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.

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. 

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.

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.

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 =)

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

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?

Blah.

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

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,

Another Gem

'Man plans and God laughs'

Truer words were never spoken.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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 =)