White.

Guest post by an anonymous friend.

Met her again yesterday; our meetings have become quite frequent in the last six months. Unlike most of 2010 and 2011 when she used to remember me hardly once or twice in several months, and that too without remorse of any sort.

She was wearing white, and wore the same pearl necklace that I had gifted her. She looked beautiful. But then, she always did. She seemed to me to be serene. Happy, rather.  But unlike the previous meetings, I did most of the talking. She didn’t have the answers to most of my questions, though. When I asked her how she had been, all she did was smile reluctantly and then look away.

The ambience swirled and suddenly we found ourselves on the roof from where one could see the full moon, shining bright. Not unlike her eyes often did when she was pleased about something. But something was wrong with the moon too; it shined reluctantly just like she smiled half-heartedly.
Something tells me that this was last time we met; the touch of her skin didn’t feel the same and the twinkle in her eye had disappeared.

When I woke up, it didn’t feel right.  It felt incomplete. Does this mean that she will never come in my dreams again? That smile. That cautious smile has induced a perpetual aura of discomfort around me. All I have left of her is how I felt during the dream, it’s beautiful. That feeling is pure, like the white she wore. I'd like to hold on to it - they say masochism knows no bounds.


'Why is it so important to dream?' 'In my dreams, we are still together.' - Inception.

The Beginning of the End.

Excited about tomorrow is what I am. Last session, last day of Rahbar. Happy and sad. Yellow and blue. Red and green, my heart is true. I have no idea what the hell I'm saying. Let's blame it on lack of sleep as usual.

I'll miss the girls. But I'll miss the beautiful school and the foggy grounds too. The smelly, gorgeous fields, the random cows. Doodh patti, crazy driving to and from the school. Crazier mentors. Happy pictures, silly faces, cute drawings, dumb words, fun discussions.

Meh, getting maudlin. I'll have more of these, I know that.

But you know what they say... Nothing beats your first time.

Questions, Thoughts & Meltdowns.

Guest post by the insanely talented Sarah.

Questions, thoughts.

On getting over oneself and learning to go back to God.

Why can't I find solace where I was always taught to find it?

What is it that makes the creation so ungrateful. What suddenly makes a friend more indifferent than an enemy. What turns a lover into a cold, cold stranger? How does a child, given all the love and care possible, turn away from the parent so easily.

Why is it so hard for me to face reality and embrace what I need to make me whole. I don't need people. I don't need you. I can do it all on my own, so why do I use these feelings as obstacles and people as crutches. Why do I use the opinions of the world to define who I am?

I know anything is possible when the right kind of concentration and discipline. Am I just scared? Am I just scared to commit to something even though I know it's right for me? Good for me?

Why yes, there are knives in the kitchen drawer, Sarah, and there's rope on the shelf. But that's not what you really want, so why don't you get out of that tiny godforsaken space in your mind and do more, be more, live the way life is supposed to be lived, and not think about the hurt and the evil and the sad and lonely. There is so much more, and there is so much you can do to heal the world. Look around at what you have before you break down and cry because something didn't happen the way you wanted it to.

Undermining your feelings based on what goes on in other peoples' lives is being unfair to yourself. But there is a way to change those feelings instead of ignoring them. Be positive. Be grateful. Feel from deep inside your heart where you hid God away from yourself; don't 'feel' from the outside that is bruised from the world, by her and him and them and it.

And when you're hurt, take it up with Him because people will leave tomorrow even if they can make you feel better today.

I know all of this. Even as I crumple to the floor and ask my invisible past 'why?', I know who I really should be asking. But I don't, because I am embarrassed; I am ashamed. I have failed as the child. I have failed as the lover and the friend. I have failed as the creation, ungrateful to my Creator.

But I know I can turn back, make amends. I know it's not too late till my last breath leaves my throat. And that is all I want to focus my energies on. Turn back. Be.

Starting now.

Peek.

Shout-out to a special mom who is very special. And also very beautiful. And I love your kid. You've done an awesome job raising this gorgeous girl.  

Shrouded.

Guest post by an Anonymous friend. Feedback is appreciated, minions.

Every muscle ached, each breath heaved. Tired, so very tired. Straining to take the next step, the next breath. Sand in her eyes, metal weights on her arms, tinier weights on her eyelids. Can’t lift your head, can’t life your eyelids, heavy, so heavy. It consumes you, the exhaustion. It gathers every iota of your energy and centers it; then little by little unravels it and sends it floating away from you. Slowly, slowly, so that at first it isn't noticeable, this change. But little by little, it chips away at you. Eating up parts of your mind, your soul, your body. Fatigue, weakness, weary, so tired. Threatens to overwhelm you, erase your existence. It shrouds your body like a fine gray mist. Always gray, the color of the hopeless, helpless. You can’t go on, you just don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Lie down, tumble in a heap on the hard frozen earth, cradle your cheek against the unyielding carpet of crystalline blindingly white ice. Your breath comes in short translucent puffs, your entire being aching with the weariness, near to collapse, begging to stop. Stop thinking, stop feeling, stop caring. This cold, cruel somnolent state, somewhere between life and death. You feel your essence leak out of you slowly, closing your eyes against this helpless despair. Maybe now, finally, you will escape this endless grating pressure, this stress on your brain, so strong you can feel it vibrate in your skull. Breathe a prayer with your last breath… Oh, so tired. 

The Cult.

Disclaimer: This may SOUND like a whiny post and it is but its not. Not really. This is a sad story, though. 

You know what my life was like a few months before now?

Wake up around 5 or 5:30-ish, run out for bus, 1 hour ride to university, run to department, check you have everything, go for placement (any school, hospital, institution). Take back to back sessions till lunch. Go back to university, have chai, gobble down a samosa (if I was very lucky), run to class. Sit in class bored into a stupor, take notes, etc. Pack up, run to bus, ride back home in an hour and a half. Get home, inhale food and more chai, get to work, moan, whine, complain talk to mom, complete work (or leave it for the morning), drag self upstairs and heave self into bed by 10, 11 or 12. Depending on how lucky I got since I usually survived on 3-5 hour power naps. Then the next morning, wake up at 5 and start all over again.

You know what my life is like right now?

Wake up at 10 9:30. Salute self.

Stare blearily in the mirror, wondering when I became this fat, feet shuffling, 3 sweater wearing hobo.

Drag self downstairs and moan at bright sunlight and even brighter good mornings from the parents.

(Yes, I turn into this cat who falls down.)

Anyway, I digress. There are two bright spots in my morning. The first when I have chai (pure, sweet bliss).

The second and believe me when I say I am very ashamed of myself and I hate who I've become and it makes me want to throw up with disgust at how low I've sunk and I want to tear out my hair and scratch my skin and - You get the picture. The second spot is...

Watching Masala Mornings.

I know. I know. Throw stones at me. Mock me. Hit me. Hate me. Moan and despair over the horror I am for I have joined...

THE CULT.

The cult of the cooking show audience. I wait with bated breath for Shireen Apa (for shame, what are you SAYING Maryam!) to announce the day's recipes after which I run and grab my university notebook (weep) and beg mom for a pen since I lost mine (more weep). 

This cult... It is horrendous. It makes you do crazy rituals and it bestows terrifying abilities upon you. You lose all sense of sound except the voice of Shireen Apa, tune out the kitchen sounds in your own home, tune out your mom, tune out the world apocalypse but DO NOT - I repeat - DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE miss a WORD Shireen Apa is saying. 

You see? You SEE how she brainwashes with that food and with speaking like she's talking to retarded children, extra slow and extra clear and you find yourself nodding along slowly and vibrating in your seat with impatience for the next slow-as-wading-through-mud sentence, your eyes wide, your breathing short, leaning forward towards the T.V., pen gripped with extra strength tearing through the paper- Okay fine. I'm exaggerating. 

But this cult. It changes you as a person. It changes your ability to think of anything but the next Masala Mornings Show. It... It... DISTORTS REALITY. It changes worlds. It makes you hallucinate and hyperventilate. 

This cult... Do not fall into it's trap. I'm begging you. Do not become me I am now. Crawling on the floor, moaning out for help, craving the next Masala Mornings episode, crying and curling up into a ball on the weekends (its on only Monday to Friday). Spare yourself this fate and start looking for a job the second you graduate. Golden words, I'm telling you. Otherwise...

This is your only option. Now go kill yourself.

THE END.

Of Vampires and Eunuchs.

Guest post by a brilliant Anonymous writer who needs to get off his ass and write more stuff like this. Agree with me here, please. 

The traveler is standing at the balcony to his room staring at the starlit sky, untarnished by bright city lights. He is deep in thought when the Princess’s maid enters. She is clearly distressed about something, hesitates then speaks.

“My lord, I seek your help.”

The traveler enters his chambers. The amused look on his face changes to concern when he sees her distress.

“What is the matter? Is the Princess well?”

“Her Highness is fine. This has nothing to do with her. I come to you with a plight of my own.”

“Yes?”

“You must.. You must help me…”

Starts to cry hysterically. The traveler reaches out to her and guides her to the exquisite looking camel-seat by his bed. She stops crying and looks at him with a mixture of confusion and shock. He expected her to sit on his seat?! She was a servant of a lower caste, and would be whipped if someone saw her. The traveler sees her confusion and his deep-seated annoyance for the deep-rooted caste system of this age starts to boil and bubble.

“Sit! It’s a chair. It’s meant to be sat on.”

“But, my lord..”

“Sit!”

She sits, more out of reflex than obedience. Still very uneasy with her action.

“Now tell me. What is your problem?”

She starts to cry again.

“It’s my man. He’s a eunuch”

Starts to cry harder.

“What?! Your MAN is a eunuch? How is that possible?”

Stops crying. Blows her nose loudly at the end of her embroidered dupatta.

“He was a pashaach.”

“A what?”

“A pashaach. One who feeds on blood.”

“So he was a vampire. Wait, really? Vampires exist?”

She looks at the traveler, a mixture of doubt and confusion.

“Of course, they do.”

Stands there deep in thought for a few moments.

“Well that’s interesting. So your man is a eunuch vampire, what does that have to do with me?”

“He’s not a eunuch pashaach! He was a pashaach but he’s a eunuch now. ”

“Whoa! How does that work?”

“I do not understand.”

“How did he become a eunuch?”

“You do not know of the curse then?”

Scoffs a little.

“Which one? Everywhere I turn I learn of a new curse. The land of a hundred curses indeed”

“The curse of the pashaach. There was a time long ago when the pashaach lived all over this realm. They hunted on innocent people for blood, raped not just the women but also the men during the night, hired their incredible strengths out to the highest bidder as mercenaries against the Crown. The king of the time, weary of the menace of the pashaach and hoping to win the dwindling loyalty of his people sought to rid himself and the Kingdom of them. He summoned his magicians, and his priests and his scholars and his generals and promised them that whosoever would rid him of the pashaach will marry his youngest daughter and get a place in the Royal household. What followed was a flurry of magic, prayer and bloodbaths, but if anything the pashaach now agitated increased their efforts against the Crown. Legend has it that when things were at their absolute worst, there came a woman to the king’s court. They say she was as black as a starless night, her lips were thick and her hair was like dark thick ropes. She promised to rid the king of the pashaach but in exchange she did not want the youngest princess. Instead she asked for a bounty. The king readily agreed. The woman, who was a witch, said that she would cast a powerful spell all over the realm that would render the pashaach useless. For that she needed a virgin man with white hair and a young whore with no eyes. She killed the two that were provided and with their blood, she cast a spell on the whole Kingdom. If a pashaach tasted human blood, it would become a eunuch. If it chooses to leave it’s wicked ways and live in peace, it may continue to do so. Scores turned into eunuchs, many fled the realm. Some decided to live their eternal lives in peace. My lover was one of those few.”

“Then how did he turn into a eunuch?”

She started to cry again. Harder than before.

“It’s my fault! My gums had been bleeding all day, but I was so happy to see him that I ignored it and kissed him.”

She started wailing now.

“And then he grew sick, very sick. And then...”

“Please. You have my sympathies, whatever little they are worth. However, I am still unclear on how I can help you.”

“I heard you talking to the Wazir. You said that in the future there is magic that can turn a man into a woman and a woman into a man if they so choose. I hoped that maybe you can use the same magic to help him.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“But you’re a magician! And you’re from the future, you have to help me. I beg you!”

She jumps off her seat and reaches for his feet. He gently disentangles himself from her.

“I may be a magician, but that kind of magic is beyond me. I have neither the knowledge nor the ability to pull off something like that. I’m quite a useless magician. My magic was weak where I came from and it’s completely useless here.”

She starts crying again, still on the ground.

“Then there is no hope? Why must love be so painful? Why is it such a burden, my lord?”

The traveler looks a little deflated. Talks quietly as if to himself.

“Sadly, you are not alone in carrying this burden. Many carry it. Some through space and time and it lessens not a bit.”

Her fascination with the future momentarily overcomes her grief.

“Do they have heartbreak in the future, my lord?”

“I’m afraid they do.”

“You said people can fly in the future. They have magic that see the stars far away and the heart of a fly up close. They can talk even at great distances and see things too. They have magic that cooks for them and cleans for them and washes their clothes. They can even turn a man into a woman and a woman into a man! You said all these things.”

“Yes, all this is possible in the future. And a lot more.”

“But there is still heartbreak.”

“Yes. For all the progress man has made in the future, his heart remains as fragile as ever. I guess man is as fragile today as he was a thousand years ago and I still hundreds of year from now.”

“There is no cure?”

“I’m afraid not. There are distractions and methods to lessen the blow but no there is no cure. Love and it’s suffering are humanities curse, no matter which realm it dwells in or which age.”

“Then I must spend the rest of my life looking at the man I love more than anything and know that I cannot be with him. I cannot touch him, or embrace him. The memories of his beautiful face and his loving embrace will haunt me. He will soon be a full hijra, walking the streets begging for a living. Ridiculed by children in the market, pleasuring rich men for pieces of bread, my sweet sweet love. And I will have to watch. Whenever he was away, I used to wonder if there was anything worse for a lover than distance. I know now. What an unjust punishment for my foolishness.”

She has stopped crying, acceptance seems to be taking over. She gets up and starts to leave, not bowing in respect as is customary, clearly not in complete control of her senses.

“You have my sympathies.”

Just as she is about to walk through the curtain, at the doorway he calls to her.

“Wait. What was the bounty the woman asked for?”

“She made the king promise that as long as the sun hangs in the sky, none of her kind will be slaves in this realm.”

And with that the maid left, leaving the traveler in deeper thought than when she had come.

Fear Breaths.

Guest post by blogger S. K

I tightened my grip around her neck,

Choking my life out of her,

But failed.

I did not have the courage to kill her.

The girl survived.

Now, Confused;

Unable to comprehend if,

This feeling was of contentment or disbelief

I continue my journey.

Unknown destinations;

Unaware of what lies ahead;

I strive,

And she...

Catching upon her breath,

Tries to keep at pace with me.

I asked myself:

                      Why did I let her live?

                      Why bear more painful realities?

                      Why suffer the bitter truth?

                      Why feel the loss of love and never be?

But how could I? The girl was innocent.

Why should she pay for something...

even I wasn't responsible of?

I have no reason,

She had no motive.

I am speechless,

She had no voice.

She misses me.

I've missed her.

Maybe

'If ever'

My dreams come true:

The 'final destination' revealed

We will be one again.

She can feel me scream but cannot hear.

I can hear her but am unable to feel.

With every breath I question myself.

We part our ways.

 A vast distance between us;

A mileage of reality.

She made me, yet, I failed!

I tried to save her.

I tried...

The girl has not yet died:

Fear breaths.

S. K's own blog can be found here: http://carcassofadream.blogspot.com/

World's End? Your Face.

Guest post by the hilariously smart Amna Sid. 

I don't want the world to end.

There, I said it. I know there are people (read: saddos) who want to get it over with. But I just don't, you know? Why, you may ask. Well, because while YOU may be done trying to shape your life into something presentable, while YOU may have had the much required experience of turning into a juvenile delinquent, partying like a Saudi in an Audi, getting busted, sobering up, going all gangbang again, THE REST OF US HAVEN'T, OKAY.

I mean, what the heck. I haven't even had sushi yet.

I wanna try sushi before the the world is plunged into an abyss of nothingness. Now is that too much to ask?

I think not. So the next time you cross your fingers and hope with your eyes shut tight that this December's  going to turn us into hazy wisps of smoke, could you try to look for an ounce of compassion and consideration within that dark soul of yours?

Much appreciated.

Amna's own woefully neglected blog can be found here: http://amnasidd.blogspot.com/

Because We're Only Humans

Guest post by the ultra cool blogger kid Maryam A.

No matter how much we all try to be the perfect child, the perfect sibling, the perfect friend and the perfect person, somewhere along the way we’ll realize that it just won’t happen because we’re humans. Humans that are unfamiliar with the concepts of selflessness, kindness, and helpfulness. Humans who keep denying that they are self seeking and self centered egoists in reality. We will always let our ego get in the way of making someone else’s day. We will always choose the option that’s in our best interests rather than that of those around us. We will always forget our morals and ethical values when things don’t seem to turn out the way we want them to. We will always let something simple ruin the strongest of bonds. We don't sense that we eat our own hearts out with self pity. We are humans who choke themselves. We blind ourselves. We don't realize that in the process of trying to bring someone down, we destroy our own possibility of happiness. We narrow our own worlds and we make mistakes but I can't blame us for all the flaws because after all, we’re only human.

Maryam's own blog can be found at http://www.idare2differ.blogspot.com/

Diamonds in Glass Bowls

Guest post by the crazy pretty blogger girl (aur meri duur ki rishtedaar), Osheen Fatima. 

'Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?'

Sometimes, I feel sassy. I'm sure you understand. I feel sassy, and that makes me carefree. If you were a glass half empty kinda person, you'd use the word 'careless', but I really do not aim to be your (half empty) cup of tea right now. On my sassy days, I pop a yellow Piano pen in my mouth, and a hat on my head (or a tea cosy, whatever's nearest) and I play cards with my boys (the younger siblings, of course) and we all talk in our various accents, because we're sassy and we're cool, and that's what such people do. Sometimes I sit with these two girls I barely talk to anymore, and we act out music videos, and paint each other's faces. By the end of the day, my lips are stained blue, or my tongue is green, or my eyes are red. These sassy days let their presence be known. After one such episode, I sustained minor burns on my arm from over zealous straightening irons. Over time, the burns turned purple and , 3 years later, I have a crescent shaped mark that only I can see. It will remind me, till the end of my days, that I possess the ability to be wild, and joyous. It is my outspoken, free wheeling, unthinkingly beautiful youth marked upon my body, and I will carry it to my grave and it will be my testimony to a life (maybe well) lived when I appear in front of God in my earthly body.

A few days, I feel it is so lovely to be born a me. A girl in Lahore in this home. Because how else would I have met these wild monkeys, who say it is okay to hoot at beautiful things (even if they are mostly beautiful boys), and who hold legitimate contests to see who gives the best hugs with ME as the judge? How did I get so lucky? I've met this fearless woman, who showed me tolerance and patience by bruising my palms black and blue, and this class 2 baby who taught me to climb trees and monkey bars and when we got older how to climb the rungs of every tall ladder placed in front of me. I've met this girl who understands the language I speak only in my head, and have I told you about these two dummies who gave me reason to try, and be better? My two mothers, and my baby, and the reckless older sister, the lights I can bitch to without reprimand. I am a girl, and a plastic tiara lets me be a princess. I am a girl so I get showered with kisses and everyday affection. I am allowed to be gorgeous, I am allowed to feel whatever way I want, and if I give up in protest, if I stop being me, the world will fall apart. This is power, and I have not realized it fully yet. I hold hearts in one palm, and pens in the other. Oh, how glorious to be me. To be you. To be able to show love, to be able to feel sexy, to be able to cry, and birth babies, REAL HUMAN BEINGS, and be brave for everyone else. How joyous to be girls, how great to be human royalty.

Every now and then, I feel lonely. I feel stuck, in a glass bowl, and I'm running out of oxygen. And usually what I do, is I roll over, and breathe through the one I love, who is living his life like I wish I could live mine, who is letting me see things I cannot afford to see, and who is letting me be better than I am. Most times, his laughing heart reminds mine to scream and shout with glee at being here, at not being born as fish who have no memories, or birds who flap their wings so eerie and detached. He is he, and I am I, and if the world were different, we'd still find each other, sitting in a cafe in Venice, or bathing in a fountain somewhere in Karachi, and we wouldn't get along because we are SO DIFFERENT, and so wrong, but we'd be together and he'd become he because I am me.

And it is Lahore that bears witness to my youth, to my heartbreak, to the love I am surrounded with. I will always be walking the streets of Fortress on a chilly winter night, I will always be sitting in CTC, gossiping and eating battered fries, and then I will go and eat falooda in a Mehran with 5 other girls. Muharram in dabbi bazaar, clothes from Liberty, the slopes of Lahore Zoo, the city where everyone actually knows your name. Sundays will always be halwa puri channay, I will always have my tea with history and beauty, and the sound of 21 canons will wake me up gentler than any loving whispers, to remind me that I owe my soul, my body, my being to a battered, mad country called Pakistan.

This is my happiness at it's surface. This is my heart, these are the things I have tattooed across my mind. This is not a story, this is not a tale, this is real, it is now, and it is a reminder. To forever celebrate what is mine. To remember I am a human, and not a fish, not a bird. I have responsibilities, I have thoughts, I have picked the right card out of a deck of billions so I cannot let my poker face falter. This is thank you, I'm sorry I don't say it enough.

Osheen's own blog: http://osheenay.blogspot.com/

Jewel Box of Sadness

Guest post by AFK, the beautiful, scary-smart rock in my life.

My grandmother’s old house was my childhood haven. It had everything a child with a wild imagination could ask for; a garden with easy to climb trees, French windows that opened onto a backyard which had the same forbidden feel to it like a sultan’s harem, a locked up attic which I was told housed a lost soul (Nani told me that they were people who had died, but did not know it so they just kept on living like nothing happened), a big store room full of old family furniture; but the thing that fascinated me the most was this gorgeous silver antique jewelry box. One of those musical jewel boxes with a ballerina dancing in the centre. There was a wilted tree pattern along the edges and a dark blue emerald stone set on the lid. The key was a rustic silver color with an alloy blade and a tiny scepter for the bow. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever laid eyes on.

The jewelry box with its haunting music and the ballerina with her sad eyes would leave me enthralled for hours. I envied her. I envied her for this beautiful cocoon she lived in. I wanted to be her. I wanted to lie in the soft, blue velvet cushioning inside and have someone shut the lid. But as I grew older, it became an object of revulsion. I felt nothing but pity for the ballerina I had once desired to be. The realization that the box was nothing, but an illusion; she was doomed to exist forever in this prison; albeit an aureate one, but a prison nonetheless. She could never be more than what the maker had intended her to be, she would know no other color except the blue and silver of her world. She would know no other music except what she danced to and what was worse, she would dance forever to someone else’s tune. I wanted to take her, smash her against the ground and end her misery. I think my grandmother saw how agitated it made me; I went to her place one day and she had had it locked away. I haven’t seen it since.

But this afternoon, I dreamed about it. It was around dusk, I was sitting alone in her lounge near the French windows, staring at the ballerina swaying. There was no music, but she was still dancing. And all those feelings I had years ago, the pity, the rage, the need to free her from her mindless existence, came crashing back.

I sighed. “I feel sorry for you.”

And then, it happened. She finally stopped spinning and stared back at me. The look in her eyes sent a cold chill down my spine and made me feel sick. She was staring back at me with the same sympathetic look I used to give her.

“We are all dancing to someone else’s tune”

I picked her up and threw her on the floor, the fragments of glass a reflection of my own shattered reality. 

AFK's own blog: http://breeblues.blogspot.com/

Emo Tales.

Guest post by an Anonymous friend.

I’m stupid. You’re stupid. Everyone’s stupid.

The ability to get yourself into shit on a daily basis without fail has to be a commendable trait. You do things you already know will get you into trouble, but that “knowledge” obviously is of no good. So, what do you do? You go right ahead and shove your head back up your ass anyway. It’s when you do this that your brain disowns you. Oh, and people annoy me. I hate people. Loathe them.

I hope this isn’t a case of “mild” brain damage (if there is such a thing that is) because I’m quite sure I do these things to myself out of boredom. And then I beat myself up (no, not physically, you dumb ass) for it. Stupid and hypocrite. I wonder why people find it hard to take me seriously… I’m not THAT stupid, right? *chuckles*

I was listening t…. so who wants to get high? I’m too lazy to finish even this. Sorry, Maryam.

PS: On a lighter note:

Of Boobs and Not Lemons.

Guest post from Uncle Fu who seems to dislike lemons intensely. 

What would I do if life gave me lemons?

I wouldn't take them. I don't want lemons. Not really.

What would I do if life made me take lemons; just handed them to me and ran away?

I'd just stand there awkwardly with lemons in my hand for a bit. Then put them on my table and forget about them. And they'd stay there for a while until they go all brown and rot and start to smell. Then I'd throw them away. I really don't want lemons.

I really really want boobs. Not for myself - as in, I don't want to have boobs on me. I just want them.

On a person.

Life should give me a person with boobs. Preferably a person who won't mind if they see the shallow useless side of me. The side that chooses to let lemons rot and not make lemonade. So what I really want from life are boobs. Not lemons.

Knots.

Guest - I refuse to call this 'post' - sentences by the brilliant Nushay (also my boss).

"You'd think our relationship was as weak as a thread

One would think you tied six knots to it instead."

I Am Definitely Getting Old.

Guest post by my friend Adeel who seems to consider himself a buzurg already.

Age is but a number.

Sun sets in the far off horizon on the west side as I get comfy on my terrace with my laptop to write this guest post. It is a chilly November evening hence fun. I love winters in Lahore just for the record, but then who doesn’t. It brings with it, dry fruits and steaming cups of coffee/Tea (whichever you prefer of course) along with ice cream sneak outs which lead to Mom later saying “or khao maa baap say chup kay ice creamain gala kharab kara liya hai na ab”. Ironically the song that randomly begins to play on my iTunes is ‘Endless summer nights’ by Richard Marx. I like his music from the late 80s when I was kid. All my elder teenage cousins used to listen to him, George Michael, Michael Jackson, Madonna etc. Naturally as a 5 year old I liked to do everything they did lol. Fashion sense of the 80s would actually require a whole another post which you may get to see on my own blog =D

That makes me wonder it has been nearly 24 years since I was 5. I will be 30 in a year. Yes you read it right its 30. I know ‘meri harkatain’ aren’t of one (which you will think too once u are done with this post) but ….oh well there goes my 20s. Now that you think about it when it’s all gone, you wonder how the hell did that happen so fast, Or….well did it? All that time spent and only few more years to go provided I die a natural death. Sounds depressing doesn’t it? Well I am not here to depress you guys so no let’s not go down that road. 

I do think I did ok in these years. Criterion of success, for me, involves my relations with people. I am not very ambitious career wise. I like to have a steady job and earn well and provide for my family and take care of them. That’s about it. I never get people who spend all their lives working so hard that they actually end up just working and nothing else. What is the point really if you don’t get to enjoy life you are earning for? I guess everyone makes their own choices. I don’t like to judge anyone for their choices. Success for me is about how good I was with people that came in my life.
I have, luckily, made friends all over the world. It’s fascinating to talk to them. Discuss their cultures, day to day lives. Also the people I have met on the blogosphere. I like most of them. They speak out their minds on their blogs. I read what they write, observe them (not synonymous to stalking), think over their ideas. They are all like different colors in my life. They may not know it =D or I may sound freaky while I say this but no harm in being honest. I prefer avoiding fights and arguments in general though. I guess if you let people be, generally it helps. There are days when you don’t want to talk to anyone but it’s all part and parcel of life. You take it with a pinch of salt and move on. 

Moving on is my favorite thing by the way in life =P . It has helped me so much so many a times from wasting time over stuff that one should not. Although I can’t move on just like that if see any baked stuff or a pizza. I just can’t. I am sure a lot of you would agree with that.

I have no idea where this post is going by the way. Maryam must be wondering
‘why the hell did I ask this guy to write a guest post in the first place when his own blog was last updated one month ago” =O.  “maro sab mil kay isay’

But Like Ya’alls Moms would say
“Beta koi badtameezi nahin karni in say ‘Guest’ hain” =P
Also I would like to take this opportunity (with both hands) and invite you all lovely folks to come visit my blog (http://eddiesdomain.wordpress.com) for a change too. Maybe then I’ll be able to update it at some point =P.

Now that I am finished with the real purpose of writing this post and that is to advertise my own blog, I better run before I get beaten up by the blog owner. (who is my favorite parosi by the way)
Adios Amigos and Amigas (I know this much Spanish at least)

Ed

Oh and that’s me in the middle.

Retarded Couples On Facebook.

Guest post by the gorgeous guaranteed-to-crack-you-up blogger Furree, also my adopted (brilliant) kid sister. 

They always catch me by surprise.

There I am, minding my own business, when their romance is shoved up my face.

What romance?

It's a trap created out of a massive web of low IQ, slang and symbols. Their romance, which is quite out of the ordinary - and not in a good way. The romance of...

RETARDED COUPLES ON FACEBOOK.

That's right, folks. There is nothing more disturbing than the immense amount of childish PDA that can be witnessed on some people's timelines and news feeds. The more I 'hide' the posts of these crazy-in-lurve people, the more of them pop up out of nowhere. I'm scared that there's a possibility of an actual Retarded Couple Machine birthing these freaks.

An example:

So apparently the guy doesn't want her to care for him and the girl doesn't want him to care for her but she wants to care for him and then the guy calls her 'madam'. Okay. This relationship is going REALLY well.

That was just the beginning, folks.

I don't... I don't... I DON'T UNDERSTAND

I seriously do not understand why people would be so public about their love lives. Half my friends on Facebook are convinced that I don't even HAVE a love life. This is because I do everyone a favor, and not shower them with unnecessary updates about whatsoever is going on in the romantic front of my life. I mean, apart from the fact that it's nobody else's business, I care about the feelings and sentiments of the intelligent friends I have, who totally condemn this kind of behavior.

Sure, sometimes these couples provide a little entertainment for the onlooker, but when your Facebook news feed is infested with crap like this:

this language... it is so foreign.

You'd rather the earth opens up and swallows them all.

The Suicidal Cat.

This is a morbid story of a suicidal cat written by a mad genius (read: crazy idiot). 

Once there was a cat.

It was a suicidal cat.

One morning it woke up

Had breakfast as usual..

And then just killed himself.

Said cat was also by far the most bipolar/narcissistic animal, ever. I mean, Jesus Christ on a unicycle, did you see the amount of times that thing changed the color of its fur?!

The end.

When The Levee Breaks.

Guest post written by a close friend who wishes to remain *sigh* anonymous. 

Whenever we imagine what the perfect life would be like, those visions are always external. We imagine the things we'd have, and the places we'd be and the people we'd be with. We never really think about how we'd be feeling really. We just assume that these things, places and people that enamor us so much; the desire of some sometimes consumes us, would guarantee contentment happiness.

Isn't that magical in a way?

Objects we don't possess, people we don't have, places we've never seen somehow magically hold the key to our bliss. We knowingly turn our lives into a wild treasure hunt and everyday from dawn till dusk and beyond we fight monsters and cross oceans in search of these treasures.

Here's the catch. This isn't good magic. This is magic that thrives on deception and feeds on your contentment. This is the magic in the beans sold to Jack; the magic that made Ariel human. Deceptive, dark, all-consuming.

So should we stop wanting things, places, people? The heart wants what it wants, right?

Well, sadly, yes. The heart wants what it wants. We can't really do much about that. What we can do however is temper the desire a bit. Put up rules on what we're willing to do for it and what is out of bounds. Give it a bit of restraint instead of letting it bound free and consume us. How much of us we're willing to give up for this all-consuming need for something. And then hold fast to it.

Because if we don't, then one day some desire will climb the banks of our restraint, break through the levees of self-preservation and flood our lives completely. And in its wake it'll leave a person that resembled who we were but covered with patches of regret and a new desire: to turn back the clocks and have another roll of the dice.  

Sepia Toned.

You think you're doing okay, a cautious truce, a gentle understanding. Suddenly, you hit a speed bump but its okay, you're okay, no damage. Then you hit another. And another and another until its a series of one bump after the other, going up and down and sideways. You're afraid and frustrated and panicked and angry. You don't know what to do and how to do it. You go in and out and in and out until finally it gets to be too much and you just wrench the wheel and flip it all over and you crash and burn and it ends. A never ending cruel, cruel circle.

I think in colors. 

Color Me Striped.

It is so surreal. It feels like you're looking through glass that's frosted over and you can't get a clear picture. Like the glass wall is fogging your memories and the more you try to wipe it, the thicker it gets. The more you try to get to that memory, it fades. The more frustrated you get, the more unreal it seems.

Did you dream it all, or did it actually happen? 

Khaak.

Someday, you'll learn not to kill yourself for people. Especially people for whom you don't matter. Someday, you'll learn that people who don't feel sad about you leaving or not being there don't love you. Someday. You'll learn to stop yearning to beg those people to love you. Someday soon, you'll man the hell up and grow a pair. Till then... God help you, child.

Muharram 2013.

Every majlis we attend this year starts with the same sentence.

This might be your last majlis. 

With each passing day this Muharram, that fact becomes more and more real. Its only the 8th of Muharram today and as Ashuur comes closer... Most people are wondering if they'll even get to live past it.

Most of my friends and family keep telling us not to attend majaalis, not to participate in juloos. This is exactly what the terrorists want. Yes, I'm scared. Yes, every time I attend a majlis I wonder if I'll get home after this. But I'm not going to stop attending and neither is my family. If anything, we're all more determined to attend. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of Shias hiding in their homes away from all the terrorism.

If this is how I die, while attending a majlis for Imam Hussain (A.S)... Then I can't think of any better way to go.

Rahbar.

I can't believe I have only the last 3 weeks left of being a mentor in the Rahbar program. Even though we go only for one day every week, time flew by.

I wish I could say its been a divine experience that gave me a purpose in my life, etc. but its not. Its much more real than that. The biggest thing I felt in this entire program was that you have this huge, huge responsibility on your shoulders and you cannot escape it or just let it be. You have to actively work to fulfill that role that you chose and you can't back down. That right there changes you in tiny ways that you'll notice only when you're done with the program.

I have 5 beautiful girls to mentor. One of them is a total diva and I love her confidence and enthusiasm. Yes, she's bossy and tries to dominate the other kids but that's where I step in with my *pops collar* veto power.

The other girl with her is her best friend. She's fun and friendly and loves to connect with different people. She tries to find common ground with almost everyone she meets. But Diva loves the limelight and sometimes the BFF is shoved to the side. Friend/ peer dynamics in action.

The third girl is tiny and sweet. She doesn't talk much but she smiles a lot. She's soft spoken and appears to be a pushover but she isn't... not really. She thinks and over thinks and makes up entire scenarios in her head.

The fourth girl is quiet and even more shy. She speaks only when spoken to. She's intimidated easily and is the epitome of the perfect obedient young lady. She likes it that way so I guess I can't really encourage her to stray away too much from that shell. But plus point - she's started speaking up voluntarily and some of her ideas are very well thought out for a young girl with little exposure.

The fifth girl. The most fascinating as far as I know. She needs to be forced to speak. She will not otherwise. She is crushingly shy and eye contact for her is a form of rebellion which she doesn't really engage in. She's serious and humor isn't something she understands. This girl has held my attention ever since the first Saturday I met her. She wants to do something great and noticeable in the world. In her own words: "Meine Arfa Karim jaisa kuch karna hai. Lekin mujhe abhi nahi pata ke wo cheez kya hai." I think she has a depth to her that has yet to be tapped.

They all have great hair (and I'm seriously envious). They are brilliant actors and perform any role play I give them with spot on dialogues and behavior that they make up on the spot. I love seeing them interacting among themselves and other people in the program. I don't know if they've changed me. I don't know if I'm changing them in any way. What I do know is that this will be something both of us remember for the rest of our entire lives. I wouldn't have given this up for the world. Like I said, its not a divine experience but its something that I still don't have a word for.

This is not something you do only once. Here's hoping we all get more chances to actually understand the purpose and then start making those expected changes: within the kids as well as ourselves. 

Cracked.

Lord, give me the strength to go on. Because right now, I don't think I want to.

FP.

I refuse to write about you.

"20 Ways To Be Popular At An Expensive Liberal Arts School"

1. Despite your Jewish upbringing, support Palestine at all cost. Disregard any and all other atrocities happening across the globe. Palestine is fresh and hip. Not only do you seem engaged and political, you get to rock a Keffiyeh.
2. Smoke Parliaments.
3. Under no circumstances support the school your parents are paying exorbitant amounts of money for you to attend. School spirit and pride is for squares and bros. Square bros.
4. Complain frequently. The vaguer the criticism the better. Say that the problem with your school is “systemic” or “institutional.” Offer no suggestions or constructive criticism.
5. Take over a building. Why not the library? All you need to do is show up and then refuse to leave. It is the most effective way of getting your point (perhaps justice in a far away land) across and in no way inconveniences other students. Make sure to bring your nalgene full of greentea and your macbook, because you may be there for hours!
6. Smoke weed and avoid homework.
7. The more things you take offense to the better. Throw terms like sexist, racist, and homophobe at everyone/everything that has the audacity to disagree with you. The more you use these terms the more valid they become, so try to squeeze them in every other sentence.
8. Attend class as little as possible. Don’t worry you probably don’t have grades and none of your classes actually count as credit.
9. Frequently talk about transferring to NYU. The louder the better. Of course, this will never be a reality because your noncredits don’t transfer.
10. It doesn’t matter if you’re from Long Island, New Jersey, or the Hamptons. At school you’re from “the city.”
11. Take Adderall, Ritalin, Vivance, Dexedrine, etc for every task requiring the slightest bit of effort. Cleaning your room? Take some speed. One page response paper? SPEED.

12. Smoke weed and take downers to relax from all the speed.
13. Never do assigned reading. In the rare event you actually attend class, spend the whole time talking about completely irrelevant books/causes/ the dream you had last night. Anything that has nothing to do with the curriculum. The people in the class aren’t there to learn, they are there to listen to you.
14. Take Philosophy courses. Nowadays, a philosophy degree is worth its weight in gold. When someone calls you out on the fact you never did the reading, respond cryptically with phrases like: “Well, your entire point hinges on the false assumption that a physical reality actually exists.”
15. Wear a bandana.
16. Remember those designer jeans you bought? Cut those bitches off.
17. Remember those shirts you wore in 4th grade? They’re definitely cool again. People will find your Spongebob Squarepants shirt refreshing, ironic, and above all absolutely hilarious. Match it with a scarf and nonprescription glasses (the thicker the frame the more serious you are) because you’re not all fun and games. You’re an academic, a political activist, and a poet/author/musician/artist.
18. Having fun at a party is for frat dudes and conformists. It’s best to stand outside in the freezing cold clutching a Pabst and smoking a cigarette. This equals instant respect. If you decide to ingest drugs, tell everyone about the drugs you are on as they will all certainly be impressed and fascinated.
19. Use words like ‘solidarity’ and ‘governmentality.’ Learn to love Foucault and Derrida. While you’re at it, pick up an obscure instrument. Perhaps the kazoo or the banjo. Wake up your neighbors by practicing said instrument early and often. When neighbors accost you, hit them with some deconstructionism. They will be impressed.
20. Get a tattoo. If anyone gets/understands/relates to the tattoo, you did it wrong.

I absolutely love this. By http://thoughtcatalog.com/