Ranjish hi sahi.

 Ranjish Hii Sahii Dil Hii Dukhaane Ke Liye Aa 
aa Phir Se Mujhe Chhod Ke Jaane Ke Liye Aa 

ab Tak Dil-e-khushfaham Ko Tujh Se Hain Ummiiden 
ye Aakhirii Shammein Bhii Bujhaane Ke Liye Aa 

ek Umr Se Huun Lazzat-e-giriyaa Se Bhii Maharuum 
ai Raahat-e-jaan Mujh Ko Rulaane Ke Liye Aa 

pahale Se Maraasim Na Sahii Phir Bhii Kabhii To 
rasm-o-rahe Duniyaa Hii Niibhaane Ke Liye Aa 

kis Kis Ko Bataayenge Judaaii Kaa Sabab Ham 
tuu Mujh Se Khafaa Hai To Zamaane Ke Liye Aa 

kuchh To Mere Pindaar-e-muhabbat Ka Bharam Rakh 
tuu Bhii To Kabhii Mujh Ko Manaane Ke Liye Aa 

maanaa Ki Muhabbat Kaa Chhipaanaa Hai Muhabbat 
chupake Se Kisii Roz Jataane Ke Liye Aa 

jaise Tujhe Aate Hain Na Aane Ke Bahaane 
aise Hii Kisii Roz Na Jaane Ke Liye Aa

Listen here.

“A Full-Sleeved Government” by Sohail Ahmed

When I switched on the tv yesterday, some women were protesting at some chowk in Defence. A tv reporter asked them what they were protesting about so she started to say, “We do not accept any other leader, we only want Imran, only he is our Prime Minister. He will give us a New Pakistan, we want a New Pakistan. We voted for him, where did our votes go, we want the result of our votes. We cannot accept anyone else. We want a New Pakistan.”

This young woman was talking as if she wasn’t giving the response to a tv reporter but to her mommy. The mommy who couldn’t buy her what she wanted and here she was wanting a New Pakistan. And because she couldn’t get the Naya Pakistan, she was sitting in a ‘protest of mourning’ where no one was willing to accept the defeat of PTI. According to their responses, the rule of the election was that only those voting for Imran Khan would get out of their houses to vote – so now that the opposite team has had so many votes, it’s impossible. So we don’t accept the results.”

Dear Readers. This is the same class which has come out to vote for the first time in sixty five years. Otherwise this same class would hear anecdotes of elections from their gardeners, cooks and gatekeepers and snicker at them and then go back to their air conditioned drawing rooms. These are the same people who do not like being equated with their servants. This is the first time that they have voted. Analysts and critics suggest that Imran Khan has galvanized this class, but Yours Truly believes that the reason behind this miracle is President Zardari. He is the one who shut down the air conditioning – so they had to come out and follow someone and followed Imran to show off, because otherwise, Imran has nothing new for this country except for the slogan, “New” Pakistan.

Corruption, inflation, unemployment, terrorism, illiteracy etc are the chants of every leader, and now you can hear even criminals complaining of all these problems. In these circumstances, we need someone capable and someone who knows what they’re doing. As far as “New” Pakistan is concerned, with due apologies to Mr. Khan, in this era of inflation, the sound of a ‘New’ Pakistan doesn’t really bode well on the poor masses. The sound of a ‘New’ Pakistan may very well only be suited to the ears of those who can afford a ‘new’ car every year.

On the other hand in the last few days of the Election Campaign, some advisor told Imran Khan to channel his inner Sultan Rahi and the Oxfordian started to quote Punjabi films in his jalsas. Basically he would use his bat like a gandasa and swing it in the air, attempting to proverbially whip the country into shape. At this point I was reminded of a situation which I would like to share with you all. The Chief Servant (Chief Minister) was in Model Town (Lahore) holding open court. An old man came to him and narrated him a sad tale of woe and gave the Punjab police some real dirty cusses. IG Punjab, who was sitting next to the Chief Servant, took this old man to a side and said, “Baba Ji, this is an open court but it’s not THAT open!”

So, Mr. Imran Khan Sahib, yes this is a Desi population but it is not THAT desi that it wouldn’t realize the difference between film and reality. And this desi population is much more than the “English Desi” people. They understand the language of love more easily. The way that you have threatened and exhibited pride has harmed you. That is why on the day of the election, this ‘sleeveless class’ woke up at eight am with lots of fervor and passion but it all died down by ten am. After that the ‘desi class’ came with anger and silence and voted that they did not want a ‘sleeveless’ but a ‘full sleeved’ government.

Sir, this Pakistan has been given to us after a lot of sacrifices. We love this old Pakistan very much. We didn’t take care of it, that’s why it is in this condition. So we want a “Good Pakistan” not a new one.

Khan Sahib. You have been a great sportsmen. Teach your team to have humility even if they want to accept success, this is the first rule of every competition. To enhance sportsman spirit in your teammates, give them the example of the man who was your ideal, the man whom you aspired to be, the man who inspired you to come into cricket, whom you have introduced many times on teh media. Sportsman spirit’s king, Imran Khan’s cousin Majid Khan. A batsman who would be looked at by the umpire, after the bowler sent his appeal. If Majid Khan is at the crease, it means he is not out. If Majid Khan has left the crease, he is out. My two cents to you are this, someone who has the capability of accepting defeat is the person who can achieve success later.

Khan Sahib. You have played very well, but you have lost. So what, you are “Man of the Match”. The media has created such an awareness in our people that if a good team loses now, people don’t get angry, they praise them. Instead of wasting any more of your and your opponent’s time, prepare for your next match and that is all that we want from you.

Readers! Where the expansive media has helped us in many ways, it has also created a lot of problems for us. Just how by teaching their parents how to use mobile phones, some children today are silly enough to think that they know more about everything else about the world more than their parents too, things that only time and experience can teach. Anyway, we were talking about the media. Just like “Sabzi Mandi – or Vegetable Market” we now have in our country a “News Market”. The same way in which vendors are dying to get to some customers, there are news anchors who, flanked with analysts and intellectuals, are trying everything to get an audience. This was displayed clearly in the last few days of the election, where many ‘sensible’ channels tried to prove that they were heroes and used fake guns and said bang bang. Every channel was trying that they would tell the election result first. And because they wanted to be heroes about this, they kept deciding who was winning and who was losing after barely even calculating the preliminary results that they called “unofficial and not final”. Some of our emotional lot even celebrated on the streets. But when the final results were polled, these spoilt brats, who were already thinking of their own version of the future, jumped at the reality. In the author’s opinion, if there is a report of rigging from any constituency, the ‘educated’ class can contact the court since that is the ‘educated’ way of dealing with it.

Readers, it is our request to the Tehreek e Insaf Facebookers to relax and not lose hope. In Pakistan and particularly in Punjab, there is space in politics. PPP in the Punjab is almost gone because it has focused more on taking away gas rather than the voters. Punjab’s second largest opposition’s leader unknowingly asked the people to forget about it but the voters took it so seriously that they forgot about the party completely.

Now there is ample space for competing against PML N. Instead of updating their statuses on facebook 24 hours a day, meet the desi people face to face and be the best opposition that you can be so you can pressurize the governing bodies to solve the problems of the public. This is the cleanest and most democratic way.

On the other hand we request our newborn government to follow the wise steps of Mian Nawaz Shareef and instead of swinging dialogs at each other, focus on problem-solving. Every day you have is valuable and each and every eye of the media is on you.

Translated from the original post, read here.

The Highs and Lows of Karachi.

Normally, I put a lot of attention into a blog post. More so now than ever before because my verbal diarrhea is now exclusive on twitter alone.

So much of what I want to say right now, however, the kind of rambles I want to spill in this moment, are much longer and need more coherence than 140 characters tend to allow.

It’s May 11th 2013 and unless you’re completely unaware of the world and Pakistan, you’d know that this is the day that Pakistanis vote for a new democratic government. There has been a lot of bloodshed, lot of drama, lift falls and dead tigers and social media wars and cyber bullying in the past few weeks. For the past five years, Pakistan Peoples’ Party has been in power and the new party on the block PTI has gained ample momentum among the masses. Pakistan Muslim League, Nawaz Group, has its voter bank concentrated in Punjab and Mutahidda Quami Movement has its voter bank in Karachi. There are factions of the country that vote for Jamat e Islami, hardliners on Islam, voters who have been voting for them for ages. There is Awami National party that mainly represents that Pashtun population. So basically there are six categories.

Punjabi – Pakistan Muslim League – Nawaz Group

Sindhi – Pakistan Peoples’ Party

Pashtun – Awami National Party

Karachi/Urdu Speaking – Mutahidda Quami Movement

Hardliner Islamists - Jamat e Islami

“Burger” or Elite? – Pakistan Tehrik e Insaf

Today, as I type this away, Karachi has witnessed two bomb attacks and many killed and injured. A candidate was killed yesterday, MQM and ANP (secular parties) are being targeted by Tehreek e Taliban Pakistan. TTP is also targeting PPP, which is also secular. Not recently PPP’s offices were attacked and there have been blasts in Mardan and Peshawar at ANP’s offices. That was a low.

In a country so divided by language tensions, PTI has broken the vote bank of all the linguistically based political parties and while I completely disagree with pretty much everything Imran Khan says or does, the one thing he did do was mobilize the apathetic, ‘burger’ class of the society into voting. While these ‘burgers’ are still not large enough in numbers to produce some kind of a massive change, their presence and excitement to vote for an ex-sports hero has somehow breathed more life into these elections than ever. That is a high.

While I am here I get to meet different people, from different walks of life. Old friends. I met a friend who was my classmate back in the year 2000. She was intelligent. Kinda fun, in a dark, morose sort of a way. She got married when we were just about to graduate from intermediate college. I met her again when she had her first son. When I met her last week she had had two kids. She had a dopatta  on her head. My other friend, who played the man in our all-girls college skits etc, had a scarf tightly wound against her head. Both of them talked about how God had a plan. Even when she narrated the story of a family where a nanny allegedly killed a child. I suppose that is the low about meeting some people. I am disappointed that religion wasn’t a phase for them, as it was for me.

I also meet various other people. And I see that while living in Pakistan has its perks (food, friends, family) there is also a certain self righteousness that the friends and family tend to dish out on your face. People don’t seem to understand that their opinions aren’t exactly iron clad with logic – and that when they are saying shit to other people, it doesn’t make it right or even remotely okay.

How everyone likes to make it their business about how to raise my child. How to potty train  him. How to make him the next Prime Minister of the country. How I shouldn’t be wearing capris. How my legs are going to be the basis of my entry into Hell. How I should be treating my in laws. How my husband should be treating me.

Thankfully, since I’ve grown up in Pakistan, I’ve kind of learnt to take it with a pinch of salt. However, there are certain thresholds that continue to remain unbreached.

That is the low.

While there are familiar faces, familiar accents and languages, clothes and food and similar issues and it’s a terrain I am comfortable with, a world I have known for a very large part of my life, a place where I am constantly offered jobs, a little horde of cousins who I boss around, a small league of old students who are now successful entrepreneurs and offer me free lunches, links that have grown over the years, people who ask me where I have gone and why won’t I return…

Perhaps it is worse that I don’t have a single solid 4 years of a country to counter it with – just four different countries and cities and a nonplussed nomadic expression to counter it with … there is so much good and yet so much evil in the hearts and minds of my country and my people. The hypocrisy. The obsession with a woman’s body (covered or uncovered). The madness of relatives fretting over shitty non issues. Friends meeting when they do or do not have time – or there are only a few who still invest their time and effort knowing that I have my own responsibilities.

To be fair, I have changed too. Quite a lot. I’ve learnt to not give a shit about many things, many people. I’ve learnt to not care if a man continues to stare at my behind when I’m walking down the street in a pair of loose trousers and a t shirt. I’ve learnt that the more we let women be overwhelmed by public opinion, about her clothing and otherwise, the more we hand power to those who benefit from misogyny. I’ve learnt that the more I give in to how people want to see me and my family, the more I prove them right. I’ve learnt that schadenfreude is the biggest favoritemost pastimes of Pakistani aunties everywhere. I’ve learnt to say no. I’ve learnt to laugh. I’ve learnt not to give a fuck, basically.

Nevertheless, this place will always be a different kind of home for me. It will always give me something new. It will always take something away from me. It will always welcome me back. And it will always wonder why I returned.

Imran Khan’s Fall and the Sympathy Vote.

I think Imran Khan is a gorgeous man.

When he held up that World Cup in 1992, I was eight and I am pretty sure he kind of defined Prince Charming, Pakistani Beta Version for me right then in that moment.

Then he came to our school when we were kids and I remember giving him a bouquet. I was thirteen and I was pretty damn sure HE was the ONE. I wouldn’t take off my “Imran’s Tigers” badge for days. When my mother finally threw it away because it was rusting like crazy, I remember crying. Vividly. And it didn’t even have a picture of Imran Khan. Just a tiger with Imran written on it.

He was our hero. Ali and his picture with Imran Khan was stuck proudly on the dresser, which my father often joked should have been titled as, “Imran Khan, Mohammad Ali Qazi ke saath!” (Imran Khan with Mohammad Ali Qazi). We knew, and still do, that there will be no other cricketer as proud or as spunky as Mr. Khan.

We have grown up confused, us Pakistanis. As a young nation, we are still struggling with self-identity. We are still unable to figure out whether we are a polarized society that shifts between Devbandi and Berelvi Islam that marginalizes liberals and or are we a diverse society that tries to incorporate all factions but doesn’t really side with any one of them. We are still torn on the kind of government we want, Army brats support dictators and born-again Muslims want Shariah. The middle class is slightly befuddled and tends to follow anything the elite class produces in mainstream media. The lower class has far too many problems to give a shit and would just enjoy the holiday and go to vote for their pals. Or anyone who’s pals with the local SHO or the tehsildaar or anyone who can pass a buck.

Therefore it amuses me when our opinions become rigid. We think we’ve arrived with Pakistan Tehrik e Insaf, when all this “Naya Pakistan” is basically Purana Propaganda. Perhaps that is why we can find no wrong with Imran Khan. Perhaps that is why those of us who follow him believe in the man rather than what he says. They think that charisma will win over policy. That speeches and slurs will win over facts. Someone wrote an article about how Imran Khan reacted to BB’s death and the comments immediately went to his defense. This is just heartless, just the way if anyone would say that it’s his own fault that he fell off that lift.

The point behind comparing two incidents is leadership attitudes. PTI supporters are prone to calling other parties names and whatnot. Mainly because they see their leader doing the same thing. Not so recently Imran Khan called Zardari a pig once. This is not statesmanship. You cannot call your sitting president a name like that no matter how much you disagree with him. Those who support PTI, in my opinion, are often blind to Imran Khan’s faults. He looks good, he was a great cricketer and he did a great thing by building a cancer hospital. But he is not a statesman and he needs to learn a few things about being a decent politician. Much like this country needs to learn about being a decent, civilized group of people instead of headless chickens in a coop filled with fodder that is mainly there for placebo.

Similarly PTI fans are also blind to Immy K’s policy making flaws. I am not a PML-N supporter but the Metro was a great step for Pakistan. This country needs infrastructure more than it needs masters in anthropology. PTI also severely lacks political foresight. It is pro-establishment and pro-Taliban right now but this is going to come bite them in the ass just a few years from now. Education is a huge problem in Pakistan which needs correction but the bigger problems are roads and hospitals and bridges and dams and parks and water and irrigation and electricity. These are the priorities. Once you give the people a breathing space, a stable daily life, the next thing on your agenda is education. It doesn’t matter how many children are out of schools right now, there is an even bigger, a more staggering number of people who cannot go to work in other cities because roads are not made. Countries with high literacy rates are not ruling the world. The UK and the US are not even in the top 20 most literate countries in the world. And the first twenty are countries you probably haven’t even heard of. (Latvia, Andorra and Slovenia anyone?) The top ten countries in infrastructure, however, include major movers and shakers of world economy. (UK, Hong Kong, UAE, South Korea, Singapore). Pakistan ranks 100 out of 139. Understandably, because it has bigger issues. Law and order and fuel and terrorism. Foreign investors and tourists are both scared of coming to this warzone. The per capita income faced a 16 year low in Pakistan this past year. And yet we keep harping about education and Ph. Ds and schools. While these causes are noble and need attention, they are not priorities. It’s almost akin to giving a starving child in Africa Harry Potter books instead of a plate of rice.

PTI supporters have passion for their leadership and faith is there in these people, great. They want to vote them in, great. That’s what democracy is all about. Making choices. But don’t be blind. Don’t sway with the winds and don’t think your leaders are practically perfect and can’t slip. Metaphorically or otherwise.

Dastaan e Hong Kong.

Short stories are turning into one of my favorite things to do.

An idea pops in my head. I start embellishing it with the various archetypes resting in my collective subconscious, I put on more frills with the help of the things I want and couldn’t have, things I have and like, things I don’t want and have quite possibly gotten rid of. I create situations that I can relate to, things I can amplify, people I can stuff more dreams with. And then I go where the characters take me.

Perhaps if there is a God, he likes to do the same with mortals.

Depending on his whim, he takes men and women and sticks and stones and winds and floods to where he pleases and slams possibilities into other possibilities and creates situations that you want to think are part of some grand design – but they’re just whims of a powerful existence.

If my story is being written by a Big Guy, he’s really putting his funny bone into it (no pun intended). So I like to prefer I’m just a part of the randomness that is economic conditions, conscious decisions and the indefatigable mass that is my heart.

I always thought life would go according to a plan. My plan. I’d have a home, a family and a career by the time I’m 30 and I’d spend the next 30 years of my life writing the great novel of my life or studying to make medical breakthroughs. The usual dreams of a confused sixteen year old Pakistani girl.

The most valuable lesson I learnt was how plans break and you get to learn something else. Something that was the opposite of all things planned and sometimes they give you more than what you wanted. Sometimes you can’t handle what you’ve been given just because you’ve been so hung up on “BUT THIS WASN’T THE PLAN!”.

I’ve spent many months cribbing over the nomadic situation we are in. From March 2009, since the day we got married, we’ve been hopping on and off of planes quite consistently. Karachi, Lahore, Multan, Islamabad, Dubai, Sana’a, Mukalla, Bahrain, Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Phuket, Hong Kong. B’s done it even more. Riyadh, Qatar, Shenzhen. Jibran and I haven’t sat still in one country for over six months. As a family it became a lot to take. The finances, the emotional stability, the relationships we built with other people – all suffered, quite obviously.

But someone mentioned something lightly to me a few months ago. They told me how all this traveling would help Jibran gain a unique view of the world. A view that was different from the kids who were stuck in ruts. And then I read this post at Zen Pencils. “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness.”

Maybe it was time that I had to come and understand that this is what my life is. A juggernaut. Maybe it was the fact that I knew I was coming to Hong Kong for a short while anyway. Maybe it was because I knew that if I didn’t appreciate the good that I had right now – it was going to turn into dust soon, it was going to be in the past.

So while I am sad today to leave yet another home that we made ours, I am happy to have been in this crazy, nutty city (I once saw two young adult men with mehndi all along their bare arms – the kinds we have for brides in Pakistan) for as long as I did. I am happy to have had distance from a lot of crazy, a lot of madness. I am happy to have found a friend I could relate to, a routine my son and I were settled in, places I could go to in order to get the food I wanted. I am happy to have known a part of the Chinese culture and I am happy to understand things about myself that I probably wasn’t paying attention to because I was so deeply steeped in self-pity and ungratefulness.

That said, I do hope to achieve some semblance of routine and normality. Especially since a time will come when I cannot home-school Jibran and he will need to find friends. I’m happy that right now Mama and Baba are enough for him – but it will not always be this way and soon he will need other people and once that happens, I do hope we are rooted.

Tonight I leave for another mad city. A place that will always be who I am and yet a place that I sometimes fail to recognize. B will be here in HK and will come join us by the end of summer. After eight years of being together and four of being married, we still bum each other out at the thought of being apart. Maybe we’re doing something right after all.

So. Good bye, Hong Kong. It’s been … real.

I remembered my own strengths.

Hated the constant rain btw.

Soon, the spoilt brat from Middle East learnt to stand and wait in lines for the bus.

How I will always remember Hong Kong. Quiet and peaceful.

Bye bye.

And now all of our worldly belongings sit inside these three suitcases.

This once had Tibba’s toys.

This once had our clothes.

This once had my tupperware.

Emptying things is not pretty.

Last day.

Baba and Tibba make way through the crowded Nathan Road.

Helpful Tibba.

Dessert at Wooloomooloo Steakhouse, Tsim Sha Tsui.

The view of Hong Kong Island from Kowloon.

Loud and Quiet – A Short Story.

Samana was doubled over with laughter.

The door to her room flew open.

Her brother, Wasim, was standing in the doorway. “Then there are guests in the house. Have you no shame? What will they think? You better quiet down, alright? Otherwise I will take away that cell phone and throw it in the gutter.”

Samana sobered. “Sorry, Bhai Jan.”

“I’m trying to study, and you know it. You have no consideration. And girls making noises like that. Do you not fear God at all?”

Samana motioned zipping her lips.

He left after another glare and Samana returned to the phone call with her best friend, Fatima, who heard the exchange.

“Intense! What’s Wasim Bhai studying for?”

“Some sermon he has to deliver in a few days. He does that for his workplace friends.”

“Does he still have that beard? It looks so strange on him.”

“Oh I’m just so sick of it. He has started asking me to give up music and movies and suggests I get married after a year. Imagine, Fatima, I’m just finishing college! He’s actually suggesting I get married before I get a proper degree! In this day and age!”

“Who are the guests? Prospective in-laws?”

Samana snorted. “Oh God I hope not. Just old and boring relatives with old and boring stories to tell.”

At the dinner table later, Samana almost choked on her soup when her mother informed that the guests were indeed prospective in laws.

“I can’t get married, Ammi!” Samana gasped.

Wasim stared at her. “And why not?” He turned to their father. “It’s bad enough that she’s going to that co-ed filthy school that fills her head with all kinds of nonsense.”

Samana stared at him. “I’m eighteen. None of my friends are getting married. We make fun of those who get engaged. And I want to go abroad to study. I’ve already told Abbu about my plans. I don’t need your permission.”

Wasim’s face contorted in anger and shock. “Go abroad to study? Have you lost your mind?”

Hameed Khan, their father, put a hand each one of his hands on their shoulders. “Wasim, Samana wants to spend four years studying law in Boston, where my sister is. If she gets into the school of her choice, what is the problem?”

Wasim stared at his father. “Abbu, a woman traveling alone is not allowed. She cannot live in Samreen Aunty’s house because she has two boys of Samana’s ages, who are her na mehrems. If she wants to study, she can do it in Pakistan. If we want to call ourselves Muslims, we can’t go against the rules…”

“No one is going against the rules, son. We are all believers and,” Mrs. Khan reasoned, “aren’t a bunch of those rules outdated…”

“Those rules are forever!” Wasim stated loudly. “The fact that these Western ideologies have corrupted our thoughts and our ideas makes us think that these rules are outdated. We all know that God has made men superior to women! These rules apply today, now and forever!”

Hameed Khan was a god fearing man. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat wondering if his son was in the right. It was news to him that a woman couldn’t travel alone. He certainly didn’t want to burn in hell for just a few years of college.

Samana was staring at them open mouthed. “Abbu, human beings are equal! All of them! If God has made us unequal then why are there rules of fair play and justice? Ammi, please, reason with them. I’m not a child and I am not illiterate and I can travel alone easily. Samreen Aunty is my phuppo! Why can’t I go live with her! This is silly!”

Wasim waved a piece of roti in her face, “Hold your tongue! You are calling God’s rules silly!”

Samana took the piece of roti and shoved it in her mouth. “I’m calling YOU silly.”

Hameed Khan stared at the two of them and held up his hands. “Okay, I have a way to settle this. Wasim, if you can bring me a verse or a proper quotation where it says a woman cannot travel alone, I will not let Samana go – ”

“ABBU!”

“But if you are unable to do so, I will let her go, okay?”

Wasim’s eyes were gleaming with triumph. “Give me a day.”

They finished their dinner in sulky silence and the next evening, Wasim produced a hand-written note from his religious teacher which proved that women indeed could not travel alone. It was also inadvisable to live within a house which had non-mehrems and since she had the option of studying in Pakistan in an all-female institution, she did not have to partake the choice of going abroad for studies. It also stated that women should marry early if possible and that education was secondary to marriage.

Hameed Khan looked distressed but the words he uttered were clear, “I suppose we know what we have to do…”

Samana’s eyes were stinging. She stared beseechingly at her father, “Abbu…”

Before Hameed Khan could reply, the telephone rang. “Hello?” Mrs. Khan answered.

Mrs. Khan motioned a hush and leaned near Hameed Khan. “It’s Mrs. Irfan. They want to come with their son this weekend. To meet Samana.”

They exchanged meaningful looks and looked at Samana, whose face was now completely tear streaked.

Wasim broke their glance and sat in front of them. “You must do what is right in the eyes of God, what is good for a woman.”

Hameed Khan let out a deep breath and avoided Samana’s gaze.

Mrs. Khan nudged him. “What should I tell them?”

Samana whimpered, “Ammi, Abbu, please…”

“Tell them we will be happy to have them for tea this weekend.”

And Samana’s cries were silent. 

The Hims.

I wish I could.

I really wish I could.

I wish I You existed.

I wish the stories they had told us were true. That you are compassionate. That you listen. That you give a fuck.

In some crevice of my heart where a small candle of hope once burnt feebly, I could hear a small whimper of “Please, God, please” … I could hear the sound of hope and maybes. Maybe one day people would change and see. Maybe some day the world would find ways to alter its fuckery. But today, perhaps almost ceremoniously, something inside me has seen the last of hope and maybes. Today, after many, many, long, long, pained and poignant years, that hope is dead. Almost graphically, the eyes that bore light and wonder are now dark and disillusioned.

There comes a time when you realize that you are your own Savior.

People always asked me why I fought for B. People always ask me what made me stay. What made me relentless in my fight to be with him. Was it because I was naive? Was it because I was stubborn? Or both?

Today I understand. Before him, I knew many people who were similar to me. Men who were from my city. Men who weren’t from my city but were still similar to me in ways in which B isn’t.

But, life taught me long ago, similarity does not hold people together for long if there are bigger problems.

Your city, your family, your friends, your comfort zones cannot save you from falling into an unknowable abyss – if that one other key ingredient is missing.

And that is togetherness.

For some inexplicable (and perhaps subconscious) reason, I have always been an ‘are you in or are you out’ sort of a person. Being clear and being firm about just how true you were to your word have always been the key for me in any relationship. Surprisingly (or maybe quite obviously, since it’s a hard task to take), most people don’t have that capability. Most people (or men) in our society tend to feel that words and bullshit can help them get away from everything. I remember being duped, I remember being fooled and I remember being bullshitted. A lot.

And I had all but given up hope when B came along.

With all his faults (and God knows we have faults) there are a million things that tie to that one core trait of his that made me decide this is the One.

Today, out of all days, I realize the importance of that criteria. I realize why something inside my head/heart was telling me to stick to it even if he lived a thousand miles away. I realize why I didn’t choose simpler options, why I didn’t take another road. It was because today, when I am broken and hurt by many other people, in today when I am unable to see if anyone truly has a place for me – he does.

I don’t expect him to be my Savior, even though he does save me. I don’t expect him to be perfect, even though he does have strange perfections that I do not always appreciate. I don’t expect him to be sane, even though he does have pockets of clarity and sanity most people of his age don’t have. I don’t expect him to be God, even though Bollywood taught me to worship my Man.

I just expect him to be there. And he is.

Perhaps it makes him godly. Perhaps it makes me weak.

But right now. That is the only truth I know.

And that is the only truth that matters.