~

2012-01-25T11:51:00.003+05:00

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I present to you an, err, interesting new song - and video - that someone shared with me a little while ago. The song, that is being publicized as the 'Love Anthem For World Peace' rather interestingly twins quotations from Mother Teresa (universally acknowledged as a symbol of human kindness and service to (wo)mankind) and Michael Jackson (universally acknowledged as nothing of the sort). The song has an encouraging beginning, and to give the singer - a glamorous gentleman by the name of Simba (Lion King, anyone?) aka SKR, sorry, STR - credit he does use some rather obscure words for love (Estonian, even) very well to make a melody. What he does not do well (and in the interests of never-again-repeating-this-travesty) is his English lyrics which are as trite and cheesy as his repetitive and extremely unnecessary dance moves. Given that his song talks about world peace and all that jazz, perhaps it would have been wiser to extend his world beyond himself.

Just saying.

But enjoy the video, y'all. Let me know what you think! :)

2012-01-09T21:58:00.001+05:00

When you asked me what I wanted for my birthday.

And I told you I wanted you.

Why did you ask me,

if you had no intention of giving me what I wanted?

2012-01-03T21:07:00.000+05:00

‎"May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself."

- Neil Gaiman

2011-12-18T15:35:00.001+05:00

Blogger's gone wonky all of a sudden. Suddenly, there's no way to format a post. Is anyone else facing the same issue?

2011-12-18T10:40:00.001+05:00

2011-12-14T10:03:00.002+05:00

"Do you think your life has turned out the way you had wanted it to? What/where would you rather be?" Asks Ria.

I don't think so. I think it could have, but I got lost along the way. Sometimes circumstances make you forget how to read the compass, and by the time you realize what has happened you're drifting on gusts of wind - somewhere there, somewhere here. At which point you know that even though drifting is deliciously easy (because who doesn't like floating with the wind?), it's going to take a lot more than the epiphany to take you back to the ground and get you moving in a defined direction. It's going to take courage to take the risks involved in letting go of the comfortable cloud you're sitting on right now. In order to move forward, I'm going to have to let go of what I have right now.

And am I ready to do that, I wonder?

2011-12-14T08:35:00.000+05:00

"Baat Nikalegee To Phir Duur Talak Jaayegee

Log Bewajah Udaasee Kaa Sabab Poochhenge"

True-Story.

2011-12-08T08:15:00.005+05:00

For months my grandmother fought the blackness. Until one day she gave in, and let it claw its way into her mind, her body and her soul. Family legend has it that my birth finally propelled her to give the darkness a final shove and emerge out of the depression she had fallen into when things did not go the way she planned. For my grandmother, a quintessential controlling personality - the trigger lay in life plans going awry, daughters not-marrying the men-she-wanted-them-to-marry and relatives blaming her upbringing for independent decisions from her female offspring. All in all, it was a dismal time in her life, and combined with post-menopausal what-have-you she decided it was simpler to sit in the corner of her bedroom and sulk. For almost two years. And let her mind play with the blackness rather than face what was outside.

Suffice it to say, in my family stories of the 'great-depression' mean something completely different.

I've never really given much credence to the family legend. Perhaps because my memories of my grandmother are always of strength. Sometimes overbearing strength, but strength nevertheless. And I have always wondered how someone who made a career out of establishing her will over others did not use her considerable will-power to turn the blackness away from her doors in disgrace.

Except recently, when I least expect it memories of the day my father was killed hover at the edge of my mind. A different detail every day. On some days its the sounds I hear, on others I see the doctors sitting on his chest as they pull him from the emergency-room into surgery. Other days I see in acute detail the rickshaw Dani and I were going to the hospital in even as I knew in my heart that my life was going to shatter. I remember the phone call I got at home, from my aunt, trying to stay calm but telling me I need to get over there because something very bad had happened. And with each of these - and a hundred more memories - comes a tantalizing, tempting, seducing darkness.

It's different to explain why this darkness is not hostile, or scary but instead brings with it a delicious, safe warmth that promises to cocoon me from the cold-cold memories. It brings with it infinite promise of finally finding peace. And a strange sort of freedom. As I resist the temptation to give in, it makes me wonder what is so bad in just giving in, and letting go?

Letting the darkness come in, and take over.

Just like she did.

2011-12-07T23:53:00.002+05:00

For me two and two
does not equal a simple four
instead it becomes a strange computation
of fractions-and-decibels-put-together
That only ever makes sense to me.

And sometimes, not even that.

2011-11-10T10:53:00.011+05:00

A randomly generated list of things that make-Xeb-happy :)

A cup of steaming chai/coffee/chocolate in bed on a cold morning
Completing a project, and finishing it well :)
Good feedback or a pat on the back from someone who matters (once a nerd, always a nerd getting the 'A' grade makes me happy! :P)
Roses. Single, long-stemmed and presented with love.
Presents. The sillier, the better. And if it glitters, even better ;)
Traditions. Like bangles on Eid or hearts on valentines day or cake on my birthday or a present at Christmas (hey, we a-religious people like to reap the benefits of our life choices! :P)
Friends. Who make me laugh. And let me dance despite the chaos.
JZ-made pancakes, with store-bought Nutella. And the fruit-of-the-season. *yum-yum-sigh*
Silly conversation. About nothing, and everything. The kind that I can only have with the people I love.
Gossip. There, I said it. And even though I can't ever accurately remember the vivid details of who-did-what-to-whom-under-what-strange-circumstances, hearing about it a lot of fun! :P
Simple moments when you know without a shadow of doubt that despite everything that you've done, and all that you are, you ARE very-very loved.
Carbs! On a Sunday-cheat-day-extravanganza! :)
Infrequent, but intense bonding sessions with people-who-matter.
Shopping. *big-big-smile*
Winter-mornings. My blanket. And Satan to snuggle with.
A bubble-bath and a good book.
Traveling. To strange and exotic locations (sometimes more strange than exotic). And buying silly souvenirs.
(re)decorating my house :)
New clothes! :)
A massage.
Spontaneity. Flash, fun plans without the arduous planning of who-to-call, what-to-do, when-to-meet etc. etc.
A bargain. There is nothing that ups-the-happy-cup more than a discount on something completely unnecessary but oh-so-fun-to-own~ :)
Getting wet in the rain!
Thunder-n-Lightning. The rougher the weather, the calmer I am.
The sea, and all that goes with it.

2011-11-08T08:56:00.001+05:00

*chuckle*

2011-11-06T11:57:00.004+05:00

You know that a relationship is unequal when the loss of you will leave a giant, gaping, unfillable hole in my life. And the loss of me won't change your world at all.

How much sense does it make to open your arms, let someone in and takeover your life-as-you-know-it? My-Boid would be the first one to jump into this conversation and say - but-this-is-what-you-always-do. And this-is-why-people-like-you-can't-handle-relationships. You give too much, and along with that gift comes a set of often-unreasonable expectations. Which perhaps nobody can be realistically expected to meet. And that's when it-all-comes-crashing-down.

Oh-well. I asked for it.

Did-I-not?

2011-11-06T11:11:00.002+05:00

I think too much.

Say's everybody.

and I make simple things complicated

but the truth is

i'm attracted to patterns

and designs

and shapes within shapes

which in human relationships

leads to intrigue

and disappointments

all-around.

Sometimes I wish I had learned

that deconstruction only ought to be

an academic exercise.

2011-10-30T12:49:00.005+05:00

Once upon a time there was a fairy who met - and fell in love with - a man (as fairies sometimes do). To be with the man-she-loved, our fairy gave up (and happily) all that made her magical and embraced the life of an ordinary-woman. No longer did she shimmer and shine with fairy-dust, or fly high across the skies, or embrace any of the delights of the world she had left behind.

The new world she had chosen had its share of wonders too. It had love, and laughter, and the warmth of his embrace. And every morning for a thousand mornings she woke up next to the man she loved and asked him a simple question.

"Do you love me?"

He smiled, and said "I d0"

But then he - as men do - got a tired of the incessant ritual. Not understanding the importance of this little affirmation, on the 1001st morning when she asked the question, and looked to him for confirmation, he turned to her and playfully said: 'no'

And then watched in appalled disbelief as she receded slowly from his arms, and collapsed in a pile of glittering fairy dust and baa-sheep pyjamas.

For the magic she had woven depended on but one thing. A simple yes, to a simple question, every morning. As she left him forever the fairy couldn't help but wonder: Why-are-men-so-bloody-difficult? Was this too much to ask for?

And she solemnly resolved never to love another idiot-man again.

*kahani-khatam*

2011-10-24T11:45:00.000+05:00

Welcome to the Islamic Republic of Pakistan!

*sigh*

2011-10-23T10:27:00.002+05:00

Question-for-the-day:

Are relationships that make you feel insecure really worth keeping?

2011-10-21T08:15:00.000+05:00

Dear Ms. Clinton, and my American friends.

With reference to this-recent-article, please note that although we sympathize and respect your desire to prevent the killing of Americans, we have to admit (even though we feel like we're stating the obvious many times) that the people who are being killed left-right-and-center by the 'extremists' are Pakistanis. And while we remember 9-11, we would like to bring attention to a multiplicity of unmentioned dates when Pakistanis have been killed. In markets, in mosques, walking down the streets singing-doo-a-diddy- dum-diddy-oh.

Point is, fight them if you must. Get rid of them if you can (with our blessings) but please don't throw in our face that they've been running around killing Americans. Truth is, they've been running around killing a whole lot more.

Much love,

Me.

2011-10-18T04:11:00.003+05:00

Some people

are destined to spend their entire life

in anticipation of good things

that never come.

*sigh*

2011-10-12T13:23:00.002+05:00

if only it was as simple

as a

you-love-i

and a

you-need-i

to restore a semblance

of former

invulnerability

feelings-suck.

*bus*

2011-10-12T08:09:00.004+05:00

Work-load has gone from bad to incredibly bad. I had a work-related nightmare last night. In my dream my cartoonist refused to work with me and wanted me to work with his younger brother instead - which was (for some reason) a very-very bad thing.

Some of the tension could very well be a result of a nasty email I got last night from a client who was commenting on questionnaires I had slaved over. The email essentially report that the questionnaires were 'not-appropriate', 'too-long' and generally sucky-as-hell. Now whereas I have been known (upon occasion) to appreciate constructive criticism I do NOT appreciate the wham-bam-thank-you-mam (just ask the question and walk out) research methodology she seems to want out of this exercise. Not only are contextual questions (and answers) interesting, they eventually give more depth to the analysis and report. Which is ofcourse something she will demand as soon as she's done critiquing the questionnaire.

Add to that another couple of dozen deadlines, a presentation in Lahore tomorrow (hello, dengue) and much-talk of the next impending trip to Afghanistan. And let me tell you, after experiencing the joys of Kabul International Airport (that makes Islamabad International Airport seem like paradise) I'm not too inclined to head that-a-way again anytime this month. But who-the-hell listens to my inclinations?

Nobody. That's who.

*walks-off-muttering-about-idiot-clients-and-stupid-assignments*

2011-10-11T13:15:00.001+05:00

Dari is a really soft musical language. I have resolved to learn it. It helps that I can read it, and since Urdu and Dari share Persian roots, some of it is not very difficult to understand. I bought a Dari-to-English translation guide from a little kid in the market, and have resolved to spend some time deciphering some common words so that navigating my way around future trips can become a little easier

Just for kicks, I also bought a blue shuttlecock burkha. Would you believe it’s surprisingly easy to wear? And it’s lighter than it looks. Which is good because a few hours after I bought the garment I got news (via facebook and the Express Tribune) that on Friday a group of 60 armed men barged into a girls school in Rawalpindi and beat people up in the attempt to pass on their message, which was essentially an order for girls to dress more modestly. Needless to say this leaves me both alarmed and indignant, and wondering whether I made a rather judicious purchase after all.

*sigh*

2011-10-09T09:16:00.000+05:00

Shopping in Afghanistan is largely disappointing. I overdosed with the nuts and dry-fruit buying yesterday, because there was not much else to purchase for them-who-expect-presents-back-home. One of the problems of Islamabad being flooded with Afghan bits-and-bobs is that nothing you see here is very new. With the exception of a tag in large-print that says hand-embroidered by Afghan women there’s not much to distinguish the keychains, bookmarks little-useless bags and other products from those sold in Supermarket. Add to that the dismay one feels when entering attractive bling-y jewelry shops to find that the most things are run of the mill Thai designs with Chinese crystals attached on top. Pretty to look at - but available almost everywhere. I have come to the conclusion that globalization has taken a lot of the pleasure out of shopping. Next trip (if and when it happens) I intend to see a little more of Afghanistan proper – which basically means venture out of Kabul. Perhaps the shopping will be more interesting then?

2011-10-08T19:42:00.001+05:00

The internet in my hotel room is crawling. Snails would have a gala time racing with it because its not often they have a chance at winning. The room itself is like something out of a Pakistani movie from the 60s. Hell, most of Kabul looks like someone breathed life into some of the old black-and-white pictures of Pakistan they show us in the history books. Come imagine Kabul with me, think of Quetta (if you’ve been there) – or any dry, dusty but oddly majestic place with bare brown mountains. Make the mountains a little smaller and make them into hills. Add about ten times as many people and pile them up in little houses that snake up the hillside surrounding the city center. Add miles of barbed wire, concrete walls two-stories high and battalions of men-in-uniform drenched in heavy artillery. Minus a lot of women (you do see the occasional, fully covered specimen running around – but they’re generally few and far between) and add a LOT of male-Afghans-in-turbans – and I think you come somewhat close to what I see when I leave my guest house and drive through the city.

I should mention, that my guest house has a wide open garden space with cheap gray plastic chairs interspersed here and there. The garden is framed by gorgeous pink roses – big and beautiful beyond which are walls roughly 40 feet high – all concrete and bomb proof. In order to enter the guest house one has to pass through a security checkpost with heavy iron doors on each side, and then another tightly closed door on the inside. On the outside, the guest house looks like a crudely constructed prison. On the inside it looks like the interior designer was incredibly color-blind. The dining hall is an eyesore with bright blue walls and sharp pink curtains. Those are offset by corridor walls of a bright, pukeish green. Each door is a different shade of cream, and the rooms inside have no color combinations to speak off – just a motley collection of furniture arranged in no particular order.

I’ve been told that this place – Aasa 3 – Is one of the better places to stay in Kabul. I truly wonder, but I suppose since this is my first experience of its kind I have no choice but to take my hosts at their word. Plus after a sleepless night and a horrendously busy day spent in meetings after meetings I feel like I could lie down to sleep on a sharp-nailed-plank if I had to. And I might just have to – sleep on a plank that is. Sans nails. Thank God.

2011-10-08T19:10:00.001+05:00

Shocker-of-the-day:

2 Pakistani Rupees = 1 Afghani

*buries-head-in-sand-and-pretends-this-is-not-happening*

2011-10-08T13:40:00.001+05:00

As I sit here in the Ministry of Rural Reconstruction and Development, Afghanistan I must confess that so far this has been my least glamorous international travel experience. For one, we had to exit the country through the Islamabad International Airport. Those of you who don’t have the privilege, walking into the capital’s international terminal may not have had the opportunity of discovering just how depressingly dingy and disorganized it is. You may also never have almost-tripped over the mangy drug-sniffing Labrador sprawled across the customs aisle fast asleep and dreaming of a job-with-better-perks.

Speaking of customs, we sailed through the process this morning – the boss and I. Not, unfortunately, because we received VIP treatment but because when we told the half-asleep gentleman in police uniform where we were headed he smiled and waved us off. When questioned by a colleague he turned and laughingly said ‘they’re heading to Kabul’. I’m not sure whether to be offended or to just understand that he probably feels there’s no sense in checking for exported drugs when the likelihood of imports is infinitely higher. That said, I noticed that Civil Aviation was most unconcerned about security concerns once they found discovered destination: Afghanistan. Perhaps they thought we would make good use of the heavy artillery in our handbags once we reached Kabul.

Anyhow, we proceeded to the international waiting lounge to be bombarded by oodles of men in various stages of undress as each of them shucking their day-clothes for the stellar white garb of pilgrimage. As it turns out, a number of Haj flights are scheduled for this day and the entire airport is resounding with sounds of prayers and precursory ‘labbaiks’. Except for the gentlemen right behind me who couldn’t resist talking to his brothers about various people who he kept referring to as ‘haramis’ – but I’m sure he’ll be done gossiping by the time he hits Mecca.

A lady next to me (a bit of a stiff-upper-dame to tell you the truth) went on and on about how her flight the previous day had been cancelled due to bad weather in Kabul. Apparently the PIA-flight-mess up was seriously affecting a belated (re)honeymoon plan her husband and she had for Italy. Given that I have recently browsed through a colorful – and very beautiful – picture album of V & E’s Italian escapade I’m both envious and extremely sympathetic. That said, after a sleepless night and a threat of a full weekend’s work ahead of me I think it may not be an altogether horrible thing for the flight to be cancelled and for me to go home and snuggle into bed.

My nice, warm, bed with a soft heap of pillows, heavy-yummy comfortable and – ofcourse – Satan (In case you missed the point – I just really, really miss my bed right now *sigh*)

Anyhow, bed-talk aside, leaving the waiting lounge for the plane is equally painful at Islamabad international. There is a steep, uncomfortable ramp followed by an abbreviated, bumpy bus-ride all the way to the grand aircraft which was *drum-roll* a tiny little ATR.

An ATR? For international travel? How utterly sad is that?

Welcome, my loves, to the Af-Pak Saga in Xeb K’s life!

*sigh*

2011-10-07T15:33:00.005+05:00

So, right now the roads leading in and out of Rawalpindi are blocked thanks to an ongoing protest against the death-sentence for Mumtaz Qadri. Mr. Qadri, in-case-you-wonder, is the gentleman who shot the then Governor Punjab, Mr. Salman Taseer in the stomach 26 times with a machine gun. The attack took place just outside Mocha Coffee in Kohsar market, an extremely elite little market-place in sleepy-Islamabad. It would be worthwhile to mention that Mr. Qadri happened to be a member of an elite security force, and Mr. Taseer's bodyguard.

Subsequent to his little murder stint, Mr. Qadri was dragged to prison, on the way to which we are told that he was pelted with rose petals and other good stuff. In addition to several congratulatory facebook status', local media wrote eulogies in praise of the gentleman. We would also mention that on Valentines day (0h-the-irony), Mr. Taseer was sent many-a-gift from languishing admirers.

And now these same admirers are burning tyres, and blocking roads and generally threatening the country with oodles of havoc if the man is - indeed - sentenced to death.

Why are they so devoted, you ask?

Why because Mr. Qadri is a hero. Ofcourse.

What else would you call a man who shot down - in cold blood - a person he was duty-bound to protect? What else would you call a person who took a stand against someone who had the audacity to bluntly assume the innocence of a Christian woman subject to death for blasphemy. What else would you call a man who decided to take the law into his own hands in in own fell stroke end any debate against the implementation of Pakistan's blasphemy law? What else would you call a man that in 26 bullets sparked off a fanatic revolution in a country already beset with problems. What else would you call a man who not only killed Aasia Bibi's only hope for survival, but also killed any hope we had for religious tolerance or an end to victimization of minorities.

What else can you call Mr. Qadri?

I call him a symbol of how myopic, intolerant and bigoted Pakistanis have become. I call him a harbinger of what is to come. I call him an icon for those who seek to destroy every ounce of humanity and tolerance from this country. I call him a reason for us to despair and to lose a little more hope in the future of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan.

2011-10-04T15:59:00.003+05:00

This, makes me wish I was Japanese! :)

(Despite the threat of impending earthquakes and tsunamis)

2011-10-04T15:20:00.002+05:00

Is it just me or is it distinctly chuckle-worthy to come across a friend of a friend on facebook with only two (defined) interests: "rave party" and "praying"

*heh*

2011-10-03T23:25:00.007+05:00

one of the most fascinating thing about people - any people - is their ability to deal with whatever comes their way. to adapt, change, metamophasize.

not everyone becomes a butterfly.

some become even uglier than before.

but even that is a survival strategy.

we are who we are because this is how we think we will adapt best. we take on the roles that suit us whether it be abuser or abused, and we find the yin to our yang - somehow.

most times we don't even know that is what we're doing. perhaps because a lot of what we become is not a careful construction of our imagination but rather an animalistic instinct. the instinct to be brave one moment, and to cover behind the rocks scared of little more than our shadow the next. the instinct driven by a singe, primal, eternal need: to survive.

and survive we will. in some shape, in some form.

uglier than before, perhaps.

but alive.

which perhaps is all that ultimately matters.

don't you think?

2011-09-22T09:50:00.003+05:00

As it turns out facebook - my primary means of communication with the larger world - is going too be banned again. Since it only happened this morning (based upon some mysterious altercation in the Lahore High Court) we have no idea why, but I suspect it's going to be a stupid reason anyway. And as a software designed to bypass the ban is on its way to me, I wonder what the hell the lunatics in charge are up to now. They've tried this little experiment in Pakistan before, and (surprise-surprise) they've failed royally. It occurs to me (often) that cyberspace is the ultimate revolution. And this revolution will not be controlled.

But good luck to them anyway, say I.

And aside from minor irritation I continue exactly as before armed with my fake-ip-generating, proxy-bypassing software taking quick breaks to launch a scathing diatribe (or two) against the idiots in government.

2011-09-13T14:12:00.006+05:00

Once upon a time Karachi used to be a city filled with entrepreneurs. With people who had migrated from different parts of the country to make their living in this burgeoning urban metropolis. The city was difficult to maneuver, often dangerous but it offered the promise of opportunity-enough for anyone to be attracted to the city of lights. I have heard stories from my father's generation of people who used to walk to work from Nazimabad to Saddar (for those of you not acquainted with the terrain, it's a hell of a long walk) to make it to work on time. For there was a time when Karachi was home to a thriving middle-class with dreams of self-improvement and a rigorous work ethic.

I landed in the city last night amidst pouring rain and made my way home to work on a presentation that I had to deliver today to a client's team. I got a call this morning saying that they've decided to shut their offices (they're a consulting company) and their staff can't meet in another location because the roads are flooded. So meanwhile I - and my colleague from Islamabad - are cocking up our toes at home it's business as usual for my mother and my brother. They're off with a client to a model building, and then onwards to have a meeting with another colleague without much thought of how wet they get in the rain.

It strikes me, over and over again, how the general ambiance of this city has changed. Karachi has always been difficult to live in, but somehow people tend to complain a lot more now. I've been traipsing in and out of the house since morning and there's water, sure, but nothing our cars can't handle. While the daily-wagers and entrepreneurs make their way to do what they need to do employed people think of this as yet another day Karachi gifts them with paid vacation. When it's not bad weather, it's an impending strike - either way this city gives people a lot of opportunity to be scared and sit at home. And sit at home and be scared.

What happened to the city filled with people who had a dream? What happened to the lights, the energy, the bustle, the sound?

More than just a day's worth of rain has washed out Karachi.

Think-I.

2011-09-12T10:11:00.002+05:00

My horoscope promises to bring me inspiration for 'artistic endeavors' today. *bah-humbug* say I.

This far today has gifted me with the mother-of-all-headaches, an impending flight to Karachi (sigh) and too much work. I hate seasonal bugs mostly because they make you just-sick-enough to feel whiny, achy and miserable but not sick enough to dramatically end up in hospital or some other convenient place from which coming to work is not an option. I'm sick enough to want to curl up under my desk and sleep, but not sick enough to avoid the wrath-of-the-evil-boss if I attempt to do so. Oh, and make-up isn't helping the cause at all. It seems that if I don't look like something the cat dragged in today, my co-workers refuse to believe me when I tell them I'm ill. They look at me with a polite, but uninterested smile, and ask me what time my bloody deliverable will be in.

I hate work.

*mutter-grumble-moan*

2011-09-09T09:46:00.004+05:00

My horoscope for today says:

"You may do something today that you have been waiting to do for a very long time. It is a day of revolution, and you intend your love life to be revolutionized in a big way. No half measures; no unfulfilled intentions. The time you have been waiting for is beckoning - put on your glad rags and be the best you've ever been."

I say, "yeh-cheez! It's about effing time I was the best I've ever been"

*run-around-feeling-good-about-myself-for-a-bit*

then I begin to wonder, err, what exactly am I supposed to be doing today to revolutionize my life?

realize-it's-all-just-bullshit-and-my-life-is-going-to-stay-exactly-this-way-forever-and-ever

*walk-off-muttering*

super-sigh and good-morning all.

2011-09-07T17:22:00.002+05:00

lost.

and then

found.

*bus*

2011-08-30T12:46:00.005+05:00

Dear Religious-Person,

Why is it so difficult for you to accept that other opinions, other truths, other beliefs are worthy of respect? In your goodness, and your piety, why can you not make room for human diversity? When no one seeks to make you change what you believe in, why must you seek to play eternal-evangelist? If you honestly believe that life is a contest and the fruits of victory lie in the hereafter, why can't you let people play as they will while they're here?

Why can't you just live and let live, in mutual harmony?

Just wondering,

Annoyed-Anthropologist.

2011-08-27T13:29:00.004+05:00

After I heard the news of Shahbaz Taseer's kidnapping, I put shared a condolence message on facebook along with a statement to the affect of 'what a manhoos mulk this is'. Imagine my surprise when I was suddenly flooded (online and offline) with comments that kept trying to tell me that it's NOT the country, it's the people who are manhoos. Not that I necessarily disagree with the would-be patriots out there, but what, I ask you is a country except a conglomeration of people within national borders? What are we referring to when we say that the it is not the 'country's' fault that it's citizens are victim to senseless violence? If you refer to the earth we stand on, perhaps your point can be taken - but everything else that defines a country from its system of governance down to the color of its national flag can be ascribed to the will of its people. Whether its the will of the many, the few or just one, it is people who define the country and people who are ultimately responsible for its fate.

How long will we keep making excuses for a (quote-unquote) failed nation state? How long will we keep pretending that the next idiot who assumes control of this corrupt system is going to take out a magic-wand abra-cadabra away our problems? How long will we hear daily news of death, violence, abduction, torture, rape - close our eyes for two seconds - and then stop feeling entirely as we go on with the mundanity of our daily existence? How long will we stare myopically at the newspaper convincing ourselves that the extremist is just one small, dangerous element of Pakistani society that will soon be exterminated? How long before we finally reach the inevitable conclusion that they're stronger than we want to believe, more pervasive than we want to acknowledge and potentially going to win this war?

How long before we finally give up?

2011-08-26T11:05:00.001+05:00

For a diagnosed shopaholic, writing a blog post on the subject is fairly easy. I thoroughly enjoy shopping, particularly when I'm traveling. Friends have compared me to a magpie, and if I were to be truthful I must confess I do have a penchant for shiny things, often useless, but oh-so-pretty-to-look-at. Shopping in Pakistan is a source of many joys, one of which is undoubtedly the fine art of bargaining. After a lifetime traipsing across the markets here, it is actually a little difficult to walk into a fixed-price shop and walk out without feeling a little cheated because you've been denied the pleasure of negotiating a better deal. Even if - as my mother often points out - would-be bargainers walk away paying more rather than less for a product, it's the thrill of the dialogue that intrigues me.

As you walk into a crowded market-place filled with things to buy in the hearts of the city - maybe Saddar town in Karachi - you will find vendors galore each of whom has something interesting that you want to stop and look at. As you do, it is very important not to look 'too' interested in a particular item, or to gush about it as some people are wont to do. If you betray your enthusiasm you can be guaranteed that you will be ripped off. A neat trick someone once taught me is to begin the exercise by asking the shopkeeper to show you something you're not really interested in, and ask him the price. Then ask him to show you something else. The product you really want should ideally be third or fourth in the list. As he tells you its price, it is very important for you to make an exaggeratedly pained expression - as if you are genuinely hurt and shocked that he would charge so much for this very average thing. He'll look back at you with a 'but-times-are-tough-and-what-can-we-do' expression and tell you all about how the price of every single raw material has gone up exponentially. You will refuse to believe him and tell him that you bought the very-same-thing last week for half the price. He will deny that the price of the item was EVER that low, but for your happiness he'll take 20rs of the price but only for you. You will ask him to lower the price a little more. He will cavil, you will persist, and he'll take another 20rs off. You will tell him it's not enough, and - if you really want to play dirty - you'll threaten to walk off and purchase the goods from another shopkeeper. He'll promise that if anyone gives you the product for even a rupee less than what he's asking for you can take it from him absolutely free. You will look skeptical and walk away very, very slowly - and before you know it he will call out from behind you and offer you another discount. You give in, and graciously make the purchase delighted both in your new toys as well as the sweet joy of victory!

2011-07-28T11:23:00.002+05:00

As always, Vimrod says it all.

*good-morning, world*

2011-07-21T08:20:00.003+05:00

----

If you are at first lonely, be patient.

If you’ve not been alone much, or if when you were, you weren’t okay with it, then just wait. You’ll find it’s fine to be alone once you’re embracing it.

We can start with the acceptable places, the bathroom, the coffee shop, the library, where you can stall and read the paper, where you can get your caffeine fix and sit and stay there. Where you can browse the stacks and smell the books; you’re not supposed to talk much anyway so it’s safe there.

There is also the gym, if you’re shy, you can hang out with yourself and mirrors, you can put headphones in.

Then there’s public transportation, because we all gotta go places.

And there’s prayer and mediation, no one will think less if your hanging with your breath seeking peace and salvation.

Start simple. Things you may have previously avoided based on your avoid being alone principles.

The lunch counter, where you will be surrounded by “chow downers”, employees who only have an hour and their spouses work across town, and they, like you, will be alone.

Resist the urge to hang out with your cell phone.

When you are comfortable with “eat lunch and run”, take yourself out for dinner; a restaurant with linen and Silverware. You’re no less an intriguing a person when you are eating solo desert and cleaning the whip cream from the dish with your finger. In fact, some people at full tables will wish they were where you were.

Go to the movies. Where it’s dark and soothing, alone in your seat amidst a fleeting community.

And then take yourself out dancing, to a club where no one knows you, stand on the outside of the floor until the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no one’s watching because they’re probably not. And if they are, assume it is with best human intentions. The way bodies move genuinely to beats, is after-all, gorgeous and affecting. Dance until you’re sweating. And beads of perspiration remind you of life’s best things. Down your back, like a book of blessings.

Go to the woods alone, and the trees and squirrels will watch for you. Go to an unfamiliar city, roam the streets, they are always statues to talk to, and benches made for sitting gives strangers a shared existence if only for a minute, and these moments can be so uplifting and the conversation you get in by sitting alone on benches, might of never happened had you not been there by yourself.

Society is afraid of alone though. Like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements. Like people must have problems if after awhile nobody is dating them.

But lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless, and lonely is healing if you make it.

You can stand swathed by groups and mobs or hands with your partner, look both further and farther in the endless quest for company.

But no one is in your head. And by the time you translate your thoughts an essence of them maybe lost or perhaps it is just kept. Perhaps in the interest of loving oneself, perhaps all those “sappy slogans” from pre-school over to high school groaning, we’re tokens for holding the lonely at bay.

Cause if you’re happy in your head, then solitude is blessed, and alone is okay.

It’s okay if no one believes like you, all experiences unique, no one has the same synapses, can’t think like you, for this be relived, keeps things interesting, life’s magic things in reach, and it doesn’t mean you aren’t connected, and the community is not present, just take the perspective you get from being one person in one head and feel the effects of it.

Take silence and respect it.

If you have an art that needs a practice, stop neglecting it, if your family doesn’t get you or a religious sect is not meant for you, don’t obsess about it.

You could be in an instant surrounded if you need it.

If your heart is bleeding, make the best of it.

There is heat in freezing, be a testament.

- Tanya Davis

2011-07-11T11:33:00.004+05:00

I could live like this forever

I think.

Enjoying a series of

perfectly crafted tiny moments

of sudden-slow waltzes

to music playing in a busy kitchen

surrounded by Sunday morning smells

of chocolate-y pancakes and

yellow-dripping mangoes

slow, delicious, delectable sins

that will sustain the soul

once the sweetness of youth

finally ages into bitter-sweet wisdom

2011-07-07T09:23:00.001+05:00

Because I don't.
And if an Ant has a better schedule than I do I'm really going to get annoyed now!
:(

2011-07-06T08:10:00.000+05:00

2011-07-01T10:31:00.005+05:00

To sink or to swim, is the question.

Although just consider,

how non-glamorous it would be

to drown at the bottom of a goldfish bowl.

instead of dying fighting

to stay afloat

in high-stormy seas.

Perhaps that is why

I make all the bad decisions

I routinely do.

Because fighting for a lost cause

creating waves, challenging the norm

are all those things

that make life exciting

It's either that,

or floating around in an

unruffled goldfish bowl

of absolute appropriateness.

a calm, ordered existence

where staying afloat takes no effort whatsoever

but then nor does sinking really.

2011-07-01T00:37:00.003+05:00

This - shared with me by S - is one of the most vitriolic political commentaries I've ever read. I mean like hey, we're bad but we're not THAT bad. Also, granted that we screwed you over some of the time (okay, a lot of the time) but the Amreeki regime has given as good as it gets. I dislike how the article keeps going back to the communist-era creation of the Taliban and blaming it on a grand plan we devised and duped the US into supporting. I resent (on many levels) how one-dimensional the author's reading of the political situation (where young innocent Americans are being killed in the evil Islamic Republic) and misguided representation of history designed to have the American populace embark immediately on a hate campaign. And most of all I dislike the many assumptions put into text as fact. For example, Pakistan is NOT an acronym for Punjab, Afghanistan, Kashmir (etc). It's not an acronym at all. Nor it is a stereotype, or a so-easily-categorized rogue country where everything is falling to pieces. We're not in a good place right now - admitted. But Abbottabad is NOT next door to Islamabad. And truly the average person on the street is too busy wondering how to combat sky high inflation to really give a shit about Mr. Bin Laden's tragic demise. Promise.

2011-06-29T13:23:00.002+05:00

Why don't men understand that sometimes all a girl needs is to have the licence to vent and whine at will.

*sigh*

2011-06-27T15:43:00.001+05:00

That sounds like most of us.

Unfortunately.

2011-06-25T08:22:00.004+05:00

It's an unhappy season all-around. Maybe its the insufferable heat and humidity that makes breathing difficult. Maybe its that we're all just-returned from non-relaxing vacations and have been thrown into the grueling rhythm of work-that-never-stops. Or maybe the country as a whole is just PMS-ing. Whatever it is, facebook status's (always a good judge of mass mood) are whiny and sad.

And so am I.

Oh-well. Must join the crowd. Besides, pointless jubilance is senseless anyway!

Haina?

2011-06-23T11:52:00.001+05:00

2011-06-21T13:54:00.002+05:00

Feelings and me are uncomfortable companions. What happened, I wonder, to the starry-eyed optimist that believed that diving in headfirst was better than wading in one scared step at a time? For months now, I've been inching into this pool, painfully feeling miserably cold, somewhat afraid the whole time. What if I fall, what if I get hurt, what if I'm left alone at the end of this journey? What happened to the person who made decisions first and thought about them later? There are times, now, when I think my life has been reduced to an ever-vacillating thought process compelling one-step-forward but two-steps-back until I'm stranded in this perpetual state of non-moving indecision.

The more I feel, the less I want to. As I find myself caring more than I feel I should be, I struggle to find reasons to slow down - or maybe stop altogether. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't, but I do it all the same. Maybe its self-defense - this desire to move away, to retreat, or failing that to drive you away. Perhaps it's safer also to bring an end to something-that-must-end sooner, rather than later. So I push, and I pull, and I tug and I challenge you to let me go - all the while hoping that you never do.

2011-06-21T11:15:00.000+05:00

I love Vimrod! :)

2011-06-19T21:34:00.002+05:00

I do - I do!

2011-06-16T08:51:00.003+05:00

Thailand is utterly lovely, and I've been too busy playing goggle-eyed tourist and exploring the city (and assorted tourist attractions) to bother with the PC too much. For those of you who want them, here's an assorted collection of my two-cents (which, when you add it all up, comes to many cents - and who said wisdom didn't come with price tag? :P)

The Thai are annoyingly xenophobic, the only difference between them and the rest of the world is they're xenophobic with a smile. Sometimes I think the average Thai person looks and immediately stereotypes tourists into cadres depending on how much money they can spend. The big-spender is the Arab after which comes your average white-skinned Australian-European-American types. Indians (and by extension Pakistanis also) are notoriously cheap and therefore not much liked-at-all.
Bangkok is so-deliciously-skanky. And there are no double meanings. If you're roaming around the city at night you will be approached about 20 times (on average) by people inviting you to see sex-shows galore. I haven't had a chance to actually see any of them - despite a genuine curiosity to see what all goes on there - because my (Pakistani-male) travel companions turn many shades of pink at the thought of it. Also, they contend that I'm going to run out screaming within the first 5 minutes of the show. They may be right, I suppose, but as I keep telling them every time a sleazy Thai sex-show-vendor appears out of the shadows, how will I know, until I try?
Speaking of trying, something absolutely awesome happened to me yesterday. I must mention here that me is a person who is very skittish around animals. Cats skulking around me will bother me unless I can see where they are. Dogs genuinely scare me. The bigger they are, the scarier they will be. But yesterday we made our way to the tiger temple (outside of Bangkok) and I fell in love. My companion (who is not in the least bit afraid of anything animalistic) was more wary of the big cats than I was. I played with them, I stroked their fur (incidentally, I discover that baby cheetahs - who I also played with) have much softer fur than baby tigers or full grown tigers - tiger fur is sleeker and not very hairy) and held their tails. I stood completely unafraid behind a wire mesh as tigers jumped around and climbed trees on top of my head. And at the end of it, I'm convinced that I should not try to get over my fear of dogs in order to get a scary pet (to ward of sleazy landlords). I should just invest in a tiger! *bus*
Bangkok is the city of bazaars. And I'm not talking about the giant sized malls (which I've been staying clear off because they seem so sterile and comparatively unexciting) but the tiny little street bazaars comprising of many many vendors. This country is filled with entrepreneurs. Some sell cheap souvenirs (I've bought a lot of cheap souvenirs), some clothes, jewelry, household items, what-have-you's and all of them beautifully arranged, colorful and quite irresistible for a magpie like me.
What I don't quite like is the incessant bargaining. When the Thai's see a tourist, they think in their head *sucker* and promptly charge you 4 times what the product is worth. You see through their evil schemes (its a little difficult not to when they say 1500 baht - you walk away - they call after you 'okay, 1000' - you keep walking then they say 500, and you turn around and say 200 - and THEN you start negotiating) and you give them a low-ish counteroffer. If your offer is too low (and it often is) they turn rude. I've been told to 'get-out' of a stall on more than one occasion and let me tell you that Pakistani-princess does NOT take well to being dismissed by streetside vendors. I'd throw something at them, if I could - but I suspect that a bunch of them would just beat me up and self-preservation outweighs the joys of a temper tantrum. Anyhow, coming back to the point you bargain, and you get things for far cheaper than the price you've been quoted but I realize that not only am I now unused to bargaining, I also don't enjoy it very much. No matter how cheap you bring the product down, you still feel somewhat vary and you wonder if you still ended up getting ripped off somehow.
One of the most fascinating things about Thailand is the fluidity between gender roles. A fabulously flamboyant demonstration of that is the infamous 'lady-boys'. We've been encountering them regularly on the streets and the stage (we went for the Calypso Cabaret at The Asia Hotel), and let me tell you they are so much hotter than any woman I know. Seriously, with their perfectly sculpted, artificial bodies they look better than I do any day - so much that I'm seriously considering the merits of implants just so I can compete :P. Interestingly, nearly every time we come across a woman who is a total head-turner, 9 times out of ten she turns out to be a, well, once-upon-a-time he. From what we've discovered the only way to tell them apart is to pay attention to their hands and their feet which are much larger than average.

2011-06-09T11:59:00.004+05:00

A friend of mine sent me an email today which said:

----

Please read, share and comment on my article (well, it actually only got published in the online blog section) on the Express Tribune website - http://blogs.tribune.com.pk/story/6294/an-open-letter-to-the-chief-justice-from-a-granddaughter/ - I published under a pseudonym awith a vague bio to avoid arrest and/or being called in under suo moto action.

----

And so I read, I cried, I thought, I hurt and I shared this with as many people as I could - through emails, though the blog, through facebook. I hope you will read it, and while you do, I hope you will think about all the people in this country who you know - and who I know - who have long since lost hope for justice.

People like me who have seen their loved ones senselessly killed by perpetrators who will never be found. People who woke up one day to find parents, siblings, cousins, friends missing never to be seen again. Unless they're lucky and a dead body appears to quiet the hope and begin the inevitable mourning process. People who - like K - who are forced to watch while those who have wronged them are allowed to escape the net of 'justice' unpunished.

I stand with K. And I demand justice for her, and her family. I hope you do too.

2011-06-09T10:05:00.003+05:00

*heh*

Ps: Since one of my newest projects happens to be a research study on the impact of climate change on livelihoods, this morning's cartoon just seems even funnier! :)

2011-06-08T00:13:00.001+05:00

Whether I'm right or whether I'm wrong

Whether I find a place in this world or never belong

I gotta be me, I've gotta be me

What else can I be but what I am

I want to live, not merely survive

And I won't give up this dream

Of life that keeps me alive

I gotta be me, I gotta be me

The dream that I see makes me what I am

That far-away prize, a world of success

Is waiting for me if I heed the call

I won't settle down, won't settle for less

As long as there's a chance that I can have it all

I'll go it alone, that's how it must be

I can't be right for somebody else

If I'm not right for me

I gotta be free, I've gotta be free

Daring to try, to do it or die

I've gotta be me

I'll go it alone, that's how it must be

I can't be right for somebody else

If I'm not right for me

I gotta be free, I just gotta be free

Daring to try, to do it or die

I gotta be me.

- Sammy Davis Jr

2011-06-05T10:01:00.002+05:00

Sunday morning breakfast - whether it's chai and croissants with the laptop for company, a noisy raucous pancake filled brunch with my people or a calm, soothing cup of cereal loaded with dried fruit (figs et al) with mommy - is my favorite meal. There's something wonderful about Sunday mornings that even the threat of an impending Monday can't take away.

Good-morning world! :)

2011-06-03T10:42:00.005+05:00

I'm in love with Zoe Viccaji's new song, an accapella cover of Strings "Bichra Yaar". Sponsored by Levis, this particular initiative is one of the best musical things to come out of Pakistan this year. Well done, Ms. Viccaji! :) I hear (through the newspaper) that Zoe's next project is with Bilal Khan. I'm looking forward to it.

I'm off to Thailand next week. Vacationing, again. Looking forward to making the most of Bangkok and (hopefully) some adjoining beaches. If anyone has travel tips, let me know. I'm hoping a travelogue a'la-Xeb will follow my trip, but aaj kal there seems to be no way to guarantee my writing prowess. The muse has abandoned me to an extent where putting two sentences together seems to be a bit of a chore. I dislike this state-of-being very much though. Here's hoping it changes soon. *cheers* (Random Aside: speaking of *cheers* - my brand-new HTC-Desire-HD has a rather interesting app called "Mixology". I wholeheartedly recommend :))

What else shall I tell you? Since we've been a little distant lately, this is the time for idle-chit-chat while we get re-acquainted. It's too soon, I think, to give you the gory details of my always-too-complicated-for-me love-life. I could whine-about-work, but then the inevitable question (for which I rarely have an answer to) on why I continue to work so much would arise and I'm not really prepared to get into that. I could talk about the marriage-brigade, but I'm afraid unnecessary speculation on their activities would rouse them out of their slumber - and then woe-is-me. I could talk to you about Pakistan, but I'm afraid after Mr. Shahzad got murdered somewhere between F-8 and F-6 in Islamabad we have suck to new depths of low that I'm afraid to explore for fear of completely losing what little hope I have.

So let's just grab ourselves an individual cup-of-coffee and talk about idle-nothings. Like a trip to Thailand, cellphone applications and good music. And let's gossip a-little-bit. What's going on people? What have I been missing?

2011-05-31T09:56:00.002+05:00

I haven't disappeared.

I have drowned.

In an abyss.

of things-to-do.

and places-to-be.

where there is no room.

for idle thoughts

and childish dreams

or fanciful notions of you-and-me.

Just lots of work.

and not enough sleep.

and things-to-do.

and places-to-be.

And none of the roads

lead to you.

I'm bound by the ropes

of conventionality.

2011-05-18T10:42:00.000+05:00

*chuckle*

2011-05-15T12:56:00.003+05:00

Another Sunday, another week begins tomorrow. The days merge into one another in a frenzy of-work-mostly interspersed with other things here-and-there. I'm not bored, because I have no time to be bored, but if I think about it, I'm not content either. Something is missing, something important. Perhaps its time to leave for that PhD after all.

2011-05-07T10:48:00.003+05:00

I have 100 followers! :D

*does-a-little-jig-of-joy*

Thanks Furree Katt for being it! :)

2011-05-06T10:14:00.008+05:00

Karachi inspires a strange sort of lethargy. I have to force myself to get out of bed, to have a shower, to change out of my nightclothes, to get out of the house. I have to force myself to meet people, to talk, to laugh a little. It takes an unbelievable amount of strength to - while I'm here - pretend that it's all okay, and that life is as it should be. Because it's not, and it probably never will be. And every morning I wake up in this city is a reminder of how things have changed, and will never be the same again.

Perhaps the worst part about being here is unrelenting attack of memories. Every brick of this house, every wall, every scrap of random cloth has a story to tell. I take a towel out of the cupboard and I suddenly remember - despite myself - how I bought it from Sunday bazaar one day because it matched with my newly renovated bathroom. The bathroom my father had pretty-fied in response to my never-ending whining. I remember how I'd lock myself up with a bubble-bath and a book, and then had to face scolding from a family who never quite understood how I could spend so much time reading a book in the bathtub. I miss the scoldings. I miss the deep voice calling me up two minutes after my 11 o'clock curfew asking me where I am and why I'm not at home yet. I miss the booming presence, the comforting arms, the hug that would make me feel safe no-matter-what.

2011-05-05T21:42:00.013+05:00

Another trip to Karachi, another mango. For those not attuned to my life aaj kal, 'mango' is what the gang has started calling the rishta-boys. It's a rather clever derivative of 'mangaitar', and I'm not sure how it emerged in discourse a'la Xeb but it has stuck. I heard that mango plus mother had descended on us as soon as I landed in Karachi at 5:00pm today. And I heard that they were waiting for me every 10 minutes as I waited for baggage that took a good hour to come through.

So mango-boy of today wasn't horrible (I suppose). He was tall - this my mother triumphantly informed me as soon as I entered my house an hour and a half later loaded down with baggage. He was also foreign-returned having spent the last decade somewhere in Germany. He was accomplished with a fancy sounding degee in something to do with alternative energy. He was balding - but as mommy said in his defense - most boys nowadays are a little lacking in the hair department. It must be something to do with the water. But there was nothing vaguely interesting about him, and while we were having the obligatory one-on-one conversation all I could think of was can someone just get me out of here and give me a hot cup of tea? He, on the other hand kept wanting to talk and repeatedly stressed that he was going to come to Islamabad 'soon'.

And at the end of another fatiguing session I realize that there's nothing 'wrong' with him (is there ever?), and I get exhausted trying to pick out faults. The simple truth is, there's nothing 'right' about him either. And right now, I'm just very much in charity with Wilbur Sargunaraj when he says: "mummy daddy, I vant a lowe marriage"

Ps: So I just showed mommy Wilbur's-Words-of-Wisdom. After quizzically looking at the screen for a few minutes, she says 'Well, who's telling you not to fall in love? Fall in love with any one of the boys I show you. After that you can get married. And then it'll be a 'lowe' marriage". And so saying she goes right back to checking her email. *sigh*

2011-05-02T16:26:00.006+05:00

Quick update:

So as it turns out, Osama was killed a few houses away from a client's office in Abbottabad. A client we were supposed to rendezvous with tomorrow on our way to Nathiagali for a stakeholder workshop. And in Nathiagali - in case you didn't know - is a famous chicken place which has been written about in the New York Times where we were planning to have dinner tomorrow night. However, due to the tragic demise of Mr. Bin Laden, and rumors of possible retaliation our client has closed down their offices and cancelled all activities - including our stakeholders workshop - 'until further notice'.

So much for my chicken!

*sigh*

2011-05-02T09:50:00.005+05:00

I can't believe he's dead.

Primarily because I never really thought he existed to begin with. Like unicorns, or true-love, I always though Osama was a figment of popular culture's imagination.

When I thought about Mr. Bin Laden (and if you think about how often we've been forced to think about him over this decade, it's quite a lot of thought) I always imagined him lounging on a beach in Florida, drinking a chilled Mai-Tai, interspersed with breaks for golf. Except now it turns out he was hanging in Abbottabad, drinking Kehwa with the locals, not a bikini-clad babe in sight. How random is that?

As I was telling my minion on the way over to work this morning, it feels strange to be Osama-less. Sort of like losing a relative you didn't really like. Uncle Osama was a crabby, annoying nuisance but his absence leaves a hole in your life. And Osamaji, leaves a pretty big void. He's been the black sheep in Pakistan's extended family for a while now, but such an exciting one. Without stories of his exploits, what will we gossip about now?

And more importantly, what excuse will our friendly-tyrant use to terrorize us with now? Over a decade now, we've had to suffer 'Osama-this' and 'Al-Qaeda-that' as Amreeki military bases proliferated in the region. What, one wonders, does Osama's death mean? No more terrorism? Lots more retaliatory terrorism? Or nothing at all?

Whatever it means geo-politically, personally it feels interestingly disconcerting. Almost what I'd feel like if someone told me that a drone attack in the North Pole had killed Santa Claus. Due to unfortunate religious differences, he never brought me any presents (Santa), but I suspect I'd still feel somewhat betrayed. Just like an evil Santa, from 2001 to 2011, Osama has been a part of my formative years. And now he's gone, in the space of one day, with no fanfare whatsoever, and we find out about his death in a dry statement to the 'nation' (American, but I suppose as an almost-colony we sortoff count too).

And as I listen to people all around me talking about this, my first (and most pressing) reaction is: 'Abbottabad?! What an anti-climax!'

2011-04-30T14:19:00.001+05:00

"I like myself better when I'm writing regularly."

- Willie Nelson

----

Dear Mr. Nelson,

Me-too.

Sincerely,

Once-upon-a-time-writer.

2011-04-30T13:29:00.003+05:00

Dear Ms. Black,

Please stop trying to justify your inanity by given a 'hidden' meaning to every word you sing. You have produced a piece of meaningless pop-culture, and a graceful exit would be to accept it as such and move on to produce other, similar musical ventures a'la. Trying to portray yourself as a tweeny-political-activist is in effect nothing more than an epic fail. You should know that in this video you are even more annoying (if that was possible) than your friend Justin Beiber.

Please stop trying so hard,

Much love,

Xeb

2011-04-28T10:32:00.001+05:00

2011-04-16T13:03:00.003+05:00

Excuse me, friends, I must catch my jet-

I’m off to join the Development Set;

My bags are packed, and I’ve had all my shots,

I have travelers’ checks, and pi's for the trots

The Development Set is bright and noble,

Our thoughts are deep and our vision global;

Although we move with the better classes,

Our thoughts are always with the masses.

In Sheraton hotels in scattered nations,

We damn multinational corporations;

Injustice seems so easy to protest,

In such seething hotbeds of social rest.

We discuss malnutrition over steaks

And plan hunger talks during coffee breaks.

Whether Asian floods or African drought,

We face each issue with an open mouth.

We bring in consultants whose circumlocution

Raises difficulties for every solution-

Thus guaranteeing continued good eating

By showing the need for another meeting.

The language of the Development Set

Stretches the English alphabet;

We use swell words like ‘epigenetic’,

‘Micro’, ‘Macro’. and ‘logarithmetic’.

Development Set homes are extremely chic,

Full of carvings, curios and draped with batik.

Eye-level photographs subtly assure

That your host is at home with the rich and the poor.

Enough of these verses — on with the mission!

Our task is as broad as the human condition!

Just parry to God the biblical promise is true:

The poor ye shall always have with you.

From Graham Hancock’s book “Lords of Poverty”

------

*crash-and-burn-and-very-very-ouch*

2011-04-13T10:32:00.008+05:00

Strings new song, Mein tou Dekhoonga, makes me smile on the outside, and cry a little bit on the inside. It's a hard knock delivered in a sweet-sweet way and one can't help but be conscious of how unfair we've been to have promoted (albeit passively) a society where food is expensive and life is cheap. Where corruption rules unchallenged and distorted social values govern what each of us can or cannot do.

As someone very wise once said, if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem - and he was right. It's easy to sit and armchair philosophize over the state of this country at International House, New York amongst a group of political science students at Columbia. In that setting it's easy to talk about how democracy is (or isn't) the solution for Pakistan's problems. To deliver long diatribes about how there's no real point in voting because them-politicians-are-all-the-same. But none of us smooth talkers really have to live this life. Do we?

I have never had to resort to eating out of rubbish heaps, or worse, to fend of hunger pangs caused by rising prices of food combined with rampant joblessness. I have never had a child torn out of my hands and sold because she was a burden on the family, and the money her bride price would bring would be better off supporting my husband's drug habit. I haven't had to think about suicide because I'm an unmarried and pregnant in a country that wouldn't think twice about condemning this sort of immorality while other kinds are actively promoted. I haven't had to spend eight hours a day of back-breaking labor for a pittance. I haven't had to go home and submit my monthly earnings to my father, who will never think to spend a paisa on my health, or my education. I have never had to submit to beatings after beatings, indignity after indignity because I have no place to go, and no legal standing. I have never had to face a life where by virtue of being born in a particular kind of household I am automatically inferior. I've never been denied my rights because I happened to not subscribe to the tenets of Islam.

And yet, in my privileged little bubble, I have the potential to hold the future of this country in my educated, elite, connected hands. Hands, pampered by manicures, adorned with nailpolish, sporting a fancy ring are those that will decide - by virtue of birth, opportunity and upbringing - what happens to those tiny hands scrounging through rubbish dumps for food. Hands like mine that work with the private sector, government, civil society, NGOs, media - all those hands have the power to decide what happens to the laborers, exploited home-based workers, rag-pickers, beggars. It's ironic how untutored and unexperienced as we are to the harsher reality of this country given that we're in the position where we are the (unwilling) voices of the subaltern.

But we will not speak. Perhaps because we don't understand what it feels like to stand in their place. Perhaps because even though we see them we lack the capacity to empathize - instead we blame them for their own helplessness (why don't they work harder, think sharper, make smarter decisions?). Perhaps because we're apathetic. Or perhaps because we really don't think that anything we do can make a difference to the black hole of hopelessness we feel around us. We think it may be smarter - and better for us - to move out and to join the ranks of concerned expatriates around the world who engage in armchair philosophizing and the occasional guilty charity.

We all have a path to tread at the end of which we die. I don't know if there is a heaven, or there is a hell - and I don't know what qualifications are required for either. All I know is that in this earthly journey we all have a choice - either we do what is best for 'us' or what is best for 'all-of-us'. Either we live for ourselves, and our loved ones or we also spend a little bit of time living for those we don't love - who we don't even necessarily like - but who we are obligated to speak for. And by remaining silent, by not responding to their silent screams we're as guilty of seeing this country fall apart as the politicians and the terrorists.

Speak up. It's the least you can do.

2011-04-13T10:23:00.000+05:00

2011-04-09T07:41:00.000+05:00

2011-04-02T17:52:00.002+05:00

As we all know (all too well) the semi-final match was an epic fail. Not that India did not play well - they did. But the fact that the bwoys routinely fucked up made it all too easy for India to battle with Sri-Lanka for the cup. The pity of it is, in all this cricket fever - for the first time in many years I saw people unite together under a common green banner. For a nation that's being torn apart by divisions after division, this was much needed - albeit transient. Oh-well. It was good while it lasted, I suppose. *sigh*

2011-03-25T22:15:00.002+05:00

"...cause if you take your vitamins, and pay your taxes, and never cut the line the universe still gives you people to love. And then lets them slip through your fingers like water. And then what have you got? Vitamins. And nothing"

- Greys Anatomy

2011-03-25T12:00:00.005+05:00

Would you believe when the world cup started out it made little or no difference to my life? The bwoys were a bunch of idiots that - seemingly - had nothing better to do than to embroil us in one controversy after another. Once-upon-a-time, they had actually been good looking - but ever since Younas Gill became Mohammad Younas the whole tone of the team changed to the fanatically bearded. And as any woman will tell you there are very few men who can carry off facial hair with style - and the bwoys clearly had none of those men. Under Inzy's regime, they didn't have very exciting figures either. I mean let's face it - a pot-bellied torso does not make for an athletic image. And then ofcourse there is the backwater angraizi. I have wondered a million times why they cannot do one of two things: English language classes (easily available in our post-colonial state) or an Urdu-to-English translator (any number of people would volunteer for the job). Point is, the bwoys made little or no difference to my life. That was then. Now they seem to have taken over, and all of a sudden my world revolves around the boys in green and how they play the game. With every subsequent match I'm drawn deeper and deeper until I find myself wondering how I can persuade ze boss to give us all the day off so that we can enjoy the semi-final. Then I figure it's not like I need to ask - nobody will really be working anyway! :P The India-Pakistan match is going to be EPIC ladies & gents! :)

Here's to Wednesday next! *Go-bwoys*:D

2011-03-17T09:14:00.003+05:00

How easy it is to be a man.

2011-03-14T08:14:00.003+05:00

"Xainab, daughter of mr. Feroz

Ati hai mere dil mein roz roz

Uski hai silky laugh aur sultry voice

She was recently disappointed with the bwoys

Phass ja sukoon se mere saath janeman

Drink red bull and chew niswaar let's have some funnnnnnn! :-D"

- Ali G, March 13 2011

2011-03-12T10:25:00.001+05:00

“When you boil it down, the only battle that ultimately counts is between those who think you can decide the meaning of your own life, and those who think that the meaning of your life is not something you get to make up for yourself.”

- Greg Forster

2011-03-12T07:52:00.007+05:00

The older I get, the more time I find myself wallowing in the grays instead of black or white. So many of the smooth convictions of childhood have been cracked along the edges, challenged and overturned that I find myself unable - or unwilling - to judge others for what they do or how they react to different situations. It's a mixed blessing, experience. For one it teaches you what sort of person you are: good, bad and ugly. It shows you - without the need for speculation - what kind of monster you turn into when you're challenged, how low your esteem can drop when you're down, how stubborn a creature you can become when your heart is involved, how willing - or not - you are to drop social conventions to further your inclinations. All in all, age teaches you in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that you are not perfect, you have made - and will continue to make - mistakes. You have hurt other people, and you have been hurt in the process. You learn, that there just may be no absolute right and absolute wrong - but there is definitely a right-and-wrong for 'you'. You also - somewhat painfully - understand that judging people by your own pedestal may not always serve, specially since you look rather foolish for all your grand statements when time catches up with you.

There was a time, for example, I thought 'true' love could only ever happen once. And once-upon-a-time I fell in love. And then a few years later, I fell in 'love' again. And I realized that feelings have no boundaries, and most of the time they make no sense. They just 'are', and those of us who are smart realize that and learn to deal with it. Or then was a time when I looked down upon upon people with a penchant for addictive vices because I was convinced that they were somehow 'weaker' than us strong, resistant types. I still resist most addictive substances, but not because I think I'm better than those who don't, but because I suspect I'm not nearly as strong as I once thought I was. I'm afraid, that if i indulge, I may not be able to stop - so I figure it's better not to begin at all.

And what I wonder now is, why do people out there seem to be so comfortable with moral imperatives? How does age make 'you' more qualified to judge others, and me less? How does experience make your grays fade away into black and white? What sort of life do you lead where you can see everything clearly for right and wrong? And what is the difference, between my life and yours? My point is, there are no guarantees and no simple strategies to live life, to make decisions and to know whats right and whats wrong. The older I get, the only thing I get certain of is that there are no certainties, and often - they grays are the safest place to be.

2011-03-10T14:47:00.002+05:00

And in news other than myself, a member of my culture-concern e-group Mr. Veerji Kohli just sent us this:

"Contractors from Karachi started digging precious granite stones afrom the base of Ancient Historical Temple of Durga Mata. This old Mander is situated on the top of the hill near Village Choryo Taluka Nagarparkar District Tharparkar Sindh. Thousand of Yatrees are gathered here every year. This beautiful temple is in the target of mafia who started digging stones from the base of this hill. Sindh Government issued lease to Contractor Abdullah Qureshi and he brought heavy machinery for exploration and digging. Heavy Exploring material is fixed and precious stones are taken away."

What a constant delight this country is to live in. Haina?

2011-03-10T09:35:00.001+05:00

2011-03-08T14:27:00.006+05:00

Somewhere down the line, I forgot I was living in the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. I blame it on Islamabad, and the overtly liberal people I associate with on a regular basis. I forgot that I was a woman from a small shia community, living in a country where women’s rights are subsidiary to women’s reputation. Where hypocrisy is right and being honest about your life, your values, your beliefs is looked down upon as somehow wrong. I forgot that I live in a country where it’s okay to be a drunk, to be a drug-addict, to abuse your spouse, to have sex with underage children, to lie, to cheat, to steal as long as you do it privately, in secret, safe inside the sanctimonious corners of your proverbial cupboard.

Somehow, in the year-and-some that I’ve been back, I let the illusory little bubble of Islamabadi life fool me into thinking I was living somewhere other than where I am. Except today, a little conversation with my grandfather jarred me into reality. Last week, while in Islamabad, my grandparents decided to venture into Pindi to pay their respects to persons from my community (whom I generally ignore). When there, they decided to talk to the locals about their desire to see me married and if there was a suitable boy would they please direct them my way. Their response was that there ‘was’ a suitable boy, and they ‘had’ mentioned me to him as a possible option, and he replied saying he didn’t think I was suitable because I had too many male ‘friends’.

And there you have it. Some unknown person in the backwaters of Rawalpindi is suddenly qualified to make moral judgments about the lifestyle of a person he has never met, and I am left behind looking into the eyes of my very-disappointed-grandfather wondering how I’m going to respond to being labeled a slut in absentia. For one, I’m not sure I deserve the accolade. For another, I’m not sure how one combats venomous hearsay to begin with. I’m sitting here right now, taking a good look at my lifestyle and I realize that compared to the average girl on the street I have many freedoms which are generally jealously guarded by the nearest and dearest. I live on my own, drive my own car, and have the freedom to associate with whom I want, when I want to. I set my own deadlines, and aside from the need to reach work on time I have no curfew to speak of. And because after my father’s death no one has stepped in to tell me what to do, I’ve stopped asking for permission when I make my life choices.

Except all these freedoms come with a downside. Without parents to hide behind, I’m being forced to walk down the plank with society’s moral sword firmly pressed down my back. Justify, ask they, why you have so many male friends. How many of them, ask the suspicious, are actually just ‘friends’? How promiscuous are you ‘really’? And the funniest part of this quandary is that the truth doesn’t really matter. I’m going to hung-drawn-and-quartered anyway.

As I look on, somewhat speechless, at my disgruntled grandfather, I realize that I there’s really nothing I can say. No defense I can possibly make that can salvage my ‘reputation’ which is far more important in this country than academic credentials, professional worth or even personal values. The only thing I can do is offer the world around me an apology that for a little while, while I was trying to make a life here again, I forgot where I was, who I was, and more importantly, what I was supposed to be. I forgot that if I did not make a practice of hiding my vices behind my veil I’m judged and considered automatically unworthy. I’m sorry. And I will not forget again.

2011-03-04T09:32:00.004+05:00

If I remember A'level English Literature correctly, Shakespeare's heroes were always fine, upstanding men - brave, and strong, and capable - with the 'one' exception. That one fatal flaw that makes them do what they did, and get screwed over (or screw others over) in the process. They were wonderful people, but way-too-ambitious for their own good. Fabulous gentlemen, but a little too impulsive when in love. Stellar pillars of the community, but have serious daddy-issues.

Sadly, I have come to the conclusion that all the men in my life are Shakesperean heroes. And I am a victim of their fatal flaw.

*super-sigh*

2011-02-28T09:56:00.005+05:00

If confessions are called for (and they are on platforms such as this) I'm not a sports fan. I'm not even a sports enthusiast. I generally don't understand why people would want to devote so many hours to see a bunch of people knocking a ball around in various ways using assorted tools. That said, I was drawn into the world cup furor despite myself on Saturday, first by office-people and then by friends who would not let me sit quietly by the side and play AOE while I waited for them to get done with the foolishness. So then I did what I typically do when I have no choice but to engage in any particular activity: I dove right in full-swing.

First, I googled the players, and sadly I realize that gone are the days when we watched cricket to basque in the loveliness that was Imran Khan. Truth is, the bwoys are generally sad specimens, and this is before they open their mouth. To be fair, one can't really blame them. I'm sure their individual sense of style is much-appreciated in Gujranwala. But we don't really want the whole of Pakistan defined by what is produced in Sargodha. Methinks all the bwoys could do with a pretty comprehensive makeover complete with lessons in spoken English. Another realization while googling the Pakistani cricket team is that aside from boom-boom, Mr. Akhtar and the other-guy-whose-been-there-forever, I really have no idea who they all are. To be fair to me, there has been massive overhauling in the team what with the drugs, match-fixing and other baseless allegations launched against our best and brightest. But still before rooting for the bwoys, it would be good to know who they all are. Don't you think?

And now I do. I know, for example, that Shahid Aftridi has hit a 12 off one ball at a match in Australia. I also know that Younis Gill is not really hideous, thats just the cumulative effect of all that facial hair. I know one of the Akmal brothers (the wicket-keeper one) recently got married to a woman who (in the wedding pictures) is burdened down with enough gold to feed an average family for a year. Maybe two. I know that I quite detest Umer Gull who I am convinced is the hidden saboteur who's actually playing for the other team. And I also know that there is lots about the men-in-green that I still don't know, but now that I'm totally into this thing, it'll be fun to find out.

And I 'am' as of Saturday totally into this thing. For one, after years of not following the game I discover cricket is like swimming. You may not have the opportunity to indulge in the activity more than once every few years, but its very difficult to forget what it's all about! :) Also, once you've decided to root for a team (go bwoys) it's very difficult not to curse at the umpire, yell at the bwoys for dropping so many catches that it looks like they're playing for the other side, and scream-with-utter-and-complete joy when enemy wickets fall.

So, the moral of the story is: the cricket enthusiasm is back, bwoys. Please-to-not-be-letting-us-down (again). Many-thanks. And much-love. Until the next game.

2011-02-26T11:56:00.004+05:00

I deny winter today. I get dressed up in a pretty, flowery kameez with black skinny trousers and leave my heavy black coat behind hanging in the cupboard with all the other stuffy winter accessories. Mr. weather will not dictate my life today, I decide, as I dance out of the house (sans socks) in pretty colored high-heeled shoes. It's strange how liberated I feel without them silly boots. I drive to work today without the heater, putting my windows down just a little bit so I can feel the fresh, chilly air on my face.

It's a good day, people. It's a very good day! :D

2011-02-25T10:46:00.004+05:00

Finally, an article about Raymond Davis that makes perfect sense!

This piece by Bina Shah pretty much sums up many of my own sentiments about the too-celebated issue.

To put it succinctly:

1. I'm sure nobody is blameless. They never really are. I'm sure the men who were killed had something to do with their death. Idle passers-by they could not have been. The Islamic Republic is too good at intrigue to let this happen completely by accident.

2. It seem's quite likely that the CIA fucked up. They quite routinely do.

3. The whole situation is drama-overdose. In case everyone forgot (and they all-too-often-do) we have more pressing issues to protest over. Like the newest interior ministry proclamation that all students and artists have to obtain special clearance from the home department before they're allowed to exit the country. Like WTF. It's bad enough that we need visa's to travel, now we need internal clearances too? Idiots, the lot of them.

4. This country never feels to amuse me with its double standards. We cry and scream and shout about the fate of a US-based-killer who shot two people in cold blood and is now claiming diplomatic immunity, while we celebrate and send roses (and valentine gifts also, apparently) to the local-home-grown-killer who shot two people in cold blood and is now a national hero.

5. Finally, I think the media on the whole is whiny. Irresponsibly whiny. And unnecessarily whiny. As I keep telling a friend of mine who says too much when little should be said: 'filter's, please'.

2011-02-22T13:33:00.005+05:00

Tunisia.

Egypt.

Bahrain.

Sudan.

Libya.

2012.

Are we there yet?

2011-02-21T13:47:00.005+05:00

when did the rosy pinks of childhood

change to a bright, garish red

like fresh blood

before it darkens to crimson

and then black

as it dies.

how did everything change

in the blink of an eye

how did my world turn upside down

and downside up

all-over-again.

what happened to the path

I chalked out

once upon a time

when I explained to eager ears as young as I

just how my life was going to be.

where did the glory go

how did the colors fade

from black, and white

to so many-many shades of grey

its difficult to demarcate

right from wrong

good from bad

then from now.

2011-02-18T10:53:00.004+05:00

Will Egypt move from one dictator to another?

Most likely.

Did the protest do any good?

Not really. Except for push up Al-Jazeera's TV ratings (maybe).

But is it not a good thing that people are really empowered?

Depends on your definition of empowered. What is the point of agitating when there is no clarity on what one is agitating towards? There need to be some sort of sustainable alternate government structure in mind when one goes about removing the powers-that-be.

But how else will change come? Atleast this way whoever comes to power will remember that the will of the people can topple a government.

Err, 29 years later, yes.

Why are you so cynical?

Why are you so naive?

Why do you believe that nothing good is going to happen?

Because nothing good ever does?

Isn't humanity inherently good?

So are sheep. Inherently good.

You're impossibly jaded.

It's better than being hopelessly idealistic.

Idealism gives you ideas for a better future.

Realism helps you understand that its more likely than not (given the current geo-political climate) that the world will end in 2012. One may as well plan for that, and live life accordingly.

Short term plans will help no one. One has to think ahead to future generations.

*hah* Perhaps it would be more responsible not to HAVE future generations. Family planning kids, is the only way to go.

Think about the world a 100 years from now. Would you want to see more of what's going on? If not, then why can't you think about driving towards change?

A hundred years from now I won't be thinking - or seeing - anything. I'll be dead. And so will you. Unless, ofcourse, you can prove to me that reincarnation exists and then I'm willing to become an environmentalist simply because as a future dung-beetle I may want to live in cleaner shit. That said, if I come back as a cockroach I'll survive the nuclear holocaust anyway (they say) and then the world will be MY oyster. No more pesky humans to squish me, I shall roam wherever I like and do whatever I want. I will be KING! (err, queen, but that's only if I come as a female cockroach). But you follow my general chain of thought, yes?

Yes. And hopefully you're one of very few who think like this because otherwise humanity is doomed.

As tempting as it is to think that humanity's fate depends on my sense of humor, I feel like you do me too much credit.

Sigh.

Super-sigh.

2011-02-18T08:23:00.002+05:00

From J, for you.

*enjoy*

2011-02-17T23:28:00.002+05:00

darrrlinnggg, ankhon se ankhein chaar karne do

;)

2011-02-17T08:31:00.000+05:00

2011-02-16T14:54:00.000+05:00

And then Harold sends me this:

*this-life-I-want*

2011-02-16T12:51:00.006+05:00

The smell of coffee - even the disgustingly icky instant kind - makes me incredibly nostalgic for New York mornings. I can close my eyes and imagine that I'm still in the big building next to Sakura Park looking out at cherry blossoms and the Hudson river. I feel like I should be exiting the second floor through the reception out on to Riverside Drive, and walking past the Church and the Manhattan School of Music on through Broadway past Columbia, past the bookstore, past the ever-tempting Aerosoles shop to Artopolis where steaming mugs of coffee combined with the most heavenly nutella-chocolate-crepes heaped with berries and whipped cream wait for me. And this is where I will sit for the next few hours, day-dreaming, looking out at the people passing by and - in between all that - reading a book.

And that, my loves, is what I should be doing this beautifully foggy morning instead of sitting around at a guest-house in F-7, working on the design for a livelihood development project for women. Not that this work is not fulfilling, but the truth is, I'm in a very empire-state-of-mind today. *sigh*

2011-02-15T10:16:00.008+05:00

My life is a series of temporary fixes.

Permanence shies away

as if she and me are the kind of once-upon-a-time friends

that are somewhat embarrassed to meet

after so very long

and have nothing left to say to one another

any more.

Like running water, I flow

from one stone to another

one-distraction-at-a-time-please

no sense in getting lost in too many details.

No, I do not know where I will be

this time tomorrow

but if you see me here (still)

drop by and say hi

and possibly good-bye.

there is a strange sort of comfort

in permanent transience

when nothing lasts

beyond a few stolen moments

a whispered caress,

a broken sentence,

an ardent wish,

sudden heartbreak

and then it's gone.

But then so am I.

2011-02-14T11:14:00.003+05:00

There are some days that are engineered to blow up in your face. Today is one of them. This particularly explosive day began with a realization that it seems likely that my ring is not going to be found after all. This is one of two rings I have worn every day for years now. A ruby, set in gold, it was given to me by my grandmother. I took both my rings off on Friday night, went in for a shower, and came out again to find the ruby one gone. I’ve been searching for it through the weekend, and this morning after going through the adjoining drawers for the millionth time, it seems that the ring does not want to surrender itself to me. Needless to say, it breaks my heart.

Also affecting my general state of being was the fact that I had forgotten to re-stock my staple breakfast of oatmeal, and there was none to be had this morning. I had to leave for work today on just chai, and needless to say it’s not the best way to start the day. The drive over was plagued by a very cheery Khalid being consistently hit on by a range of men each of whom elaborated on a grand plan to sweep K of his feet for V.Day. Now, as much as I like Khalid (and we all know I do), I deeply resent how many men seem to want to sweep him off his feet, when none around me seem inclined to do so. What does Khalid have, oh-men-of-this-world, that I do not?

(Err, on second thought, don’t answer that! :P)

So I reach work and head to come face-to-face with the boss waiting at the reception looking pointedly at the clock. It’s 9:25 and I’m ten minutes beyond the acceptable time to come to work. This is NOT good, think I. Not good at all. She says, in a not-fun-tone-of-voice, that the Monday morning meeting will be at 10:30. I say I thought it was going to be at 9:30. She says, it’s already 9:30 (which it isn’t really, but who is going to argue with her in this sort of mood?). It turns out that the reason for the foul mood is that EVERYBODY is late. My fellow managers and most of their teams as well as some of the administrative staff have not come in. Anyhow. A full-staff meeting is at 10:00 (this is the one where we all get bitched out about being late) and then a managers meeting is at 10:30 (this is the one where we get bitched out about our teams being late, and about being bad role-models).

It’s 9:47am, and this damn day has just begun. Somehow, I suspect it may not exactly be a Hallmark production.

2011-02-10T17:27:00.007+05:00

Did You Know?

Chili prices in Indonesia have gone up ten-fold. Given how integral chili is to food, this is a problem as critical to the lives of the ordinary Indonesian as the sugar prices are to Pakistani's or onion prices to Indians. And no, apparently chili-sauces are not a suitable alternative to the real thing (and shame on you for suggesting it).
In England, from 1550 to 1800, a horrible creepy head-mask like the one below was used to punish 'rude, clamorous women'.

Canada is apparently rationing internet bandwidth. From what I can piece together from some very pissed off Canadians, service providers are authorized to charge users obnoxious amounts of additional money if they use the internet beyond the rationed amount. Who-would-have-thought?
That Bilal Khan will be on Coke Studio in the coming season? Way to go! :D Looking forward to hearing you rock-and-roll in May, my friend.
If you begin a post on Feb 10th, and publish it on Feb 12, blogger posts it under Feb 10? I'm not sure how this discovery is going to affect my blogging habits, but its something to know. Haina?
Sa has a list of favorite Urdu words. I have one too. 'Suno', 'Na (as in the last bit of Haina)', and 'Kameenay' top the list, I think. What are some of yours?

2011-02-10T01:23:00.001+05:00

And just like that, gentlemen, the race is on.

*grin*

2011-02-09T15:58:00.003+05:00

There was a time when I planned to share ownership of a monkey.His name was to be Neutral-Ludwig-Wittgenstien-Kapadia-Akhtar-the-Third-Junior.
*Oh-well*

2011-02-08T21:29:00.003+05:00

It's funny how facebook brings you face to face with people who used to be an intrinsic part of your life once-upon-a-time, and now you barely know them anymore. A part of me hurts a little, when I look at pictures of the same people but in new places, with new friends, new family and a life that seems to completely exclude me. But a larger part understands, and excuses because I am as much to blame as they are for this lack of communication. But it's more than just absence of the occasional email, I think. It's also that were I ever to come face to face with some of them I'm not sure I'd be able to manage anything beyond five minutes of obligatory polite conversation. Maybe we'd reminisce about specters from the past - atleast those that we would collectively remember at any rate. I'd ask them about their family that was, they would talk about their family that is. And ten minutes later we'd tell each other that we must meet up, hang out, catch up and then murmur polite excuses and get out of there most likely never to meet again until another five years later. What is it about the human being that makes us so fickle that the people who made up the heart and soul of our social fabric now exist on the fringes and we barely even notice? And how many of the people who surround me now, I wonder, will join the ranks of these obscure facebook friends a few years down the road?