Selling

I love selling. Whether it be selling equipments, ideas or even ideals. As long as there's another party involved, and it results in a transaction, no matter of what monetary value, it has the charm of selling. Being a gypsy queen, reading from the dregs of Turkish tea or finding fatal connections within symbols is similar to signing a financially consequental deal, while dining at steaks in Maxim's. Different set of circumstances, agreed, but still, at the end, it's to convince the other. The pros need to outweigh the cons. The better the salesperson, the greater the revenue generation. The more captivating the sermons, the stronger the believers. The prophets seem to be the earliest salespeople and God the forerunner of marketing. The product brought with it a divine conviction - a rich reward. But what do I sell, and whats in it for me? (as the contemporary mantra goes) I sell lies. Wholesale, no. Facts meshed with fiction, yes. An outpour - whether welcome or not - in your face. An amoral act. Truth with a twist. And what is truth? Truth is the lie that people happen to want at that moment. Feed it to them, and they will suckle at it like the cooing baby feeding on maternal breast. It's like flirting in the beginning. Feigned interest provokes superificial sincerity. The conviction of a man fighting against his inevitable fate. The garrulous speech and the agreeable smile. The heart beat goes up one knot when the questions are no longer forced but carry an ambigious interest. The card has been played. The bait taken. And the foreplay continues. Until the orgasimic gape from the buyer; the stare that sends titillations all over the body. Another object; another conquest. Very productive. Meaningless - like all things when comapred to the conception of the universe in its entirety. As meaningless as common courtesies - whether in the corridor or the court of law. Moments of emptiness in the Space-Time Vaccuum. As banal as greetings and as perverse as E!. Yet, a part of our existance. Intricately interwoven. As much as a dangling OM, hanging loosely, inconsequently, with Che Guevara in its background. A world of hollow words and ignoble deeds. Of passionate desires and prosaic sacrifices. If only people could see the value in their own dreams.

Hitzelsberger continues. So will I.

Seize the day

"When I first heard it, I thought someone said 'Seize the Dead'. I was repulsed. Disgusted. I wanted to throw up on the sidewalk but refrained for the sake of propriety. But then I realized what a beautiful thing it is. The who idea has a struck a chord with me. I am going to buy the movie tomorrow and visit the library, too, so I can further my understanding of the uniqueness of the idea...." and then Talha stopped, his wavering tone losing its pitch completely.

He never figured out the right time to stop. Like our actors when on stage. Our the Moulvis during Friday sermons. But we had taught Talha to stop. Like Pavlov's dog. We had proved to him the undersirability of his thoughts. The uselessness of his emotions. The impotency of his cries. We had prepared him for failure.

"Have you been to the Netty Jetty flyover, Talha?" queried Yaasir.

"Yes, any brainwaves you would like to share?"

"Stand on the edge. Try to encapsulate all that you can within one glimpse. The liners in the dock, the oil tankers, the wrapper atop the wave, the buoy and the blinking lighthouse, the small island in the middle and the distant horizon. Enjoy the silence. Savor it. See how everything happens in the stillness of the night." Yaasir just needs a reason to speak.

"And?" Talha was confused. As usual.

"Tie your left leg to a heavy stone and take the plunge. Jump off the top, superman. And land with a swish. Whatcha say to that, dumbfuck?" chortled Rizwan. Rizwan liked trampling on the trampled. No dying man should ask for Rizwan's help.

"I've to go somewhere. I'll see you guys later," and Talha left.

"Where do you get these hangerons from?" asked Najeeb.

"Bridge kay uss par!" Ganja intervened.

"Abay haan. Another reason to be prejudiced. He's from Gulshan."

"Gulistan-e-Jauhar, actually. Gulshan still has certain areas that have spacious houses. Gulistan-e-Jauhar is all about high-rise apartment complexes. Ant-hills. The home of the decadent bourgeosie. Their sloth is only exceeded by their apathy. Living life in a vaccuum. But I hear, the girls like to fuck. Which is always a good thing. Going with the natural order of things." Yassir knew when to stop.

"Is Nan-na Dallal from that area, too?" Silent Bob asked, without looking up, busy rolling.

"Thats what the grapevine says. But he surely is the biggest pimp of the city. Apparently goes around in a Civic with a Town Police Officer.. Has the hottest of whores."

"Would you buy sex?" questioned Najeeb.

"As long as its a good bargain." Shamyl had to reply. Had to be ahead of everyone else.

"So you won't even pay lip-service to religion anymore?"

"Religion is the opiate of the masses," said Shamyl. He was wearing a 'fcuk' shirt. Ironic. They are in vogue. So it the Marxian quote. Everybody who is anybody has used this quote.

"And the proletariat will die of the bubonic plague," chimed in Chaudhry. Chaudhry was generally vague and difficult. He walked with a stagger. He laughed with difficulty. And he never loved. He was too skeptical for his own good. Everyone who believed prayed for Chaudhry. Chaudhry prayed for the Candomble priests in Brazil. He was weird, ya'know.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" quizzed Shamyl. Everyone answered when Shamyl questioned. But not the new friends. Which pissed off the old friends. They could see the dichotomy.

"That the moon and the sun and the earth will be in a straight line. And the wolves of Cernogratz will howl."

"And we will listen to the 'dark side of the moon'."

"No. I'll go to Gora Kabristan, find the northern most grave and take a piss against the North wind. Who's joining me?" Chaudhry had a lot of weird ideas, too.

"I'll go with the Delta Boys. Counter-terrorist. Chaaka karooon ga. Knife out your guts and feed them to the vultures." Saim wasn't weird. He was proper.

"Parsi bachi kiya phasa lee, now he's going to feed everyone to the vultures. Is Parsi Colony bridge kay iss par aur uss par?"

"For clarity's sake, there are quite a few Parsi colonies. And Zoroastrians are rich mother-fuckers anyway. The one in Mehmoodabad, which has the 'Tower of Silence', without the vultures, is full of rich-kids, who drive decked up cars which aren't Suzuki, and generally go abroad after finishing high school. Then there's the one in Bath Island, where Cowasjee also lives. They are as posh as one gets. But this prosperity is offset by the two other communities, Panchaitwadi behind Mama Parsi School in Saddar and the one at Pakistan Chowk. Then there's one in Soldier Bazar, too, where quite a few conscientious Parsis live, and most of us have been there for tution sake. So that's five colonies that I know of. There are a few more, too, one behind Rainbow Centre, near the Fire Temple that is next to TitBits. Have you been to TitBits, anyway?

"Fuck the Bits. All I'm interested in is Tits. What the fuck will I do by knowing about the geographical displacement of the Zorastrian race. I had a Parsi girlfriend once, and she knew how to fuck. But she was anorexic. Which is a turn-on, too. But tell me, why do Parsi women work up a sweat when involved with someone not from their community? It's as bad as a Khatmal babe refusing to blow your flute because your ancestors supported the Sunni Tehrik." Chaudhry liked being politically incorrect.

"I guess I know." Chutto replied.

"As long as you keep yourself confined to the fire-worshippers, okay. If you intend to illustrate your answer by discussing the mating habits of earth bound humans or the blind Nigerian dolphins trying to tell us of our inevitable doom, than thank you. Your visa has expired anyway. Return to your native leper colony." Yassir liked being funny. He didn't like being a failure. It's ironic. Catatonic.

And the beach.

"Lets go to the beach, boys."

That was Jaffer. He was down from Lahore, on a short-break from his chic university. He loved the beach. Like the rest of the 14 million entertainment-starved denizens of Karachi. He was fortunate enough to have the means to enjoy the beach, unlike the majority.

"Chal, La-Whori, we will show you Vadda Vadda Samandar....and Idda Sara Paani." said Saim.

"I'm a pure breed from Karachi. No paindoo blood in my veins." Jaffer clarified his geographical loyalties.

"But why the disdain? Did the Poonjabis fuck you over? I thought it was the Army that had to be held responsible for the prevalent ills," was Niazi's inevitable question.

Being a pathan is tough; being a pathan from Poonjab is even worse. Sharing your last name with a Major who surrendered 93,000 jawans of the Army to an Indian takes the cake; especially if you aren't related to the Major and cannot enjoy the liberties and perks that being related to Army folks entail. But Niazi no longer felt compelled to face the gauntlet. He had also learned the art of deceitful deviousness.

"Did you see the pictures in DAWN? Police, army and the paramilitary forces are taking over PTCL installations. Biddings on 16th June, I guess. Would the comrades be up in arms, then?" chuckled Chutto.

"I want to go to the fucking beach!" Jaffer wasn't amused.

"I want a younger queen so I can have a royal hard-on." Chutto chuckled yet again.

"Think before you speak. Look before you leap..." said Talha, in his feminine voice, but was interrupted, for good measure, by Jaffar.

"Fuck before you sleep........."

"Wastrels, if I can have your attention. We can consume our cancer sticks and satiate our desire for verbal diarrhoea on the way to the beach, too. How about we make a move. We might get something done." Ganja had common sense, afterall. "Everyone throw in the middle whatever he can. Your money will be used judiciously."

"Subtitles, please." And everyone laughed. Subtitles was a slur on all those who came through the matrik system and suffered from an inherent insecurity about their english. A gora-complex. The one that Rushdie talks about, too, rather eloquently.

"I don't want Desi Daruuu. I'm tired of Murree Brewey and QDL." Chaudhry wasn't a Poonjabi feudal, but he surely had expensive fancies.

"I'm not smoking rod either. Peshawari maal ho to baat banay. Thats the beauty of LUMS. There's good quality garda available at all times. Chanaisar sucks! And Bahadur, too." Jaffar was specific in his demands.

"You're more indecisive than a woman on PMS. I'm going online, fucktards. Tell me whatever is decided. And whenever." And Chaudry turned his back.

"You're a cunt, Chaudhry, you know that. You haven't contributed a dime."

"I contributed to your birth. Ask the midwife, son."

"And before this escalates into a fist-fight, I want to start taking bets." Yassir didn't like fighs. He was a pacifist.

"Fuck you, Gandhi kee dhoti kay moti."

"He was instrumental in getting us our freedom. And never before had the idea of non-violence been implemented at such a vast scale to obtain such massive results." Yassir was a fan of Gandhiji, too.

"You believe that non-violence was a matter of creed, rather than of policy, for Gandhi?" was Silent Bob's earnest question.

Yassir was silent for a while. He knew there were inconsistencies, at times. He didn't want to get into a debate at such an odd hour, either. He had just had a beautifully rolled Rizla and excruciating debates was the last thing on his mind. "There were inconsistencies, I accept. But you have to be a saint to raise your finger at such a figure. Lets ask Niazi. Pathans had a soft corner for Congress and Gandhi. Khudai Khidmatgars, afterall."

"The Pathans are a strangely stupid race. Neither can they manfully support a war, not can they live in peace like men." as Babar said and Jaffar quoted.

"And AQ Khan put paid to their hopes of ever being taken seriosuly." chimed in Chutto, who liked Dr Pervaiz Hoodhbhoy.

"Yes, I agree, Pathans are stupid in the case that they are fucking emotional. But would you not agree that they have done the job of being made the scapegoats more often than the Jews even. Look at Afghanistan. It has been bombed back to the stone ages because a Pathan refused to go agaisnt his code of hostpitality and it was used as a pretext. You guys blame the Afghanis along with Zia for introducing Karachi to the Klashinkov culture. For drugs, too, instead of showing gratitude. I wouldn't be surprised if it you guys claim that Eve was Pathan, too...." ranted Niazi, without losing his composure.

"If Adam were a khocha, there wouldn't be no humanity." Was Silent Bob's cryptic response. "Only homosexuality," the well-practiced joke.

"Our religion gives us the permission to kill you for your blaspemous comments."

"Not the balls." Silent Bob smirked.

"Lets go to Baba. Enough balls to kill Silent Bob over and over again."

"I thought we were going to the beach..." Jaffer winced.

"Saturday night, man. You won't be riding the waves anyway. You want to get drunk, right? That's possible within the confines of this room, too. We have enough money to get enough local whiskey to get us all drunk, and enough hash to get us all flying like a nauseated falcon. Whats the problem, then, whore?"

"You don't get it, do you? Its the fucking BEACH!" Jaffer was losing it.

"POOOOOOONJABI PAINDOOOO" was the combined response.

No deafening silence here. No political correctness.

City of God

I'm not from Rio; its a continuation of the divine hangover.

The last ten days of Ramadan means that their would be a marked increase in the fervour of the faithful. The mosques will still be less crowded that the shopping malls. A similarity, though, would be the raised shalwars at both places. The shopping centres have been thronged by women of all ages(and sizes) attempting to outdo each other. Western fashion trends are depicted by those who have had their foreign sojourn, in close pursuit of those relying on hollywood and fashion magazines to keep them in sync with modern times.

2 days after Eid:

Life goes on in Karachi with the usual clamor. The teeming metropolis continues to attract immigrants from far-flung corners of the country. The gravitational pull continues to bring in un-skilled labour, adding to the woes of the employment minister, if there's one, and if he has any woes. Ghetto's spring up in various areas - those in authority glad to add to their illegit revenue generation than ensuring provision of necessities. Playing Godfather to these criminal-breeding centres. And turning a bling eye to the travails of Karachi's leading humanitarian: Mr Edhi. The ingratitude of the people of Karachi is disgusting. Public outrage might be asking a bit too much from the politically, socially, mentally and morally apathetic denizens of Karachi, but not even a passive protest? It's the same people who have set government buildings on fire because of the governments inability to apprehend those who bomb mosques, kill at will and have turned Karachi into the City of Untimely Deaths. The same people who pelted the police with stones and burned a bus, because rash driving by the driver resulted in the death of one of their colleagues from the University. The very same people who mutilated a department in Karachi University because some of the students did a presentation on homosexuals, also giving a good thrashing to those who dared transgress the limits set by the religiously conscientious. Why then, no demonstrations to protest the burning of Edhi centres? Do the people not realize the debt that they owe to Mr Edhi? 40 years, or maybe more, of complete dedication. A self-made man, he has made a million lives in the process. Why begrudge his riches? During casual conversations, I was told that Edhi would smuggle drugs in his ambulances - adding to his perosnal wealth under the cover of humanitarian add. To a judgemental mind, he would be the worst of hypocrites. My pseudo-religious aunt wants him to improve on what he's doing instead of expanding his sphere of influence. All the elders had some plan or the other to give, which could make Edhi's work truly great. None ever ventured farther than be the arm-chair activists that the nation seems to be full off. And they will be the first one to call Edhi's ambulance or shout out his name in the case of the smallest of emergency. Inspite of the disregard that they have for his work, they expect him to be always to their service. Why has Edhi amassed the world's largest volunteer ambulance service but to serve the disgruntled citizens of Karachi. You, dear reader, can decide who's the fucking hypocrite. And now, excuse me, for I need to call Edhi's helpline lest my father die choking on the pretzel.

Exhibit A

Unlicensed experimentation.

To empty the goblet. Mental purgatory. To fight angels and assist deamons.

The doom and gloom that we surround ourselves with is but our own creation. We are the birds who walk into a cage, refusing freedom and continue to lament. Am I one such bird? Maybe I'm or maybe I'm not, but it's not relevant, or maybe it is. I'm more indecisive than a woman from the Elizabethean era. No, I'm not. But I can be a reincarnation of a woman from the Elizabethean era, God's private little joke on me and my former self. While I go around as a yokel, the tormented soul of the fawning Lady used to regal fanfare swoons. Why o why, I cry! My head hurts. A thousand needles have their tips on my face, caressing me casually, and then the hammers start beating in. Pierced equidistantly. Mathemetical precision of the highest quality. Black blood drips. And it's all over. A wet dream. We all wake up to the stark reality of mediocrity that abounds. We need another Swift and another Gulliver. Another mediocre success to bleed us dry. And still I cry. For I'm filled with fear. Filled with remorse. Filled with guilt. Filled with trite bullshit. That's what we are. Full of. From the top to the bottom. From head to toe. From the bloated ass to the erect penis. Indeed, our plight is worse than that of the faggots of Sodom and Gomorrah. Yet, we seek divine intervention. Is there none to come?