Boscage

Today's cold wind sneaked through the main door that Ali had left asunder. Every other swoosh would push the creaking door open, it would then gently slam itself on the threshold causing me to shift in my blanket, waking from my slumber. I got out of bed scratching my head and walked in to the living room where the rocking chair rocked an infinitesimal somebody enjoying the dry, cold whiffs blown from Quetta. I helped myself into the kitchen slippers to get water and sat on the stairs to enjoy it. My stair-landing craved for rays of sunshine that refused to fall upon us, today. A day without sun in my book of acceptable-s is only when the sky decides to bedew the arid soil and parched skin which it did to some extent when I had walked out the gates of Jinnah around four thirty in the afternoon.

The day before yesterday was really cold too. The same day three years ago, I was having a creative discussion with a friend when we were told that Benazir Bhutto was shot in the neck and a bomb had set off in the election rally in Rawalpindi. We had rushed to make phone calls to family members out on work. I was worried about my siblings getting stuck in their institute under a nationwide 'red alert'. Cars burned in hundreds down the road that he had to dodge in order to reach to the closest house of an acquaintance. We called them to go get the girls from their coaching center. They swung their bikes, rescued the girls, sliced the heart of an air that reverberated of rifles. This city had seen terrible times. That was apocalypse.

Self contradictions. I still haven't stopped myself from them quit just yet.
Despite being a male chauvinist 45% of the time with 30% of female chauvinism and 25% of none, I learnt today how women are underrated and overrated at the same time in the most misconstrued way. Yeah, okay, sexism was never my domain. Blah.

Machli achi hai kaisay pata lagatay hain?
Us kay galpharhay gulaabi hongay, chamakdaar hogi, aur dum se pakrho to uffqi halat mein aik so assi kay zawiye per paae jaegi.

Today, life had a new face. Perplexed, I tried contrasting what so far had been the reality to the surreal reality life just thrust-ed forward. It was a down day in terms of my energy and brain. It was a slow day too. But an eventful day, a very eventful day indeed. I hopped over the blood stained floor, my mind boggled for a second before confirming what I had witnessed was really the reality. Complexities, however, are finally disclosing themselves. They are setting in the compartments of my brain, segregated, clear and arranged in alphabetical order.

Soliloquy,
What were those techniques of Neuro-stimulation the guy talked about the other day for depression, bipolar, O.C.D, schizophrenia, tremors, tinnitus, epilepsy and Parkinson's?
Repetitive transcranial magnetic stimulation (rTMS) was a noninvasive method, had something to do with changing magnetic field, induction and depolarization.
Deep brain stimulation (DBS) according to him was very fascinating as the electrode that is planted in the brain, under local anesthesia with the person being awake with his brain functions analyzed, causes no pain since brain can't generate such signals.
Vagus nerve stimulation (VNS) is achieved by implanting a stimulator on the left vagus since the right vagus innervates the sinoatrial node and controls the parasympathetic innervation to the heart, decreasing the rate.
Then some one had said you must differentiate between bipolar and unipolar. 
Then he had said that patients should be advised to be patient with these treatments.

Beep boppi billi boppin!

Mohtaram Ustaad

After being frozen in time in a terrible traffic jam in front of Regent Plaza for at least fifteen minutes, I jumped down the bus and started pacing my way up to Jinnah probably for the twentieth time. Hafsa stood waiting for me outside the ward. We strutted to the new place of our dwelling for a while, after the lovely E.N.T experience. We watched our steps down the spiral stair-case and ended up being in Ward 8 where the officer told us to go where the Casualty is to find what we were looking for.

It wasn't much of the direction that had led us to the labor room but only the fight outside it that had pulled us in, revealing only accidentally that we were where we wanted to be. I peeped in to find a doctor walking our way, she told us we needed to change into our O.T slippers. The lack of which deprived us of the possible experience and pointed toward the exit. Although, we did go in to find the place refuting our conjectures about it.

"Karachi University mein bomb blast howa hai!" Someone had hissed in a worried tone as we walked past the two formerly fighting men finally paying attention to the woman in pain. Phone calls were made with the exact co-ordinates of where one stood being briefed to nervous family members at home. Then, we walked into Forensic Medicine.

I then met a man so pungent. So absinthian. So severe. So successful. So hated. So heartbreaking. So understandable. So obvious. I might get ostracized for teaming with him as not many fancy him for he has a crude, boorish touch to how he deals with things but one reason for that obviously is our narrow perception. The difficulty in showing agreeableness to a strong man who knows exactly what he is doing only without refinement and with exaggerated emotions is that it gets crusted with sympathy. You want others to get him.
The adversity in approaching such a man is lack of confidence, dearth of alignment of thoughts at my end, scarcity of words to utter when he showers his disappointments despite all the glory, when he feels victorious but defeated.

When you see him fail to have the crowd grasp his point. When you see him struggle so hard to put his message across by making intimidation the prosthesis. When you see him take himself to a level of vulnerability unimaginable, you become equally susceptible to showing your frustration. I tried keeping the lava restricted to the glass of my eyes while another man walked down for what ever reason after serving the country for so many years and encountering sheer deterioration. And the malfeasance on my part that I can assure him of is the lack of a promise, the lack of a promise to be equally strong.

The divisions

A one year old me was requested to accompany him to his house where his sisters would wait for my arrival so they could play with me. They would comb my hair, dress me up, entertain me with goodies, even change my diapers if the need be. A three year old me would skip my way to the little tuck shop at the end of the street to get Chocco Chum. Some day I would lie down on the big mountain of sand outside some house and stare at the blue sky. A four year old me chased him with my gang, terrorizing, covering ground as fast as we could, and ending up being rescued by him after we got stuck in an unwilling situation.

"We live in the past," I remember Doctor Imtiaz say to us this one day.

I brought a foot out of the limits of my car to stomp on the wet night soil of the land that has claimed its maternity over me. It hummed my favorite lullaby. It was cold. Wrapping an edge of my shawl around the bottom half of my face I walked through the old post-partitioned lanes that breathed silently under a dark hood. The sullen, deserted street with houses that closely arranged themselves almost overlapping and forming an irregular but obvious distinction with the thick sky stood meticulously scanning me. I remembered them and I could tell they knew who I was, as well.

"Tum log sab nostalgia mein phansay ho," Aunt said to my father, Chacha Ahmed and me, last night.
"Ammi ne naam rakha tha Majid ka!" My father continued with the nostalgia.
"Daadi jaan Baoon Pesh kiya hota hai?" I questioned my grand mother repeating the word Baoon Pesh.
"Aray woh aaen baaen bohat karta tha," she answered.
Dad and Chacha Ahmed slammed their palms together in a loud thud, laughing and harassing their brother who wasn't present. I had to laugh.
"Aur aaoon baaoon kar kay pesh pesh bhi rehta hoga phir," Chacha Ahmed assumed.
"Nahi, pesh pesh to Shahid rehta tha."
"Doctor Majid Ali Syed Baoon Pesh likh kar laga detay hain un kay clinic kay bahar," I proposed.

The night towered into a fountain of laughter. We had food and sat in the living room when the vagary of discussing something other than the past had befallen upon us.

"Haan bhai, kis temperature per Celsius aur Fahrenheit baraber hotay hain?" My dad sat with my uncle discussing something, tilted his head upward and questioned Aunt who had just walked into the room.
"Aey bhai parhi likhi batein na karo abhi," Aunt uttered in a sixty year old tone and sat with her back to the two Philosophers.
"Haan bhai, parhi likhi batein matt karo." Chacha Ahmed seconded and dramatically shifted his position to one that emulated Aunt's, and I do as Chacha Ahmed do. We laughed slamming our hands, clapping here and there. We had dissected the party with only our united-backs that had been purposely turned against the Philosophers.
"Oye larhki, ek inch mein kitnay soot hotay hain?" Dad questioned my back turned against him. He decided to educate us any way.
"Soot?" I had never heard the term before.
"Is ka jawab dega ek jahil aadmi!" Chacha Ahmed announced being manipulated by the Philosophers and turning his back on us. We had lost the strongest member from our forward block.
"Scale pesh kiya ja-ay, bachi ko soot nahi maloom," Dad commanded and I was explained every detail from soot to a cubic meter.
"Yaar bajjo, har waqt pakwa deti hain aap!" Ali complained punching me in the arm as he whined while Dad and all the elders explained things we weren't really interested in and the actual divisions of the party remained as one being those that are from that generation and the second being us.

New Era

I modified this post to take the spotlight off of you and I know you are going to hate me for that. So, in the previous unmodified version of this post I talked about how third year has commenced with immense zeal and zest and the fact is commemorated every day at school specifically during the clinical postings. I also mentioned how I am loving the feeling about all this, the magnificent flavor, the grandeur. Now, the purpose of this post is no longer Anum so I am going to distribute it amongst a couple other highlighted people of this new era.

Maria is this one normal, cognizant, supposedly sane person around me: Good influence. I will look at her, examine her features, she will cut my sentence, give her verdict. I have never had a long, serene, philosophical conversation about anything with her. She speaks in sentences that are habitual of delivering her message and that is it. Straight forward. We tried studying together in the first year, it didn't happen much again. She has firm ideas and they are concrete but there is no way she will clash those with yours; she will only conclude and walk away. She is absolutely indispensable for her worrying about others. She is rigid too, there is no negotiating, there is no reasoning. She means business. She wants the work done and she will remind you of the fact often. Perhaps drives you to the completion of a task way before you would ever imagine a slug such as yourself to accomplish.

She is the over thinker. She doesn't think out of curiosity though. It is always an objection. She will then think of an otherwise, more appropriate, upright thing to do. Her serious nodding in agreement with a lot of things about people amuses me the most.
"Haan, bilkul sahi keh raha hai."

Then there are things she says to me.
"Apnay baal baandho, sar dhaknay ka faida kiya hai tumhara?"
"Nahi bhaee, tum pata nahi kiya kiya kehti rehti ho."
"Yeh tum ne bohat ghalat kiya."
"Mainay tum se ye umeed nahi ki thi."
"To?"
"Tumhari ghalti hai saari."
"Tameez se parho."
"Mainay tumhain is rup mein kabhi nahi dekha bhaee."
"Tum itni barhi baat itni asaani se kaisay keh deti ho?"

We pointlessly laugh our heads off everyday when gathered down in the seminar room for E.N.T. Anum Iftikhar is my partner in crime in the making of all the clamor and racket. She perhaps outshines me at it, but she has her reasons. There is nothing in common between us except moments that I infest in order to emancipate from my recluse self. We have ourselves a complicated situation; it is mismatched, bizarre, abnormal but significant. She is like air. She is like my drinking fellow, my bar mate. When my need for being with a human peaks, I'd find her, selfishly. When I am with Anum Iftikhar, I am nothing but an escapist.

She has an undying, perennial urge to be noticed, talked about, thought about. If she knew I was scribbling on my blog about her she wouldn't be surprised as she is rightfully worthy of it. The topic that is to be raised most of the time we are together is how Anum is different. Setting aside the fact that everybody is unique in their own way, the element to be insisted the most upon lies desperately within how she is different in a certain way only a degree greater than my highness. Although, she does take the lead when it comes to the killer sense of presenting oneself.
"Tum versatile ho?"
"Tum marriable ho."
"Tum?"
"Main."
"Main."
"Tum?"

We goo-goo-ga-ga about a lot of things, most recent being our hypothetical, alleged, unclaimed, uncanny and absolutely doubtful love for a baboon and some more for another creature. I told her about our future in which I will steal and marry the man she marries in love, take him to Venus and eventually ditch him just to prove I am better than her which I am. He will then come back for her with a son after fourteen years to find that she is a complete psycho-path and her daughter a complete train wreck.

Qaid-e-Tanhaee.

I have been a parasite to her, Anum Iftikhar, feeding upon her facetious demeanor, and amplifying it with big chunks of nonsense radiating from my end, breeding ludicrousness.

Nasir and I are just there. We don't need to see each other, talk to each other, up date each other and then we meet and it triggers it. We worked as shackles to one another. I for her innocence and absurdity. She for my madness and clangor. We grew together. She from a sweet heart and an absolute party person to a calmer, sober, smart young woman. Me from an out of control, confused being to a dependable and aware out of control someone.

A child standing before the tremendous magnitude of her surrounding points curious fingers, asks questions, seems perplexed, babbles a lot. Why mustn't she babble? Everything around her seems so magical. She talks a lot about it and talks to anyone about it. People around her ask her to quit with the balderdash. But she can't. The magnificence of everything just won't allow her to. She then ascertains a new dimension that leads her through the portal of observation. She becomes even more ostentatious now that she can make sense, relate and understand.

It's like I wanted to speak it all out to make sense out of the jungle of thoughts creeping inside and Nasir was that someone who listened, absorbed it, tolerated and contrasted. She and I are ridiculously different and it works. And now that we are done tormenting ideas, babbling and brainstorming, we are at the level of this sagacious silence. The silence that is forcing itself to dominate our personalities.

A Day Off

Her neck ached as she sliced the two ends of her comforter apart to stick her face out in to the coldness that immediately fed upon the tip of her nose. She recited the Kalima and stretched her hand to the side table in search for her eye drops.

"Na tu bata yaar!"

She found the drops and was almost smitten by someone speak outside her window.
Na tu bata yaar! Na tu bata yaar!
The incredibly sincere manner in which the words were uttered and the tone, almost sung. She heard the man finish his conversation that rendered her linguistically challenged, not getting anything but 'na tu bata yaar' from it in terms of words. She could play around languages and decipher what is being uttered to some extent. This one was Seraiki. Meethi zaban.

Her mother walked in to the room after a while.
"Tum phir ulta seedha soeen? Uth jao!"
"Assalam O Alikum maatay!"
"Wa Alikumussalaam, aur durust alfaz istemal kiya karo," her mother advised her.
"Jee Waalida."
"Uth jao aur baara rotiyaan pakani hain aaj tumhain dupehar kay liye," her mother informed her.

What! She rebuked in the head.
Then the battle.
No, don't whine, do it. Come on! Don't whine! Just say yes. Abay yaar! It's not like you got anything better to do, why lose the opportunity? You know what you have to do...

"Sure Maa!"
"Aur aata bhi ghoondna parhega pehlay," her mom hesitated a little.

The hesitation made her realize what her mother was doing there. Her mother was playing hard on her.
Fine, I get it! She exclaimed in her head again.
"Jo hukum," she told her mother.

She tied her hair in a messy bun like something, wore her dupatta, lunged herself to the bathroom in the other room and splashed water on her face.
"Can some one pull my toothbrush out from my drawer?" She yelled to no avail.
She walked up the stairs to her room to get it herself.

Eleven minutes later

"What are you doing?" Mania questioned her.
"Making rotiyaan."
"You are going to have to do the aata first!" Mania walked upstairs with a grin.
"I know."

Fifteen minutes later

"What are you doing?" Saria questioned her.
"Um, making roties," she said in an 'isn't it obvious?' manner.
"Aw! Poor little bachi has to do roties!"
"Yes. And if you want to see some really awesome roties, I suggest you check out roti number 9 and 10."
"I have seen enough awesome roties, I don't need to check 9 and 10 out," Saria said indifferently.
"You don't know what you are missing out on."

Five minutes later

"What are you doing, dad?" She asked her smiling father.
"No, no, continue," he walked out the door.

Half an hour later

"Amma, what is Jo doing in the kitchen?" Ali yelled to their mother.
"I am making roti for you, meray piyaray haseen bhai!"
"Kiya howa?" Their mother asked Ali.
"Aap in se kiyun banwaati hain rotiyaan?" Ali asked their mom.
"Achi hain yaar, khaeen hain nahi, pehlay se dramay bazi matt karo, aur oper se naween aur dasween roti kha lena."
"Beta achi honi chaheye!" Her brother threatened her.

Five minutes later

"Yaar Jo, dispenser ki botalein nahi hain, paani ubaalna parhega, ubal do!" Mania said to her.
"Blah!"
"Kar dein na yaar."
"Chal ja, ho jaega tera kaam," she told her younger sister.

Fifteen minutes later

"Naween aur dasween kahan hain?" Saria came to inquire.

Awkward

Doodoo climbed up on to one of the largest branches sprouting out of the trunk of an old gum tree in Imtiazatown. The citizens payed attention sitting on the fresh green grass while she stared at the Mayor's glinting crown. After having one of the most severely sober meetings with responsibility, she had grasped upon the fact that she needed to change and attain stability.

Doodoo could climb without ever fearing that she will fall and break her head on the spot. Although, she always knew that falling is a possibility a micron away from not. She will climb and may as well fall, she will climb again hoping some day she will walk tall. Doodoo fell countlessly all the time. She broke her head, broke her nose, broke her tail and broke her toes; she was pushed a couple of times too, but the most that she could do was attempt to move on without turning behind.

She hung from the branch, swinging, when the giant Mayor tail pointed to her face. She was chosen to perform the ritual in order to ace. She was new in the race as many were, and wanted to perform before the Mayor. Her fellow citizens would analyze her too, and correct her where she faltered and missed out on things in her usual hasty hullabaloo. She leaped and hopped in front of the mehfill, and straightened up to taste the adventure without being skilled.

Since the ritual is meant to be performed in twos, she was given a partner who was a friend she let loose. She gasped and sighed, though her chimpanzee ears errect and smiled with her bright puny eyes. The ritual began and she forgot her part, but the mehfill guided her for they are smart. Her partner was to climb on to her head gracefully and sing; Doodoo would then play the violin.

But her chimpanzee fur was ripped, her eyes were poked, her neck scratched.
The song was never completed and her partner fell upon Doodoo, the poor little brat.

Fangs

It goes back to some where in Saddar, Karachi. A ten year old me holding my temporary Principal's hand in one of my baby palms and the other was clutched upon by Ramla, my friend, the Principal's daughter. I think Mania was with us that day but those were the blissful times when I had been oblivious to Mania's existence and she would never declare the same for me. Don't you just love her!

I helped myself on to a giant chair that wore an umbrella of all sorts of machinery and tools, as I remember it.
"Open your mouth please," the man in white gloves asked me.

The wasted indistinct fragments of memory collected by me from my hesitant combination of synapses have released the information that my mouth, that day, was then filled with something like chewing gum or may be that is what it was or it could just be Polyvinyl siloxane; it tasted like strawberry to me or it could have been flavored. Emphasis was put upon obtaining the impression of my canines. I had no questions to ask. The Principal had met us last night or the night before at Ramla's place and the next thing I knew my canines were taken the impression of.

A week later or so, after maghrib, I walked behind a scattered group of people pacing down a dark lane. I knew the people very well. The houses that stood on that street looked very rich. I paced, hopped, ran a little. Why I was there has always been the craziest of questions left for me to decipher.

We turned to a house that was under construction or maybe it was haunted. It looked haunted to me. I became nervous. I was afraid of being the last one in the crowd. I started fearing the unseen lurking behind me so I made sure one of the people from the group was. The snaking single file of people slithered up the broken, undone stairs.

I was then presented with my fangs. I embraced them and a mortal neck was bitten.

Right. Left. Right. Left.

So I end up being accused of introducing two wrong bunch of people to one another, yet again. I have got to learn to mix the right people together. That's one zone I clearly fail to master. Not that I take this particular case seriously. Well, it has been a while ever since the diagnosis of having people create too much raucous about too little things was first made specifically about the bunch I stick with.

While issues arise in one bunch of people I enjoy my life with, the other bunch never lags behind in giving me great reasons to share my days with them.

He took the run to bowl to the batsman who was anxiously tapping the ground with his bat. I am not a fan of his bowling action but he takes wickets; 'takes' is too decent a word for what he can commit. It stands absolutely understandable that once you dive in something you crave from the deepest crepitus of the falling apart pit of your soul, the world surrounding you matters not. He was in one of those trances. Bowling is his passion. And while at it he almost missed her head. She flipped, yelled and ducked with her hands covering her face. I sit here laughing at the thought and feel a little guilty as I just retreived my finger tips from the keys of a stolen cell phone, retiring from sending her a text with a film of sympathy. It is pointless to laugh at reflexes but if the glimpse of them were caught by your arch nemesis, life becomes a little uneasy.

Iqbal

O Abeer!
O Abeer!
I just tore another light brown paper so I can write to you.
I want to.
I hope I do soon.
*sigh*
Maut ek chubhta howa kaanta dil-e-insaan mein hai

Crackling

My thoughts try flapping their arms, kicking their legs to escape from the walloping tides of the energy generating engine roaring to inundate them. I sit here in my dark room reminiscing massive chunks of past, the conscious bits that seem stretched over a preposterous abundance of events making seven thousand nine hundred ninety four days of my life so long, flamboyant and sufficient, alhamdulillah. In the midst of the smoke of these occurrences stands a wooden cupboard with its essence ever so powerful yet the source of the most mesmerizing element forming the basis of it was never witnessed by my consciousness in the past, only felt in my present. An enduring piece of my history associates itself to the unseen bondage. I tend to be affected the most by the unseen aspect that was once in the form of living flesh and now living imagination.

As new letters chase the blinking cursor at the mercy of my dancing fingers, the wooden wardrobe continues to maintain its position emitting invisible rays that move me for reasons known and unknown. Initially, it seemed that it is asserting its importance silently, independent of any of the inherent five senses and is merely a play of over thinking, psyche, emotions and soul. And being moved can’t always be preceded solely by the understanding of familial network that is exclusive to the human race. Unseen bonds send out callings that make a good use of our faculties of sense. Had it not been for them perhaps I would have remained ignorant.

I have always had some unexplainable recognition coated with dearness toward the piece for I have seen it to be under Nanu’s dominion which is why we had asked the other members of the family to grant it to us after she had made way to barzakh. The freshness of a blood-tie that was deprived of living flesh at one of the ends even before its discernment was found to be contained within an antique piece of furniture the day it snapped and cracked capturing my attention. It is a matter of pertinence to the ordinary that wood often inflates and deflates with seasonal changes in the city along with cracking and crackling. Although, having Nana Abu’s cupboard to have spoken with me had only made it crystal that it was his to begin with. It was the association of the piece with him that gave the essence about it so much more than what my conscious self had seen.

It began to fit so perfectly in all the stories that I have heard of my Amma’s childhood that was blessed with the shade of his presence. I would picture the soft spoken, elegantly handsome tall man dressed in his creaseless clothing walking up to his wardrobe, working around it. He would flip it open only to retrieve his hands after bringing one half of the wooden door to a firm halt and a ten year old Amma would stand still for a second to deliberately sniff on his rich cologne exuding out followed by continuing with her chase of her younger siblings. He would relax on his bed with his right Achilles’ tendon placed on his left knee next to his wooden possession and cause a brouhaha by announcing going out for dinner. He would ask Amma to go fetch his vest from the wooden almaaree; the same almaaee that stands here in front of me witnessing his existence that I never had the chance to observe, but know that he did.

May Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’ala bless the both of them with a place in Jannat. Ameen.

Unnumma Jhoot Mat Bolo

She had always been an introvert and was going through another one of those deplorable phases that one constantly comes across while pacing down the clock.

"I wish to go back to being an introvert," she exclaimed sounding woeful.
"No, it is an incredible change to see you engaged in conversations," I explained to her.
"I can't deal with it. I am so all right being in my little dark corner."
"No, why don't you live in a transparent marble, and roll around people that way?"
"Yea, thank you for your lateral thinking," saying that she placed the washed dishes in the cabinet.
"No, seriously you'll feel protected pretending to roll within a marble!"
"Why don't I just pretend to not listen to you and disappear in my little dark corner?"
"No. You should pretend to be invisible and still go about people doing what you have to. That little dark corner must die!"
"Oh yea! I'll just walk up to people's face and say "BAH! You can't see me" and then roll around pretending to be invisible in my marble." She walked upstairs.
"Nice. It's all in the head," I yelled to her.

In the midst of hooey

Our days have been incredibly monotonous since the past few days. Then yesterday happens providing us with an avalanche of happenings to talk about.
It started off with a random day with Amma calling out to me from the kitchen in an attempt to rip me out of bed.
"Sana, utho bhaee."
"Uth gaee hun," I replied to her sinking a little deeper into my bed.

The day as it was happening, I decided to give one of my seniors a call to catch up on the up coming year. She explained to me how it wasn't that bad and having the Professional years now broken down into semesters has made the deal a more digestible one. I felt relieved and at the same time excited and an unidentifiable energy made me nicely arrange some books that my other senior, who happens to be my best friend, had given me out on the table where I usually carry out the process of erudition.

In the evening Hanif made his daily visit to our place and the moment he had left we received a call from my sister's friend informing us of her aching stomach. So, Amma and I had to go pick her up from the institute. It is somewhat a maximum of ten minutes drive but during this time of the year Karachi seems to be diverted to a direction that must pass traversing us. Upon reaching her coaching center I found out retrieving my sister wasn't as easy a job as I had imagined it to be. The guards, laalay, stopped me, I ran to the owner who might remember me from the time when I used to be a student there; he sent me to the principal who I never really fancied. The principal annoyed me a little for he wouldn't stop responding to everything I said to him in a "Hain?"

Any who, we drove all the way back home, said Isha and cuddled in Amma's palang. We talked and  watched some T.V. After the show was over we had some food and scattered about the house doing things that interest us. Wandering in the house as I often do which is one reason why I am titled Behr ul Kaahil, I reached Amma's room and just as I had walked through the door something made me look downward and a little behind and right next to the blue dustbin there sat a full sized fine and fair lizard!

At that very moment  the square of floor that I was standing on see-sawed and toppled me with my scream onto Amma's bed; with my eyes closed I managed to say something like, "Wahan chipkali hai, dustbin kay paas."
Amma got up looking very alert and uncomfortable, "Where? I don't see it."
"Woh itni cheekh o pukaar kay baad bethi thorhi rahay gi, bhaag gaee," I tried managing myself out of the shock I was in.
"Kis taraf gaee hai?"
"I don't know where it went, I wasn't looking Maa."

All of us took a deep breath. Amma phoned Mania who was downstairs and asked her to bring the jhaarhu and some anti-crawler spray. Very cautiously we transported ourselves to the living room, hoping that none of us would step on the animal. We cleared the living room and grasped anything that could serve the purpose of a weapon.
Mania came with her weapon and a confusion that questioned my sanity.
"Who saw it?"
"Sana ne dekhi hai," Amma told her.
"O! SHE saw it. It must have been a hallucination," she concluded very casually.
"Dude! I am serious, I saw it."

Just as I was attempting to make her believe, something rapidly came out from behind the flower pots in the alley and entered the next bedroom. Mania decided to believe me. My biggest apprehension then was that the color of the lizard and the carpet matched! Genius camouflaging freaks.

Now picture this: One coward to the next being only a bigger monument of cowardice standing shoulder to shoulder armed with sandals, cricket bats, spray, jhaarhu and hangers. After a good long period of contemplation we decided to spray the room up. Nothing popped out of no where. As we teamed up we also became comfortable and ready. I wouldn't be dishonest if I say we were no longer afraid.

Amma stepped inside to meticulously examine the room. Nothing. I stepped closer to the threshold and probed the cushions lying on the floor. Nothing. Saria gathered a little more courage and jumped on to the bed and started scooping shoe-boxes from under it. Nothing. I watchfully delved the curtain. Nothing. We then sprayed the room some more and came out to wait for the animal to come out. And there it was dizzied and scared, crawling in between the side of the dressing table and the wall. Since it didn’t move for the longest time, we sprayed it on the head; it then literally flew and jumped and scrammed its way out of the little hole in the net over the window, rendering all of us to relax. We obliterated the hole with some stuffing.
*phew*

Team?

As life moves on we come across a lot of new words; some cause a shrill to run down our spine, others make our skin go bumpy, then there are ones that explain why the inside of our throat shrinks and also those that are succeeded by somersaults in our gut region. It's impossible for me to provide justice to the delineation of inception of all such troubled, fearsome and pleasing situations. So, keeping it short, the most horrific word that I have come across so far happens to be one from Urdu being "Hum". Entertainingly, it is one of my favorites to use except I don't, any more.  

Hum is Us, Hum is We.
Hum is You and Me!

*It rhymes! It rhymes!*

Hum is Us, Hum is We.
Hum is You and Me!

I stand at a point where every time I hear somebody include me in Hum on an every day level something sinks inside, consumed by the whirlwind of diffidence that expresses itself as crooked creases on my forehead. It wasn't always like this. There used to be jolly days when Hum was radiant and blossoming. I never could have dared to imagine Hum being one of the most grotesque disappointments. The rapturous beauty of Hum cannot be denied, but the nefariousness you and I disfigure it with dragging it to the zenith of morbidity is grievous and only more outrageous.
 
The fact that Hum can obligate you to be a part of something you are actually not a part of is the horrific element. Since Hum has the power to drown you to the depths and deprive you of your essence, it can be damaging. Hum isn’t for extenuating uniqueness and distinction. It is for accentuating individuality through contrast while engendering progress by constructive interference. Hum is about invigorating diversity. On the flip side, deviation from the soul of Hum while being Hum is a downright assault to the phenomenon.

Constituting Hum is like the genesis of a family; a demanding assemblage that extracts peace off of conflicting personalities. Hum is an oxymoron or it's like a molecule that is the bearer of tightly bonded opposite charges. The delicacy about it is that it gives you a reason to strive for someone other than yourself by enabling you to be larger than yourself. Very human thing to do. Very rightful. The only condition that needs to be met is: Hum needs to be Hum and not a parasite.

I use the word with sensibility. I do. I try. I think. Blah! I want to.

Asr

The overcast-ed frowning sky is one of my favorites. The Azaan for Asr makes it only more pensive and mesmerizing. The call for Falah spreads its wings five times a day bringing a new mood to the environment each time. In school days I would miss the Azaan for it while napping. Listening to the Azaan for Asr spreading over the limitless canopy of the winter sky is bliss to the highest degree. The quieter the late afternoons the deeper the impression of the Azaan for Asr.

Listening to the Azaan for Asr spread its wings across the limitless canopy of the see through ozone is a phenomenon restricted to holidays in my life. In school days it would beat me by some thirty minutes as I would breathe through my final quarter of after-school-nap. Today, the call for Falah during late afternoon has melted me down while I sit here recalling the experience. As much as I speak in negative about winters, the overcast-ed frowning sky with the perfect balance of the call for Asr has left me mesmerized.

The late afternoon of solitude immersed in silence, the lazy cluttering of cutlery downstairs, the semi quiet taste of the street I live upon, the slackened fussiness of human beings going about their business and the children waking from their naps causing the bustling to raise by a decibel or two.

Peace.

"When the Wrong One Loves You Right"

It wasn't long ago when it occurred to me that approval was perhaps many radians greater than affection. Let's face it, what good is love without an approval? I am sorry. Affection and approval aren't always a 'buy one, get the other one free' deal. And babbling about my raw emotional turmoil isn't one of my favorite things to do but how to restrict the bubbling storm of my human-ness?

There stands a mother with yearning drenched eyes, waiting for her babies to return.
"Maa, main hun na," I would tell her kissing her hands.
Unfortunately, she and I both know how haqeer I am. How faqeer I am. She would embrace me in her arms; comb my hair, give me a chaadar, give me water, feed me roti. She is anemic. She is Arz-e-Watan.

The Arz-e-Watan is anemic. It is a perplexing thought because one thing that the seed for the attainment of this piece of land was helped to germinate with was blood. It is agonizing to witness the reducing amount of living blood in her vessels today. Living blood that walks and talks. It is clear why she is anemic because her children suck on her blood to become some bodies and on sprouting legs ditch to never return. Interestingly, they also never back down from claiming to be the epitome of patriotism. But lacking an approval to be a place on earth that deserves to be inhabited by the now-civilized-former-leeches and not just leeches decorticates her. The purpose for the existence was for her to be treated as home. We fail to do that.

Perhaps it's meant to be a fine combination of both affection and approval. Looking at today, I am bound to declare approval slightly more mandatory than affection and rightfully so as we are in dire need to concentrate parha likkha aadmi here. Our man that abandons us needs to either stay or come back and treat home as home.

Warna main to hun hee! 
Jab tak hun, tab tak to hun hee.

"Tujh ko kitnon ka laho chaheyay ay arz-e-watan
Jo teray aariz-e-berang ko gulnaar karain
Kitni aahon se kaleja tera thanda hoga
Kitnay aanson teray sehraaon ko gulzaar karain

Hum to majboor-e-wafa hain magar ay jaan-e-jahan
Apnay ushaaq se aisay bhi koi karta hai
Teri mehfil ko Khuda rakhay abud tak qaaim
Hum to mehmaan hain gharhi bhar kay, hamara kiya hai"
 

Unexplained

At times incessant repetition of a phrase that hits unexpectedly to your face each time helps you recognize a flaw pertaining to your being or just helps you discover something about yourself. Now, I know people that have helped me recognize one such freakishness about myself would never read this but anyway; one such phrase cum question that I come across all the time is none other than;

“Why are you always in a rush to go?”

Modified forms:

“Jaldi kya hai?”

“What are you always going away for?”

“Why are you so anti-social?”

“Hain, ye achanak kiya?”

“Why are you so against communication?”

Then there are:

“Sun to lain pehlay baat!”

“No, don’t you go ahead start giving me statements to leave.”

“Wait, listen. Hold your horses.”

“Abhi baat khatam nahi howi.”

O and then my favorite one:

“Nafsiyati ho tum thorhi.”

Hahahahaha.

BLAH!

And the craziest thing about this is that all of these people objecting upon my, this specific behavior have at some point declared me to be tenacious, boisterous, redundant, friendly, approachable and WHAT THE HAY not. Why O why must I be struck by questions over and over again that are so contrary to the very presence of all these people posing these questions?

CONTRA-freaking-DICTIONS!

Now, moving on with life, it seems pretty clear to me that I do not have a legitimate answer to these questions. But, I can try advocating for myself,

Loooooook! Sit down.

Firstly, I am never in a rush to go. I just go. 

Secondly, isn’t it always better to have some unexplainable demeanor associated with yourself get into the limelight and have it accepted by the people? It is.

Now, the problem here is the “getting it accepted by the people” part. Even if they do accept such a behavior or anything for that matter, they will never and I repeat NEVER stop questioning you on it. 

This isn’t helping, is it?

Hey!

But having people question on a peculiarity of yours earns you the kind of popularity that saves you from giving explanations to the random stuff that you go about doing!

*smiles furtively*

Liberty.

Practical Journal

Smudging chocolate ice cream on your shirt should not win you the title of being clumsy because there are things that are beyond our might. On the more serious note, I am going to accept the fact that more than half the things that happen in my life do so without my slightest intervention. One tries looking outside the box only to be stunned by the intricacies. The immeasurable depths of the world and I, the underdog!
The reality of being the underdog as compared to previously holding the self proclaimed crown for supporting them can be achingly cumbersome. However, such a realization only grants us the fervor to move forward.

Experiencing merely the superficiality of our presence leads us to be self proclaimed champions. As the visualization ascends to a level of comprehension, it becomes vivid that narcissism lasts as far as the least distance of the literal distinct vision and we brutally fail to grasp the amalgam we our selves are. Then making the effort to discover what our personalities are eventually becomes a phenomenon too dull or perhaps impossible which leaves us searching for others to reverberate in the valleys of our mundane hollows. In the attempt to bewitch people we selfishly synthesize temporary attributes that are alluring. With the taste of being praised and adored by those who pulled over we then strive to praise and adore.

On the journey to find personalities worthy of praise we come across people of caliber higher than ours. This renders us to be the underdogs. Since the desire to be the mightier breeds within us, it drives us to conquer them and their throne. The cycle goes on as we continue to confront, fathom and overcome those providing us with the gradient toward a level they posses. As for those who fail to do so shall remain underdogs until they vanquish us, or perish by the wrath of the mightier.

Strangely enough, all of us would settle down neglecting many such gradients; one often grows tired, oblivious or satisfied and grateful under the umbrella of fatalism. This settling is with a sense of complacency either actual or delusional. Delusional complacency would be to assume a rival, a potential stronger being, to be dormant or dead. Actual would be to assume him to be in ambush. If we are still talking about rivals how is this complacency? It is because the thought of having rivals, apart from being a soothing one, is also a smarter one. How is assuming to have rivals settling down? It is because we prepare for them and maintain our positions at the elevated levels we have reached and anchored after voyaging through and battling down the tunnel of life that runs a predetermined course governed by the Mightiest.

Opinion

Recently, I have met people walking down the street with an opinion that is staunchly against the Pakistan Military. I have been thwarted by many men that have devoured books of history and what not. They tell me that I stand in no position of speaking on such a topic. I can't help but agree. Living for two decades and showing interest in things far from my domain doesn't automatically instill within me the understanding of such issues. Although, the average man that dwells on the worn out roads of this country carries an opinion. As for me, I am afraid to form one being so ill-informed. However, that does not stop me from coveting such a collection of knowledge.

Long live the power of not breaking down under pressure. I continue to maintain the tradition of picking the books up during the final couple weeks before exam. These days are meant to be exclusively for my books and I. Every second bears importance of caliber unmatched. I cannot afford any hindrance, distraction or thing.

"I am taking your red shalwar kameez out, change into them before the guests arrive," mother spoke to me with her back to us while she dug my closet.
"Guests?" I questioned staring at Guyton.
"Yes, some people are coming."
"Why do I need to be there? I have an exam. I can't possibly waste time. You know how crucial this time is for me Maa."
"I know, but we can't just say no to people who ask to come over."
"All right, who are they?"
"The guy is a military man, a possible suit for you, his family is coming over."

The expression of disapproval that Mania and I were initially exchanging spontaneously changed to one of twisted excitement and a thumbs up from my side and a wink from hers. Of course, amma still had her back to us.

"I know it's considered inappropriate for girls to be questioning too much but who referred them to us?" I fluently asked before amma could walk out of the room.
"Your Maami."
"But weren't they against the army?"
"That's not important," saying that amma left.
"This certainly proves it ain't a matter of significance," I uttered to myself in sarcastic ambiguity and was distracted thinking about the stance of Army and screwed my text book for Physiology.

Brown till death

When abba jee asserts his love to you and makes emphasis upon young men that he meets and how courageous and hardworking they are, you know it's time. Tying the knot is naturally a very fascinating phenomenon to you and me, but it becomes slightly too fascinating to the elders of the family. I mean, sure, the amount of love you extract from a desi setup-ed family is ridiculous and just crazy dear to you, but things do get intimidatingly annoying.

So, one blatantly ordinary day abba jee sends out the hukum. Now, hukum ain't no joke and the humor in it is that the hukum never reaches you directly. Amma jee, undoubtedly, will be the messenger. For Aman ki fakhta, she got the hukum from the head of the family channeled through the entire family after they had discussed it with utter excitement for at least two days.
"What?" Aman ki fakhta squealed.
"Kiyon? Koi masla hai?" The ladies questioned her sounding a little abased blended with a lot of quiet muttering and whispering.
"Nahi, masla kiya ho sakta hai, jaise aap ki marzi," Aman ki fakhta didn't dare discuss.

Aman ki fakhta gets engaged with a man who she has seen all her life and never thought as someone she'll be marrying. As a matter of fact, she hasn't really ever given marriage a thought. Being engaged with him was meant to be an absolute oblivion to this fact because of her theory: Being engaged doesn't guarantee marriage. Five years of ultimate silence and the time finally comes and also the time for one of her final exams for medicine. Thrilling as it may sound the marriage ended up being on the very day of the exam; two very important days already clashing.

"You'll do it!" I ensured her.
"Dude, I haven't studied anything, you don't understand," she whined.
"Here's the deal, you give it three hours of maximum concentration and then go for your appointment with the beautician," I threw the idea to her over the phone.
"In case you haven't noticed, IT'S MEDICINE we are talking about! And I still haven't gotten my jorha's fitting tested," she freaked out.
"I know. I know. Look, since there is no way out of it, you do it. You have to do it. That's it." I concluded hanging up on her.

It was one of those times when a woman was left alone to tackle education and at the same time having all the support for marriage. Both being very important to her. They couldn't change the date for the wedding because in Karachi booking clubs for marriage is no piece of cake and then there are the tickets of relatives making in from places far away. She was to be taken to Hyderabad after rukhsati. The next being a day free and the day after that her Valeema ceremony in Hyderabad and simultaneously the next O.S.P.E in Karachi.

I stepped in the gates for the exam knowing that she wasn't going to be here. After the exam I walked down to my car and there she came running.
"Oye! Hold up."
"You freaking made it!" I yelled with sheer surprise and hugged her tight.
"Yea, my man drove me, he is great," she explained.
"Masha Allah."
"And whined about the long drive I made him do," she finished her thought.
"Haha, whining is all part of the charm," saying that we walked down to my car.

They set the example of how marriage is supposed to be the best example of teamwork. How it's meant to move on with life and not put an end to it. They made history. Everybody gets married, but how many of us get to be married and appear in finals on the same day specially being a brown woman? Well, Aman ki fakhta, I stand proud of you and your man by your side.

May Allah bless the couple with happiness, togetherness, affection and all that is fair.
Ameen.

Perceive

It was chodween ka chaand yester-night. It looks a complete circle tonight as well. It's a circular pore in the sky, the only pore. At the moment, it appears to me as the only communication that we have with the illuminated heavens behind the dark night. The city stands still mostly because I cannot perceive anything as the electrons wouldn't cease the cease to flow. K.E.S.C rules!

The word 'perceive' takes me back to the anatomy dissection hall where each week I would sit in the front row almost definitely at one of the ends. My head would wobble at the mercy of gravity and my sternocleidomastoids because I would step into slumber every now and then. In recurring periods of less than ten seconds I would catch words tumbling down the crack between her permanently stretched in a smile lips.
"Perceive beta, you must perceive, believe it, draw a picture."

"Doctor sahiba, would you like to explain to the class the two origins of vagina?" She called out to my wobbling head.
"Um, aaaa.. yes ma'am," it took me the longest five seconds to perceive the situation,"the sinovaginal plate or nodes or I think they are called the bulbs, I think, and the other, umm, the other, it's the, the ureteric bud."
"The Ureteric BUD?"
"Yes." I confirmed confidently this time.
"How many structures arise from this ureteric bud, doctor sahiba."
"Umm there is the ureters, collecting system of the permanent kidneys, major, minor calyces, renal pelvis..."
"Yes and vagina?"
"Ummm, no. I mean, yes. I think."
"Doctor sahiba, do you know what gives rise to the uterus?"
"The paramesonephric ducts."
"And the vagina?"
"The paramesonephric, of course, my bad!" I slapped my forehead flat with my sweaty palms.
"And not the mesonephric ducts, mind you," she emphasized with bulging her eyes out in absolute circles.
"And not the mesonephric ducts, ma'am, because the ureteric bud is an outgrowth of the mesonephric duct. I am sorry."

It was one of those experiences that not only highlighted the importance of snoozing in class but also almost exclusively taught me to perceive. Her words never slipped through her lips and hit the ground ever again during the remaining few classes we had left. Before they could bounce away, I'd pull them and draw myself the developing structures of a floating fetus. New structures were formed and the old ones caught up as the fetus silently floated in the hall, followed me to the library, trailed across the roads of Karachi behind me and bumped into people's head and they never could perceive it.

It floated very much like the moon tonight. Suspended by nothing, shining, a connection to the heavens. At the end of first professional year of medicine it was like the chodween ka chaand. Just the way all of us are, chodween ka chaand, at birth. We then grow only to regress like the chodween ka chaand.

Circadian rhythms and clocks, orbits and rotations. Telomeres and senescence, shadows and vacuum. Initiation and termination. They are pretty much the constants: Determined and calculated. Their prevalence was discovered to be engineered and programmed. Though, man would interject. Whether for good or for evil depends upon how he perceives them.

Bummer

There are some mornings when you wake up with oozing romanticism. The spirit of life makes you pop out of bed and into someone's arms, embarrassing them with the oddness of it. Less often, more imprinting and disturbing of evenings occur. When there remains no point of having a smoking cup of tea over some chit chat. The air would stand still, almost frozen. Inhale! But the lungs remain deflated with nothingness and you choke. The insects crawling in the pit for your grave would then probably be in for a  meal. Their meal that previously had been your flesh.
*sigh*

I see her gliding through the slits that remain between the glass covering my window. She is whirling nonchalantly through the key holes and any nook or crevice. Her spinning white icy hair languidly dance to surround everything. She touches only slightly over the surface of things, weighing them down. A streak of chill runs down my spine and I stand face to face with her. My average red-brown fierce eyes watching her reverberating gray silver lackadaisical bays for eyes. She hisses her song. I wince in a debilitated attempt to stay unaffected. And fall.

She would just enter into every moment of your life without a permission. The most boggling of the truths, however, is that she is beautiful. Somebody's dream. Somebody's companion. Others cherish her so much that they prepare for the time of her arrival. I, on the other hand, don't like her.
Winter!

Zip it

I can multitask. I can get so much covered working on so many things at the same time. Of course, the only condition being that none of the tasks must require me to talk.

Nonsense

I love getting mail from family. The recent mail that I received possessed the question in golden words; how is your favorite auntie with a mole on her back that you love to stare at???!!!???!!!

Initially I laughed until a fistula developed in my umbilicus. I had to push the protruding gut back in with my hands.

Next, was the flashback!

It's Sunny's wedding. We are bored to hell. I look like a person from the trans gender movement as I am given a compliment that sound something like "OMG! You look like a woman!"
[Replay] OMG! You look like a woman!
[Again] OMG! You look like a woman!
That one was a real shocker specially when I am known for the aggrandized chaadar I wear all the time at home. What made me look like a woman? Perhaps the fact that I am a woman. It must have been that smaller embroidered dupatta on my head as apposed to the chaadar. In that case, exposure made me look like a woman. Real smart.

The two of us are sitting in the little corner on chairs side by side. We are making plans of annihilating the world by inserting micro-chips in dolphin's puny brains and have them walk on shore seducing people to the waters and eventually drowning them. Once everybody was dead the two of us would rule the empty planet earth and wait for aliens so we can have some friends.

We conquered the world. We are struck with boredom again. We start staring people down. The land of my vision is suffused with the sight of my-about-to-be-favorite-auntie. I notice the lineae albicantes on her stomach. She pulls the blouse to her saari down. Needless to say to no avail! And she turns her back and there we go the mole, squished, being partly under the fringe of her blouse and partly dangling in the air.

Flashbacks are my favorite multimedia presentations that this life has to offer. Organized, broken into pieces emphasizing on important events in chronological sequences, slow and articulate. Made for me. I can go back and forth prodding aspects of interest, pause and investigate.

"My favorite auntie is no where to be seen, but I guess she and her sticking out mole must be doing all right, hopefully." I replied to his question accompanied by a lot of nonsense.

Son of Adam

The limit to which man can push his boundaries away from their original mark intrigues me. Man has been adamant as ever about maintaining boundaries and abstaining from the infarction of them. However, nothing beats the taste of how he melts before the grandiose walls that he cements himself ever so passionately. If he fails to build them he consequently also fails to prove to the world that he is driven by his inherent righteousness. Righteousness that is the essence of being human. Righteousness about which the world must know.

Sensational is the time when he breaks down before the concrete and pleads; pleading is not one of his cherished characteristics. He pleads nevertheless. He pleads for these walls to move away. This breathtaking imploring is within himself, hidden from the world. Dear to him and him alone. The boundaries are then pushed, sadly so only to an extent.

Ah! The vulnerability. The vulnerability of this being to melt!
Ah! The weakness.

It's raining paint drops

She had some paint stains on her black triangular hijaab that she wears on her head almost all the time when I see her.
"How did you get paint on your scarf?" I questioned her.
"I was doing the laundry back in the gali," she went on continuing with her jharho,"when this man painting the house behind ours started going crazy with it, he must have gotten the impression that I would enjoy some raining drops of paint on my clothes."
"That is so very wonderful of him. Did you look up after he did so?"
"No, I got the impression that he was interested in disrespecting me so I didn't feel the need to do such a thing."
"Of course."