'You can't recreate the past, can you? Something or the other always changes. Yes, permanence is an illusion, but must things change so drastically? And if change they must, must posterity be informed of it at all times?'
All this and more...such were the thoughts swarming across my mind while I was browbeaten into acknowledging the superiority of bygone times by an elderly male while indulging in the irritating habit of cleaning his glasses at every thud.
After twelve minutes of conversation, I had collected all the essentials of his rather tepid life.
I do not write collected with the glee of someone having a quaint fancy for collecting oddities, but due to the sparks of curiosity that fly in me and are badly served by my compliant manners.
The elderly male subjected the general populace to the usual rant that require nothing more than polite acquiescence; generally kick-started by a quick harangue over the increase in bus fares, a resigned sigh on the current state of law and order, and rounded off by either excessive aggrandization or absolute condemnation of current government.
Such outbursts are not considered outbursts - until voiced in editorials.
Specially when it does not involve me and I can continue sipping the calorie-infested cola. Until I felt a weight on my shoulder - a weight feathery in nature.
"Don't you agree, son?"
"Ah...Yes." I replied, trying to convey conviction through my eyes, for I knew it was too late for words. The skin around the cheeks stiffened, as I gazed concentratingly in the same direction as the elderly male and started nodding. An attempt to be as agreeable as possible - maybe.
---------
Now I read this. After such a long time. And I can't tell why was I writing this. A fictitious account altogether or merely a recreation of the banal peppered with detailed revelation(s).
And I just created spaces between sentences. It was two paragraphs. Too much labour going through it all without progressing too far....one shouldn't be too dense without being too intelligent.
But what does it matter....if this was going to be a mundane reality catapulted to fame by its simplicity of action and density of detail or the initial thoughts of a long narration which goes and on just like rocky movies and indian soaps.
Tch tch tch. I am ashamed.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Things fall apart..
The Second Coming - Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Sunday, June 05, 2005
"No man is an island
entire of itself, every man is a piece of the continent..." said John Donne.
And we pondered over it. Like everything else we ponder upon. From the detestable to the sublime, everything is under scrutiny. As we ponder, we preach of Orwell and the inevitable order and worship Eris and discord.
"Not morons, not at all, sir, oxymorons. Propah oxymorons. Will you change the sign-boards to 'Indians and oxymorons not allowed', now, sir? Our motherland is still England, sir. We'll walk en masee, sir, from Gujranwala to Manchester and Lancashire. We don't gyrate our hips to the beats of the filthy fifties, Sir, we earn our bread and return to our Poonjab."
But I'm no Poonjabi. Otherwise, I would spell it as Punjab. But the indigenous imbecile continued:
"It's the land of the five rivers. What if the horrendous Hindoos turn off the tap. There will be no water, then, Sir, and we will be forced to use toilet paper."
And then he was told to shut up by Shamyl. And he did shut up, like everyone else who expressed his concerns in the mother tongue. The mother tongue is Urdu, incase you're confused. I'm not.
Shamyl was the rich one. The richest one, to be specific. He was a bandwagon of luxuries. And all the opportunists need is a ride. He loved saying stupid things because he could get away with it. Not with the girls, though. Not all the times, atleast.
He had spent 6 years in London. And returned with liquor chocolates and the white man's burden. Which is a pain. If you've a conscience. Najeeb believed he had it. He had spent two years in Wales. Shamyl said the Scottish and the Welsh were crude, and the Irish barbaric.
And Najeeb retorted, "All you've is patronizing vibes. Thats all you can give, you shallow prick."
Shamyl, with the poise of a serial killer claiming innocence on accounts of schizophrenia, replied swiftly, "What of the liquor chocolates, you queer? You always seem to forget that."
Shamyl had made a point. But so did Najeeb. But he was a queer, afterall. He had to be discriminated against. Anyone going aginst the natural order of things has to be discriminated against or Shamyl, for that matter.
"You fruity-fucker, all you did was frequent gay bars in Soho. Fuck men for all I care, but why black men, Imam Shamyl?" While the rest pondered over the relevance of the statement and pondering over what to anticipate in response from Shamyl, Yasir continued with the blunt. He always crossed the line, but then someone has to cross the line. Someone always does. As long as you know when to circumvent. Yasir knew that, but he learned after having his jaw broken twice.
Najeeb retorted, "Someone wants to bet that Yasir will have his jaw broken the third time?"
It was always a match of wits - but Najeeb always turned into one of endurance. But the Qoran says everything happens for a reason, and everyone is part of the grand scheme of things. That's what Ganja is.
"Enduring Najeeb is an art. You could easily be a Scouser if you get the accent."
He is the hairless hopper, and no globetrotter. Everyone called him ganja. His folks called him Misbah. Everyone said he was called Misbah because his parents were unsure whether he had the requisite testosterone level to achieve manhood. And he was reminded that everytime. And it proved, beyond doubt, Sameer's philosophy, 'everything becomes funny after being repeated enough times." Sameer like philosophizing. He had read Will Durrant and considered his theories avant-garde. He had memorized Nirvana's lyrics, too. And he giggled everytime someone called Ganja Misbah. Any slur or masculine potency does that. But everyone laughed while Sameer giggled. Najeeb thought he was a queer, too.
"Ganjay ko kangi la kar do. Bhoosri ka chootya hogaya hay. Pakistan say nikla naheen, aur liverpuddlians pay shot," said Najeeb, with the impertinence of a queer.
"Aur vibration wala phone?" And everybody laughed. Crudeness and aplomb always whets the appetitite. Ganja had a knack for that. Just Saim sat silently, smugly. Saim was wild and safe when driving. Very rare. He handled wild chicks safely, too. Crude insinuations that made the world blush made Saim smirk. He always saw envy - even when faced with contempt. And he continued to smirk. Not plotting revenge. That was the difference between Najeeb and Saim. Najeeb always plotted revenge.
"Fuck them idiots, Chutto, tell me, is Mourinho God?" asked Yasir, with the usual swiftness, marginalizing the undesired.
Chutto was smoking in a corner, not trying to make headway into the conversation. He hated being dragged into such conversations. He liked being in the limelight, even if it meant personal-ridicule, but he preffered it when surrounded by those he had been intimiate with. He wasn't a queer, incase you're confused again. He had a truckload of insecurities, and he didn't mind ditching them in the nearest garbage pile. It made breathing easier. And it also gave him the leverage to mock his uptight feudal room-mate.
"Football is the opiate of the masses, innit? Aray baba sayeen, main bhee lund-unnn gaya hoon."
He always said things with an impish twinkle. In stark contrast to Shamyl. Who always said things with an autocratic despair. He wanted to be obeyed. Chutto just wanted to share a few laughs. And for his efforts, he was called Chutto.
Yasir always consoled him, "Boxer died for the sins of Napoleon." He liked Orwell. He liked Chutto, too. They had been friends since grade school. What he didn't realize was that Chutto didn't like Orwell, but Chutto knew Yasir was incapable of such realizations. That's what Yasir liked about Chutto. Chutto always understood. When he did, he would pretend.
"Abay Chutto, teri Chelski ko to Russian roubles nay jitaya," chimed in Shamyl. He didn't like being left out of a conversations. He always took the bait, too. Everyone knew Shamyl didn't like being left out of the conversations, and no one talked about things that Shamyl didn't know about. But the new friends didn't care. They diverted it into territories not know to this modern-day Cortes. This plunderer of words.
"London main 6 saal guzar diyee, aik dafa bhee match naheen dekha koi, aur hamay ko football par analysi. Chootya kisi aur ko banana, hamay bata 'pata tikka' kitnay ka hay?" Najeeb had to say something, afterall.
"Lo urta teer gand main tum," said Silent Bob with his usual ambiguity. Everyone turned. Silent Bob was always silent. Like Silent Bob from "Jay and Silent Bob strike back" and "Dogma". If you haven't watched them, then you should.
Everyone laughed. Silent Bob's words were a rarity. Shamyl and Najeeb looked at each other. Neither of them liked ambiguity. Or being ridiculed.
"What fucking teer?" mumbled Shamyl. Silent Bob's words always made him nervous. Silent Bob's silence and ability to consume copious amounts of hashish befuddled him. He honestly tried to understand Silent Bob, and never understood why he would always choose to stay at a dignified distance.
"Acha, firangi mat bano, yeh batao, 1992 kay final main kis nay akhri catch pakra thaa?" asked Silent Bob, exuding nonchalance.
"Rameez Raja!" was the gleeful response. Silent Bob smirked like he always did. He knew that his silence carried a foreboding judgement - and compelled people to constantly attempt proving their worth in front of him. He was glad that Shamyl was still under the power. He would think sometimes, those sinister thoughts, where he would use his power for nefarious ends. And then he would remember his younbger brother's jibes when they would imitate WWF stars, "You're the diet coke of evil. Only one calorie. You can't pin me, bro."
And we pondered over it. Like everything else we ponder upon. From the detestable to the sublime, everything is under scrutiny. As we ponder, we preach of Orwell and the inevitable order and worship Eris and discord.
"Not morons, not at all, sir, oxymorons. Propah oxymorons. Will you change the sign-boards to 'Indians and oxymorons not allowed', now, sir? Our motherland is still England, sir. We'll walk en masee, sir, from Gujranwala to Manchester and Lancashire. We don't gyrate our hips to the beats of the filthy fifties, Sir, we earn our bread and return to our Poonjab."
But I'm no Poonjabi. Otherwise, I would spell it as Punjab. But the indigenous imbecile continued:
"It's the land of the five rivers. What if the horrendous Hindoos turn off the tap. There will be no water, then, Sir, and we will be forced to use toilet paper."
And then he was told to shut up by Shamyl. And he did shut up, like everyone else who expressed his concerns in the mother tongue. The mother tongue is Urdu, incase you're confused. I'm not.
Shamyl was the rich one. The richest one, to be specific. He was a bandwagon of luxuries. And all the opportunists need is a ride. He loved saying stupid things because he could get away with it. Not with the girls, though. Not all the times, atleast.
He had spent 6 years in London. And returned with liquor chocolates and the white man's burden. Which is a pain. If you've a conscience. Najeeb believed he had it. He had spent two years in Wales. Shamyl said the Scottish and the Welsh were crude, and the Irish barbaric.
And Najeeb retorted, "All you've is patronizing vibes. Thats all you can give, you shallow prick."
Shamyl, with the poise of a serial killer claiming innocence on accounts of schizophrenia, replied swiftly, "What of the liquor chocolates, you queer? You always seem to forget that."
Shamyl had made a point. But so did Najeeb. But he was a queer, afterall. He had to be discriminated against. Anyone going aginst the natural order of things has to be discriminated against or Shamyl, for that matter.
"You fruity-fucker, all you did was frequent gay bars in Soho. Fuck men for all I care, but why black men, Imam Shamyl?" While the rest pondered over the relevance of the statement and pondering over what to anticipate in response from Shamyl, Yasir continued with the blunt. He always crossed the line, but then someone has to cross the line. Someone always does. As long as you know when to circumvent. Yasir knew that, but he learned after having his jaw broken twice.
Najeeb retorted, "Someone wants to bet that Yasir will have his jaw broken the third time?"
It was always a match of wits - but Najeeb always turned into one of endurance. But the Qoran says everything happens for a reason, and everyone is part of the grand scheme of things. That's what Ganja is.
"Enduring Najeeb is an art. You could easily be a Scouser if you get the accent."
He is the hairless hopper, and no globetrotter. Everyone called him ganja. His folks called him Misbah. Everyone said he was called Misbah because his parents were unsure whether he had the requisite testosterone level to achieve manhood. And he was reminded that everytime. And it proved, beyond doubt, Sameer's philosophy, 'everything becomes funny after being repeated enough times." Sameer like philosophizing. He had read Will Durrant and considered his theories avant-garde. He had memorized Nirvana's lyrics, too. And he giggled everytime someone called Ganja Misbah. Any slur or masculine potency does that. But everyone laughed while Sameer giggled. Najeeb thought he was a queer, too.
"Ganjay ko kangi la kar do. Bhoosri ka chootya hogaya hay. Pakistan say nikla naheen, aur liverpuddlians pay shot," said Najeeb, with the impertinence of a queer.
"Aur vibration wala phone?" And everybody laughed. Crudeness and aplomb always whets the appetitite. Ganja had a knack for that. Just Saim sat silently, smugly. Saim was wild and safe when driving. Very rare. He handled wild chicks safely, too. Crude insinuations that made the world blush made Saim smirk. He always saw envy - even when faced with contempt. And he continued to smirk. Not plotting revenge. That was the difference between Najeeb and Saim. Najeeb always plotted revenge.
"Fuck them idiots, Chutto, tell me, is Mourinho God?" asked Yasir, with the usual swiftness, marginalizing the undesired.
Chutto was smoking in a corner, not trying to make headway into the conversation. He hated being dragged into such conversations. He liked being in the limelight, even if it meant personal-ridicule, but he preffered it when surrounded by those he had been intimiate with. He wasn't a queer, incase you're confused again. He had a truckload of insecurities, and he didn't mind ditching them in the nearest garbage pile. It made breathing easier. And it also gave him the leverage to mock his uptight feudal room-mate.
"Football is the opiate of the masses, innit? Aray baba sayeen, main bhee lund-unnn gaya hoon."
He always said things with an impish twinkle. In stark contrast to Shamyl. Who always said things with an autocratic despair. He wanted to be obeyed. Chutto just wanted to share a few laughs. And for his efforts, he was called Chutto.
Yasir always consoled him, "Boxer died for the sins of Napoleon." He liked Orwell. He liked Chutto, too. They had been friends since grade school. What he didn't realize was that Chutto didn't like Orwell, but Chutto knew Yasir was incapable of such realizations. That's what Yasir liked about Chutto. Chutto always understood. When he did, he would pretend.
"Abay Chutto, teri Chelski ko to Russian roubles nay jitaya," chimed in Shamyl. He didn't like being left out of a conversations. He always took the bait, too. Everyone knew Shamyl didn't like being left out of the conversations, and no one talked about things that Shamyl didn't know about. But the new friends didn't care. They diverted it into territories not know to this modern-day Cortes. This plunderer of words.
"London main 6 saal guzar diyee, aik dafa bhee match naheen dekha koi, aur hamay ko football par analysi. Chootya kisi aur ko banana, hamay bata 'pata tikka' kitnay ka hay?" Najeeb had to say something, afterall.
"Lo urta teer gand main tum," said Silent Bob with his usual ambiguity. Everyone turned. Silent Bob was always silent. Like Silent Bob from "Jay and Silent Bob strike back" and "Dogma". If you haven't watched them, then you should.
Everyone laughed. Silent Bob's words were a rarity. Shamyl and Najeeb looked at each other. Neither of them liked ambiguity. Or being ridiculed.
"What fucking teer?" mumbled Shamyl. Silent Bob's words always made him nervous. Silent Bob's silence and ability to consume copious amounts of hashish befuddled him. He honestly tried to understand Silent Bob, and never understood why he would always choose to stay at a dignified distance.
"Acha, firangi mat bano, yeh batao, 1992 kay final main kis nay akhri catch pakra thaa?" asked Silent Bob, exuding nonchalance.
"Rameez Raja!" was the gleeful response. Silent Bob smirked like he always did. He knew that his silence carried a foreboding judgement - and compelled people to constantly attempt proving their worth in front of him. He was glad that Shamyl was still under the power. He would think sometimes, those sinister thoughts, where he would use his power for nefarious ends. And then he would remember his younbger brother's jibes when they would imitate WWF stars, "You're the diet coke of evil. Only one calorie. You can't pin me, bro."
Sunday, March 27, 2005
haunted houses et al
karachi is such a disappointment when it comes to haunted places. i've been to quite a few houses that were apparently haunted, used the ouija board to summon a spirit, tried to provoke witches in haunted alleys, roamed around sea view to catch sight of the notorious witch, that turned out to be a clueless widow, been to moulvis, to practitioners of dark arts and those who had quick fix solutions for impotency. (im sure u guys notice the ads that are sprayed all over the city). i've even taken naps under haunted trees, gone into isolated log cabins, spend nights in haunted cellars and the rest. even blasphemy wasn't spared, and sacred objects were defiled. not that i'm a sick or perverted, but i'm getting a bit frustrated with the supernatural. the ouija board becomes a skateboard whenever i'm not around, and in my presence its colder than an uninterested whore. i once slept in a graveyard, too, but that was more out of need than any whimsical or sadistic desire. nothing happened then either. and i hate it when a spirit is treated like a fart. everyone can sense its existance but no one is willing to question its origin. or maybe the presence cannot be sensed. and tis kind of exasperating whenever their existance is discussed for it has to have a superficial reverence because they have more than a casual reference in the scriptures.
so yes, recommend a really scary graveyard if you can. (just like going for dinner with family) its fun to be shit scared. and its not for an epiphany or a spiritual revival.
quoting lawrence fishbourne, 'if you arent living on the edge, you're taking up too much space.'
And about the supposed haunted house next to Mohatta Palace
my trip to the dialipated house next to mohatta palace was interesting, too. a buncha ppl went there at midnight with a full moon. and just when we were lighting one, the chowkidar suddenly showed up which scared us all shitless for the briefest of moments, which was long enough for one to demonstate her hysteria in a shrill cry of panic, that would make even ghosts' ears' bleed. then we attempted deciphering the uncanny graffiti on the wall, and for a while even considered the house a (secret) masonic lodge, or stewie griffins secret headquarters, from where he controlled the world with two homosexual mice. we even considered the possibility of it being the hideout of a drug cartel, and the nursery a cover for marijuana plants. and then there was the epiphany. i saw the word 'doda' sprayed generously on the walls inside. and everything made sense. we left in humble silence.
addendum: the chowkidar rents out space to labourers in the main building, and the one shed that can be reached through the spiral staircase is left alone. because thats suppose to be the scary one. otherwise, the labourers sleep soundly. atleast some rise for the proletariat. (laugh, comrades, laugh)
later on, i found out that the haunted house belongs to the bohra community, and according to my inference, falling under the ownership of the spiritual head of the bohra community. maybe its a secret headquarter afterall.
and this isnt slander.
Autobiographical frustration. Nothing more.
so yes, recommend a really scary graveyard if you can. (just like going for dinner with family) its fun to be shit scared. and its not for an epiphany or a spiritual revival.
quoting lawrence fishbourne, 'if you arent living on the edge, you're taking up too much space.'
And about the supposed haunted house next to Mohatta Palace
my trip to the dialipated house next to mohatta palace was interesting, too. a buncha ppl went there at midnight with a full moon. and just when we were lighting one, the chowkidar suddenly showed up which scared us all shitless for the briefest of moments, which was long enough for one to demonstate her hysteria in a shrill cry of panic, that would make even ghosts' ears' bleed. then we attempted deciphering the uncanny graffiti on the wall, and for a while even considered the house a (secret) masonic lodge, or stewie griffins secret headquarters, from where he controlled the world with two homosexual mice. we even considered the possibility of it being the hideout of a drug cartel, and the nursery a cover for marijuana plants. and then there was the epiphany. i saw the word 'doda' sprayed generously on the walls inside. and everything made sense. we left in humble silence.
addendum: the chowkidar rents out space to labourers in the main building, and the one shed that can be reached through the spiral staircase is left alone. because thats suppose to be the scary one. otherwise, the labourers sleep soundly. atleast some rise for the proletariat. (laugh, comrades, laugh)
later on, i found out that the haunted house belongs to the bohra community, and according to my inference, falling under the ownership of the spiritual head of the bohra community. maybe its a secret headquarter afterall.
and this isnt slander.
Autobiographical frustration. Nothing more.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Often enough, there comes a time when you're forced to take the foot off the accelerator, recline the seat further back, light a (stale) cigarette and ponder over the rat-race that you're part of. Even if its at an extremely superficial level from a pseudo-lefties perspective, it surely results in gloriously divine realizations which might be, in essence, commonplace wisdom that can be accumulated by spending your lifetime visiting old relatives that you see once in a year. It was during one such similar hiatus in the fast-paced life of Karachi road drives that I was also struck by a similar realization. Nothing as eloquent as Sick Boy's unifying theory of life or even Professor Abdus Salam's. For the record, Sick Boy is merely a fictitious character from an Irvine Welsh book, while Prof Salam hasn't had the good fortune to enjoy that either. Later on those two, though. So I sat back and had the same stale Marlboro from the same panwala that I get everyday, inspite of deciding to do otherwise, I wonder, whether I, too, have joined this rat-race that the pseudo-lefties despise. Whether I, too, in the course of my interactions prejudge those that I'm confronted with. Divide the world in two-halves - inferior and superior. And belittle or patronize those that are condemned to perpetual inferiority - that mass of humanity that are born to follow. And the superior ones, too, need to be brought down from their high pedestal. To rub their nose in the dust - or the dirty, infected protruding thumb of my left foot. To wait in the dark, like a fox, intriguing the downfall. To pounce on every opportunity - every slip-up, and pin 'em down. Like on the road, forging ahead of all the cars. But that never ends. This rat-race. Until we start treating others as equals. And Orwell said that some men are more equal that others. The darkness of the satire can send a morbid chill down a fascist's spine. And contrary to popular opinion, all fascists aren't spinless. Even if you think they can be mindless. But that's mere emotionalism.
Friday, January 14, 2005
I am
I'm the enchanted forest without the magical tree. I'm the flying saucer in an alien land. The sanitary pad in a nun's lap. The rabid dog in the quarantined zone. The tattered rag on an urchin's face. The saliva stuck to the cheesecake. The childhood bicycle lying in the shed. The stringless guitar under the bed. The doodlings on the torn pages of the high school journal. The flat tyre on the beach trip. The jagged rock that makes you bleed. The crab bite that makes you cringe. The clear water that makes you see. Things that you cannot be. I'm the anomaly in an alternate reality. Blessed with divine symmetry and anthropomorphic inanities. The emtpy bottle of champagne. The mute shouts of a dying soldier. The metallic hulk of a defunct submarine lying in a junkyard. The silhoutted vampire hunting criminals in the dark. The swivelling bottle of Cutty Sark. The detectable sperm in a dung pile. The doomed worker in a coal mine. As much barbiturate as amphetamine. I'm Vishnu and Shiva combined. The politicized ferociousness of a moulvi gone asinine. The red cheek of a slapped school-child. The bleeding nose of the thrashed wife. The glow of a toddler's smile. Within me, Oedipus and Electra combined. The ceaseless maternal fretting that drives sons wild. Fatherly nonchalance that makes you deprived. The malicious pettiness of the political giants. All thise and more. I am. I continue to be.
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