Literature.

Technically, Pinter's 'The Homecoming' should leave me seething with anger. The essence of the play is sexist in itself. The concept is one that has sadly endured the steady wearings of time. That women use their sexuality to manipulate men. That they cheat and lie and conspire against men and get away with it because they manage to flip their hair and smell pretty while cheating, lying and conspiring. 


However, as difficult as it is to admit this, none of this was on my mind while I was reading the play. Because Pinter's 'The Homecoming' is a masterpiece that explores relationships between family members in a way that few others have managed. 


'The Homecoming' is not a wordy piece. The characters are mostly men. Men who do not share emotion, who do not admit to ever being scared or feeling alone. Men who, ironically because of their struggle to communicate with each other and talk about anything that truly matters, reveal to the audience the tensions that abound in a household that at first glance seems to be completely normal. Pinter manages to explore themes such as male relationships, sexuality, violence and rape all without making his characters talk much. All by leaving them to their conventional stereotypes, a method I would normally disapprove of. There are no emotional diatribes, no brilliantly phrased speeches. The short  length of the play ensures that we don't ever find out much about our characters. Hence there is plenty of room for assumption. And the only two women in the play are portrayed as conniving and shameless, more than ready to turn to prostitution in order to make money. 


I read the play for my A level literature course. I wasn't quite sure how to react to it. The play goes against something I myself am extremely passionate about. That women should not be judged based on sexuality. That there can be little progress for the woman unless society stops judging her based on how sexually active or inactive she is. I should hate it.


But I don't. I can't deny that however blatantly sexist Pinter is he is STILL a damn good playwright. One who knows how to make his audience care about his characters. And I enjoyed the play. Even though nobody thought I would.


For me, defining 'good literature' is difficult.You can't really rate a play or book or an art film. However, after reading 'The Homecoming' I realize that really, all good literature is convincing. It makes you believe in it. And if it can't do that then the least it can do is to make you second guess yourself. Even if it's just for a second. 


Kudos Harold Pinter. You almost had me there for a second

Dreaming

'The Homecoming' changed my life. Before the play, I thought words were just vessels of meaning; after it, I saw them as weapons of defense. Before, I thought theatre was about the spoken; after, I understood the eloquence of the unspoken. The position of a chair, the length of a pause, the choice of a gesture, I realized, could convey volumes'
John Lahr


Sometimes I wish I could just sit backstage and breathe in words and silences for the rest of my life.

Moving Forward

Funny how people waltz into your life. Waltz may actually be too graceful a term. It certainly doesn't apply to everyone. People crash and stumble and knock you over. They stroll in, whistling casually. Maybe even winking. They smile, they coerce, they walk in backwards. Sometimes you don't even notice that they're there till the last minute.

And then they leave.

Funny how sometimes you think you can't live without them. Moments in alleyways, pauses in conversations, shared smiles alll deceive you. All make you think that this is it. There's no living without this now. This feeling, this spring in your step, this person.

And when they leave, you're shocked to discover that  life actully does go on. And you go on without them, But then again, why wouldn't you?

Today

I got my first university rejection.


=/

Blah.

Sometimes it worries me that I'm surrounded by people who don't seem to care about knowing.

Today

I realized I fucking love postmodernism.

Published in the streets of Dhaka

I’m not too big on poetry. I certainly don’t have the knowledge to appreciate Ghalib and Rumi. But sometimes I come across a poem that really makes me want to major in Literature instead of Sociology and Politics next year.


Here’s one I read yesterday


Here I will stay, plumb in the centre
Of monsoon-mad Bengal, watching
Jackfruit leaves drift earthward
In the early morning breeze
Like a famous predecessor used to
And take note too
Of flashing knives, whirling sticks, burning bombs,
And accompanying gutturals and fricatives of hate,
And evil that requires no axis
To turn on, being everywhere
And should all these find their way
Into my scribbles and into print
I’ll cut a joyous caper right here
On the tropic of Cancer, proud to be
Published in the streets of Dhaka

Kaiser Haq

I love this poem. I’m not sure why. Maybe because you can read it all in one breath, maybe because the phrase ‘monsoon-mad’ makes so much sense to someone living in South Asia (and the irony that comes with that, the fact that we have taken the English language and made it our own) maybe the dramatic ending or the rich picture it paints. Or perhaps because the poet takes the good and the bad, the beautiful and the disturbing and casts them all in the same light of love. Whatever it is, I am writing this one on my bedroom wall.

Visiting

They looked up as we drove by. Looked up from smoking whatever it is they were smoking, looked up from kick starting their motorcycles, looked up from chewing paan and stared as the sleek black car drove past them, hunting for a tiny house. We hunt for it every year without fail, meandering our way through narrow roads, almost colliding with anorexic donkeys and cursing ourselves because we come here, to this neighbourhood, every single year and have still never managed to find the place without calling them at least five times.

It's a small house as befits the neighbourhood. Small and untidy and unworthy of a second glance. Unless you bother to look closer and notice the graffiti, the peeling plaster, the cracks in the roof which fell in last year when the rains came and refused to go away. It's not worth smiling at the people until you notice that they've opened a new bottle of coke for you and the cake they put in front of you is untouched. They're not worth wasting your time on until you realize that you are the only family and friends that have visited this year. In fact, you are the only family-and-friends to have visited any year.

And then you smile as you politely sip your coke and show off your mehndi. You ask how the second daughter's MBA is going. You look at photos from some distant cousins's wedding. And you forget the peeling paint, the looks their neighbours gave you and the fact that their clothes are so different from your own.

After all, this is family,

Eid Mubarak everyone ^^

Today

I said 'Eid Mubarak' to the guy I buy pirated dvds off of. He was so taken aback that I wondered if he thought I was impolite.

On university

Dad: I don't care what you say, the minute you'll leave you'll stop studying and go crazy. In fact, you're applying far away ON PURPOSE so that you can stop studying and go crazy. I know you.

Mum: I trust you. Besides, it's not like anyone at university has time to do anything but study.

Brother: You want to double major? You're never getting laid.


Yeah.

Envy

Looking back on it
Perhaps I should have left
Or simply retreated
Behind the rim of my coffee cup

Today my reflection stares back at me
My unkempt hair, my bitten nails
Their nails shone with perfection
As they clicked on skinny glasses
The television blares in the distance
My reflection raises a mocking eyebrow
At my old sweatshirt, my unadorned lips
The television flashes advertisements in my face
I close my eyes and remember
How their perfume preceded them
As they wafted through the front door
Caressing but never noticing its worn carvings
How their heels commanded attention
As they ordered frappe-somethings
Sniggering at the waiter’s hideous uniform
Blind to the jeans fraying under that starched apron
The television boasts of some fairytale in a bottle
I’m not even listening
I brush my hair
Ignore my reflection’s unblinking gaze
And leave
The rusty doorknob silently applauds me

We met that girl at the coffee shop again
She knew we were laughing at her
But she turned around
And smiled at us anyway

I wish I had her smile

As cliche as this is going to sound

I'm standing in front of one of Karachi's most popular restaurants. For the past three hours, four of us have approached every single person about to enter said restaurant, smiled and said 'Hi. We're from Karachi Relief Trust. Help us collect money to buy provisions for the flood victims.'

Some of them have scowled and stepped away. Some have ignored us entirely. Some have stopped, smiled and reached into their pockets. We have learnt to target certain people. Men and women in their late 20's and early 30's give generously as do families. Teenagers and old men are stingy. Ironically, most mullahs cut us off mid-sentence and walk away.

People exit the restaurant, chattering and laughing. Worlds away from the flood yet somehow bouncing back.

A five year old walks up to me, empties her pockets of all the change she has and proceeds to put it all in the box. She asks me where all the money is going to go, a look of genuine concern on her face.

Karachi never ceases to amaze me.

Another Gem

'Man plans and God laughs'

Truer words were never spoken.

Review

I really enjoyed 'The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao'. Check it out if you like postmodern fiction.

Redefining

Funny how just two weeks ago I was on top of the world. How long is two weeks anyway? A fortnight. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty six hours. No time at all and yet, somehow all the time in the world.

I've had to come to terms with a few things these past few days. All of them have hit me hard and out of nowhere. They've been painfully consecutive. It's been difficult.

But today, after what seems like forever, I'm actually looking forward to tomorrow. Today I don't think I'm going to be 'settling' for LUMS next year. I'm actually getting slightly excited about it. Today I'm thinking about all the advantages that come with not being head of a society. Today I'm assured that by tomorrow I won't care about what he thinks of me. It doesn't matter anymore.

Here's to looking at all that you have and smiling. Here's to tomorrow.

So the result worked out ^^

D-Day

Yes you guessed it.

Of course right now I'm thinking of the billion things that probably went wrong.

Today

I had cereal for lunch. I think it's time to go back to school.

An Excerpt

Part of one of our 'fuck everyone/everything. we're awesome' conversations. (Ali Bhojani and Amna Chaudhry)

Amna says:
you should always try everything at least once
except rape

ali says:
hahahahahahah
rape and crystal meth

Amna says:
YEAH
and jumping off a cliff

ali says:
amen

Amna says:
what else?
reading war and peace
nobody should ever try that
i bet even tolstoy didnt even read it back to look for spelling errors

ali says:
reading war and peace
you shouldnt play with matchsticks
or scissors

Amna says:
this is turning out to be a long list


ali says
okay so you should try most things at least once

A Gem

People come and go. Once you realize that, you'll be a lot happier. 

Oh, and hello August.

What they left behind

Crash and burn. Perhaps that's all they knew.

They missed the waiting, the anxious tears, the mikes thrust in other people's faces. They will not lose sleep at night, will not look in on bedrooms now empty.

They may never even ask themselves 'why?'

Crash and burn. If only it were that simple for the rest.

Street Talk (From the notes on Turkey)

21st July. Istanbul

When you are in a strange city, you find certain languages are universal. Strolling along on the streets of Istanbul, Lady Gaga suddenly erupts from one of the shops. For once, her overtly sexual tone makes me smile. In a city where they had little need for English, they still listen to Lady Gaga. Those inside the shop nodded appreciatively, one caught my eye and smiled. Music.

Spice bazaar. Pushing and being pushed by hundreds of people, I pass stalls weighed down by evil eyes, mounds of spices that are cheaper in Karachi, second hand clothes and people from all over the world. They turn to each other and chatter. Turkish, Arabic, Strange accented English, Oxfordian, Spanish, French, Afrikaans, German, Hindi. Maybe somewhere, even Urdu. A man selling spices sees me. He can tell I am completely lost. I look at him, smile. He winks. I laugh. It really was that simple.

I find my way out of the bazaar and into a small cafe. Their tea is different from ours. They drink it strong and sweet. And constantly. Foreigners mill around, locals serve them. A Turkish woman (or Arab? Lebanese? Moroccan?) is having sheesha. The rings on her fingers glitter as she holds the hookah just so. Just the way we do. She blows a smoke ring in my direction.

I walk into the lobby and the attendant I have befriended smiles at me. He doesn't speak a word of English but in four days he has discovered my love for coffee. He indicates that he is going to get me a drink. I smile and nod, there is no stopping him. Outside, the azaan sounds from the Blue Mosque. The music switches itself off, the crowds pause for a while, no more smoke rings are blown. All are silent or are deafened. All respond.

 All somehow understand.

Ephesus

What remains of Ephesus

The library that led to the brothel

The Gate of Hercules

Rethinking (From the notes on Turkey)

18th July (Second day in Izmir)

Connections will find their way across maps, ride through deserts, swim past oceans. They will fade and be reborn. Differently maybe, but still there. Sometimes noticeable, sometimes misinterpreted, sometimes skittish. But always there.


'What is the caste system in Pakistan?'

I hesitated. How to answer such a question? The sun beat down in the Agora, my family stood around, taking pictures and walking on ancient Greek archways. The Izmir tour guide looked at me. Worlds away from Karachi.

I began 'Well....the flag is mostly green. Except for one column of white. The green represents Islam, the white represents other religions.'

'Ah. All are equal'

I paused again. How to explain what is the most fundamental problem in  my country? Not the economy or backstabbing politicians but difference.

'No' I said shaking my head. "All are not. Most cleaners are Christian. If they are slightly more educated then they become secretaries. Muslims scorn Hindu temples. We are not fair with them'

'But the Muslims are surely united.' He asserted. I nodded. Because to explain would have taken someone far more patient, far more articulate and perhaps even more intelligent than I. It seemed too complex to explain thecountless dividing lines within the Muslim community. Sunni vs Shia. Punjabi vs Balochi. The rich vs the poor. The generation gap. And then the outcasts. The eunuchs, the refugees and perhaps now (once again) the Ahmedis. Too complex to explain when the sun shone this furiously and there were excavation sites to explore.

How could I explain to him that like Mehta's Bombay, Karachi too is schizophrenic? It has multiple personalities, it struggles to understand itself.  Unable to pick it's battles, it chooses them all. All are opposed. All begrudged.

This was a different world. He would't understand.

'And then' I went on, unable to stop myself for some reason, 'There are those who own land. And those who work for them. And the landowners.....'

'Enter politics' He finished. My turn to nod. Here too? I wondered. In this little city of less than three million near the Aegean Sea? Surely not.

Later, at the archaeological museum, I spot a statue of a lion. The label underneath reads 'Aslan.' A memory stirred somewhere and I asked the guide whether Aslan was Turkish for lion. He shook his head, telling me it was Persian and that 'Sheyr' was actually Turkish for lion.

And there again. Sheyr was lion here. Sheyr meant lion in classrooms that were a six hour flight from here.

A man walked up to the guide, cigarette in hand. He smiled. 'Aatish?' I guessed what he mean even before the guide pulled out a lighter.

Had we kept talking, I realized, there were probably a thousand words we had in common. A thousand connections we could make with our Izmir tour guide right there in the museum of that ancient little town. Had we kept talking, I may have told him about Pakistan, about Karachi as it truly was. And he may just have understood.

On a side note, Suketu Mehta's Maximum City is a brilliant read. All journalists should write like him.

Here's a review:

"In Mehta's able hands, Bombay is transformed from a mere flap of earth on India's western coast to a living, breathing character, a shimmering prism refracting the light and lives of its inhabitants. With a journalist's precision and a novelist's descriptive flair, Mehta details the city's gangsters, policemen, go-go dancers, and Bollywood stars. Part travelog, part cultural history, this vibrant portrait is greater than the sum of its parts."— Library Journal

From the notes on Turkey

15^th July (Third day in Istanbul)

I turned for what was maybe the tenth time. The hotel was probably just five minutes away. It had probably been just ten minutes since I’d left it. My family, blissfully unaware of where I was, was probably still sleeping.

I turned once more and found the main road.  Tourists, locals, people I couldn’t quite place mixed without mingling. All walking the same way but not on the same path. I stepped on to the main road, walked briskly towards the old university. The blue mosque rose against the horizon, the sun began its descent.

Istanbul.

Three days in this city and I’m completely infatuated. The desire to explore this city further and further is strong. To discover old cafes and little libraries.  Find people who not only knew its history but were part of it. To understand the ancient Turkish blood running through their veins.  See how the poor lived. And the rich. And those in between. The more I saw, the more I wanted to see.

‘I’ll live here for a while’ I tell myself now, staring out of the hotel window. Two doors down, a jazz musician plays at a café. I smile as the words dance across the paper and then as the pen sputters for a moment.

Istanbul, Istanbul, Istanbul. I could probably fall in love with this city forever.

16^th July

It is four pm and I’m outside the Lalei Universite, surveying the terrifically old building. I must look slightly odd, a girl in old jeans and a tshirt, staring at a university when the Hagia Sophia is a mere five minutes away.

This city breathes. Not the way Karachi breathes. Not the same dusty streets, quiet anger and loud joy, the ragged feet somehow willingly moving forward. Not the way New York must breathe either; exhaling ink, cigarette smoke, Broadway, schedules.  I’m convinced New York has coffee breath.  No, this is a different high. The city breathes in Western music, bits of English, inhales all facets of what we call modern life and in one long, proud exhalation (Scream? Yell?)  makes all we stand for seem trivial. Their music has poetry, their strange accented English is beautiful, the way they live should be a lesson for us.

Turkish tea, sheesha and history. Mosques built in 1075 are a two minute walk from McDonalds. People can wear shorts one day, caftans the next and no eyebrows would be raised. They pray in mosques older than their great grandparents and go clubbing on Friday nights. 99% of them are Muslim. I have never met happier Muslims.

The fact that a Church and a Mosque stand directly opposite each other is a testimony to tolerance. Neighbors for the past God-knows-how-many years,

Bosphorous tomorrow. More later.

Anticipation

Turkey in less than 24 hours =)

Yes, be jealous.

After all I've heard about the place this trip had better be epic.

After Midnight

She sat in the corner of the bar, smoking a cigarette. She had walked in not ten minutes ago, completely alone. A woman out with no male escort with mere minutes left to midnight. Unheard of.

She wasn't waiting for anyone either. She didn't check her watch or look around whenever the door opened like the girl in red who had been waiting at the bar for her next. She just sat there, smiled politely at the less drunk members of the bar and smoked her cigarette. In time she asked the bartender for a newspaper. He frowned slightly but passed her one and she treated him to a real smile. He went back to polishing beer mugs, wondering why a young woman with her hair just so and her silver lighter would want a newspaper. They never read papers. Not till they acquired reading glasses anyway. 

It wasn't for show either, the newspaper. She skimmed the headlines, opened it to the columns page and leaned forward so the light shining from the dusky bulb above her head would catch the minute words. After about twenty minutes, she looked up and smiled at a man who had been watching her for a while.


He had dropped his girlfriend home after dinner and had come straight here. Anywhere was better then home these days. His mother was staying with him for a week.

Ten minutes later he had bought her a drink and was sitting at her table. He glanced at the column she had been reading. It was heavy stuff. Politics. Some History. Written by the esteemed R Bishop who wrote about such things.. Not a women's writer and not what women read. She saw the look and laughed.

'Yes I understand all of it, down to every last word. Don't you worry darling.' She spoke to him as if he needed to be taken care of. No woman below forty had ever spoken to him like that. It unnerved him slightly.
'I read him too. He seems to know what he's talking about alright'
She smiled. 'Yes.' she said and paused for a little while, 'He certainly does.'
'They've had some trouble with him. He's been censored many times apparently. For being too...'
'Radical. Yes I know.' She finished the sentence and nodded.
 He noticed the ring on her her finger.
'You're married?' Lose your husband after dinner did you?' He smiled to cover up his disappointment. She was lovely really, with her silver lighter and auburn hair.
'Not at all darling, I just happen to like wearing a ring on this finger.'
He raised an eyebrow, searched her face for signs of sarcasm. She smiled back.
'I don't look the least bit married do I?'
He shook his head, took out a cigarette. She lit it for him. Casually. As if women lit cigarettes for men all around New York. 


They talked for a while. She asked him about his job and how he liked New York. She didn't giggle girlishly for no reason, only laughed when he said something funny. She ordered another drink. When he tried to pay, she batted his hand away airily and told him not to be ridiculous. It was past one when she glanced at her watch.


'I'd best be leaving.'
'Why?' He was sorry she had to. He could have watched her laugh the whole night really.
'It's late and I'm simply exhausted from work'
'Alright'
She patted his hand and stood up to go. He got up too.
'It's been a pleasure. It really has.' She smiled and turned to leave.
'Wait.' The word escaped his mouth before he could stop himself. 'I never even asked you your name.'
She laughed again. 'Why, you already know it darling. It's Rachel. Rachel Bishop'


She was gone before he could say another word.

Rain

It was raining when she finally woke up. She lay there for a while, staring out of the window. A shiver ran through her spine and she smiled at herself. Surprised. Rain didn't excite her usually. It belonged in the hearts of beggar children and old women remembering what felt like first love. The rings on her bedside table reminded her that the nobody in her neighborhood would care about the sound of rain lashing at the window. They'd worry about their cars and how their kids would get to school.

She walked out into the living room and realized that nobody was home. Her hands shook as she unlocked the back door.

She stepped outside. The rain greeted her like a long lost friend, falling gently on her face. She caught a few drops on her tongue. It tasted the way it had in the old village.

She laughed.

Attempts to Understand Anglophilia

The novel 'The God of Small Things' taught me two things. The first is that anyone can write an award winning novel if they throw in enough fancy words to distract publishers, readers and judges from a vague, abstract plot. (The Booker judges, JUST by the way, always get it wrong. Where the hell is Rushdie's award for his last book?! Hmph.) The second seems less important but has nonetheless left as huge an impact. The discovery of and attempt to understand the term 'Anglophile'  


The Wikipedia definition seems simple enough. An Anglophile is a person who is fond of English culture and England in general. But no, the reason why the word struck me is because I can relate to the term on a deeper level. 


My family has chronic Anglophilia. We greet the day from between imported sheets, wash our faces with Imperial Leather and throw on shirts we brought from England last summer. We speak near-perfect English. Not Oxford variety English of course (See how Oxford got the italics? How elitist. I disgust myself at times) but grammatically correct and with enough four syllable words thrown in to confirm our foreign/imported education. We stick to Western principles we probably picked up when the British took about two centuries ago such as waking up early.  We need people to call in advance and expect them to know what RSVP means (which doesn't even stand for anything in English) We are formal with guests and curt with people we meet on the streets. No, you may not accuse me of racial profiling just right now, not at this second. I have a point here, I swear.


Understanding Anglophilia is difficult. Yes, Pakistan (then part of the Indian Subcontinent) was once ruled by the Brits and so some small traces of that rule are left (Christians that look like the rest of 'us', the side of the road we drive on, administration in certain schools) But really, that doesn't explain my family's Anglophilia. What is with this blind assumption that the Brits always get it right?  They too went through financial crisis last year and hell, a lot of them voted Conservative this year. Obviously, they're not perfect. 


I don't love the Brits. I like what they've done with the place but in all honesty; it rains too much,  strangers are rude and the food sucks (Still not stereotyping, generalizing or judging of course) But I too have become part of that community. My Urdu is terrible, I like imported soap and I go to England almost every year to shop. Oh and I'm probably in denial about my Anglophilia.  

But I still don't get it. I don't understand why my family (and many other upper middle class families in Pakistan) insist on aping and lauding the Brits. They feel that once the rest of Pakistan begins to wake up early, drive properly and speak in English, the country will fix itself. Maybe the true goal of British imperialism was to make us feel perpetually inferior. Maybe it's because we haven't seen as many Asian countries progress yet stay true to their respective national identities. Or maybe we all just need to take a trip to Turkey. 

Hunting

http://www.juancole.com/

What a find. Appreciate.

Conversation

'That makes them all crazy. I'm going to shut the world out. And lock the door'

'Swallow the key?'

'Just maybe.'

'Who is the whole world anyway?'

'The people who we meet yet who irritate us slightly, the things we do that are supposed to make us happy yet we scoff at them inwardly, the rituals we perform everyday but no longer believe in'

I'd call that dispensable.

oh and this

I'm going to exhaust myself so I won't think anymore.

More later. Promise.

Ash

Sure you're telling me this now. I'll check back with you soon. Then you'll look away embarrassedly, maybe stare at that cigarette you said you'd never smoke.

He flicked ash around for a bit, smiled and walked away.

I'm back

It's funny how when you lose something, you look around desperately to find people who are worse off and when you do find them, you never quite know what to say.

Here's to me smiling again. And here's to a summer that should be amazing despite what it promised.

Gunshot wounds. The crass colours of what some mistook for freedom. Empty condemnation. Dust was raised on the streets. Not just there but in little alleys and nooks and crannies, all full to bursting with anger and suspicion. But most of all hunger. For a while-but what is a while? A minute? A day? A year?

No. A moment in time.

So for a moment in time certain names were a curse. Certain labels just that. Ahmedi. Mussalman. Pakistani. Whatever you may.

For perhaps a longer moment in time, fingers were pointed directly at a country many miles way. More dust was raised. Tyres were burnt. Prayers were prayed for three strangers. Three brothers. They could have been Ahmedi. It didn't matter. Perhaps the word 'flotilla' was looked up in the midst of all the confusion and chaos. Screaming and tears. And yet more dust.

And for a short moment in time - a while? a millisecond? Half of a lifetime?- waves became terrifying. They prayed again. And some stood closer, laughing. Not oblivious. Embracing a moment in time within yet another.

And in some insignificant house in a part of the city where dust was never raised, a phone rang. A girl answered. A heart was broken for a moment in time that was both fleeting and lasting.

Karachi.

Today

I learnt that the person who used to be your best friend can always tell who you smell like.

Oh, and I'm officially done with exams :)

She sleeps somewhere else and he retires to the emptiest room in the house, lulled to sleep by the consistent whine of the fan and a conscience that he has forced clear.

Happy Anniversary.

For a while now

No one told me this was possible. But I suppose that's because this isn't something you can really talk about.

Yes, again.

Really though, it's like I don't learn at all. I have gone without sleep for about 17 hours and will not be sleeping for at least another 10. But I SWEAR this is the last time I will do this. What? Of course not ever again you fools. Just the last time for a while.

Till the 31st of May

So they blocked Facebook. Our civil liberties have once again been compromised. I could get into a whole debate about this but I have an exam in two days. No time to read countless angry blog posts, tweets, messages and online discussions on the subject. As you can see, the litany above indicates we have plenty of other ways of keeping in touch. Oh yeah, there's the phone. And messenger doves. So we should be fine.

Note to Self

Please do not ever go without sleep for 31 hours. Also, do not attempt to give two exams in one day without sleep. It is unwise to say the least.

Okay wow.

That was unexpected.

It's Alright, It's Okay

Yes, Atomic Kittens. Deal with it man.

I woke up at four pm today after finally falling asleep at eight in the morning. Oh Lord.

Norwegian Recycling FTW. Youtube 'em.

Fmylife

Twenty days to freedom.

My timetable is scary.

17th- History and Literature

21st-Sociology and Politics

26th-Literature and Sociology

28th- Politics

WHO made this timetable? Were they not aware that there are people out there who take History, Literature, Sociology and Politics? Is this a random combination? I don't think so.

Bottom line is that I am going to die.

Onward

It's funny really, knowing how next year will probably change everything for me. Certain battles I am resigned to fight such as my parent's letting go issues and some I'm not sure are going to be worth it.

I know that in six months my life will revolve around university applications and awkward dinner table conversations where I try to make my father understand that now, after seventeen years he finally needs to stop treating me like his favourite pet kitten and acknowledge that I really have grown up. Not while he was away on conferences or teaching but right there, in front of him while he looked away.

I learnt a lot this year. I've learnt to be at peace with complex relationships, to smile from afar, to let life take its course, to critique politely, to be less self centered and, most importantly, to let go sometimes. To list seems redundant because so many lessons cannot be put into words. They are part of instinct now, mistakes I will not make again.

But next year. I have no idea where I'll be or what I'll be doing. The people I will meet then are complete strangers to me now. Routine will change. Will values change too? Will I observe and laugh or plunge myself into everything with full force and learn?

I don't know. But this time next year I'll be making a decision. And that decision may or may not affect me for the rest of my life but it will sure as hell change everything at least for a little while.

Changes

Sleepless nights. Fewer phone calls. Midnight Youth. Ego blasting. Newer interests. SocioandHistory. Untold stories. Beginnings that are new now but could have been older had I given them a chance.

Reveling in the luxury of uncertainty.

I catch myself smiling sometimes and don't quite know why.

More later =)

He can take her and her bubbly laugh. Her terrible grammatical errors. Her airhead comments. Her way of never taking herself seriously. Her constant compliments. Her puppy dog eyes.

This is me and I'm not changing. Too fucking bad.

What should be part of my mission statement...

I am never going to get married. This is not me being ridiculous, non conformist or just plain old inexperienced. This is me begging you to take me seriously. It seems as if it works for most people and I sure as hell can't think of an alternative but marriage is a lie for the most part. Unless you're extremely lucky and manage to find someone who will compromise for you as much as you're willing to compromise for them.

However, my expectations of people are not that high and never will be. At the end of the day, all you have is yourself and what you did with your life. And that is how it should be.

Well, for me anyway.

attempts to define

This is me and this is you and this is how it's been. I'm going to pause here and hope you imagine a blank because the truth is, I don't know how it's been exactly. I can't simply categorize it and then push it away indifferently. Seeing everything you do and analyzing it in terms of my classification. My narrow minded, depthless opinion of you. No. Not anymore.

So how has it been in terms of feelings? I'd quote Shakespeare. Something about Caesar and the stars. But I can't remember it right now. It was beautiful though and the first time I heard it (You walked in, silenced us all, looked straight at me and said it out loud) I couldn't understand it but I felt like crying.

People shouldn't be cynical about Shakespeare but that is another story.

But you and I, we're not another story. We go beyond any sort of classification, any secure category. We are the times you tell me about your day. We are the books we've both read and learnt from. We are the laugh we share after I have said something that somehow manages to be incredibly mature and naive at the same.

We'll laugh like that again someday.

But for now and for the record. I really miss you.

Looking Past It

So, Islamabad.

Not that I haven't done this before. Same fancy hotel and nine am breakfast. Same gloomy-ish weather and one hour drive to Murree. The foreigners, the sauna, being around my family almost constantly. Yeah.

Not that the foreigners aren't fun with their their easy smiles (especially Europeans, they smile and you can't help but think racial profiling is a myth and nothing more) and their inability to pronounce any word that requires soft syllables and Eastern accents. The twang is harsh be it American or British. More formal when it's British and more -how to put it- naive(?) when it's American.

I've been here three days. The first two days were spent in luxury, to the point where I should feel slightly ashamed of myself. The third evening we got into a metro cab and drove to a part of Islamabad where the roads were no longer level. Houses were squashed together and there was no electricity. Nor could I recognize the hum of a generator because no one in the vicinity owned one. The entire area was flooded in darkness and so we found the house with difficulty. My mother's cousin opened the door and we were greeted warmly. But she didn't interest me much and neither did her kids. Although I liked her well enough. Her father-who three years ago had smiled and said he senesed wickedness in my eyes- was my grandfather's older brother. He sat there in the corner and winked at me. A kindred spirit of sorts.

The lawyer husband entered and all polite conversation ended. Everything he said merited a laugh. And he was informal. In a country like Pakistan where the only attention girls get from distant male relations is a nod and sometimes a smile, to have an uncle sit next to you and tell you all about his profession, the cases he handles, the people he meets and how Aitzaz Ahsan is a lying little reprobate (his words, not mine) is unconventional. He peppered his Urdu with enough four syllable English words to let us know he could speak both perfectly. Imagine. In a house where there is no generator and kids who were doing their Matric, there lives a man who casually tosses the word 'vernacular' around.

Being the daughter of a doctor, perhaps I tend to romanticize law. But the fact of the matter remains that at the core of both politics and law lie values. Freedom, justice, equity. What we dismiss as idealistic and cynically roll our eyes at but still aspire to and are excited by. The French Revolution may have been a gory, bloody mess but at the heart of it lay the cries of liberte, equalite, fraternite (the last one, I may be slightly opposed to) which despite everything still manages to uplift even the most jaded.

At the end of the day, all any doctor can do is tell you how to take care of yourself.

before the last exam

I am impressed by my ability to time myself. Half an hour of studying. Five minute break. Check Facebook. Listen to the song that got stuck in your head mid way through the first chapter. Back to studying. Do the first section by three, second by four thirty, third by six and then sleep for an hour. Wake up, revise till eight then go take the exam. Get back from the exam. Sleep for four hours.

Is it just me or is life getting monotonous already?

Lesson for April

Aerobics equals pain.

Even I can do that sort of maths.

Irony

So

Can you actually read my mind? Not in a Killer-esque manner, my expectations aren't that high just yet. They probably never will be either. But what if I screamed a thought? Yelled it right out loud? That should wipe the smile off your satisfied face, should properly halt the conversation, you may even turn and never look back. There would be an awkward pause in the very least. Except there won't be. Because (some sentences should just start with reasoning) of course, the screaming will remain in my head.

Funny how I'm always telling other people to be more expressive.

It doesn't matter much. Minds aren't meant to be read anyway.

Just because

Today I spoke to someone who I thought used to mean a lot to me. I say 'thought' because he still does. It wasn't awkward at all despite the fact that I always find Skyping awkward. He still knows exactly what I am about to say which is something no one else really does.

I didn't realize before I spoke to him today that I miss him. I think he knows that. And I'd quite like to think that he misses me too.

Sometimes I'd fool myself into believing that whenever he looked away into the distance it was because he was actually thinking about something and not because his eyes were losing focus. I'd tell myself that what I had said the day before had just slipped his mind for a moment and hinting at it slightly would make him remember. I would convince myself that he dreamed dreams that would make me smile if I heard about them.

And I would always be wrong.

Off stage

When I saw her later I couldn't quite believe it was her. She was wearing far too much eye makeup for one thing and it made her look gaudy. When she was on stage, the make up wasn't even noticeable because her eyes were distracting, sparkling wickedly whenever she made the audience laugh. Her clothes had seemed alright on stage too but they didn't make sense now. All that unnecessary glitter. I noted that she had lines on her face that makeup couldn't hide, her hair was a mess which is funny because I swear, it had seemed fine when she was performing.

She sipped her coffee, completely unaware that I was looking at her. No less than ten minutes ago she had been full of energy. She had stood on stage, used her hands a lot and successfully held an audience's interest for a whole hour. Hell, she had made them laugh almost non stop for a whole hour. Not an easy feat.

She was just a performer and was bound to do normal things like sit alone, drink coffee and look tired afterwards. But there was still something oddly sad about the whole thing.

rat racing

It is six in the morning.

I have a History mock in five hours.

I need an A in said History mock because if I do not get an A then I will not get an A overall this year. And then I will shoot myself. Because I have, successfully, entered the rat race. And I want A's. They are pretty. They assure me I am intelligent because I possess the ability to write down useless facts about nothing much really and then analyze those facts and link them back to the question. Yes. As in, how many battles Napoleon fought because after all, WHO cares about why he fought them or how it is fate really that made him as great as he was. And really, what defines greatness?

Never the philosophy behind the things people do because that's not part of our history syllabus.

So HERE'S an idea. I'll move to New York and write for the stage. I will only deal with drama in the literal sense of the word. And then eventually come back and write plays here. Political plays. In urdu. I will be able to write in Urdu by then. And no degree will ever matter. What a plan.

Okay back to History.

Benassi

He's going to dazzle and daze me really. There will be bright lights and sunsets. Fireworks and looks across rooms. Careless whispers and less glorious moments. Times when I'll be driven to distraction. When I won't sleep nights but somehow stay awake mornings.

And he won't even know.

There are times when I am overawed by knowledge. The depth of it. The diversity. The shades and colours.

The fact that I lack it on so many levels. And the impatience that comes with knowing that.

I should scold myself for such pretentious writing.

Duffy

Just wait till I get to Warwick Avenue.

No, I'm not referring to the university you twit =/

Sociosyllabusnotfinishing :/

I don't feel prepared for mocks. Should I? I mean, they're mocks. How is anyone supposed to take a set of exams seriously if you just go ahead and call them 'mocks'

Who was that genius anyway?

Khair. It's really hot today. Stuff that has happened lately includes me 'broadening my horizons' music-wise (Well, trying to. Whatever. Sorry love, another story for another day.) discovering a brilliant book on the French Revolution (written by a guy called H L Peacock. I kid you not) Skipping bits and pieces of school.

And the Karachi Literature Festival which could have been better but really wasn't bad. Good writers, a few compelling speakers, genuinely interesting talks. I loved sitting there and looking at the people. The educated elite who of course had to be there, the (sadly) smaller groups of students who came in a for a talk or two, the men who looked like they had come straight from work in order to listen to what Muhammad Hanif had to say.

And I met Sadia Shepard which I was quite excited about.

I still don't get why Mohsin Hamid is such a big deal though.

I bought no less than twelve books from Sunday bazaar last week. Add that to five books sitting on my bedside table and you know I haven't been reading at all. My copy of The Great Gatsby is laughing at me as I type.

Listening to Michelle Branch gets me thinking

This is us watching chances fade.

No, not me being overly dramatic but me having listened to far too much Michelle Branch due to nostalgia.

Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here. Not here as in on this planet because I feel there are some questions that answer themselves. For those of us who can't come up with our own conclusions then they should just accept the answer is 42 and move on. 'Here' referring to what I'm doing with my life. I have a Plan B (Journalism) and a Plan C (Law) and no Plan A. Because I figure you should love Plan A so much that when you talk about it, tears should automatically start flowing. Well, the first few times anyway. But that's not it. Not articulate enough anyway. Plan A should be the something untypical.

My motto for when I'm older. If it's typical then I don't want it. Not the quintessential part time working woman (journo? lawyer?) role, not the husband, the two kids or their car pool. Not the constant bickering, the compromises, the mid life crises (because yes, there is more than one) and the realization that eventually these people will leave you and all you have is yourself but then again who-are-you? I've seen all of that. I've seen how people cling to it. To it's order and routine and predictability.

So then what do I want?

Truth is, I don't know. I could say 'freedom' and you'd laugh at me. I grew up compromising. Staying quiet at the dinner table, biting my lip and being careful of my dupatta. That sort of thing. But sometimes I say 'freedom' out loud just to test it out. To taste it really.

I see typicality everyday. Dinner guests and their forced, polite conversation. I find it funny, when we're all sitting at the table, to wonder about how much we all really hate each other. But it's not just dinner table conversation. I see it everywhere. Friend's dreams and attitudes. (What are we talking about these days? Prom dates, of course.) Snide comments and the looks we all sometimes get. Okay, so I get them a lot. Even the opinions of teachers, the behaviour of strangers. I don't know. It's not something I can define. I just know that I don't want any of it. I don't want to be typical now -and unfortunately sometimes I am and sometimes I need to be - and I certainly don't want to be typical later.

I love phenomenal women. Audrey Hepburn, Baroness Blixen, Oprah, the Rani of Jhansi, Sujata Bhatt, my mother. It's really that simple. I want to be one too. And it doesn't matter whether I go for Plan A or Plan B or C if I realize that really, they were Plan A all along.

We've been put on this planet for a reason. To be untypical, to understand what it wrong and what is right and how huge the grey areas really are, to perhaps try and right those wrongs and most importantly to do what we love. Once we understand that things like prom dates, shopping, bitchery and infatuation seem miniscule in comparison.

After all, social suicide may just be a dramatic term and nothing else

Jazz

Peace strikes you at the funniest times (Wow. Peace strikes. Almost-an-oxymoron.) What business do I have being peaceful now with sociology to worry about, history homework to tackle and a politics test first thing tomorrow morning. Should I not, at this very minute, be agonizing over the state of my hair? Or, like many of my friends, why no one has asked me to prom yet?

After all, prom is only a month and a half away *Insert eye roll here*

But I'm not doing any of these things. I am sitting on my bedroom floor, listening to jazz and I can't remember the last time I was this happy. I love jazz. And the man's voice on the radio. I sort of wish I had paid attention to the number listeners can text into just so I can text him. What a strange sentiment. I mean, what would I say?

It seems pointless to get up, turn the lights on and read for History or even to text someone and ask what chapters are coming in tomorrows test.

The whole number thing I did a couple of days ago was totally out of line. Sometimes I wonder if it pays to stick to girl rules. I should really learn what the rules are before being able to stick to them.

It doesn't matter right now. Jazz is good. The RJ's voice is downright sexy. He probably has an earring. What a gig though, midnight to 2 am jazz programme on the radio.

I wonder what his day job is.