Yup. 

That's about right. 

Dear Election-Commission-of-Pakistan,

I flew to Karachi on Friday morning to cast my vote.

This, in itself, may not be such a big deal to you, but it is to me and I'll explain why. I've been eligible to vote for a dozen years (and you can stop doing the math right-about-now), but this was my first voting experience. A Zia-era baby, I turned 18 a year or so after President Musharraf ascended to the proverbial throne of the Islamic Republic. Five years ago, when President Zardari was (somehow) elected, I was wisely in another corner of the world watching the show from the sideline glad that I was not part of this stupidity. This year, was the first opportunity that I had to actually stamp on the ballot paper, however more importantly this was the only year in my life that I've actually been interested in voting. Despite an avid interest in politics, a deep-rooted apathy and the fact that no matter which-way-I-voted it was either tweedle-dee or tweedle-dum prevented me from really bothering to make the effort to register myself as part of a voting populace. Proof of this, for example, is that despite working with you for the better part of a year I did not bother to fill in the form that confirmed my preferred polling station to be Islamabad, where I live and work rather than Karachi, a city I moved out of twelve years ago.

Which brings me to the second reason why this was a big deal. I took time off work, booked a flight and headed down to a city I hate (truly, only very significant reasons can voluntarily drag me to Karachi) in order to exercise my constitutional right. I spent time, effort and energy not to mention the money, much unlike many people out there who actually sold their vote to the highest bidder. I did this because somewhere down the line I began to believe that this vote that I was casting was both my right, as a citizen of this country as well as my responsibility. Strange, I know, but I was suffering under the happy-delusion that my vote mattered, my voice needed to be heard and somebody out there cared who I thought needed to be elected.

Two days later I have returned to Islamabad with an inky thumb and a very-heavy heart.

And as I look at this garish black line etched with indelible link right below my thumb-nail, I feel angry, disillusioned and above all cheated. You see, I don't mind if my candidate loses because that's the way the vote swings. That is the democratic way, after all. I do, however, detest knowing that there really was nothing I could have done to change what seems to have been a foregone conclusion. Truth is, the way that this election has turned out, I should have spared myself the trouble and sat tight in Islamabad watching the drama unfold. What hurts the most, I think, is that there was a wave that had been created. A wave of political awareness, desire to make a difference and patriotism. I was riding this wave, as were very-many others in the same boat as I. The blatant election-rigging, and your refusal to take serious - and immediate - action against the obvious perpetrators have completely dashed this wave to pieces.

So here is the deal. If you truly are an institution who believes in its own mandate of conducting 'fair, free and transparent elections' in Pakistan you will wake up, take notice and take immediate measures to address the rigging allegations. You will conduct re-elections as required in as many districts as you have proof. You will disqualify candidates who are proved to be at fault from ever taking political office in the Islamic Republic. You will admit your own culpability and request assistance from the army (as required) to maintain law and order, and keep the politicians on a leash. You will closely supervise the re-elections and announce a free, fair and impartial result that is acceptable to all.

Because if you don't (and it's very likely that you won't), you will have totally destroyed the momentum that it has taken years to build. And frankly, people like me will think many-many times before venturing out to participate in this democractic sham.

Please don't make my proud-inky-thumb feel ashamed and cheated. I, and every other genuine Pakistani voter, deserves the right for their vote to be taken seriously. We depend on you to ensure that we have this right both now, and in the future.

Regards,

A-very-unhappy-voter

Dear Mr. Khan,

First of all, a big thank you.

Second, my commiserations. This truly-does-suck. I still believe that you would have, and you will someday, make an exceptional leader, and Prime-Minister of the Islamic-Republic.

Years ago, a few months before I left the US I was at the international-house pub, standing on the sidelines watching as not-yet-President Obama was waiting for the American vote count. This was, if my memory serves me correctly, a few months into President Zardari's ascent to Presidency in the motherland. A few months after President Musharraf had been rudely ousted out of government by a lawyer's movement and a somewhat-shady Chief Justice. And a few months after Benazir had been killed. Point is, much had been going on in the motherland while I had been sitting in Amreeka fighting my own demons, 'tsk-tsk-ing' at the political landscape in Pakistan and struggling to complete bloody-thesis.

I remember I was dragged out of my room that evening by friends eager to watch the making of American history a'la Obama. The election of the first African-American President, a President, moreover whose entire campaign had been based on only one premise: Hope. I remember getting sucked right into the breathless anticipation, glued to the TV screen in the pub watching as one by one members of the electoral congress were voted in by different states. Watching as miraculously, Obama did win, and then listening intently to his Presidential address. I remember that it made me cry. Then I joined a crowd of boisterous celebrators and walked out of I-House into the biggest party I've ever seen. There were miles of jubilant people, free drinks at every step, and so-many-musicians. Everyone was dancing down the streets, swaying to the beats of many-many drums, laughing, crying, joyful. You see, for them, it was hope that had won. And I jumped right in to the the party, dancing down the streets of Harlem to the beat of optimistic celebration.

And then it happened. A moment of crystal-clear-clarity, almost movie-like in that I felt like I was suddenly standing absolutely still while everyone around me was still dancing away. I realized, in that strange moment that I really had no reason to celebrate. My country was slowly falling apart and the corruptest regime of them all had ascended to power. Here I was, dancing to the beat of hope, while in my world there was none. I was celebrating as if my future was going to change, except it wasn't. Obama may have stood for hope, but it wasn't hope for me. That is the precise moment when happiness was completely overtaken and destroyed by the sharp, green, tendrils of incredible envy, and a deep-rooted wish that someday I would feel this same hopeful frenzy again, except this time it would be for me.

Fast forward five years to May, 2013. I had been on the fence for a long time wondering if your intensity, professed intentions and evident charisma made up for your naivete and political inexperience. Speculating if Nawaz would be able to keep this heavily disturbed country together instead of being a key ingredient in the recipe for the inevitable coup, as he has been in the past. Knowing that no matter what happened Zardari and the People's Party would - and should - not return to power to further fuck up. Eventually, a combination of reasons, some emotional and some practical swung my vote to to you and and to the 'ballah'. A defining moment, for me, was when immediately following the brutal slaughter of the Hazara Shia's in Quetta, YOU was there walking down the streets, condoling the masses. While all the other politicians stood like incompetent idiots watching on the sidelines waiting for 'security clearances' that would allow them to travel across their own goddamn country,  you were rubbing shoulders with the victims, condemning the violence and basically doing what you could. That moment was for me a turning point where I realized that you symbolized something that I had been longing for ever since that historic dance down Harlem in 2008: Hope.

Hope that was miraculously shared by almost every category of person who I met, spoke or listened to at your final rally in Islamabad on May 09th. Possibly the largest ever rally of persons gathered for a political cause who had not been lured there by the promise of free food, or a day's wages. At that moment, standing in the crowd, cheering you on and wishing you well I felt as alive, as involved and as hopeful for a better future as I had all those many years ago. And that is what I want to thank you for: the gift of hope. The opportunity to remove, if only for a little while, the all-too-tight goggles of cynicism that most Pakistanis are wearing, and to really 'see' the vast crowd of people standing with you in this sleepy, apolitical city chanting for a change. It was electric.

As was the atmosphere yesterday at our polling station in Bangalore Town, Karachi (NA-252), where the voter turnout ranged from just-turned-18-year-olds to 80 year-old vote veterans. As an aged man standing next to me confessed, had been voting for 40 years now, and this was the first time he had seen so many people waiting to vote. I stood there in that super-crowded school for nearly 4 hours, where I traveled up and down the line talking to people, some who I knew and some who I didn't. Every one was patient, everyone waited and everyone was talking about you. It seemed almost as if there was no contest, every single person out there on the street who had made a special effort to vote, had done it for you. And no money had exchanged hands, no political pressure or familial obligation had made them do it. Just a strange sort of contagious hope that if they did this, if they stamped on that piece of paper, they might really be able to bring about a 'Naya Pakistan'.

This morning, ofcourse, it seems like 'Naya Pakistan' has to put up with the purana shit for another five years, and I'm sorry about that. As, I'm sure, are you.

That said, there is much to thank you for, and that is really is what this letter is all about:

Thank you for making me remember and rejoice in being Pakistani. Thank you for reminding us in the power of revolution and of belief in change. Thank you for making us a little less afraid to speak up. Thank you for bringing out more people to take part in the democratic process than have ever done so before. Thank you for making us believe that a better future is in our grasp and that we should stop dreaming of leaving this country and instead start dreaming about how to make it the best country in the world to live in. Thank you for pointing out that no matter what happens, our responsibility is to look after our own - and that our own are all those green-passported people who live with us within this border. Thank you for being a patriot through and through and for reminding us of who we are, and where we belong. And most importantly, thank you for being a leader. Now, more than ever, we need one.

While I'm disappointed, I also recognize that this is not the end. This is merely the beginning of the crazy movement that you have initiated. I hope that you look on what has happened as an opportunity to strengthen yourself, your party and your country in whatever capacity that you can. I rejoice that you have an entire province as your playing field, and I look forward to seeing what you can do in order to bring about peace, stability and prosperity in that troubled region. Here's to KPK, and seeing what you can make of it. As for the rest of the country, Pakistan will benefit from a strong and principled opposition, which I hope that you can provide. We, are our future. And we look forward to seeing you as the premier in 2018.

Until then, stay safe, stay strong and stay beautiful.

Thank you once again for what you have already done. For this apathetic, cynical, politically disillusioned country, it really has been nothing short of a miracle.

Much love,

A Reluctant PTI-ist. 

Okay. Conspiracy theory alert, but hear me out here.

According to mango-boy, he has never had a girlfriend (as in a relationship with a girl). Which would be fine, except he is 30-something, studied abroad and has lived in many countries of the world. Which would be fine except his facebook pictures (yes, I stalk - even if he doesn't) do not show him  cuddling up to a single girl (except of one picture with his sister). Which would be fine except there are rather many pictures of (some very cute) boys on his facebook. Which would be fine except many of the boy-pictures feature gentleman in, err, questionably tight clothing and well-made eyebrows in disturbingly close proximity. Which would be fine, except in light of the post below (and other issues) my gay-dar has been slowly and incessantly beeping for a while now. Which would be fine, except I'm not sure I want to spend the rest of my life as some gay-guy's beard.

No matter how appealing the French language might be.

Thoughts, anyone?

So, there is a mango-boy floating around the periphery who I (for better or for worse) am consciously trying to commit myself to. For one, I realize that the (probable) solution to my guilt-induced-psychosis (much) is (from now onwards) sticking to the socially prescribed straight and narrow. This will, I hope, lead to a cessation of the moral drones currently attacking my brain. And what better way to get instant social approval and a-universal-pat-on-the-back (in the Islamic Republic) then to get hitched to a suitable boy? So I cultivate. For the reader's ready reference, current mango-boy is someone I have mentioned in the past, because of his propensity to end each sentence with a 'lol'. I have (rather magnanimously, I believe) decided to look beyond that, because (as I may not have mentioned) he does speak 5 languages and I suppose grammatical nuances tend to escape people more multilingual than me (or is it I?). Also, his voicemail message is in fluent French, and I feel like that tends to cancel out the 'lol'-ing (to some extent).

 That said, there are still issues.

For me one of the biggest one is that Mango-boy is willing to explore this arrangement with me on the basis of a stilted online whatsap conversation (ongoing in bits and peices over the past few months). One skype call (I have no idea why, but I really do hate skype), and a few (and far between) phone conversations. On none of these has he asked me anything remotely personal, or personality-clarifying. Clearly, he's not much of a communicator, which is in itself a little disturbing, but what I'm wondering (and also wondering if I'm making mountains out of molehills here) is that he hasn't done any of the tell-tale things that I'm used to from men who want to get to know me.

To make a list (of what is worrying me):

• He hasn't probed, inquired, speculated or outright asked me anything about  my previous (or current, for that matter) relationship status - does this mean he is one of those rare (like Santa Claus type rare) men who have absolutely no interest in what happened before he happened?
• He has engaged in no stalking whatsoever. Has not checked out a single facebook picture, commented on anything personal or asked me to give him details about my friends that I would have (a little resentfully) provided. All in all, it seems to matter not to him who I have - or do - befriend.
• He asked me how my weekend was, I told him (because I thought, here's an opportunity to get a reaction) that it was filled with crazy parties. Next he asks me what I'm up to tonight. I respond that I'm planning on attending more crazy parties. His response in a nutshell, a rather lukewarm 'that's nice, 'lol' (but-ofcourse) and then a 'be safe' or some such. So, is he one of those super-secure-super-cool characters that trust implicitly and have no fear of anything you are upto when he's not around, or does he think parties in the Islamic Republic are kosher and therefore nothing worrisome is bound to happen (except for the occasional bomb-blast and I must the make sure to avoid the shrapnel?)
• Aside from whatsap, there has been no pressing requests from him for (more) personal interaction. He wanted to talk to me on skype, I said I hate skype. I asked him to call instead, which he did, a couple of times. The conversations lasted a few minutes (of rather perfunctory nonsense). Where are the long soulful phone calls that last all night? Where are the random insightful questions? Or the political debates? Or just the trading of life stories? Or is he just really-really good at reading between the lines?

All-in-all, what I'm wondering with this mango-boy experience is: is this what the whole arranged-marriage-arena is actually like? Am I expecting too much from this 'getting-to-know-each-other-before-letting-the-families-have-a-final-decision? Is this just a distance thing and should I look forward to actually meeting him and hoping we will have more to talk about besides the weather? Or again (because I really wonder) is the weather the most pressing point of conversation in these relationships. Up until the children come along, after which the discussion shifts to them. 

As you can tell, I'm confused. On one hand I steeled my soul and resigned myself to accepting this as my last-chance-at-societal-approval-and-a-happy-(sorta)-ever-after. At the same time, what do other people do in this particular situation? 

Advice, anyone?

"And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions, 

Before the taking of a toast and tea"

- T.S. Elliot

"The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely, or unhappy is to go outside, 
somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature, and God. 
Because only there does one feel that all is as it should be
and that God wishes to see people happy, 
amidst the simple beauty of nature."

- Anne Frank, 1929 - 1945

------

I do suppose, Mr. Iyer, Burning Man it has got to be!

See-ya in August! 

 :P

It's a tough choice you know. If I have the dreaded disease, then, well, I'm diseased. If I am (as all test results indicate) perfectly physically healthy, then the truth is I'm well on my way to going completely bonkers. To put it mildly, neither of the two are welcome twists in my story. 

On the other hand, thankfully the work-life is a big fat A+ right now! :) Scary too-big-to-handle project is coming to a close with only the expected number of issues cropping up. Training all the government officials on election procedure in a country like the Islamic-Republic is an endeavor that is fraught with tension. For me, the project has literally boiled down to crisis management - minute-by-minute. I suppose this is to be expected in projects with an HR of 3000+ people training a target audience of 700,000+ people. What strikes me as pretty high up on the tragi-comedy humor scale, however, is that we have had our share of problems: there have been bomb blasts (oh-so-many-bomb-blasts), pamphlets have been passed around (by our lovely Tehreek-e-Taliban, who else) threatening to dismember (or worse) anybody who participates in the National Election, there have been kidnappings and other security-related incidents galore, there have also been a huge number of HR issues - people have quit, people have been fired, people have law-suited  us for unfair practices, people have lodged harassment complaints against other people. There have, certainly, been the standard plethora of issues that are predictable when one is dealing with the Government of our lovely country. 

The point is, there are a bzillion issues that are cropping up, but the SINGLE, most PRESSING, most BURNING, most DISTURBING issue for the masses, the one we have gotten multiple letters and calls from the Election Commission itself is: The quality and quantity of the LUNCH-BOXES. It's amazing! Deep discussions on the quality of the rice grain, long deliberations about whether to have one chicken piece or two. To have it charbroiled or roasted, less-spicy, medium-spicy or let-em-cry-it-out-super-spicy. There have been philosophical musings on whether to add fruit to the lunch-boxes, and heart-stopping disappointments when the bananas-have-gone-bad. Ultimately, after days of monitoring each-damn-district, I have come to the conclusion that it matters not if a monkey is training the buggers. It matters not if they get not a single iota of knowledge from their days effort (what's-the-point,-they-probably-knew-it-all-anyway) - the FOOD has to satisfy. Bomb blasts, we have discovered, barely faze our target audience. The training continues after a few minutes disturbance (ostensibly after the obligatory phone calls to relevant people asking them if they're still alive) and is rolled-out again the next day. But if the food doesn't measure up to lofty expectations, all-hell-breaks-loose. People riot. People threaten. People literally rip the district coordinator's clothes off. The media is called in to lodge a public protest. It is a VERY-BIG-DEAL. 

Oh well. Tragi-comedy it is. And this is why weekly meetings have now begun to engage in what we call laughter-therapy. Instead of crying, or getting angry at all the many mishaps, we have begun to laugh about them (in a dark and twisty way). Team members are amazed at themselves, and have actually begun to look forward to (instead of dreading) our weekly meet up. Little do they know, for one of their team leads, laughter-therapy has just become a way of  life. 

Laugh-on, my friends. Because what else are you going to do? :P

Life breaks you down.

Bit, by bit, by bit.

I know I've been morbid lately. And an apology to all those who I've worried, and then worried some more by refusing to talk about my blog post. Fact is, all of us  know that we're all going to die. And there will be a cause of some sort. If it isn't the dreaded disease, we'll get run over by a truck. If the truck misses, there's a cliff we could fall off. If we manage to survive it hanging on to the side of a rock by a thread, crawl up the side of the steep, rocky surface, come back to the top victorious saying 'boo-ya' to the grim reaper chances are there will be a friendly drone primed and ready to take you down. Point is, death is never the issue.

Life is the issue.

And expectations, and dreams, and aspirations that are inevitably followed by disappointment, denial and disillusionment.

Truth is, life a few years ago was brighter somehow. More optimistic. Despite all the bad crap that kept happening, it really felt like everything was going to be okay.

It doesn't feel like that anymore. It feels like I'm standing on the precipice of disaster, and every day that I manage to escape unscathed (without something monumentally bad happening to me) is a victory in itself. A victory you cherish by wrapping yourself in a bubble-wrap that prohibits (in the strictest of terms) risk-friendly behavior. Like job applications (where you could get rejected), or PhD applications (what's the point you're not getting in anyway) or new friends (no point, chances are you'll end up going out with them and  few months later they'll abandon you and move on to other [possibly] better pastures leaving you languishing in your misery and falling victim to unprecedented anxiety attacks undoubtedly caused  by mounting insecurity). Best thing to do, somehow, is to sit back and let life slowly creep by. No sudden movements, no sharp turns lest fate wake up and remember you're here and stab you in the back (again).

So that's my secret to as-yet-avoiding the looney-bin: bubble-wrap and baby-steps.

Thank-you-kindly, and goodbye-for-now!

Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night, one night, knowing - with every fibre of your being - that you are going to die?

When the bubble of almost-immortality that you have been carefully nurturing over thirty years of existence bursts (with a bang) leaving you feeling bereft - cheated, almost.

It's the kind of feeling that inspires utter terror. Terror that you live with almost every day for months. Terror that makes you imagine ways (and the more creative your mental faculties, the more bizarre the images conjured) of how you will meet your inevitable fate. Eventually, after running through all the possibilities, you realize that what you fear the most (amongst the many things that are scaring-the-bejeezers-out-of-you) is not dying, but a slow-lingering-death, the kind of death borne of a disease, particularly one of those that may have people avoiding you like the plague (pun intended), leave you alone, and make worthless all your life's achievements up until the point when your identity becomes just the sick-diseased-person that everyone needs to avoid at all costs. And even though you have no idea whether you are - or will be - victim to the dreaded disease, your brain is in overdrive for months while it cooks up every single possible scenario of social isolation, disease-induced-pain-and-misery and eventually a lonely, miserable death.

Soon, you convince yourself that you do indeed have the disease. It's only a matter of time until someone finds out and the somewhat-happy-bubble you currently live in (and are beginning to appreciate more and more) will be destroyed forever. Imagine, waking up every morning with this certainty. And living every single day in the abject fear that your life - as you know it - is effectively over. 

A part of your mind rebels, tries to convince yourself that you need proof before you succumb to hypocondria. You decide to go for tests. Many, many tests. And when you pull through hale and healthy, you feel relieved for a few days, until the strange terrified part of your brain comes back to life and tries to convince you that the tests are wrong. The laboratory made a mistake. The person running the test decided that your disease is so horrible that you should not be told about it. 

And then the terrors are back. 

You try talking about it to those you love. They listen, they counsel, they tell you you're mad (in a kind, joking kind of way). They scold, they get angry, they tell you not to be an idiot. Eventually you realize that you need to stop talking for fear that someone is going to realize that this is not getting any better, and try to throw you into the loony bin (where you will really be alone and isolated and miserable and... you get my point right?) or worse just write you off as a lost cause and stop associating with you. So you shut-up, and just stop talking altogether. What is the point of dragging more people into this madness?

You discover that the only thing that works against the terrors is distraction. Throwing yourself into work till there's no thought for anything but the next task at hand. Partying till your brain is numbed and cannot possibly remind you of all the bad stuff. Tiring yourself out so much so that there is no room for dreams, just the blissful sleep of the dead (more puns, more intended). 

Except at some point - despite all your efforts - your brain sneakily finds the time to think. And it does. And you wake up in the night, steeped in sweat, terrified of all sorts of terrible things that will destroy life as you know it forever and ever. Knowing, with every fibre of your being - that you are going to die.

Has this ever happened to you? 

In the dead of the night 

when the every hum, and murmur 

adds to the soundless-noise around you 

and everyone but you

is sleeping still 

there's a vague sort of restless-peace

born of loneliness 

that keeps you up, thinking 

all sorts of strangely-random thoughts

musing 

sort-of-silly-sort-of-serious

somewhat-curious-wondering 

was this some sort of devious plan?

Is this what you wanted 

all along?