It was the summer surrounding my organic chemistry exam. The wooden desks that had already been graffiti-ed by many a frustrated student before me. My white DCW Karachi uniform was splattered at the pocket, where my many ink-pens had been sitting (I never liked dorky pencil/stationery cases) and my forehead was icky and sweaty. I … Continue reading »
Tagged with Pakistan …
I’m getting too old for this shit.
There was a time when I’d have a list. I’d have a list of people I was close to. A list of people – who were the ‘chosen ones’, the people who were game-changers. Their inputs mattered. If I didn’t get to speak to them through the day, it would feel like there was something … Continue reading »
A Morning in Mommytown.
Jibran wakes up at 6.30 a.m. He plays with my hands, gives me those giant smiles of his that make me forget just how crappy it is to wake up at 6.30 a.m. after dreaming of Italy and the French Riviera. And to know that you can’t possibly see the Riviera until the smiling little … Continue reading »
Best Twitter Bios. #truestory
The way social media is evolving is hardly something that can be ignored. To roughly quote Will Schuester from Glee, “Thanks to Tumblr, Facebook, Blogs and twitter, there’s just so much increased pressure for social judgments and evaluations”. If Facebook wasn’t enough to make sure we shared every detail from our lives, Twitter and Tumblr … Continue reading »
The Hero. (part seven)
Raghib sat with his feet up on the windowsill. It was getting colder. November was always such a pleasant month in Karachi. The window was open and he could smell the breeze and the jasmines his mother had planted out in the yard, right under his window. Somewhere inside the house, he could hear old … Continue reading »
The Hero. (part six)
Nazia was sobbing hysterically. “He’s gone, Ammijan, he’s gone! He’s gone to Afghanistan! Allah, he’s gone! My husband is gone! This is worse than death! I won’t even know if he’s going to die – is he going to die? Is he going to die, Bhaijan? Is Shakaib going to die? How will I know … Continue reading »
Girls don’t cry.
In the modern world that you and I know right now, being effeminate has become a slur. And not just for boys. We’ve got shops that sport the sign “Clothes for the Working Woman” in a so-called conservative country like Pakistan. Slacks are in, loafers are cool, no more teased-up hairdos, let the hair down, … Continue reading »
The Hero. (part five)
Shakaib sat quietly in the presence of Zulfiqar Sahab. He awaited his turn as Moulana Zulfiqar Wudood Munawwar sagely nodded and heard the question of one of Shakaib’s friends put forth. It was one of the fortnightly sessions that Moulana Zulfiqar held for his loyal subjects. They would pour in from all over the city … Continue reading »
This is for you, Z.
May your heart rest in peace. Your heart that you gave to the man who broke it into so many pieces that you’ve chosen to repress every small scent, every feeling, every memory, every touch that was associated with his fat belly and his diabolical deen. May your heart be whole again, some day. A … Continue reading »
The Hero. (part four)
The words ‘dead body’ surrounded him. There was Zia and there was Nazia’s mother in law, there was the question of washing them, the question of finding them. If he looked away from weeping children his eyes fell on the television where Zia ul Haq’s face came and left in slow motion. Conspiracy theories and … Continue reading »
