tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75827698593865917032024-03-05T23:46:21.327+05:00Quill Emissionsland of garbled thoughts and restless ideasAsadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-28043297909781296932014-02-13T16:08:00.002+05:002014-02-13T16:08:28.658+05:00New blog!Started my new blog <a href="http://jharokaa.wordpress.com/">here</a>! I'm probably going to focus more on fiction.Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-37901299668077659512013-12-21T23:29:00.001+05:002013-12-21T23:29:58.497+05:00Resurrection?I'm thinking of starting a new blog, in the hopes that the newness will get me posting again.<br /><br />
Yay or nay?Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-20312598912606844752012-10-03T11:14:00.000+05:002012-10-03T11:14:48.760+05:00Drinking RedI know not whose hands<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
rocks erupted from, <br />
or whose feet dragged stars<br />
and stripes through muddy streets. <br />
I know not if the throat<br />
that birthed yells of “Death!” was mine. <br />
I know nothing save for hunger<br />
and the mouths I need to feed.<br />
I know nothing save for my pockets <br />
ringing dully with defeat. <br />
Perched on the edge, <br />
it is hard to not drink <br />
deeply from the red <br />
that burns too hot to be my own, <br />
and watch the world<br />
slowly turn to ash. <o:p></o:p></div>
Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-74271839081062029952012-10-03T10:24:00.002+05:002012-10-03T10:48:38.826+05:00There are days when the people around me here terrify me with their drive and with their focus. I wonder if it is just the way of life in this country to set a goal, fix your eyes on it and just plod on come what may - and that is perhaps why this country is where it is today - or if there is something inherently lacking in me. I wonder if their days are somehow longer than mine, if they can simply force time to flow more slowly around them so they can get more done. I wonder if they ever have time to wonder.Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-55916368014909678802012-09-25T03:41:00.000+05:002012-09-25T03:44:14.479+05:00<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A herd of ponderous grey elephants arrives,<br />
not there one moment,<br />
and then the next, a swarm of skin<br />
ushered onwards across the blue sky<br />
like a blanket over Karachi<br />
by the salty sea breeze. <br />
The beasts do not stop here often, <br />
for this hot and dusty land<br />
offers them not<br />
the watering hole they seek. <br />
But it is September<br />
and the moist wind gestures<br />
the final flourish<br />
of a conductor’s routine.<br />
It waits with bated breath<br />
for the earth to gather itself<br />
and marvel at the magic<br />
it was witness to.<br />
Silence sits expectantly, <br />
stale air between two hands<br />
inclined to applause. <br />
A leaf fidgets in the quiet<br />
until rain and rocks reunite <br />
like the palms of an audience breaking<br />
into thunderous appreciation of<br />
the music of the monsoon. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-49197012431097818232012-09-11T20:21:00.000+05:002012-09-11T20:21:36.774+05:00The Key<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Four
and a half pointy teeth<br />
bite into my skin<br />
as my fingers, blind and questing,<br />
explore the denim darkness <br />
of my fading Levi’s jeans. <br />
It clinks coldly at my touch, <br />
a jaw that reminisces <br />
its past life as a bell.<br />
Unsheathed, it gleams.<br />
“<i>Wheatish” </i>my mother would have
called it.<br />
The key is golden<br />
like fields of wheat. <br />
But my mother calls everything “<i>wheatish”</i><br />
like my skin<br />
when I asked what colour I was<br />
and the sea of tents that August<br />
that still floods her dreams.<br />
Silently my key slinks<br />
into the door that awaits its<br />
whisperings and secrets.<br />
Click. <br />
Home greets me once more<br />
as it did my mother once<br />
in fields of wheat<br />
between four and a half pointy teeth.</span>Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-72605182063912839782012-06-04T05:05:00.001+05:002012-06-04T05:05:12.833+05:00I fumbled with my camera in the near-darkness. The cold had numbed my fingers to the point that they could not quite tell if they were truly gripping something. Hastily, I changed the settings on the camera and pointed it towards the heavens once again as I tried to brand the spectacle before me in something more permanent than memory.<br />
<br />
Sometimes you can feel the universe stirring, all of its whirring cogs, all its rhythmically pulsating, oscillating, revolving machinations aligning purposefully. It is not uncommon for the sun, the moon, and the earth to align, but that cold night, on that mountaintop, they aligned with not only my eyes, but with the lens of my camera, and as the magic was burned onto digital memory and retina alike, I knew that I, too, was part of that elegant machinery.Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-24596012534427077292012-05-28T15:30:00.000+05:002012-05-28T15:35:15.062+05:00FootprintsIt would be the epitome of ungratefulness to say that I had a rough childhood, because it was anything but that. I was well-fed, well-clothed and went to a great school. I was surrounded affectionate family members and teachers.<br />
<br />
One does not have to live long, however, to realize that nothing really is ever perfect.<br />
<br />
As a child, I had a phase where I was convinced that I was all but invisible, convinced that while people could see and hear me, I could not affect them in any way. Perhaps that was why, even from my an early age, I began putting a lot of my energy into academics as a I burnt myself to show the world that I was around.<br />
<br />
As with all phases, this one was shrugged off as I grew.<br />
<br />
Old fears tend to creep up now and then, though, reminders reaching out from the past. Some nights I find myself staring at the ceiling of my dorm room wondering if I am still a human-shaped void, a holograph that cavorts into people's lives but lacks the mass to affect change in them. Here, especially, so far from home, among people so different from mine, it is much easier to fall prey to such feelings.<br />
<br />
I do end up falling asleep every such night, though, for it only takes a little observation to see the footprints I am leaving behind in the lives of my new friends. They are subtle yet not insignificant. I see them in how my devout Christian roommate asked me to I teach him how to pray; in how, at one point, many on my floor were obsessed with Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan; in the looks of effort they would assume as they'd try to utter the guttural "kh" sound in order to correctly pronounce the name of said artist; in how, after a screening of <i>Khuda Kay Liye</i>, I could tell that some preconceived notions had been shattered; and in how someone said to me, "Knowing you has single-handedly given me an appreciation for Pakistan."Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-67717019095670657542012-05-28T02:35:00.001+05:002012-05-28T23:08:12.916+05:00The college campus and everything I know in this strange land is quickly left behind. I sit in the back seat of the car next to one of my favourite relatives.<br />
<br />
When I saw her on this continent for the first time, she seemed... different. Perhaps it was that I had never seen her in jeans before, or perhaps it was because the image of her sitting in the back seat of the her daughter's car contrasted so sharply with her social butterfly persona back in Karachi. But then she demanded a tour of my campus, asked lots of questions and delighted in everything I showed her and everything felt normal again.<br />
<br />
She peers at me from over her glasses. "So," she says, "tell me about who you'll be rooming with next year. Did you pick him yourself?"<br />
<br />
I nod and give her his name. She nods thoughtfully at his Muslim name.<br />
<br />
"And why did you pick him?"<br />
<br />
"Well because he's a practising -"<br />
<br />
"Practising Muslim? Hmm, what do you mean by that?"<br />
<br />
It takes me a split second to come up with an answer. Unfortunately, I start speaking before that has happened. "Well he prays and -"<br />
<br />
The trap, however, has been sprung.<br />
<br />
"Does he lie? Cheat? Does he say bad things about people? Does he steal? Fight? Is he a good person?"<br />
<br />
Flustered, I nod slowly. "Yes, of course."<br />
<br />
Satisfied, she turns away. I, too, turn to face the trees zipping by, silently grateful that such conversations and ideas do not exist solely in late-night conversations on the campus of a fancy, private liberal arts college, grateful that I have people like her in my family. Not everyone is so fortunate.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
--</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
"How about these?" he says, handing me a pair of glasses. I replace them with my own and peer into a small mirror. Without the proper lenses, the whole world is blurry. For a proper inspection, I bring my face so close enough to the mirror that my breath fogs its surface. I make a noncommittal sound, take the glasses off, and place them in the small pile I've made for frames that have passed the first round of inspection.<br />
<br />
"I like these, but they're a little too rectangular," I say. "I'm looking for something a little rounder."<br />
<br />
He strokes his large, black beard, nods, and begins picking out glasses from a rack. While I wait, I look around the shop. The man's father, similarly bearded, sits in a corner reading something.<br />
<br />
The sound of the front door opening - or rather, the intensification of the sound of Karachi outside - makes my head turn in the direction of the newcomer. Probably in his sixties, he walks in with a gait that may have been rolling and fluid in his youth. His hair is as white as his dark glasses are black, and his moustache is stubbornly in the middle of the two colours. He sends a loud greeting in our general direction.<br />
<br />
"<i>Assalaam alaikum.</i>"<i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
We all reply appropriately.<br />
<br />
He then walks up to the counter and positions himself next to me and my pile of glasses. Taking of his dark glasses, he gives the man - who is still picking out frames with the right amount of roundness - a hard look. "<i>Oho! Iss ko bhi maulvi bana diya hai?</i>"<br />
<br />
At this, the father walks to his son and thumps him on the back. "<i>Haan ji, </i>he is a <i>haafiz </i>now."<br />
<br />
"That's very nice! <i>Aik baat yaad rakhna. Aik dafa toh Quran tarjumay kay saath toh parhna chahiyay.</i>"<br />
<br />
Two taken-aback beards bob slowly in agreement.<br />
<br />Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-55227812429563181672012-03-26T09:57:00.000+05:002012-03-26T10:00:25.162+05:00Somehow we always pick the very cold days to go out into the city. It was freezing that day. But it had to be done. I had run out of detergent and she needed eggs; we were planning to bake brownies for a friend's birthday that evening. The same friend had once told us that there was a Trader Joe's not too far away that was more well-stocked and significantly cheaper than the department stores closer to campus.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was on the first bus that we realized that neither of us had remembered to bring gloves. The unusually mild Minnesotan winter that year had spoilt us, making us complacent in a land where every warm layer counted.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We waited at the bus stop where we'd switch buses for a while, rubbing hands and stamping feet. I pulled my phone out and checked the time. The bus wouldn't be arriving for another twenty minutes. It was too cold to sit around and the shop was only a few blocks away so we decided to get there on foot. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bad decision. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After getting slightly lost and then getting back on track (but nowhere near Trader Joe's yet) we were cold and miserable. Giving up, we rushed to the first, tiny grocery store we saw. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The walk back, however, was much worse. Since we were carrying plastic bags, there was no was we could keep our gloveless hands in our pockets to provide them some semblance of warmth. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A few minutes of walking later, she stopped in her tracks, asked me to hold her bags for a minute and looked at her hands. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I can't feel them," she said. I looked at them. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
They were red and clawed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Try moving them." We still had half the walk and a whole bus ride left. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I can't." She looked worried. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We glanced around and decided to go to a small coffee shop a few feet away. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Warmth.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We put our bags down and took seats and waited. After a few minutes, her hands didn't seem to be getting better. I could see panic in her eyes. We walked up to the counter and and she told a concerned bearded barrista what had happened. Without a pause, he filled a large paper cup to the brim with hot water and told her to hold it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All this while a man had been standing behind us. He cleared his throat and I turned around. He was wearing black, had spiky hair, and a wide smile. There was a hands-free phone headset plugged into his left ear. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"You're at the right place at the right time," he beamed. He grinned at our nonplussed faces and gestured at the table behind him. A motley of about fifteen people was sitting, squished at a table that would have been hard-pressed to seat eight. "Today, we're having a conference for alternative healers," he said. "And we're here to help."<br />
<br />
Fast-forward five minutes into the future and my friend was standing at the counter, clutching her cup of warm water while everyone at the table sat expressionless with their palms facing her, channeling their positive energy into warming her hands and I was trying my best not to grin. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Soon the mixture of heat from the cup and the collective positive energy in the coffee shop worked its magic. We picked up our bags, thanked everyone and left, waving away invitations for tea.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Once outside, I smirked at her. "Do you <i>believe</i>?"</div>Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-40067101866759157702012-03-12T15:34:00.001+05:002012-03-12T15:34:09.338+05:00"Boston's awesome."<br />
"Oh? I've never been there."<br />
"Yeah, it's great. So livable. I think I might want to live there for a while. Then... I'll go back home."<br />
"That's the first time I've seen you slightly sad about going back."<br />
<br />
<br />Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-80396640310059981922012-01-06T02:00:00.001+05:002012-01-06T23:40:00.805+05:00Snapshots of Fall<div style="text-align: center;">
I</div>
<br />
Applause greets me. They have been waiting for me and even though they do not yet know how to pronounce my name properly, one or two of them exclaim a butchered interpretation of it.<br />
<br />
"You're here!"<br />
<br />
"We were beginning to think you'd never show up."<br />
<br />
"I'm so glad you finally made it."<br />
<br />
Grinning, I take a seat as the class resumes. Yes, I have made it.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
II</div>
<br />
It is the time of the day when it's hard to tell if it's too late in the night or just too early in the morning.We sit cross-legged on the floor, each facing the other two, the points of a triangle, each representing one of the religions of Abraham. In hushed voices we speak, talking about the small, isolated differences in beliefs and practices, rites, rituals and stories amid a sea of many, many fundamental similarities. There is little doubt that we swim in tributaries of the same river.<br />
<br />
We speak into the night.<br />
<br />
The girl who has been working quietly at the table shuts her laptop purposefully, edges a chair towards us and sits down, chin resting on palm. <br />
<br />
"This is just way too interesting."<br />
<br />
Conversation continues. The girl's eyes move to follow the flow of words, spectators to a three-way tennis match.<br />
<br />
A lull. Someone yawns. I check the time on my phone. It's late; I have to be up and about in a few hours. Begging leave, I rise to my feet. The triangle breaks. One of the two gives me a sad smile and apologizes for keeping me up late. I wave the apology aside.<br />
<br />
"This was important."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
III</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Lightdarklightdarklight. Music. Bad music. The only constant sources of light are the glowing bands around everyone's wrists and necks. People surround me. I can't really tell which ones are just staggering around and which ones are dancing. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I stay for a while but it soon gets too crowded and hot and sweaty. Grabbing some like-minded people, I leave in search for something that fits my idea of fun. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
IV</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm out in the city on my own for the first time. Even at half past four in the evening, downtown Minneapolis is pretty deserted. With hardly a car or a soul in sight, it seems like a scene out of some post-Apocalyptic movie, especially to someone used to the hustle and bustle of Karachi. The only person around is a middle-aged woman smoking on a bench next to the bus stop I'm standing at. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I have one hand huddled in the pocket of my jacket and the other clutching my phone. I alternate hands whenever my vulnerable hand starts going numb. It's cold. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm lost. I had not anticipated that the bus drivers would only mumble the name of each stop and, so, stayed on the bus much longer than I was supposed to. When I realized that, I panicked and got off at the very next stop. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I check the time on my phone and then look at bus routes and timings on Google Maps. The bus seems to be late. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In an attempt to stamp the cold out of my feet, I decide to walk around the bus stop. It is only then that I spot the bus I had been waiting for stop at a traffic light on the opposite side of the road. I've been waiting at the wrong bus stop. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The traffic light turns green. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My heart sinks as the bus jolts into motion. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I break into a sprint. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
V</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Chicago. H&M is a madhouse but my friends want to stay a little longer. Tired of awkwardly standing around, I walk out into Michigan Avenue and drown in a river of sights and sounds. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
People, hordes of them. Families. Couples. Businessmen. Window-shoppers. Women obscured by shopping bags. Hipsters. Accents. Hairstyles. Scarves worn in at least seven different ways. A sprinkling of Halloween costumes. A bride with her bouquet and groom and bridesmaids carrying the train of her white dress. Tourists with DSLRs for masks. So many iPhones. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Fascinated, I try to guess the age, the gender, the sexuality, the socioeconomic standing, the religion and the ethnicity of everyone who walks by. I like putting things in boxes; boxes are easier to stack and organize. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Lately, however, people have developed this tendency of not staying in the boxes I put them in. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
VI</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I am terrified. I have no idea what had come over me when I decided to do this but here I am, at the gates of the Jewish Community Center. Apprehensively, I enter and find my way to the seminar room. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Everyone here seems to know everyone else. With nobody to mingle with, I quietly take a seat. Part of me finds interest in the fact that I did not feel <i>this </i>alienated during my first few weeks at college, in a completely new country, far, far away from home. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But then the lights dim and the speaker I came all the way here to listen to begins to speak. He's a Palestinian doctor and speaks of the loss of his wife and daughters due to bombing by the Israelis. He speaks, also, of forgiveness and understanding. He speaks of peace. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We all melt together, differences set aside, into pure humanity. </div>Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-24784155566147847132011-10-24T09:10:00.001+05:002011-10-24T09:16:35.628+05:00It took me a while to realize that the handful of fiery red trees sprinkled amongst the many, many green ones were not in full bloom but were, in fact, slowly going to sleep for the winter.<br />
<br />
The fire of Fall had engulfed almost everything by the time my compass stopped spinning madly, pointing towards <i>What on Earth am I doing here? </i>one moment and <i>This is where I want to be </i>the next.<br />
<br />
There are still days that set it aquiver, but those are becoming further and fewer by the week. <br />
<br />
<i>This is where I want to be.</i>Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-57332402895206248712011-09-07T19:45:00.001+05:002011-09-07T19:47:13.251+05:00KHI - DXB - AMS - MSPLife is a whirlwind today.<br />
<br />
<i>Is this really happening?</i>Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-40852662316449558742011-08-29T23:58:00.002+05:002011-08-30T00:15:01.624+05:00They hang high in the air for a split second, brilliantly coloured baubles, vivid against the slate grey sky. Then, like rain, they fall to the earth, shattering on impact until the ground, stretching for miles and miles in all directions around me, is littered with the colourful remnants of broken dreams.<br />
<br />
Undeterred by the constant bombardment, I continue my search and scan the glittering earth as I walk. I carefully pick my way to avoid treading on the already defeated dreams, but there are so many here that this cannot be completely prevented. The crunch of disappointment, the crinkle of hopelessness issue from under my shoes every few steps.<br />
<br />
<i>So many broken dreams. Seven billion people's worth of broken dreams.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
This is beginning to feel futile. They all look the same, these dreams. I cannot possibly find my own and attempt to nurture it back to its wholesome form. I cannot tell one apart from the other, for while they might all appear in different shades and colours, they all share a fundamental similarity. They are all worthless, sent here only to be forgotten.<br />
<br />
I shake my head. This <i>is </i>futile. Maybe I should forget too, and move on.<br />
<br />
I turn on my heel and head back.<br />
<br />
I dream anew. Maybe this one will stay airborne. Maybe one day I will be able to return to this land of broken dreams, cradle my old, shattered ones in my hands and fondly remember the times we spent together.Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-85607914251922903242011-08-25T22:58:00.002+05:002011-08-25T23:08:40.680+05:00My suitcase stands in the corner of my room, patiently waiting to devour the contents of my closet one day. Everything else is done, the vaccinations, the paperwork, all done. Now we're just waiting. Every night I fall asleep wrapped up in a blanket of hope for the coming morning; every noon, I wake up and as I check the time on my phone, the same blanket becomes a shroud of disappointment.<br />
<br />
<i>It's too late in the day. Were today the day, I would have known by now. The office closes after noon. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
I await a call from the US Consulate telling me that my passport is ready with a visa stamped on it and that I may pick it up, a call that is the only thing that stands between me and the kind of education I have been dying to immerse myself in for months.<br />
<br />
I have been waiting for over two months now, and the next few days will decide whether or not I will be on board when the plane leaving for St Paul, Minnesota takes off.<br />
<br />
Today, however, was different. I woke up at around midday as usual, flung a heavy arm towards the bedside table, plucked my phone from it and saw that it was 12:32 PM. No missed calls from strange numbers. Nothing. But before my blanket became an envelope of tangible, weighty, constricting disappointment, I cast it aside.<br />
<br />
There is a certain feeling of liberation that comes with the knowledge that you have done everything necessary to achieve something and now the final outcome depends upon variables you have no control over, and a certain giddy joy that I welcome with open arms. August has not been a kind month. Between wearing away the floor of my room with my incessant pacing and constantly checking the calendar, fearfully ticking each day off, between doctor appointments where I'd be told that stress had made my blood pressure rise and frequent, random outbursts of anger, time has both lingered on forever and rushed by impossibly fast. Now, though, I feel at peace. I have let go.<br />
<br />
Life has not been particularly cruel to me now that I look back at the eighteen years I've been around for. In fact - and I say this with both gratitude and a little bit of shame - the cruelest moments of my life have been receiving bad grades or something else along those very lines. In a way, that seems to mean that things have favourable odds of working out for me. But if they don't... I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later.<br />
<br />
With that in mind, I think it will be easier for me to bear the brunt of whatever, good or ill, happens, and make the most of my situation. To thrash and cry and vow to be unhappy and unforgiving if things don't go your way is to lose, to fail, to not deserve any more than what you got.<br />
<br />
So, dear life, it's your turn to roll the dice. I'll be alright.Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-8595645147186108202011-07-16T22:26:00.002+05:002011-07-16T22:47:56.481+05:00She sat on the black leather couch in front of mine. She had a slightly odd hairdo, with her red, short-cropped hair piled to one side of her head, and a Macbook. She, like me, was seventeen, and her name was Anna.<br />
<br />
Her twin brother had been diagnosed of autism at a very young age, and her interaction with him was what had led to her great interest in the disorder. She had acquired an internship here, at the MIT Media Labs, and currently had the task of maintaining an up-to-date database containing all important papers that had been published about autism.<br />
<br />
"So," she said, looking up at me as she took a short break from work, "where are you from?"<br />
<br />
I shifted slightly on my own couch, making an embarrassing squeak as I did so. <i>Should I tell her? Yes? No? How will she react?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
"I'm from..." I began. <i>Yes. No. Yes. No. YesNoYesNoYes. </i>"From Pakistan."<br />
<br />
"Oh?" she said, eyeing me. Reflexively, I stiffened a little bit. "That is <b>so </b>cool!"Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-7273245466291705332011-07-12T06:43:00.000+05:002011-07-12T06:43:50.833+05:00Most of the audience had scurried to the cafe upstairs before the lights had been flicked on, the credits had begun rolling and the half-hour break between the films being played at the film festival had properly begun. By the time we had climbed the flight of stairs leading to the small cafe, there was no space left for us there. We tried awkwardly loitering by a small table laden with board games and little odds and ends for a little while.<br />
<br />
Aware of how odd we were looking just standing around like that, we decided to look for somewhere else to sit. He picked up the guitar with a broken string, available for anyone to just grab and play, and headed for the small balcony that functions as the smoking area of the cafe.<br />
<br />
I steeled myself. Allergic to cigarette smoke, I usually start coughing rather violently if someone smokes a few yards away. However, this time the choice was between exposure to carcinogens and being left to stand awkwardly by myself with nothing to do other than poking at the dice that lay next to a game of Snakes and Ladders. Obviously, I chose the former, taking a deep breath and letting peer pressure force me into the smoking area.<br />
<br />
It wasn't so bad, initially, probably because the balcony was open and fresh air kept wafting in. He began strumming on the guitar. My feet began tapping in time with the rhythm while my hands busied themselves in sending a few dozen texts. It took me a while to realize we had company.<br />
<br />
I cannot recall if they'd been sitting there when we walked in, or if they had arrived when I wasn't paying attention, but there were two others with us, a man and a woman.<br />
<br />
He was tall and broad and bearded, and wore a very creased pale green <i>kurta</i>. He was standing, leaning on the wall. She was dark and deathly thin and sat with her elbows on the table. A bright red phone lay near her right hand, which was currently occupied.<br />
<br />
She was smoking.<br />
<br />
I forcibly turned my head away from her and began staring into the depths of a pedestal fan beside me, partly to save the glowing end of her cigarette from one of my death-glares, and partly in an attempt to minimize the smoke that reached my lungs.<br />
<br />
The whirring of the fan, the twangs from my companion's guitar, and my own deliberately minimal breathing left my mind in a sort of trance, one where it becomes easy to pay attention to conversations - so easy, in fact, that they become embedded into your memory.<br />
<br />
He had missed the film about the Afghani girls who had formed a football team after the Taliban has been forced out of Kabul. She had seen it more than once. She had even worked with the organization that had made the film; she was a freelancer. He was interested and pressed her for information. She gladly gave it. He ran out of questions and the conversation became trivial.<br />
<br />
"That's Arabic? What does it say?" he asked. I turned to face the two in time to see him point at a shiny metallic bracelet she wore on her left wrist.<br />
<br />
She gave the slightest of shrugs. "Oh, it's just the four <i>Quls</i>."<br />
<br />
"So you're religious?"<br />
<br />
"I'm an atheist," she replied almost callously, shrugging again.<br />
<br />
For a split second, something horribly like seething rage washed over me. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it evaporated, only to be replaced by shame and bewilderment. I was confused about what had just happened to me. Quickly, I reassessed everything that had taken place in the past minute or so to figure out what had enraged me so before asking myself a few questions. Did I have a problem with atheism? No, I replied to myself, I did not. People have the right to believe in or not believe in whatever they like. And yet, something about the woman's callousness had upset me.<br />
<br />
It was in that split second that I understood the foundation of all the religious intolerance around us, from the strict, scarily ridiculous Blasphemy laws, to minority discrimination. With something as personal as religion, differences in beliefs can feel a lot like a personal attack.<br />
<br />
In the same split second, I also realized the true meaning of religious <i>tolerance</i>. It is not 'religious indifference' which is what, I now understand, most of my non-religious 'secular' friends practice. No, <i>tolerance</i> means accepting that people may do, say, or believe in things that might upset you and also accept that they have the right to do so - unless of course, it's a personal attack, but we're not getting into that - and that while you also have the right to be upset about it, talk about it, or even write a blog post about it, you do <b>not</b> have the right to harm them for their views or force your views on them.Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-52434693476974241152011-04-29T02:51:00.001+05:002011-04-29T03:46:29.707+05:00Leaving LyceumWith close ties to the family that owns and runs the school, as well as a parent who teaches there, I have been acquainted with Lyceum far longer than most of the students who walk its corridors. I have seen the various buildings it has occupied over the years, met with most of the teachers, and watched (almost) every play the students have put on in the past decade.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>When I was little, my mother would sometimes pick me up from school and take me to Lyceum if she had unfinished business to complete, an exam to invigilate or a meeting to attend. Sometimes I would tag along when the second-year Biology students went to the beach for their class trip. It was there that I saw the genuine smiles on the students' faces, saw that happy they were and saw, also, the ties between then, bonds which were strong, permanent, palpable. It was there that I fell in love.<br />
<br />
It was there that I sealed my fate and decided that Lyceum was for me. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Two years ago, I walked through the doors of this school expectant. I was ready to make life-long friends, ready for adventure, ready to grow. I was ready for Lyceum. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Or so I thought. </div><div><br />
</div><div>In retrospect, I was not. Changes needed to be made.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I came to Lyceum slightly smug and quite self-assured. I had topped my class as far back as most people could remember. I had done so effortlessly. I had even been called by the Principal once and, in front of everyone, been declared an asset to the school. My old school. Lyceum, however, was much, much different. Humility was hammered into me as soon as I realized that almost everyone of my new classmates - every God damn one of them - had been just like me. Class toppers, chart toppers, my classes were all full of them. Suddenly I wasn't above standard. I <i>was </i>standard. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I came to Lyceum with a habit of judging people. Sometimes I would come across a seemingly unremarkable person and instantly deem them unworthy of attending such an institution. <i>You do not belong here, </i>I would think. But then they would go ahead and do or say or write something - anything, a gesture here, a word there - that would blow my mind with its brilliance. I am ashamed to say that this happened many times before my habit deadened. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I came to Lyceum without a clue of how true friendship worked. I expected people to just click and be friends. Forever. Initially, I had big doubts about the group of people I suddenly found myself with. I found it difficult and uncomfortable to be myself around them for some reason or the other. At times I even considered leaving them altogether and trying my luck elsewhere. But something made me stay. And I'm glad that it did. By the end of my first year, when I had begun to loosen up a little, I realized that I loved them dearly. All of them. It was through this experience that I learnt how to be proactive when it came to making friends and not wait around for it happening by chance. Even today, I surprise myself sometimes by how easily I have started to make friends. There are people out there who I've known for a painfully short time but feel like I have been with for years. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Once I had been... altered, I became attuned to the magic of Lyceum. It was <i>everywhere</i>, in Bashir Bhai's greasy food, in the constricted corridors, on the benches, under the <i>mooras</i>, everywhere. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I had what I had asked for, life-long friends (who are permitted to hunt me down and beat me up if I ever lose touch with them), adventures and growth.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I came to Lyceum one person. In less that forty-eight hours, I graduate. I am leaving Lyceum another person.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I am leaving Lyceum, but Lyceum will not leave me. </div>Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-14729862721416025522011-03-06T20:27:00.004+05:002011-04-29T03:20:52.148+05:00ThornsYou stand back and lean on your dirty shovel, wiping sweat off your forehead with the back of your free hand and stare at the patch of freshly upturned earth a few paces ahead. The deed is done.<br />
<br />
And then, one day, your hard work pays off. The vivid green finger of the seed you had sown pokes out of the soil, extending day by day as it struggles to touch the sky. You immediately begin nurturing it. Soon, it unfurls a leaf, and then another one and then one more.<br />
<br />
But things begin to go wrong.<br />
<br />
You watch in horror as the seedling, tainted by the touch of some fell force, begins to transform into something twisted. Sharp spines and midnight black thorns sprout all over it until it seems jagged enough to cut the very air surrounding it. It grows - fast - but at odd, horribly contorted angles. The flowers it sends out in the dead of winter are dark red, black even, and give off the unmistakable, metallic stench of blood.<br />
<br />
What do you do?<br />
<br />
What do you do when you begin to grow into the wrong sort of person, the kind of person you never wished to become?Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-53386180606316977622011-01-06T22:29:00.000+05:002011-01-06T22:29:22.260+05:00Williams Supplement<b>Imagine looking through a window at any environment that is particularly significant to you. Reflect on the scene, paying close attention to the relation between what you are seeing and why it is meaningful to you. Please limit your statement to 300 words.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can feel myself slowly drifting off to sleep as my knees fold to my stomach and my arms curl around them. Without gravity, I am floating, adrift. I am a fetus in the womb again, except this time the womb is a giant construct of steel and circuitry, except that it is hurtling through space, and except that it has windows – no bigger than those in an airplane. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stare out one such window, as I always do in the moments before I lose myself to sleep. The inky black nothingness provides me with a strange mix of comfort and exhilaration. The sheer sense of scale, the fact that the slice of the universe I can see through the window is enough to fit a few trillion Suns into – an understatement, that – is enough to make anyone dizzy. It is an attestation of the insignificance of what we know about the universe, about the world, about ourselves so far. The endless reaches yet to be explored and the infinite possibilities make my mouth water. I lick my lips just in case; globules of floating saliva are unseemly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My gaze might as well be sweeping indifferently across my own home-planet, somewhere amid the smattering of white pinpricks. The scale of things dazzles me again. I realize how tiny we really are, how the light from everything humanity has ever known is not even registered by my retina. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We are microscopic and so are our petty affairs – dirty politics, greed, war. No amount of bloodshed will ever make the universe pause for even a breath. Look at us, squabbling over the speck of dust we inhabit, not seeing all there is to explore, to learn, to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">understand</i>. We must focus our energies into becoming what we’ve always had the potential to: great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-32917223420427329752011-01-01T04:03:00.001+05:002011-01-01T04:10:53.886+05:00I remember how, when someone was looking for something they couldn't find, my grandmother would say, "Look for something else." And sure enough, the moment the house began being dismantled in the search of something else, instead, what had formerly been lost would be immediately found. I remember, also, how I'd be amazed by this phenomenon.<br />
<br />
Words, I've learnt, aren't any different from a missing earring, a particularly tattered book, or that one specific pair of woolen socks. You never find the words you<i> need</i>, until, of course, you don't need them anymore.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Edit</b>: Happy New Year, everyone! Here's to a better year, one with more frequent blog-posts.Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-33882724616255500912010-09-23T20:21:00.002+05:002010-09-23T22:26:12.171+05:00MeWords. They're good for description, for describing a character. A character like me. I am male and slightly shorter than average. The eyes behind my glasses, which have rectangular lenses, are brown. Although my ears are finally proportional to my head - which had a lot of catching up to do in terms of growth not too long ago - they still earn me the occasional snide comment or two. I guess they're just different, despite the fact that I cannot exactly say how. I like my teeth. It would be sad to be dissatisfied with your teeth after having them caged in metal braces for almost two years. I dislike my voice. At least it doesn't normally sound as bad as it sounds over the phone. And through a microphone. And in video recordings.<br />
<br />
Words. You can paint pretty pictures of people with them but that is all you end up with - an image, two dimensional and lifeless. Words cannot define people. The fingers of our experiences and the actions we consequently take shape the wet clay that we are. They mold us as they brush over us, leaving the eternal proof of their passage behind for all to see, etched in our character.<br />
<br />
I am defined by the sound of a camera shutter as it opens and closes and by the time that stretches between the two clicks, time that is both not more than a heartbeat and longer than several deep breaths. I am defined by the reassuring feeling of the pen in my hand and by the ecstasy it brings when cruising along a sheet of paper. I am defined by overcast days when the trees look greener against the granite grey sky and when a single breeze can be both warm and cool at the same time. I am defined by the smell of rain, of freshly brewed coffee, and of bookshops, pine trees and toast. I am defined by crisp winter mornings with dust motes dancing in the sunlight. I am defined by chocolate and ice cream, how they melt in my mouth, and by cheesecake - only during the time between when I cut myself another slice and when I scold myself for eating it. I am defined by the happiness that comes from getting the amounts of ginger, soy sauce and wasabi just right while eating sushi. I am defined by the manic passion that grips me when I find an interesting book, by how it causes me to cease existing in this realm for a time as it pushes me to read on and by how it suddenly gets replaced by overwhelming emptiness as soon as I turn the last page.Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-69623259688018006632010-09-10T04:53:00.001+05:002010-09-10T14:07:33.035+05:00An undulating mass of people, vehicles and bloated shopping bags throngs the street, every square inch of it. We're all looking outside the windows of our car, our eyes sweeping for a potential parking spot. No luck. There's no space at all.<br />
<br />
"We shouldn't have come this early."<br />
<br />
I check the digital display of the clock on the dashboard. It's 1:30 AM.<br />
<br />
My parents stare wide-eyed at all the activity going on around us. I hear someone mutter the word <i>deewanapan</i>. I sigh inwardly. After living in Karachi for so long, I wonder how anyone could still be amazed by this. This is Karachi. The city that never sleeps.<br />
<br />
We find a place to park in some random <i>gali </i>and then proceed to pick our way through the muddy, post-rain streets as we walk towards the restaurant (read: <i>dhaaba</i>). It's a shabby place. Only men lounge about on the ground floor. There's also some tables upstairs, 'for families only.' We make our way up a flight of marble steps. The din of people and cutlery meets my ears. There's no space to breathe. It's 2 AM now. A family of about seven suddenly gets up from their table, done with their food. We rush to grab their seats.<br />
<br />
The table isn't exactly a pleasant sight. It's littered with used napkins, spilled water, bits of bread and the occasional squeezed lemon. A waiter appears and hurriedly sweeps the stuff aside with a dirty wet rag. We take our seats, careful not to rest our elbows on the table and order our food. Another waiter brings out a silver pitcher full of water and some glasses. We look at each other and order mineral water; small bottles so nobody has to use the glasses. The food arrives almost instantly. The steaming hot <i>nihari</i> and the crispy <i>naan</i> fresh out of the <i>tandoor</i> are delicious. Of course it's not easy eating while making sure nothing touches the table.<br />
<br />
I look about the room. Most people sit comfortably cross-legged, with their slippers on the floor and their plates in their laps. I feel out of place with my bright green Converse shoes and my thoughts forming in English.Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582769859386591703.post-91183996857127016042010-09-05T17:39:00.000+05:002010-09-05T17:39:50.753+05:00It's funny, in that utterly un-amusing way, how life suddenly steps in and forces you to change your perspective. It's funny how one minute you're bitching to yourself about how tough life has become, about how hectic your A2 year is, about how college applications, SATs, the tons of homework you get, and the many extra curricular activities you've somehow wound up with are slowly tearing away at your essence and then the next minute you realize how trivial and petty your grievances are and how you cannot even begin to imagine what some people might be going through that day.<br />
<br />
It's also funny how no one is laughing.Asadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13525642884999811894noreply@blogger.com8