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.

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.