Last week.

Not a looker, he sways with the music and spits at all things Imran Khan. 'Waapis ao, I've grown an affinity towards you.' It takes plenty of hash for him to admit to being a hopeless romantic. I keep my mouth shut.

I looked around at where I was, mouth covered with a scarf for the first time in my life. Some village called Sajjikot. We climbed all the way down a hill and back up to see a waterfall and I wanted to sit there forever but then my scarf slipped from my head and a man frowned and I remembered where I was. When we finally go to the house, the women were loud and happy and affectionate. They pressed food down our throats and called for countless rounds of tea till we finally begged their leave. Four hours in a car to get back to Islamabad and while everyone slept I read Dr Faustus who sometimes reminds me of myself.

'Tis magic, magic that hath ravish'd me'

Sometimes I feel a little lost and want to run up to somebody, anybody and beg them to tell me how to feel. And when. Make me angry, make me sad, make me happy, make me love. But then I have an eight am class and a two pm one, a stint in the library, an evening out and a good book so I forget.

Six girls in Islamabad and free for the weekend too. An icy, happy blur. Different cities make us all happy. We can act out of line and nobody can say anything. Nobody knows us. Nobody cares.

Veena Malik makes me happy. I'm not getting into a feminist debate here. She just does.

She chose a kurta for some odd reason. A shawl went around her shoulders and as she looked at herself in the mirror she wondered who this was for. A man, a phase or a bit and a piece of the truth?

He's not a looker for sure so why would I give him the time of day?

Outliers.

Too much to say, too much to say, too much to say.

I always thought I was smart enough not to believe but now I've realized it's always better to take a side and be stupid about it. To argue it till the blood goes to your head. To whisper it. To dream it. To believe it. I just need to find my truth. Find the thing I should foolishly cling to.

I'm going to watch their love story unravel before my eyes, weep for them a little and then tell it to the world.

Three panelists talking about post oriental Islam. All old men (why always old men?) Hoodbhoy is on a roll tonight. There's applause whenever he bangs his fist on the table. 'Communicate' That's all they want from us. 'Tell people that secularism does not mean anti-religion' Endless applause. A whisper of revolution, even. 'Communication' a boy sitting near me is done clapping 'Who will listen?' He reaches for his bag and I see a tattoo. I wonder if his parents know.

Malcolm Gladwell has changed my world and now I want to be an Outlier too.

He sang for me. Some toned down version of a Maroon 5 song and my day went from terrible to less. Walking  back to the campus at one am we talked about the sheer arrogance that comes with assuming how special we are. 'But of course' He said, dropping me to the hostel 'We will always will think so'

Of course we will. 

Nighttime

Eleven pm and we try to sort out the tangle that our lives have been. I hate talking about him because he's new but now I realize I've never seen him in the daylight. 'Excited to go home?' He asked and I said yes. Yes I was. He squeezed my hand.

Just another party and I didn't even really want to kiss him but I was tipsy as fuck and realized that it didn't really matter anyway. Just another pair of lips. Moving. Halloween this time and of course Lahori men take full advantage of an excuse. Make up, black wings, fancy shoes. It's two am now and they're all too drunk to say no to a pretty girl selling cigarettes. We've partied enough on the side because we know the brand guy is never going to pay us the 3k each he promised. I love watching degenerate old men at parties. Too old to dance, too old to fit in. Why are they here? To sit in a reserved lounge and watch other people dance and drink?

Already dark at seven pm as I wake up in my own bed. From my room I can hear them shouting and I count days till I can go back. I was excited to come home but now I feel like a guest. It will take time to redefine home in my head and to accept that bits of home are everywhere. I brace myself and go downstairs. They stop talking when I enter. They will need time too.

Five am and I walked onto the terrace to see a girl already sitting there, crying. I take one look at her and turn one eighty degrees and back to my room to shed a few tears myself.

Oral Fixation.

I feel like I appreciate both company and solitude more now.

I value being alone. Value it because it is difficult to be alone here and hence to be savoured. An evening walk, a morning on the terrace, a solitary smoke.

I met someone today who asked me what my greatest fear was and I told him it wasn't rejection or being penniless but being unhappy. That I would never want to wake up thinking I should be living someone else's life. He told me to read Fitzgerald but it turns out we've both read Gatsby and that is ironic.

I treated today like a Sunday because there need to be more Sundays in a week, in a month, in a year.

I like to watch him smoke but I don't like smoking around him. He makes me self conscious. Mostly though, he makes me feel young.

Dawn came and I went for a jog just because I could.

I crushed the last bit of cigarette and realize that winter is finally here. Goosebumps on my skin told me so.

October is already waving goodbye. Two more months and we'll be seeing off the end of a long year. Where did it even begin? With tears and a promise that now I'm finding difficult to keep.

Lahore is lovely and despite the obvious pull of alliteration that could not be truer. Soon work will pile up and I will stop noticing morning dew. But for now.

The boy I once asked for a secret is far away. Sometimes he calls. We talk and I realize he is done measuring out his life in coffee spoons but he still can't quote from Caesar and I have always held that against him, pretentious brat that I am.

I could write pages and pages about the fact that I no longer live at home, will hopefully never live at home again. My mother came for a day and after she left she called and told that it had finally hit her. That I was gone. That now we would visit each other.

For the first time ever I wasn't sure what to say.

Hey you.

Sometimes I see bits and pieces of you in other men and it fascinates and terrifies me to no end. Last Saturday night I didn't even know what I was doing and then all of a sudden I did and when I got back it had 'you, you, you' written all over it. He's probably never even met you. I'll never really know what he's up to either.

I hope he fades into the background. He's as unreal as you were.

But still, there are nights when I think of you and smile. I'll give you that much. You made me smile like nobody else could. Despite the fact that I knew what you were like.

Much love.

Today.

Today, while lugging groceries up three floors after haggling with a rickshaw driver, I realized exactly how much I've changed and how good this place has been for me.

'Karachi is burning, darlings.' Powder puff and then a dab of lipstick. Fiery red dress and I smile at the irony. Karachi burnt for a while before you noticed. You were shocked out of your bed at one am just a few days ago. Early.

Unreal City. Funny how much Karachi reminds me of Eliot. Maybe because bits and pieces are literally a wasteland. Desert. Who goes there?

 'You're here because of dengue, she can't go out like that, I never know where he is. Never. What is going on?' My mother is worried. My mother never worries. It just doesn't happen. But now she says a prayer every morning before she drops my sister off to school. She says a prayer knowing what is meant to happen will happen. She sends another kid, perpetually rebelling, to school not knowing if he even goes to school half the time, not knowing where he'll end up.

They tell us, apparently, there are mosquitoes mentioned in the Book. I don't know what that means. Is the end near? Should I have capitalized that 'e'? Is this how we're meant to go? How undramatic.

Eleven houses destroyed and I knew one of them well. Twice a week a woman taught us Hamlet soullessly. And she would tell us, rich kids with foreign passports, to get out while we could. Now now now. And then her house exploded and I wonder whether she'll leave.

And somewhere there are floods. I'm not sure where. Were they mentioned too? Should we check?

Should we leave? Karachi is burning, darlings. My parents are getting old. But where would we go? Back there? It's too cold there. Too different. Karachi is burning but at least we'll stay and try to salvage the pieces we loved the most. And maybe soon, sooner than soon, we can try again.

And so here I am.

It's funny being here. Maybe because I was so convinced that this is not where I'd end up or maybe because there's no time to adjust really, honestly it happens all by itself and bam suddenly it's like you've been doing it all your life which is sortofexhilaratingsortofdepressing in a way I can't place.

I'm excited about it though, don't get me wrong. Pretty campus, good people. And I realize of course that typical situations are everywhere and it's what you make of them that proves whether or not you are typical.

LUMS is such a mix of things, of people. Girls that stumble over three syllable English words and chatter away in Punjabi rooming with Karachi 'elite' girls in jeans and tank tops. It takes all kinds. I like the variety. I have yet to form a solid opinion about anything except maybe the womens gym which sucks. But hey, give it time.

I'm a brilliant packer but I'm forgetting things today. Shoes? Headphones? Where the fuck is everything?

I wonder if Lahore has a cure for my writer's block. Let's see.

It's all such an act and I've mentioned this before of course but it continues to haunt me, continues to surprise me.  Ten days to a fortnight after I realize where I'm going comes the actual breakdown. The actual realization and regret. Before it was all scripted, the disappointment, the tears and resignation. And now, when there are guests downstairs and actual work to be done I am incapable of lifting a finger.

I'm alright, I'm alright, I'm alright. It's for the best, four years will go by just like that, I can study what I please, it's another city, a competitive university, people have done worse, the parents are happy. Of course I'm alright.

And they're so happy that I listened and wasn't stubborn and didn't pull them further and further apart, didnt pick at the remains of what is left of a relationship. I'm getting lots of presents. So happy.

And all the congratulations and forced smiles and buying suitcases and straighteners have kept me so occupied. All of a sudden the phone rings again and I cannot, just cannot tell yet another person that I am excited.

All I can do is reassure myself that I did the right thing for me. In the long run this guarantees my freedom. And in that selfishness, I delight.

I'm alright, I'm alright, I'm alright, Except for now I'm not.

The Women

Women in Saudi Arabia do not occupy public space. This realization came to me when I was sitting (yet again) inside a mosque being pushed around by a million women who all of a sudden seemed to just not be there any more.

What does occupying public space even mean? It must be clarified that these women are physically present. I mean you see them everywhere. But not in every sense of the phrase 'occupying public space.' I've mentioned before that Saudi women cannot show clothes, hair and skin. I can see a forgettable part of their faces. I cannot tell how much they weigh, see breasts or legs or arms or birthmarks. Is that even enough to remember a person by? It certainly makes them far more difficult to remember. Mission accomplished Saudi government?

Women in Saudi Arabia are not allowed to have a sense of style because they must all look more or less the same, they cannot drive, cannot smoke, walk with their eyes lowered, they do not walk alone and must act a certain way. They glide in and out of their houses, clothed mostly in black, saying little to strangers and leaving little impact. They are not allowed to leave an impact.

Women in Saudi Arabia do not occupy public space and as I watch these hordes of chattering women surrounding me I wonder if they even know it.

Notes on Saudi Arabia - 4

Past Fajr and I had been good for exactly a day and a night now. It was time to get out. Shrugging on an abaya, hastily pinning on a scarf and exactly half a minute later out of my hotel and onto the streets of Madinah. The sun had risen by now and the thousand stalls were laid out.

Women do not walk alone in Saudi and I wound my way through the streets hoping that I wouldn't attract any attention. Never look an Arab man in the eye. Even if he's really good looking. Also never look a policeman in the eye.

A boy in shorts grinned and waved at me as I walked by. He called out 'I've seen you before.' and I turned around to frown at him. 'Yes.' He said, smiling because now he had my attention. 'In the mosque. Your scarf was falling down.' But of course.

He asked if I smoked and I took a cigarette. 'When you are with me it's fine, you can smoke. They'll think we're married.' He said nonchalantly (I almost choked) 'When you are alone you must hide the cigarette under your scarf.' I nodded, pretending to speak little English. 'You haven't asked me my name but I will tell you Muneer Isaac. From Palestine. Are we friends now?' A laugh escaped me. He smiled, encouraged, and I realized he had no idea exactly how beautiful he was.

We sat there, on a random street in a side of the city that was almost empty of tourists and talked. He was studying to be an engineer and had moved here three years ago. He asked about my life and gradually I opened up. Sentences turned into stories as I told him about Karachi and how I may be in London next year. He was the first person to ask me whether I was scared to go.

Hours later, I got back to the hotel. This city too, despite it's effort to dismiss them, had it's secrets.

And so I'd made a friend.

Notes on Saudi Arabia - 3

And there is confusion more than anything, chaos more than everything. A thousand languages uttering the same thing again and again and again. So many people, so many places. And all for what? To be part of something bigger than themselves. And even though I disagree with this entire affair on so many levels, there is one tiny part of me that understands it. The need to be this way. Why we cling to what is familiar, what is ritualistic and safe.

It's strange really how it repels and attracts me at the same time. I wonder how everyone else feels right now.

Notes on Saudi Arabia - 2

The dressing will probably never cease to amaze me. Saudi women have got to be the most resourceful women on the planet. They can't show skin or clothes or hair. They can't even show half their faces sometimes. So what do they do? They dress up what they can show. Their eyes are always perfectly lines, they wear the most gorgeous abayas and they walk in these mincing little steps that can only be described as attractive. In short Saudi women are actually really goddamn alluring.


I claim that every city I've travelled to breathes differently. I'm not quite sure how Madinah breathes just yet. Dusty hot air, kajol, countless blackberrys. It breathes in ritual and the azaan, mosques by the dozen, a thousand stalls and a whisper, a promise of magic. But not quite religion, not really faith and hardly ever God.

I find myself realizing that this man is actually breaking down in front of me and I think 'no oh please God no, not another one. Not now. Another day, another time maybe I'll sympathize. Maybe when I've caught up with myself.'

It would do to me what I'm most terrified of. Not living in the now. Living in the past. Hurt ties you down.

It's been a long long time since I've allowed myself to be hurt and now sometimes I wonder why people bother with it at all. Walk out when it stops being fun. Keep it simple. Rules I've lived by for what seems like forever. Why feel any more than that anyway? You're never alone after all, not really and belonging to someone in the conventional sense is overrated. It's stress and tears and complications. It's the last time you call them knowing they're not going to call you back tonight, the look in your eyes when you see them connect with someone else, the uncertainty attached to saying 'I love you'. It's hurt.

Besides you belong to nobody but yourself. The bits and pieces of people you choose to pick up along the way belong to you. He doesn't belong to me or her. But I know his secrets and his fleeting obsessions and she doesn't. Still. Not belonging. And I'm fine with that. It leaves me free. Who know where we'll end up?

And maybe one day I'll be hurt too and curse myself for it just like he is now. But that will happen. You're allowed to get too attached. And then one day, all of a sudden and out of the blue, you're not.

People talk and I understand why they do. It's because they're not brave enough to think differently. But it's alright. I'm happy.

Notes on Saudi Arabia - 1

Madinah

The women here are never alone. They're either with their husbands, weighed down by their many children or they travel together in parties of four or five and never less. I've been here two days. They come to the mosque for every prayer. Never alone. I wonder if there is time to think of God.

I certainly haven't given the concept much thought since I've been here. The days have passed in a blurry haze of desert heat and headscarves and going to the mosque every so often. I haven't really even been alone till now and now I'm looking, hunting for a pen and watching the man sitting on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette with barely concealed envy. Not just because of the cigarette but because he can. Can sit on the sidewalk and smoke a cigarette and not have to worry about his greasy hair.



The Masjid al Nabi is a little like a sports bar. Everyone goes altogether too much, drinks something from a tap and seem to be overwhelmingly fascinated by a phenomena that I am not completely comfortable with. And of course, if we continue to draw parallels between sport and religion, everyone judges you harshly for not being equally enthralled. And so while I sit here on the steps of the haram as the sky fades to a milky purple and the women around me bow their heads in prayer, I catch some looking at me sideways and knitting their eyebrows together.

A very fancy, very crowded sports bar.


It's a little intoxicating being here, watching all these women and all these headscarves rise and fall at the same time as if they're part of something bigger than themselves. It's a little scary that I find that comforting.

More later.

En route.

I'm not so into pilgrimage. In fact, until about five seconds ago I wasn't even entirely sure how to spell the word.

And yet today I am getting on a plane and flying the five hours to Saudi. To perform Umra. With my parents. Abaya and all.

Okay so that came off as a little angsty but I can't really write and youtube 'how to pray in Islam' at the same time. In the past three days I have learnt how to recite the four quls, pray, cover my head and perform wuzu. All the things I was taught at six, abandoned by twelve and now, six years down the road, make as little sense to me.

'Laqqum deenaqum waleeya din' is the only phrase from the Quran that I have ever quoted anywhere. 'To you your beliefs and to me mine' And now, once again, I am memorizing verses that make little sense to me and frankly it seems fake beyond belief.

And I don't believe in rituals. I firmly believe they suck all the spiritual out of everything. And as far as Islamic rituals are concerned, I believe they are irrelevant to my life. There are other ways to find faith. But then again, that's just me.

'Darling' says a friend on the phone 'Don't go as a believer. Go as an observer. You might just be surprised.'

Or maybe I'll just admire the buildings.

Notes to follow.

I have spent this summer between 'why' and 'why not' and the sheer effort that comes with dismissing boundaries has left me exhausted.

Redefining

We manage to talk while we kiss. I don't mean at the precise moment (and who in God's name can pull that off anyway?) but in betweenish and we crack jokes and laugh like idiots and walk around the room. Because it's familiar. No effort to be sexy because honestly the fact that we're here right now doing this is really enough. No effort put into hair or clothes or timing or any of that because he's probably my best friend right now during this moment in time and if I don't want to I don't have to.

So technically it's perfect. It's not tense. We're not trying to be phenomenal here we're just hanging around having a good time, arguing about smoking, hunting for my cell phone and his wallet and kissing every now and then.

It's got a pretty ugly label and I hate it. Friends with benefits. What does that even mean? Are friends generally not beneficial? Is this really even a benefit?

Okay so it's not romance. Is it? Romance for me being what exactly? It's never really been about candles and lighting (lightning?) And we've seen love in all it's tackiness, relationships at their most disloyal, hook ups at their most unsuited. This is purer somehow.

They say people like me and you have sucked all the romance out of life. But really they're wrong. We're reclaiming it in our own twisted, wonderful way.

So here's to me and you. Here's to our friendship.

The British Council is inclined to be more British than the British themselves, Stony houses, picturesque trees, pebble drives and small town friendliness are all very well but I sure as hell don't remember living on that side of the country.

Neither did the man and his wife who walked in with us. He looked like he'd just woken up. His wife was all dressed up. I'm talking the real deal here; make up, mehndi, silver heels, churiyaan and embroidered shalwar kameez. 'Newly weds' I thought, 'Who else but a new bride is this dressed up at ten in the morning?' They were silent, she walked with her head down. We reached the office and were ushered inside.

My brother offered the woman his chair. When she looked at him blankly, he repeated himself but in Urdu this time. She graciously took his seat and we sat on the floor. The man stayed quiet, waiting for an official to appear. When a woman did, he finally spoke. What came out of his mouth was the strongest Cockney-Yorkshire brogue I've heard in a while. I could barely understand what he was saying and neither could the official behind the desk who had to ask him to repeat his questions at least twice. He seemed impatient, obviously not used to people not understanding him.

I wondered, in that moment, how much Urdu he spoke. Enough to communicate with his parents after coming home from a long day of work? Enough to give a cab driver directions? Enough to talk to his new wife? Communicate with her, yes but understand her? Empathize with her? Console her?

My mother had the couple down. I could tell by the way she looked at them. His parents moved to England maybe forty years ago and worked as cheap labourers, in factories or as cab drivers. He was born there, brought up there. But they wanted him to marry a nice simple girl from here. Someone to make roti and sit home. So he came here. Maybe for the first time ever.

I knew the kind too. They'd settle in areas like Bradford or Luton and she might be wearing a hijab in a few years because all the Pakistani women there do. Call it cultural defence or denial or pride but it feels like the strongest force in the world regardless of whether you are inside or outside a mosque (and there are plenty of them there)  Boys are allowed to do as they please as long as they marry a nice, Pakistani girl. Girls aren't allowed to do much.

 I wondered what she'd let her kids do. I doubted she'd change the way she dressed. She'd probably live out her days in Bradford, walking around in a three piece shalwar kameez while her husband and sons wore whatever they wanted.

I felt sorry for this woman. She could hardly even be called a woman. Her husband hadn't said two words to her in forty minutes and they were obviously uncomfortable around each other. But the silence would be something they'd both get used to. Her English would improve because of the evening classes. Soon there would be communication. I felt sorry for her because I know so many like her. My aunts and cousins and even to an extent my own mother. And I knew how scary it was to live there in that cold, miserable land that really, despite the enormous Pakistani community, was nothing like home.

And ever more so, I felt sorry for her because she'd continue to do things, to live out her life, the way it had always been done. Despite the mix of two (even three or four) rich cultures, she'd be lost only until she figured out how to live there. How to live in a small community that is more Pakistani than Pakistan itself. She would probably never question where to wear a dupatta, what to cook, how to greet a desi and how to greet a foreigner, the exchange rate, her in laws, the classes she'd have to take, the way she should raise her kids, her husband going out late with his friends or the trips to London. She would just see other Pakistani women go about their lives and copy them.

 And for some reason it just seemed so hopeless to me. When cultures merge so obviously shouldn't there be a greater understanding of living? Of how traditions, languages, values, beliefs and norms are all derived from each other and everywhere else? Should there not be a refocusing of sorts when this sort of multiculturalism is encouraged?

But maybe it isnt multiculturalism at all. They'd only ever see glimpses of England where they were going. Fear of the unknown would protect them, keep them inside the community and maybe even put a scarf on their heads. This isn't real multiculturalism. This is just another example of how blindly we hang on to what we know.

I'd be living a different life there, I reminded myself. London, university, studying and so forth. But as I watched them walk away, the girl slightly unsteady in her high heels, I realized I was a little scared too. 

Ayesha.

Sometimes she draws herself up to her full height- all eleven years and five foot one inch of her- and yells at the top of her voice about her unfair everything is. How they always take his side and not her's, how we ignore her because she's the youngest, how this friend was mean and that one so immature, how mid-dance class she looked at her legs and decided she doesn't like them and how her stomach hurts every once a month and she just doesn't want to deal with it.

Then she stops yelling and the tears come flowing. I let her put her head down in my lap and kiss her hair.

And then there are questions that I find impossible to answer. 'Aliya says it's haraam to kiss before marriage. Is that true?' 'Are you going out with a boy?' 'Why does your hair smell of cigarette smoke?' 'Am I pretty?' 'Why is he being like this?' And I always pause before answering because she's the one person in the world I feel I owe the truth. Because her hair falls exactly the way mine does, her laugh reminds me of my own and she roams around in my old tshirts.

I'm going to miss her the most. 

Wipe your hand across your mouth and laugh.

'She doesn't really look up much. You know how it is, eyes half closed, just sort of nods a lot and her facial expression doesn't say ever say much. Like she's built a wall in front of herself. What's the word for it? Facade?'

It's all a charade.

Day in. Day out. Along with the other masquerades that time resumes. Eliot always sticks for some reason and I have a terrible memory so that's saying something. But it's all a charade and that's all it's ever been. How was your day? May I take your coat? Are you hungry? Do I even care? No of course not. But appearances must be kept up. Must. We mustn't break down those walls. Age equals respect, sex equals discrimination and money equals power and when all three things work against you, you must work with them. Put on a face for the evenings when he comes home. Over the years I have perfected this face, this look of passive adoration. I wear it close like a second skin and by God, I wear it well.

And so the bits and pieces of my life I allow to be seen never make a whole image let alone a thousand sordid ones and once I need something solid, something real I pause to think about how I would go about it. Because for the longest time it hasnt been about demanding anything, just keeping up the charade, keeping up the smiles and pettings and compliments so that when I want something real he would consider. And now I do  how to go about it is beyond me. It would be beyond anyone. We're talking an eighteen year old relationship here. But really eighteen years of what?

'Hello Daddy, here's your tea' 'What've you got there Princess? A brochure?' (Laughter, never derisive always cute) 'Oh no Daddy, it's the prospectus from the university I got into. Do you remember?' (silence) 'I thought...we could look at it together, it has course details and lots of information...' 'I see' (silence) 'I'll just put your tea down' 'Not over there, lovely, here on the bedside where it'll stay warm' (sets tea down, holds out prospectus) 'Shall I turn the light on so we can read it together?' 'I really don't think I can deal with this nonsense right now. Maybe tomorrow.' (Nod and smile, always smile as you back out of the darkened room)

It's all just a fucking charade.

Ironic.

It is perhaps the most ironic thing in the world. The situation in which not getting the one thing you thought you wanted the most will maybe finally set you free.

And free to do what? It's a tough world they say and money talks. Yes money talks. We've all seen how and what it can do. How it can enslave and liberate. Keep people together and drive them apart.

It's a tough world they say and I'd have no money. No college degree or credibility or work experience. All I'd have is a report book filled with A's and a head filled with pretentious world views. But maybe just maybe I'd never have to answer to anyone again. Not in that way ever again.

And what would the alternative be? Money talks and people walk and I'd be sitting in a classroom come September. And it would be the most ironic thing in the world. To sit there at that hippie university, learning about liberties and freedoms and knowing full well that I have none. Because I'm paying for this textbook, this laptop, this lecture with the binding of my soul.



And it would be the most ironic thing in the world. If I graduate one day with my head filled with independent, empowered drivel and my heart a testament to the fact that in order to learn it I chose to sell myself to a man.

A Letter

Dear Wicked Witch of the East,

I keep thinking it's been a while. Years almost. And yet it hasn't.

I keep thinking about where you are and who you've been charming and who you wake up to. And what you do in between of course.

New York is lovely. It would perhaps be lovelier if you were here to force me to stop thinking about sums and numbers and forces and other things you find utterly unlovely. I'd probably have seen the whole damn place by now in fact.

I saw Noam Chomsky the other day and he looked exactly as you imagined he would. Had I not seen him myself I would never have believed that because I told you to read him in the first place. But you imagined what he'd look like. I swear I picked up the phone to call you and then realized I don't have your number anymore.

I've watched every movie that ever made you cry and read every DH Lawrence novel and Andrea Gibson poem, I could quote from them but you would just call me pretentious.

Mostly I just think about ties and try to understand. I wonder if you're still running away from being tied down. But who could tie you down? And who would dare?

I wonder where I'm going to post this letter. Your house in Karachi? Your much detested flat in London? Ethiopia?

Would you even read it once you recognize my handwriting?

I don't quite know how to answer anything without numbers to help me. You never quite forgave me for that. I can only say one thing in utmost certainty and that is this. That I am very much tied down. To you.

Forget the Prince. Forget the fairy tales they've been feeding you all your life. Forget Cinderella (But by all means, please remember Mulan) Forget wedding dresses that cost enough to make you feel good. Forget balcony kisses and press releases. Forget imported orchids and people who admire your jewellery but not you, never you. Forget it all.

You deserve better.

And so where was I? After all the boys left and the cigarette smoke faded as best as it could and the dark circles  under my eyes slowly-but-surely started to appear. After the books were mentioned, goodbyes said, arms caressed. After we talked about all that was sinful and wondered about the definition of the word and why it was so easy to wrap our tongues around and then fell into a silence that was  more than comfortable.

And yet, where was I?

I think I was happy.

So here's to you. 

Dealing.

'Rejected. Rejected. Rejected' And then the immediate consolations and gradual justifications rush forward and you envelope yourself in them so that you won't have to actually come to terms with the fact that a university that you would have given anything to go to simply doesn't think you're good enough. You think about the essay you worked so hard on, the stupid standardized admission tests that you slaved over, the nights you spent studying for A level exams. But guess what? At the end of the day you probably won't get to America if you don't have the money. You won't get to Canada if you don't have the money either. And even if you HAVE the money the UK won't take you because now domestics are officially paying double. Unless of course your major is Finance.

So it's all about money. Unless you're lucky. Don't get me wrong. If you get lucky and a university gives you aid or takes you despite the fact that you want to study anthropology and political science (yes, together) then that's awesome. But that makes you lucky.

'Does it all work out in the end?' I asked him. He's one of the smartest people I know. He hesitated before answering. 'It does. I mean. It really shook me. My college rejections. I didn't expect them. But then one comes out of it, realizing how the rat race to secure a spot at the top or to get into the college of 'one's dreams' is so SO over-rated'

'It doesn't matter' She said. 'Are you going to get any dumber if you go local? Of course not. Look at what you have and take the best from it. Thank God you won't be spending hundreds on a crap professor who can't teach. I met some of my best teachers at Kinnaird not when I went to the UK. You'll be fine.'

And all I could do was nod in agreement

Pieces.

He walked into the room, smiled slightly nervously and the first thing I thought was 'God. What a beautiful man.' It was almost surreal. He moved his hands with a grace I could never begin to hope for. His eyes lit up when he talked about anything outrageous. Which was often of course and then he'd laugh self consciously.

I could have looked at him forever.

And he was fun to talk to, fun to be with. I know that's not the best of descriptions. Just the word 'fun'. A million more could substitute. Comfortable, crazy, ridiculous. Heartfelt, yes. Mixed up, yes. Sexual, yes.

And then there was this one. Who told me he was 'perfectly content' with his life. Who kept up nights for no reason. Not because he was restless but just with the fucking contentment of it all. And who told me I was too restless, too all over the place, too easily bored. I told him I'm really a hopeless romantic. But not to tell anyone because it was a secret. He just laughed. I wanted a secret from him. He insisted he had none. Then he told me he'd never told anyone this but he loved the head rush he'd get after spinning in circles.

Not perfectly content after all then.

I love phenomenal women.

More please.

Seriously though, Happythankyoumoreplease is probably the most underrated movie of the year. I know my obsession with postmodernism makes me biased (I automatically fall in love with any movie/book/song that is even remotely postmodern. Junot Diaz for the win) but everyone needs to watch this one.

Written by Josh Radnor (known for his average to good-ish role as Ted in How I Met your Mother) the movie revolves around stuggling writer Sam who finds a child lost on the subway. Yes yes I know it's not the most original coming of age story. The bit where Sam discovers the kid's talent for drawing made me roll my eyes slightly because I hate how kids need to be extraordinarily talented to get any sympathy from audiences. However, the relationship between the two is an endearing one. No, Sam doesn't automatically become an adult just by learning to take care of Rosheen. He acts more like a big brother than a guardian. But just to watch this relationship grow is extremely fulfilling.

There's also Sam's best friend Annie. First off, I love that they're best friends. She calls him to make sure he's not late for his meetings, he manages to hug and kiss  her without viewers ever thinking they're having some sort of  sexually charged 'moment'. And she's cool. Gypsy skirts and headscarves. Annie has a condition called alopecia which basically means she has no hair on her body at all. Her best line in the movie is post nervous breakdown when Sam tells her she doesn't need to be so together. She replies 'Yeah because the world would love a crying bald girl.' Right there. That line would make anyone want to cry. And for the record, plenty of movies have been made about people battling diseases, conditions and illnesses. There certainly haven't been enough movies made about people who've fought their battles, made their peace and would now like to move on. To go to work, to party, to travel. And most importantly to love.

And love is what this movie is about. Despite all the cynicism, Annie, Sam, Rosheen and their friends all look for love. They cling to what they know often mistaking it for love. They screw up majorly. They laugh off hurt. They step outside the box to go hunt for it. But what ties them together, these New Yorkers who know that love is not only difficult to find but also difficult to keep is that they all know they deserve it. Essentially, they love for themselves.

Radnor is a talented writer. It's difficult to actually write about people trying to grow up. Few movies are made about complex people for this reason. However, what is so memorable about this movie is that Radnor acknowledges that everyone is complex. We're all allowed to not make sense, to go against rules that society has laid down and try to see what is really important for us. And so Rosheen prefered to live with Sam without a TV or much solid food, Sam went against the law to keep a six year old he hardly knew, Annie dated a guy she never imagined she'd be attracted to, Mary Katherine scorned marriage but was prepared to have a baby with the man she loved, Mississippi lived with Sam for three days despite knowing that it was probably a stupid thing to do.

 In this cynical world filled with two second relationships,very  little caring, consumerism, individualist clashes and a flagging sense of community every single one of us still deserves to be loved for who we are. Radnor almost-expertly weaves their complex stories together just to make his point.  And he makes it beautifully.

Technically though technically this city shouldn't even exist. It should have collapsed years ago but it didn't. The illiteracy, poverty, rape, scandal, pollution, dirt, bribery and deceit should have spilled out and over it. It shouldn't function. It shouldn't wake up every afternoon. It shouldn't bounce back every single time. 

But it does. 

So what does that make it then?

The only word I can think of is 'postmodern'

'When it’s being used as an insult, “bitch” is an epithet hurled at women who speak their minds, who have opinions and don’t shy away from expressing them, and who don’t sit by and smile uncomfortably if they’re bothered or offended. If being an outspoken woman means being a bitch, we’ll take that as a compliment.'

From Bitch Magazine

Jack's Mannequin and the inevitable 'general update'

So December came and went and now here we are. The eighth day of a new year. It's freezing, by the way. I know Karachi winters aren't exactly London-like affairs but it's all the same to me. I don't like the cold generally.

December was sort of a blur. Dealing with being single again, the inevitable Oxford rejection, reading Lolita (an absolute masterpiece, by the way) going to the beach, hunting for warmth in a perpetually cold house and watching bits and pieces of the L word.

I got sick this December because I kept going up on my roof as soon as the sun had set. Best time of the day. I never even minded the cold. However apparently the cold minded me hence the cough and fever.

Then there was Wikileaks. Which nobody seems to care about anymore. Also I Googled 'Blashphemy Laws' almost everyday. Yes, December was hella eventful.

As for January. Well, there may be a protest. Let's see.

A bit of summer love because I really miss the sun. And really like this song.

Here's to a good year =)