A note.

Blogging elsewhere now. I feel like I should say something a little deeper because this blog has been part of my life for about two years now. Unfortunately at this point in time I can't think of anything. So, there it is. Ciao.

People.

I’m glad you like New York. Really.  But what am I supposed to say to you when you tell me about it? Probably just that I thought I wouldn’t be able to compete against skyscrapers, paper dreams and being so far away from home. And so I called you difficult, mocked video calling and let you go.

Fast forward a few months and you can’t wait to go back. You wait out your turn like you always did but the city is always on your mind. I’m confused as to whether I want to see you or not but you leave me with little choice and for that I am eternally grateful.

Thank you for always calling long distance but we’re going to be very far apart from now on and that is probably that.

I’m glad though, that your smile twitched just a little bit when I walked through the door. I was pretty nervous too. 

I managed, somehow, before the evening ended to perceive the hopelessness that needled through her veins. Underneath all that rouge. I winced and turned away. Recollections for another lifetime.

 She grew up and married some great, glorified green passport holder and even after they moved away she would send me pictures of people she’d be scandalized by and say ‘Look at how they’re sitting, we don’t even sit like that and we’re married. Married. Can you imagine?’ And I’d always feel a little disappointed. I look at her life and wonder when and how she erected such flimsy boundaries and that no wonder people’s lives come crashing down so easily. The fences that separate their black and white are rarely made of more than paper and a whisper of fear. No wonder they fall apart.

Apparently letter writing is a lost art and for some reason, I’ll probably end up writing him one, lick the envelope and send it off. Whether I’ll be doing this for him or myself requires further self examination and I’d argue, at this point, that I’m done for a while. 

You try too hard not to try at all. I think we’d probably fight too much, fall too fast and eventually just fade out. Forget. 

He needs glasses to read the menu now and it always breaks my heart a little to think of him as an old man.

He told me he’d call back and when he didn’t I realized that he was not to be waited around for and that really truly I had accepted that a while ago. So maybe I’ve grown up a little bit.

The air in this city is too bloodlusty for winter to stay long anyway.

 And as for that last book. Well Mr Kundera, I’m never going to finish a book of yours if you keep making your characters fall in love because I already know it’s not going to end well.  I hope your Tereza found her happiness though.

Your eyebrow piercing left a mark.  I didn’t even notice it until someone else pointed it out because you carry yourself with such purposefulness it’s like you planned the whole thing. Even though you never plan anything. Not colour scheme, not the boys you fall for and not what you’ll be doing tomorrow. You’re going to do so well though and I’m going to miss you the most. 

 She pulls up in my driveway every afternoon. I have never seen her lips move once while teaching me how to drive. Because, like so many other things this is something I’ve had to relearn. And so I pausestumblejolt my way down an unforgiving road, narrowly avoid a few cars, break a couple of traffic lights and eventually figure it out. Refigure it out.

Eccentric is what comes to mind. She wears her rings with such flair and sets me straight every single time.  She throws exactly what I’m supposed to make a living off of back in my face and reminds me why I do it. Much love.

Turns out he actually did know this city like the back of his hand and God, I eny him. The first night I got back, I picked up a black marker and wrote ‘Don’t’ on my left hand. When it faded away, I wrote it again. And again. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t be stupid all over again.

 My mother looked at me over the edge of the menu and said ‘You will never want a normal life will you?’  I knew she was thinking of engagements and grandchildren and part time work and for the first time ever, I hesitated before saying ‘Probably not.’

He comes to mind every now and then. An old man who, when I was learning how to crawl, looked over the edge of his newspaper and told my father I was going to have plenty of affairs. I don’t think he meant I was going to be unfaithful once married because well, you can maybe tell that from a walk but certainly not from a crawl. He probably just meant that there were going to be plenty of boys hanging around. Nobody in the family talked about it much but when they did they said he had a gift. They’d never call him a prophet because God forbid that would be blasphemy and if this wrinkled, rich old bastard didn’t deserve a place in heaven, even if just for predicting a future whore, then who did? To this day, I see the fear in my father’s eyes and, brat that I am, rub his nose in it and then do my best to look completely innocent. When the old man breathed his last, I didn’t go to the funeral and later on when everybody was busy weeping I spat on his grave.

And of course, that  reminds me of the uncle who used to sneak into the kitchen and stir scotch into his chai just so he could stand being around the rest of the family for an hour or two. But that’s a story for another day.

‘I met a prostitute who used to be a Grammarian.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah I’m serious. She needed a ride and she ended up telling me about where she went to school.’

‘So then what?’

‘So then I bought her an ice cream cone and gave her a hug’

‘Of course’

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.