him; he looks ridiculously funny.

The waves are strong and my little brother, who is the skinniest amongst us, tumbles over in the sand a dozen times. I watch my sister poking fun at his futile efforts to remain upright. I watch him in his too-big shorts, and I watch my father too, laughing so hard that he is bent over.

I carve their names in the sand too. Next to mine. And I enclose them with the outline of a heart.

* * *

The helmet is heavy in my hands as I gingerly pick it up. I stuff it over my hair, wishing, for the thousandth time, that I could muster up the courage to chop off the long, black tresses. It feels thick, padded and suffocating and as I follow Pops out of the door, I find it difficult to hold my neck up straight.

As Pops wheels out the motorcycle, I try to ignore the rising panic and squint into the searing radiance of the sun. That is the strangest thing about California – no matter how intensely the sun smolders, there is never any heat. If the sun scorched the earth like this in Pakistan, we would all be frying. I wait patiently as my mother clicks the camera, taking a dozen photos of me about to embark on the first motorcycle ride ever with my father. The shouts of excited boys, leaping after a football in the park at the end of my street, float over to me on the light breeze.

As I get on the motorcycle, I find, to my surprise, that it’s not scary. And as he roars out off the street and onto the road, I realize that all my previous hours of anxiety, due to my fear of bicycles and motorbikes, were completely meaningless. And why is that, I wonder, as we whip past – my hair flying in the burst of wind, with me clutching onto Pops, staring at the ground whipping past. I love it when he tilts sharply and when we go up the winding, twisting road of the hills, I discover that I love the racing adrenaline, the speed. The world is just a green blur whizzing around me – trees, trees and more mossy trees, with the gray stretch of road zigzagging through them, illuminated with strips of sunlight when the cover of the trees allows some light to filter in through the shady darkness.

And why is that? I hate anything that does not balance on its own. My greatest fear is, after all, bicycles. So why do I love it this time?

Because I have someone to hold onto. Slowly, I loosen my grip on my father’s bulky red jacket. Immediately, he feels my hold slacken and his hands tug mine, pulling them tighter around his waist.

Not just someone.

That’s not good enough.

No, not just someone, but one who will make sure that I never fall.

Shades of Gray

2011-05-04T05:57:00.000-07:00

Television networks worldwide were exploding with the news, people were messaging and calling each other to relate the shocking announcement made by America’s first black president, Obama, speculation was raging throughout the countries of the world, mingled emotions of uncertainty, worry, happiness or confusion were coursing through the masses populating this planet, and what was I doing? Oh yeah, snoring.

Not studying all year, and then realizing that your CIE exams are just a week away is enough to exhaust a person of all their reserves of energy, let me assure you of that. So consequently, after five minutes of studying accompanied by two hours of staring at the calendar and exam date sheet, I finally succumbed and clambered into bed for a rest.

I am slightly chastised to admit that I didn’t find out about the cataclysmic event until the afternoon of the next day, in fact. This is on account of the fact that I have surrendered my cell phone to my mother in a last-ditch attempt to focus on last minute studying and not be distracted by text messages from friends. Which is why I didn’t get those very text messages from friends that would have illuminated me with the groundbreaking events taking place; oh, and have I mentioned, taking place just a mere eighty kilometers from the city in which I live?!

I found out about it in fact when I randomly logged onto Facebook around five in the evening, in an attempt to dispel the boredom that studying economics always induces. I blinked as my eyes flicked over the news feed. It took me a whole two minutes to process what was being said (yes, economics does befuddle my brain that much.) And when my mind finally computed what was being said, it refused point-blank to accept it. REJECTION, REJECTION, it flashed. This whole thing must be a joke.

But a quick search through our ever-reliable Google, and a look at all the television news networks soon proved otherwise. This was not a mere rumour instigated on Facebook. This had actually happened.

Oh my God.

At first, I didn’t really understand the far-reaching implications on Osama bin Laden’s death. Oh, Osama’s dead, I thought. Yippee. That’s gotta be a good thing, right? I mean, now the whole war on terror thing can finally end, and Pakistan can be viewed as a cool country through the eyes of the rest of the international community.

But then, cracks started appearing. Cracks like those that mar the smooth frozen surface of the lake when summer insidiously creeps up. Except they are so faint, barely noticeable at first glance; so that the ice skater who steps onto the surface of the lake does so with complete carefree gaiety, not knowing that any second he is about be sucked down into frigid, icy water. That comparison can be applied to this situation only too well. Because at first, the news that Obama, America’s first coloured president has succeeded in doing what no other president could, having the US forces kill the most hunted man in the universe, the man who has been a global threat to civilians worldwide, the man responsible for promoting terrorism on a rapid scale, seemed, you know… swell.

But after the initial shock had been absorbed, other questions arose. Different opinions began to be voiced. Other theories were offered. And suddenly, I wasn’t sure anymore.

Obama, as he had announced, had killed Osama bin Laden on May 1, around 10 p.m. But had he? Had he really?

After all, the coming re-elections in the United States needed to be considered. The news that Osama bin Laden had finally been shot down by Obama’s government would cause support for him to rise tremendously, helping him to retain power once more. Could it be a ploy concocted by Obama to tighten his teetering grip on his position?

After all, the ongoing war in Afghanistan hadn’t done much for Obama’s popularity either. The war was being considered as a failure, and this had a significant negative impact on the US government’s popularity. The supposed killing of the most dangerous terrorist known to mankind would certainly make it appear to the whole world as though something productive did come out of the war, that the US government had actually been doing something worthwhile.

And in view of these considerations, what was Pakistan? A scapegoat, really. Heck, in this case, even Osama bin Laden could be considered as nothing more than a scapegoat.

Except, as is the case with most situations, things were not black and white. Shades of grey do exist, almost always do. And they weren’t absent in this scenario either. The guilt and blame could not be neatly fit into boxes or shelves or compartments. One country cannot be branded ‘guilty’, and the other ‘innocent’ and the matter declared closed. Because that is not how politics works. Even I, a person who openly admits that she is sorely lacking in political knowledge, admits that.

Because other questions too, arise. Such as what about Pakistan – my country’s – role in the matter? The government claimed that they had no knowledge or involvement in the operation being carried out. But if that was truly the case, how could the American forces fly from Afghanistan to Abbottabad, so near the federal capital of the nation, without being intercepted? That thought casts disturbing light on the state of security within my country itself. What if a country such as our arch rival India springs a surprise attack upon us? Why, if the government’s claim is to be believed and the condition of our armed forces is really that pathetic, then we are, quite simply put, doomed.

But do not distress. Because, I for one, do not believe it. If there is one thing I have supreme confidence in, it is in the strength, unity and power of our military forces. We have, and I state this with bold conviction, one of the best armies in the world. There is no way we couldn’t have taken down those American planes.

Except, then a new question presents itself: Why didn’t we? The only answer to that can be because our government must have instructed the army not to. But that could only have been done if the government had been aware of the actions being carried out by the US government. So then, what other answer can we accept, except the inevitable: our government has been lying to us.

Which is – and please excuse the profanity – fucking despicable.

Is the government of our country really that weak? That it lies to us – we, the people who elected it – in order to avoid backlash and repercussions from other, mightier countries of the world? Such a thought causes bile to rise in my throat.

Moreover, what about proof? There has been no concrete evidence offered, at least none concrete enough to dispel all suspicions to the contrary. The whole, quick, efficient ‘burial at sea’ thing is just plain weird. The photographs showcased of the dead body are not solid proof enough, for they could have been photographs of bin Laden during some other bombing. Since when are photographs sources of proper evidence, anyways?

So that leaves the ever elusive question: is Osama bin Laden really dead?

To that, I am sorry to say, I have no answer. I only have suspicions, but I have no physical proof to back them up with. Maybe Osama died years ago, and was already buried. Maybe he wasn’t, and is still alive, hiding wherever he was hiding before, lounging on his charpai and watching the telly and laughing at us. This question will probably remain unsolved, as so many questions usually do.

Other little tidbits need to be highlighted as well. Obama’s appointment of General Patraeus? Plain weird. Because, Obama is a Democrat, whereas Patraeus is a Republican. A pretty staunch one at that too, whose principles regarding war and terror are bound to be different. Why Obama would allow a clash of ideologies to take place within his own government, is something I cannot understand.

Pakistan’s reaction to the events unfolding hasn’t been all that encouraging either. The response from the government officials is unsatisfactory. It allows doubt to be stirred up in the minds of the people. The responses have been vague, and self-contradictory and not united, reflecting a poor perception of Pakistan to be highlighted in the international community.

So where does all this leave us? Why, with questions, and more questions that continue to haunt us, and are likely to do so for a long time.

Is Obama a hero to be hailed by masses all over, or simply a man desperate to clutch onto power?

Is Osama bin Laden already dead, or killed in this recent operation, or still hidden?

Is our government unaware, misinformed, weak or lying? (Yes, sadly, none of the options look all that awesome.)

And is the war on terror really over or only just escalating?

To all the concerns highlighted above, there is no definitive answer, but of one thing, we can be certain: Osama bin Laden’s death will have sound repercussions not only in Abbottabad and Islamabad, but all throughout Pakistan.

When Ramadan Encroaches, And Is Gladly Welcomed.

2011-05-02T16:22:00.000-07:00

The sky outside is velvety black, the only thing visible from outside the windows of our dining room, a wall of impenetrable darkness. My mother is already seated at the dining table, her fingers stained with salan, folding a piece of warm roti into her mouth. She looks up as we enter, sleepy and bedraggled and motions towards the warm dishes lying out on the dining table. None of us siblings speak as we spoon chicken karhai and mixed vegetable sabzi on our plates; sehri is not a time when any of us feel talkative. Rather we perceive it as a moment of solitude, the whole family gathered and tucking in but doing so in peaceful, harmonious, reflective silence, much unlike the boisterous meals that take place during the rest of the day.

Afterwards, I mix sugar in a bowl of yogurt, and enjoy the sweetened taste spreading across my tongue. My mother sips water quietly. Our driver, a fast eater, departs from the kitchen, and after soaping and rinsing the soiled dishes, our cook soon hastens in his footsteps. The kitchen is silent, the occasional drip from the tap landing against the sink the only sound that resonates, a soft plink-plink echoing softly in our ears.

The smell of spicy chicken hangs in the air. The leaves outside the windows are now slightly visible, perfectly motionless, as the sky gently lightens to a beautiful shade of dark blue. I stare at the silhouettes of the trees, their dark outlines, as my spoon scrapes across the surface of the bowl for the last remnants of Nestle yogurt. We wait, my siblings, my mother and I. In silence, we wait; wait for the sound of azan to reach our vigilant, anticipatory ears.

When it does, we perform wuzu, and then prayers. I unfold the prayer mat; spread it across the dining room carpet. Guilt seizes me momentarily as I execute that action; my conscious briefly flares to life. I contemplate how seldom I complete my prayers; how, in fact, Ramadan is the only month when I am motivated to do so. Shame washes over me. I chastise myself, internally rebuking myself; for procrastinating such an important duty, for forgetting about it completely each time the spirit of Ramadan that lingers in the atmosphere dissolves with the last fast into the excitement and pleasure of Eid. But then, as I slip off my shoes and stand bare-footed on the mat, I console myself with the knowledge that our god is a merciful one. That Allah is the Most Benevolent, the Most Gracious. That he forgives our sins, a thousand times over. The Holy Quran said He did, did it not? And so, the guilt ebbs away, as I fold my hands and recite rote-learned words imprinted in my mind, etched on my heart, but whose language I do not comprehend, and the translation I no longer remember.

* * *

Fasting in summer requires an endurance that I sometimes severely doubt I possess. The sun glares down at my sweat-soaked body, as I drag myself towards the classrooms. The half hour that was usually our lunch break, but that we spend lounging underneath a bunch of trees on the periphery of the school grounds throughout this one month, is now over. My classmates shuffle alongside me, disgruntled at the prospect of an hour of torturous Math awaiting us. Our brains are befuddled, the lack of food or water making us feel slower and more dim-witted than usual. I pass by the water coolers, my gaze sweeps over them with unbridled lust. I ache to reach for one of the pink plastic glasses, fill it to the brim with cold, clear liquid. My throat is parched, and it hurts. Every time during the month of Ramadan, I am reminded that of the twin evils of hunger and thirst, the latter is always the greater, the most dominant.

* * *

Returning from school is a relief, because it brings with it the realization that the hardest part of the day is over, that in three hours, a morsel of food and a gulp of water will traverse down my throat again. I dump my school bag in the hallway, change hastily out of my uniform, and roam aimlessly about the house. Doing homework is out of the question; plainly put, I lack the mental or physical energy the mundane task requires. Instead, I drift out the front gate and towards my neighbor and friend’s house, where we spend three hours alternately discussing random events of our lives and the hunger tormenting us, punctuated only by the Asr prayers. As the time for Maghrib approaches, activity in her kitchen burgeons to life, her mother stirring mixture in a bowl to make pakoras. I bid my friend farewell then, hug her good-bye, and trod down to my own lair again.

When I walk through the front door, my cook is springing about the kitchen with a vigor born of the blessed, welcome knowledge that in forty-five minutes, we will be able to attain relief. My mother is seated at the dining table, chopping up apples for fruit chaat. I join her and aid her in the task, our knives working briskly, slicing up pears, strawberries, bananas. My sister ambles in, her face creased from a nap, glances at us and the clock, and vanishes once more.

I start counting down the minutes in my head. Fourteen. I eye the globules of cream lying in a clear glass bowl near the packet of darkly brown dates, and a rumble of hunger reverberates in the pit of my stomach. Ten. The table groans under the hefty weight of the many dishes. Six. Is it my imagination or are the hands of the clock slowing down, ticking at a pace so slow that it is causing an unbearable frenzy of impatience to build within me? Three. Oh, those cheese and spinach samosas smell so divine!

And then, we hear it, the sound that we’ve been desiring to hear for the past several hours: the Azan. Instantly, my siblings appear, our grandmother (though she is too old and weak to fast) also arriving to partake in the eager distribution of food. The sound of our servants settling down in the kitchen can be heard. Although I know that dates are the traditional, approved way of breaking open a fast, the thirst is me is too overpoweringly urgent to ignore. It demands immediate attention, demands it now. So I pick up a glass of water, drain its contents in a five seconds flat. Reach for a date, coat it thickly in cream; knowing and anticipating that tomorrow, I will have to do this all over again. But right then, at the moment, the only conscious thought teeming on my mind is that of food, the craving to fill the emptiness in my stomach, and I proceed without any further delay, to do just that.

In My Element

2011-05-02T08:05:00.000-07:00

I love makeup.

Brushing mascara on my eyelashes, painting my lips with clear gloss, experimenting with different styles of applying various eyeliners, blending individual eye-shadows and shades together to create the perfect blend of dazzling sophistication and stunning gorgeousness on your lids – it all creates in me a feeling of euphoria that few other actions can produce. I love collecting make-up products; standing before the mirror of my bathroom getting ready for a party, trying out looks that are new and limitless in variation. I love how with make-up, your image is under your control, how you can present yourself according to your own wishes. I love the transformation that undergoes, changing the very shape of your eyes, the colour of your lips; subtle changes that bring about a wholly different outcome.

In shops, I’m immediately drawn to the make-up area, my eyes sweeping over shelves with a practice born of experience and vivid interest, hands already reaching for eyeliner pencils to test on my wrists for the easy smoothness that defines liners of good quality. When I was thirteen, my family went on a trip to California, and to this date, out of the dizzying jumble of whirlwind adventure and sightseeing we experienced on that exciting two-month trip, one memory stands out clearly above the rest: my half-hour spent in Sephora. Frowning upon malls and unnecessary expenditure, my father, the ever-consistent believer in the importance of ‘frugality’, discouraged my mother and me to indulge in our beloved hobby of shopping. But on one occasion, we managed to enforce our will and overrode his wishes, escaping into the internationally renowned make-up brand Sephora.

Standing outside the shop, I was gripped with a sense of wonder and heightened anticipation that swept through me like a tidal wave, eliminating all other emotions but the fervent desire to rush inside and prance amongst the various items that represented to me, pure heavenly delight. Once through the doors, the bright, sparkling lights, the vast carpeted floors, the gleaming shelves upon shelves of every kind of make-up product from every renowned brand known to me, topped with tiny spotless mirrors to observe the effects of the ‘testers’, instigated in me such a shattering blast of mindless joy that I thought I would pass out.

Some people, I’m aware, look critically upon the art of make-up. They prefer natural beauty, emphasizing upon the importance of respecting the way Allah has created you without feeling the need to enhance it using man-made artificial products. They preach about the side effects of using make up; how it adversely affects our skin, and how false it looks. They declare that there is nothing like the simplicity of one’s own looks, the glow that only comes from healthy skin and that no foundation or shimmering blush can duplicate. They frown upon the young girls with made-up faces, drawing heavy sighs and shaking their heads in reproachful reproof. “How sad,” they remark, “the world that we now live in; where young girls need to resort to such measures in order to feel like they’re beautiful, in order to fit in.”

To those people, I have nothing to say. They live in narrowed confines of inflexibility. They believe rigidly in the opinions they nurture, regarding any deviation as ineffectual and hollow. Maybe, they’re right. Maybe their outlooks are the better ones, and contain greater value and better principles. But for each person, joy comes in different forms. As the saying goes, “One man’s trash is another’s treasure.” It’s okay to not share similar views upon everything in life; okay to have conflicting opinions on things, from big issues that affect globally like political decisions, to trivial matters like the use of make-up to make yourselves feel more glamorous. Being similar, plainly put, is boring. Difference is what makes people stand out, and feel all the more alive for it.

Each person has their own aspects of interest, individual hobbies that are part of their character. Some may enjoy writing, others photography or painting. A hobby can even be as simple as listening – the pure art of listening quietly and understanding, accompanied by the right note of encouraging body language, as a friend pours out their heart to you. A friend of my grandmother enjoys collecting wedding cards, gathering them up and stacking them carefully in a locked box fitted with laced cloth, according to the date of the wedding functions. It amazed me, when my grandmother related her past-time to me. “What a worthless hobby!” I scoffed inwardly. “How pointless! What could ever be the use of collecting wedding cards?” But the more I pondered over it, the more I realized the wrongness of my earlier thoughts. So what if collecting wedding cards seemed trivial or useless to me? To her, the hobby offered several advantages: she would forever be able to remember the dates of all the weddings of friends and relatives, and if she ever needed to make a wedding card for a function within her family, she could consult and observe the designs of all the cards she’d collected to come up with the perfect one of her own. Those cards could serve as reminders of events that promised new hope, new life, memories that she would wish to cherish. Even if the couple ended up in the miserable event of divorce, that wedding card could serve as a concrete proof of a happier time where love and devotion abounded instead.

I chastised myself then. And realized, it doesn’t matter what you enjoy, be in wedding card-collecting, applying makeup, fishing, video-gaming, cooking, tennis, gardening, or any other hobby in the world. All that matters is that when you indulge in it, you feel in your element. Because, being in your element, is glorious. It creates a satisfaction that is rich and immense, plugging up an emptiness you weren’t even aware of, and fulfilling you in ways that you could never have fathomed.