Gar Mujhay Is ka Yaqeen ho

Why don't I want to write anymore?
Why did I write in the first place?

I sign into my blog every day. I click on 'new post'. The blank white box stares at me, eager to sate the aggression these haphazard alphabets have aligned themselves in penitence for. I stare at the cursor blinking at me for minutes. I click 'Sign out'.

There was a time when ideas were fluid. The flaring dance of the fingers and the para-dance that is the sound each hit produced would some how decipher before my eyes as my own thoughts. Random. But mine. My thoughts, mine. All mine.

I have none. Any more.

Gar mujhay is ka yaqeen ho meray hamdam, meray dost
     Gar mujhay is ka yaqeen ho kay teray dil ki thakan
     Teri aankhon ki udaasi, teray seenay ki jalan
     Meri dil-joee, meray piyaar se mit ja-ay gi
Gar mera harf-e-tasallee woh dawa ho jis say
     Jee uthay phir se tera ujrha howa be-noor dimagh
     Teri peshaani say dhul ja-ain ye tazleel kay daagh
     Teri bemaar jawani ko shifa ho ja-ay
Gar mujhay is ka yaqeen ho meray hamdam, meray dost
     Roz o shab, sham o sahar main tujhe behlata rahun
     Main tujhay geet sunata rahun halkay, sheereen
     Aabsharon k, baharon k, chaman zaaron k geet
     Aamad e subha k, mahtab k, sayyaron k geet
                                                                                                      (Faiz)

Perhaps the life in me is the absorbed energy waves of personalities in my surroundings; a consolidated part or is it all the life I have?

Lock her up somewhere and she is lifeless. Let her out and she reflects.
Bounces, shines, flies. So lives. The life in her, the reflections.

Up stairs on the third floor, the marbled, dusty, corner that she often found herself crippled in, she could smell the frozen axoplasm. She rubbed her scalp, massaged it, covered it up. Kept it warm. Peeping, passing diagonally in mid air, the rays hit her toes. She glared down at them. Tinkled her toes. Warmth!

She walked out side chasing the gleam, ripping through the cold out under the glassy sky. She didn't know something that lifeless can leave an impression that too so purely warm on her. A shaky pigeon with head dumped in feathers gave her a look. She didn't know something that couldn't even speak to her acknowledged her. Genuinely pleasant.

She lived.

She moved deeper and into the assembly of those who could speak. She sat on her mount in the corner among countless mounts of countless lives that were meant to be comprehensible. Right after the rush of genuine anger the disgraceful incidents of radiation of those countless lives on her that killed her she sat with frozen blood this time.

She has never felt anything that wasn't pure. Anger. Love. Patriotism. Indifference. Perhaps that's why she should go back to the state of her frozen axoplam because she rather be dormant than be negatively influenced and corrupted. Until she returns to normalcy, of course.

Parwardigaar nay sab sehal kar dya Sana kay liye.
Siwa-ay Sana kay.
Meray bus ki bat nahi, meray humdum, meray dost.
Tum geet sunao, Bintul.
Shayad main behal hee jaaun.

<3 <3 <3

Thorns

It is an interesting find of life that there aren't many in humans of your age that would altruistically cherish your abilities. It also remains a vibrant truth that if you master some talent, you want recognition for it. It remains not far from reality that others are pulled toward you because of an unusual aspect that you may possess. Amongst creatures that dwell in your surrounding there will always be some drawing close to you or at least making an effort to. These are the beings you tag as 'friends'. And in the midst of living like this for a very long time one word that has drastically failed to project an image before my two decades old eyes is friend.

The problem identified here is that one allows the pulling over person to pull over. Because friends are a choice of yours, you give their stay in your life a chance. Unfortunate is the truth that the more you grow closer to a person, the uglier they will become. A time comes when the rose of brightly shining qualities of one that drew the dweller begins to wilt. When the sharp tips of thorns on your happy rose plant of companionship go bloody, it begins to pain and ache too.

The solutions seem to be that either you and the drawing dweller possess the same qualities to exist like two healthy roses or one remains the flower and the other the pot. It seems tangible that one can become the protecting thorns for you; call me unfortunate when pronouncing this but friends don't really make it to being thorns for the rose you may be or not be.

Have I ever reached to the position of protecting a flower in my life? I have tried.

Twirl!

A Visit

"To phir kya hasil hai zindagi ka," I asked Aunt as she walked into my living/dining room taking seat on the wooden rocking chair by the kitchen counter where I once studied my books out loud while Amma had cooked in the kitchen.
"Tum abhi se ye sawal kiyun kar rahi ho?"
"Kiyun, sawal hi to hai."
"Ye sawal to mainay khud se apnay 40s mein karna shhoro kya tha," she told me in a plain manner. I think she turned forty last year. She just recently got the hang of the 'plain manner'; it was her dissipated interest in my life that I know she maintained out of sophistication because of the relationship we hold. Neither she had the time to spoil me nor did I spend enough time with her. "Tumne to abhi dekhni hai duniya."
"Shayed," I told her putting two cups of water to boil for tea.
"Tumhara kaam hai abhi, parhna. Ye waqt irtiqa ka hai, mustaqil o musalsal agay barh rahi ho tum, hasil abhi nahi hai, is koshish kay baad hai," she dug into the packet of masala Chana-Choor I had handed her.
"Sahi keh rahi hain, Aunt Baji, aap."
"Aur qurbani kar li tum logo ne, hogaya sab kaam asaani se?"
"Jee, Allah ka ehsaan hai."
"Gosht kisnay sambhala," she asked with a little interest now, perhaps it was genuine.
"Honey Mamu ne kasaee aur zibah ka kaam dekha, Mania aur mainay gosht ka hisaab kiya."
"Baantnay batanay ka kaam?"
"Daadi Jaan walay saray to main Hamu Dada kay haan le gaee thi, aap ka bhi tha wahan," I meant to ask.
"Haan, woh wahi Chaachi kay haan rakhwa diya tha." She got up and asked me if she could peep into the fridge. I motioned her ahead.
"Sana! Itni tameez se chits laga kar hissay bana-ay hain tum nay, I am impressed," she exclaimed.
"Shukriya, waisay sachi baat hai, mujhay ye kaam itna mushkil nahi laga jitna logo se suna tha," I shared with her.
"Haan, koi bhi kaam tareeqay se kiya ja-ay to mushkil nahi hota, beharhal tumhari Ammi ko bataungi fone per, bohat khush hongi."
"Hahaha, please thorha aur barha charha kar kay bateyega."
"Ammi se baat howi?"
"Nahi, woh log rastay mein thay Chicago se wapis aarahay thay," I told her.
"Meri baat howi thi to ro rahi theen," she waited for my expressions.
"I know she does that a lot."

Bukk Bukk

The obvious corruption in the society has stopped surprising me but still saddens me. But people have to shriek, pull their eyes open all the way up to the eyebrows, jaw hung loose, customary words of agreement sputtered here and there discussing the matter for a day, two days, three, maybe a week. It's all forgotten then.

"How could he have done that," my cousin asked discussing one the recent epidemic of a news.
"Did he not for once think about what he was doing, did he not wince," Nadia is a talker too.
"Forget him, what are you doing to prevent abnormalities from sprouting in your circle," I asked in a cold, the deepest voice I can do. I had been listening to their conversation for over 45 minutes pretending to check for split ends.
"Nahi, Bajjo yaar, us ko ehsaas nahi howa hoga," she was so adamant.
"Aur the police gave him shelter!"
"Look! There is no doubt that what he did was a heinous crime and we all agree that he should be punished. We are all disgusted which is important because it shows we are alive enough to be affected when something is wrong, but what difference is discussing 'I can't believe someone can do such a thing' for hours constantly repeating the same sentence you have uttered for at least twenty times now. Now, let us talk about ourselves." I could see the two ladies growing irritated by my incessant attempts at turning the subject at them. Clearly, what they had in mind was a nice chat over the crime, throw in rumors about it, waste another good three hours, have tea and go home and repeat the cycle with a different bunch of people.
"Bajjo, kiya usko koi farq nahi parha hoga ye kar kay?"
"Kiya tumhain farq parhta hai meri urgent request of abstaining from littering se," I asked in a disinterested tone.
"Per woh to itni chhoti si baat hai," she was amazed at how I could relate the two topics.
"Exactly, jab tum itni si baat register nahi kar sakteen kay ye ek ghalat harkat hai aur stubborn ho apnay action kay baray mein, to issi ehsaas ko magnified kar kay kisi bhi amal per, level per fit kar do. To jis tarah tumhain ehsaas nahi hai ghalat sahi ka, beshak woh ek seemingly harmless level per hai, ussi tarah kisi aur insaan ko kisi harmful level per nahi hoga. And in your little endless discussion here you are oblivious to our literacy rate and efficiency of law enforcement agencies; it's funny."
"Mujhay to neend nahi aee ye khaber sun kar," she decided not to comment on what I had said.
"We as individuals give chance to inappropriate things to flourish by ignoring them on a manageable level," I had to go on, "tumharay mohn mein paanch saal se chhalay ho rahay hain, kiya tum ney beetle-nut khana chhorha? Kiya tum parhi likhi nahi ho? Ya tumhain lagta hai chhaliya nutritious cheez hai? Ya tumhain itni si baat samajh nahi aati? Ya tum arhiyal ho?"
"Bajjo, main folic-acid le rahi hun," she gave me the impression as if I was being offensive, so I did not repeat the lecture on self-treatment.
"Look, I am not trying to ridicule you, and you should consult with a Doctor, I am just raising a question to all of us, including me, that what do we do to fix things in our circles except for toppling over in evening chats a crime another has committed based on similar attributes we as a society are equiped with."

Hard Being Great

"I don't want to backbite," I had shaken in disgust.
"What are we doing? We are growing into aunties."
"I want to be great!" I had earnestly said.
"Yea, real modest."

The human eye is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It particularly bothers me a lot when people opt for contact lenses with colors and blemishes disrupting the original sequences. The strength of the pull of a personality rests within the eye. What generates that pull? Perhaps, the idea of running through a person's neurons, riding on their visual impulses. And how pulling is a blind eye since you can't ride on its impulses? The pull is not for it being alive but for you being alive, a blind eye pulls for its beauty and your chance to discover it without being exposed - so the blind eye pulls not because you are riding on their impulse but they are riding on yours. A blind eye that you discover with all of its poses, reactions and behaviors, you know. But the blind eye doesn't have an idea; you create a mystery.

Any who, that is not what has been on my mind and kept me from taking a dive in the ocean of no where. It has been being incapable of depending upon people. Now, I am already working upon the fact that I am a difficult person to work with. In spite of the slacking, abstract, easy going attitude, I actually like things disciplined with excellent communication in teams. So, they are two apparently opposite sets of traits. It is like the sense in chaos. It is like the drill in ionizing radiation. And, I do know I have a tendency to detach myself when not in team.

I have had this so many times where my team tells me how reliable I am, but that is never the reason why I take leave. The reason is because the team fails to be dependable enough for me. This is where I need to become flexible? May be. This is definitely where the team needs to know I mean business. And not confuse my relaxed demeanor with ignorance and carelessness. Now, this is exclusively for the team, in cases otherwise I actually don't care.

On the realization my sister had said,
"O! You are so like Ian Somerhalder in Vampire Diaries, out of controlled badness with control."
"Um, that's love crap of a not even real-blood sucking freak."
"Yea, you!"
"That's not real!" I pleaded.
"Yea, you!"
"Sure."

I was going to talk to him, but he is not accustomed to having such awkward, as he would name them, conversations. He is fixed with silence. I can just picture him growing so uncomfortable, looking at me with a blank face, trying to come up with a thought, a where-to-begin look. After the spell would be warded off by me with a loose invisible dusting gesture of my hand, he would probably think how crazy I am. On the contrary, I enjoy such folding over one dimension to the next, expanding conversations. He is someone I can trust and I know he trusts me enough but it seems short of longevity; it seems susceptible to death because of another that doesn't get my way of being in a team and vise versa. So, I decided not to talk to him breaching my own rule for a perfect team, killing communication. Although, I have very strong reasons to be talking to him; I am back-biting which is such an impediment in attaining my immodest desire to be great.

If I was going to have a one on one session with him, I would begin with,
"I am indebted to you for changing your life, giving up the golden period of your youth, taking such a burdensome responsibility and you being someone I can trust, but what is it that you owe me?"


November 9, 2011

"Suno, idhar garhi mein betho," he told me.
"Kiya? Kiyun?" I had an idea, I just didn't think he would do something about it.
"Chal na!"
"Um, okay." I went sat.
"Mohn kiyun bana hai tumhara?"
"Mera mohn bana howa hai?" I could not believe that.
"Haan, kal se," he said.
"Yaar, koi masla nahi hai, bus off ho jata hai mood kabhi." I assured.
"To contorted shakal kiyun bana kar rakhi hai?"
"Aisi to koi baat nahi hai, aap bataein aap ko yaqeenan lag raha hoga aap kaheen na kaheen involved hain is sarhhay howay mohn kay peechay tabhi aapne baat chairhi hai, aap bataein aap ko kya lag raha hai," I couldn't believe the fact that if I don't talk it out with him, he actually figures there is something wrong. It was a happy feeling. Yup!
"Haan, per mujhay kuch dikh nahi raha issi liyay pooch raha hun," he said.
"Okay." I didn't know what to say, where to begin, if I should begin at all. Roles had reversed. It was the first time I had decided not to talk. Then after a quick arrangement of thoughts I decided to open my mouth on the subject first and for the last time and before I could start he said, "Jaisay Imaan hai, tum meray liye waisi ho, meri beti ki tarah, you can trust me."
"I already do."

A Curious Cascade

Last night when I laid in the dark listening while staring at the light from my neighbor's window seeping into mine through the sober-pink net drapes Amma had specially gotten made, my phone on the side table blinked. I picked it up and read a message,

"Agar koi aap se flirt karay to...
...
...
....
.....
......
To karnay do yaar!
Ye hi to din hain!"

I laughed and asked my flirt, I mean friend, her definition of flirting.
"Good question," she said, "depends upon the level of beghairti."
"And what is that level of beghairti?" I asked.
"Anything against Allah's order," she went on.

Since sleep had hopped down the balcony; I could see it on all fours running toward the trees. I decided to have a late night survey.
"What would be your definition of flirting," I asked the girls around 2:00 AM.

Reply # 1:

"Jitna suna ya dekha hai, without pure love/loyal intentions in heart kisi ka peechcha karna, tareef karna, taarh na. Algharz giving importance just for passing time. Jhoot hon jab sab shown feelings, probably that is what flirting would be. Ye sab flirt kay baja-ay sach bhi ho sakta hai, but intentions in such a case would be very different, pure, strong, etc."
"Acha," I said.
"Kiyun kisi ne chhairh dya kya, itni raat mein aisa sawal," she asked.
"Na, na. Kadda chhairhega koi," I told her.
"Fikar na kar, chhairh dega koi na koi!" She went on.
"Hahaha, dafa! So ja," I told her.

Reply # 2:

"Flirting would be exhibiting behavior that shows you like someone. A flirty glance, unnecessarily being nice or jokey. When it happens you can spot it easily!" She said.
"And how would you differentiate that with true love," I asked.
"Well being in love is totally different; without trying to sound like a sappy romance novel. Love is just an overwhelming feeling of care for another; the emotion runs deep. Flirting is showing another person: 'Hmmm I'm interested in you'. Love is: 'I want to spend the rest of my life with you'. I hope that makes sense," she explained.
"Yea, it does," I said appreciating the explanation.
"You don't have a rishta deal on your head, do you," she questioned.
"Damn!"
"Flirting usually is not serious, just playing around. Love is always serious, the real deal. And love doesn't happen over night. Love can develop too. Flirting means a temporary fleeting emotion with not a lot of heart to back it up. Love can, however, evolve. You can learn to love someone given that you have enough time," she explained, "If you meet with someone who tries to impress you, that is flirting but over time if he starts knowing what you are thinking before you say it, can gauge your mood and does what he can to make you feel supported then that is most likely love."
"Learn to love, I like that," I told her.

Reply # 3:

"Well, kisi ko dhoka daina, ditch karna flirting hi hoga excessive emotional interest kay baad," she emphasized.
"Sahi," I answered.
"Khairyat?"
"Haan, out of curiosity pooch rahi thi."

Reply # 4:

"Tumhain raat kay do bajay flirting kahan se yaad agaee?" She said.
"Lol, socha survey kar kay dekhun, ap log kiya kehtay hain."
"Flirting is superficial interest, sirf dikhawa, bina serious howay. Matlab khud ko kisi shakhs mein committed na samajhna," she said.
"Hmmm."

Reply # 5:

"Flirting is the only talent a guy can't include in his resume despite having years of experience!"
"Hahahah! Right."
"Where is this coming from?"
"Out of curiosity."

Reply # 6:

(The corniest, Laali - hahahaha)
"Ya Ilaahi," she exclaimed, "pata nahi."

Kuch Pagalpan

Baaz auqaat tumhain khud ko ankhain dikha kar ek baat se mana karna parhta hoga. Kiyunkay tum khud ko dhamki deti hogi kay main falan falan kar bethungi. Ya tumhain aisa mehsoos hota hoga kay tum falan falan kar beth sakti ho, ya kar bethogi.
Tab.
Tab, tumhain khud ko aankhain dikha kar poochna parhta hoga,

Acha?
Jo tum soch rahi ho kar sakogi?
Kar sakti ho?
Himmat hai?
Is kaam ka faida kiya hai?
Aisa karnay se tum barhi duniya fatah kar logi!
Wah wah ho gi tumhari.
Surkhuro ho jaogi Amma Abba kay agay, aakhirat mein Allah kay samnay!
Tum karo ye, zaroor karo.
Tum ye karo aur barbaad ho jao.
Karo! Shauq se karo.
Jaao.

Ye guftugu tumhain sochnay ka waqt de deti hogi. Tumharay marz ki tashkhees kar deti hogi. Tumhain sahi aur ghalat mein farq karnay mein madad deti hogi. Phir dobara jab aisa koi moarh aata hoga jahan tumhara bas na chalta hoga aur waswasay aur besaropa khayalat tumhain niggal janay kay liye apnay siyah hathon se tumhari taraf lapaktay hongay tab. Tab. Tab tum unhain ek sheeshay kay murabbay mein qaid kar kay apni soch ki 'synapses' mein dobara phailnay se rok deti hogi. Kiyunkay faisla tum kar chuki hogi us kashmakash kay baad jo tumharay ander thi; tum aisa kuch na karogi, na kar sakti ho aur na hi tumhain karna chahiye.

Baaghi

Since we are human, we disagree with so many things about others among us. Disagreement shows you got an idea of your own, it could either be inherited or something that might have been a result of your cognition. How do you get people you disagree with infuriated?

1) Disagree
2) Tell a story in which you make them look retarded.
3) Address them with a dystopian description of their according-to-you-bogus-ness.
* It's crazy fun when it's an extended sentence - example: Hi! Big ball of bursting adipose with severely sad leptin magnetizing future cachexia.

Now, you would do the above mentioned points if you are an absolute dolt.

Tantrum

It's extraordinary how a subject grows into governing a certain period of your life.
Just yesterday it was,
"Sana ko to MBBS ka shauq hai," Amma would say.
"Beta, khoob mehnat karna, medical college mein barhi percentage honi lazmi hai."
"Allah kamiyab karay bachun ko bus," Khala would say.
"Haan, saray bachhay barhay parhnay walay hain, Allah roshan mustaqbil day, achay colleges mein dakhila de, Ameen."
"Beta, ab so jao, bohat raat ho gaee hai," Amma would tell me to go to bed during an all-nighter before the exam.
"88%? 90% kiyun nahi aee?" Abba would gently question.
"Bachun kay exam ho rahay thay kaheen nikalna hi nahi howa," some auntie in the family would say.

Today, things have grown into something like,
"Saria ki mark sheet agaee hai," Mania said.
"To main kya karun?" I replied.
"Jao aur le kar aao, aur kiya," Hanif said with a teasing tone.
"Main aisa koi kaam nahi karnay wali," I refused.
"Kiyun? Tumharay to susrali hain wahan, bhag bhag kar jaya karo," Hanif so had a grin.
"Hadd hoti hai, Mamu, hadd hoti hai," I slapped my forehead for the fiftieth time today.
"Kiyun? Aram se jana aur baghair kisi jhamelay kay mark sheet le aana," he kept on going.
"Astaghfirullah, yaar mainay aaj tak dekha tak nahi hai usay, maaf kar dein mujhay."
"Haan beta, aisay hi hota hai, dekhta dikhata kon hai?" He was amused all right.
"Kiya hai masla aap kay saath, aap mujhay ye bata-ein, aur main nahi kar rahi us se shadi wadi," I walked out of the room.
"Hahahaha," I heard him laugh.

Yes, as annoying as it may sound, the purpose of life is Shaadi. Shaadi an event after which you will go back to being an ordinary human being living your different but still one heck of a dull life.
Haven't I seen Nadia? So, she got married, she moved in with us, she had a baby.
Now what?
She stays at home, cooks one meal a day, would indulge in her phone and then a little in television, watch the Kaam Wali do her baby's dirty clothes, she'll pick up an argument with Hanif and then they won't talk neither have dinner together, then Hanif would just take us all out and things will be fine, the cycle repeats every now and then.
How nice!

Okay. So, you are going to live a dull life anyway, why not get married and live one?
Fine. I get that, but why make it so dramatic?
People who treated you as a person have change of ideas. You are a park now.

"Aray aap bhi aeeye na," Amma had said to the next door neighbor who had sent someone to meet us.
"Nahi, bachi ghabra jaegi, easy feel nahi karegi," I heard her say.
Wow! I mean that's really nice of her.
Luckily, August has passed and they couldn't wait until next year.

"Mera MBBS?"
"Haan, haan, tumhain parhnay se kon roak raha hai?"
Sure, I believe that.

Grow up, beta. Grow up.
Shabash.

Post Exam

He took a sharp turn from one of the lanes deeper into the block of 13-D. The sooty, almost-winter, desserted, possessor of highly illuminated series of fine lively houses enriched with glee and chatting quietness of the streets project one of the most beautiful attributes of Karachi; life.

Manum maanay azmandi kay be tonay yaazdaaran
Ghum-e-choon to naaz ni ni
Ghum-e-choon to naaz ni ni behizaar naaz-daran
Kohe-e-afataab-e-chashman wa jamaal toos to roshan
Ager astobazgeerum bad bay chashm-e-raazgaaran

"Phir, batao kahan khana khaana hai?" He asked the girls.
"Soup peena hai, kaheen se bhi," I said.
"Abay bhai, tu to rehnay de, last time ka tere israar per mushroom soup bhool gaee kya," he said to me.
"Yaar Mamu, mujhay kiya pata tha us mein cream barh dega woh gadha," I told him.
"Haan bajjo, aap to rehnay dein, you have the worst taste," Mania told me.
"Kam se kam paisay detay waqt insaan ko gham to na ho," Mamu said.
"Yaar, to ro kiyun rahay ho sab, it's called discovering, sheesh," I advocated for that last soup disaster.
"Dekhain jaldi faisla karein warna mera baby uth jaega to kuch nahi ho paeyga," Maami reasoned.
"To batao kahan ki taraf karun?" Mamu asked.
"Chunkay mainay dinner kay liye specially kaprhay badlay hain, is liye durr chalain," I offered.
"Haan, itni mehnat ki hai Sana ne sirf dinner kay liye dur to chalna parhega," Maami said.
"Kahan?" Mamu sounded a little annoyed.
"Clifton!" I said.
"Pagal hai tu, itni dur nahi ja raha mein," he refused.
"Come on!"
"Hamara baby jaag jaega itni dur gaey to," Maami worried.
"Yaar, subah chutti hai, let's go, dekhain meray exam bhi khatam ho ga-ay hain, ek trip to banta hai," said I.
"Aur mera mid term ka paper cancel ho gaya hai Nusrat Bhutto kay gham mein," Mania said.

Then silence fell in the car while I indugled in the passing streets and houses and guessed what possibly could be going on behind so many walls, noticed architectural details.

Yaar ko hamne jabaja dekha
Kaheen zahir kaheen chupa dekha
Kaheen mumkin howa
Kaheen wajib
Kaheen faani,
Kaheen baqa dekha

"Ye dada abbu logon ka ghar hai," Mamu said pointing to one of the houses.
"Hayat hain dadu abbu?"
"Nahi."
"Aw! Tayyab log?" I confirmed.
"Haan, Tayyab Ali pyar ka dushman," Mamu said in a jolly tone.
"Hahahahah," we laughed.
"Dada abbu to Nadir bhai kay dushman thay," Mamu recalled.
"Hahah, woh kaisay?" Mania and I asked.
"Roz darwaza bajatay aur Nadir bhai ka puchtay, ab Nadir bhai naha rahay hon ya kaheen aur masroof hon to woh intezaar kartay jab tak Nadir bhai farigh nahi ho jatay, aur jab woh puchnay jatay kay kiya howa to koi sawal kartay jaisay 'Nadir betay, tumharay ghar paani aaraha hai', Nadir bhai kehtay jee aa raha hai to Dada abbu 'haan hamaray haan bhi aaraha hai' keh kar ghar chalay jatay, roz koi baat puchnay aatay, Nadir bhai ko bolwatay aur 'hamaray haan bhi horaha hai' keh kar Nadir bhai ki tapatay thay," Mamu laughed as he recollected.

After a long drive we pulled over to The Olive Resturant, took the last table which was a dive away from the dark calm terrifying ocean, and had food. The baby kept sleeping in the soothing breeze.

His Keloid

The agonizing constricting pain reminded him of the uncertainty of future. If he gets to it, he will modify it to his taste but there was always a good chance of never making it there. The smile that he carried wasn't indicative of his sober outlook on life. It was a keloid. It was not something he had a choice over just like the continued pain. He was so much stronger and bigger than the pain but people around him and their naive incessant attempts that revolved around carved ideas based on speculations about the one he had lost would throw him off balance. The balance in which he had managed to pull him self together, tied with ropes of fate.

The disclosure of nooks of a blazing individual concealed within the eye that sights demands insight and must face disruption in thought process if it is revolving around carved ideas; it destroys the essence of discovery of something too alive, malignant. There is no simplification. There is no refuge from the invasive blaze of a person except when its impact is undiscovered or somehow limited with a definition. In elsewise conditions the impact of a life or the absence of it upon another is lethal in so many ways.

The running amok of neoplastic cells that attain immortality, the volatility of such an invincible paraphernalia is the paradox of life as it ends first in killing and later only in suicide. When she died, he had stood still. Her fading warmth, her anxious eyes, his world in her long lost smile was lost with it. Death knocked on their door even before they had the chance to discuss it, mutilating and crushing them.

When the existence of someone becomes so blazing, it burns itself and others. The blaze of an individual's existence exemplifies what it stands for and the absence of it burns deeper.

Adawatain theen, taghaful tha, ranjishain theen magar
Bicharhnay walay mein sab kuch tha, be-wafaee na thi

Ek din

Tumhain us khambay ki awaz aa rahi hai? Koi din mein kaee martaba us ko peeta karta hai. Shayed woh apnay dost tak koi paighaam pohchata ho. Shayad us pit-tay howay khambay ka koi muntazir ho. Wajah jo bhi ho, ye din mein bar bar pit-ta howa khamba meri tawajjo ka markaz zarur banta hai.

Isaaeyon ki ibadatgah kay aqab mein jo pursukoon si sarhak thi woh wahan ghanton ki goonjti howi kaamp mein apni sahaili kay liyay seeti bajati. Kuch hi lamhon baad ek bareek seeti uski janib dowrhti aati aur woh irada kar leti kisi bahanay ka jo isaae madrassa aur yateemkhanay mein us kay dakhlay ki jhooti wajah hota.
"Aay! Tum kon ho?"
"Unzila."
"Tum yahan parhti ho?"
"Nahi to."
"Phir yahan per kis wajah se aaee ho?"
"Meri dost hai yahan."
"Nahi, ye koi tareeqa nahi hai, chalo, bahar jao, shabash."
Woh apni puri taqat se ek kay baad ek gehra saans bharti aur hawa mein lagataar teen chaar seetiyan muntaqil karnay kay baad payr ghaseet-tay ghar ko chalti.

Uski bezarar si zindagi kabhi ek to kabhi dosri taraf naachti dikhaee deti. Deewani si woh, deewanay say us kay girdonawa kay log. Ek roz jab Tariq bhai ko rayt kay oonchay se paharh per jo Amber kay haan aya tha leta dekha to karhi jiddojehad se teelay ko sar kar kay un kay braber mein ja leti.
"Tariq bhai?"
"Hmm."
"Ap yahan kiyun letay hain?"
"Kiyun, dekho, asmaan ko dekho."
"Bohat dur hai!"
"Bohat wasi bhi."
"Bohat piyara bhi."
"Bohat neela bhi!"
"Bohat sajeela."
"Bohat rangeela!!!"
"Bohat shameema!"
"Hahahahahah."
Hanstay howay Tariq bhai us kay gaal per halka sa thaparh maartay, kaprhon se rait ko jharhtay aur chalay jatay kisi aur duniya mein jo sirf Tariq bhai hi dekh saktay thay.

Shaam ki cha-ay ki kaitli jab shore karti to saath mein braber ki deewar se koi sar jhankta aur awaz aati, "Unzila! Seerhi."
"Jee," Unzila apni zindagi ki kashti Shameema baji kay saamnay seerhi laganay ki mushaqat mein apnay hi paseenay mein dibo deti.

"Ammi, Shameema baji ko aj phir cha-ay ki khushbu aagaee!" Chillatay howay apnay peechay ek gulabi rang mein lipti do jhuki jhuki aankhain chorh aati, per ye koi aj ki baat na thi, roz ka mamool tha. Shaam ki cha-ay kay saath papay na bhi hon, Shameema Baji ka hona bohat zaruri tha.

Shameema baji ko aath saal ki omer mein bohat hi shadeed bukhaar charha tha. Tab se unkay chehray per moti moti, garhi garhi, gehri gehri lakeeron ki lehrain si theen, khaal ki. Unki zabaan aur alfaaz ki adaaegi mein bhi kuch marorh se tha. Dosron ko un ki batein na samajh mein aain per Unzila sab samajhti thi. Aur sach to ye tha kay usay Shameema baji kay liye deewar se seerhi laganay mein jitna maza ata utna school se chutti kay waqt kumail dalwa kar gola ganda khanay mein bhi na aata. Saray mohallay mein sirf us hi kay ghar ek lakrhi ki seerhi thi jo woh apni deewar se lagati aur Shameema baji har shaam deewar phalaang ker us kay ghar cha-ay peenay aateen.

Shoulder-less

Some times when you keep so many things just absorbed within you either incorrectly or correctly for that might have been the need of time, and then they pile up and one day you crack. You crack and you can't figure out if it's sadness, angst, pity, sympathy, a way to alleviate, self doubt or plainly a derogatory trait to define who you are. But at that time, you the absorber, the rigid, the unbreakable, the don't care, the it's nothing big, the so what and in Hafsa's words "the inflexible" just need to be left alone. You might need a shoulder, only the smart one that can get to you. But those around you just don't have the shrewd shoulder of steel. From their hesitation of offering one to your need for one, the idea of a shoulder and possibility that it could cure your alloy of so many different events compounded as one, dies some where.

The problem with offering a shoulder to a hard-nut is you thinking they are too hard for a shoulder and they wanting not to be known as the foamy ones. The solution is between the two because we all have hard-nuts that we love apart for being ones ourselves. In the former case you need to protect their hardnutty-ness and also let them express their foam. You need to be skilled. You need to be disinterested in to trying to talk it out with a hard-nut. That's crazy hard-nuts don't talk their stuff out, unless they are certain of the fact that you carry no interest in the stuff they offer and it is just a nice conversation. Hard-nut talk their stuff the hard way. There is no need to tell them how foamy they can be. There is only need for silently understanding.

Take it from some one who knows, all humans can be foamy, you need to know the trick. Are you ready to blatantly throw yourself in foam but harder than steel over a hard-nut, over-riding the hardnutty-ness? Is your expression of care strong enough? Is it capable of shushing the hard-nut? Is it capable of pulling the hard-nut's hair and forcing it on your foamy shoulder of steel? The shoulder that is foamy enough to soak the hard-nut's tears and steel enough for a hard-nut to shed tears on it.

Don't wait for a hard-nut. It's hard and it's a nut. It can carry the form and not have a shoulder for as long as it lives. But it should be you who for the betterment of a hard-nut make it easy for them to express their foams and return to their nutty-hard-nessy-ness because you love them. If you can make them understand your shoulder of steel can force them on it, chances are hard-nuts being human will use it once in a while.

And I thought I was THE hard-nut.
Sheesh.

Behass

Behass kya hai?
Mushkil kya hai?

Mushkil to kuch nahi,
Tum bana lo aur baat hai.

To phir behass kya hai?
Behass kya hai,
Kya Virology kahan beth kar parthni hai,
Ya Virology parhni hai?

To phir behass kya hai?
Behass kya hai?
Kya baat karni hai,
Ya tumse baat karni hai?

To phir behass kya hai?
Behass kya hai?
Kya pait barhna hai,
Ya kuch khaas khana hai?

To phir behass kya hai?
Behass kya hai?
Kya shadi karni hai,
Ya kisi khaas se karni hai?

To phir behass kya hai?
Behass kya hai?
Pakistan mein rehna hai,
Ya Pakistan se bahar nahi rehna?

To phir behass kya hai?
Behass kya hai?
Kya mehaz GPA banana hai,
Ya MBBS kisi maqsad kay liye karna hai?

To phir behass kya hai?
Behass kya hai?
Kya koshish sirf mouqa dhoondnay ki hai,
Ya maouqa dhoondh kar kuch hasil karnay ki hai?

Behass hai kya?

Fall

Because it is fall again. It's not too many days away from another exam that I am not one hundred percent prepared for despite my high expectations from self in terms of getting disciplined and working an actual routine. Exam time is routine. Apparently fall-depression has become one too. Fall had always added that viscosity to the environment that one needs to struggle in order to come out of and during that struggle figures out new angles, new dimensions, flip sides.

My emotional responses have always needed a delayed period of at least a month before I realize the significance of an event that took place. The event however being so far away at the time of the delayed epiphany, battered with my rash or disinterested demeanor usually suffers enough damage for the subject to be taken up again by the same lot of people. If only those that are to be forever for me understand that. But since the problem is recognized, I guess, I myself should find ways of treating it.

Yesterday, I had wished for a syringe of Dopamine that I could just inject into my head. I cooked for the two other people who live with me. They appreciated the effort, I am grateful for their thoughtfulness. I didn't study anything. I cried for so many reasons bundled up in one. Each one being absolutely acknowledged, understood and pondered upon by me. I craved for sunlight to tear across these walls and burn my sorrow. My amalgamated, melting and then self oxidizing sorrow that is mine and mine alone.

Ek roz zameen oarh kay sou jaengay hum bhi,
Rehta nahi insaan to rehta nahi gham bhi.

When I entered the house last night, I said a loud salaam to the empty house. Hoping that nobody heard it and at the same time hoping that if somebody did, they had replied. Okay. Let's not blame Jinnat for my down-days. It's not like I have the result of excessive pondering out in the form of an action that I can perform, the performance of which will make my life smooth. It wouldn't be a lie if I say my life is smooth.

Then what is your problem?
I know what it is.
You cannot do anything about it, it's mine.

The day comprised of cooking, a two hour shower, going to Daadee Jaan's, to Chachu's and to visit Nadia at her mother's place and her new baby girl, Emaan. When I unlocked my room, I stood by the side table gulping water down from a bottle and staring out the window. The same scene stood before me, there is nothing exciting about the view out my window. A thought then struck me.
"What if this roof falls upon my head?" I looked up to stare at it, and gauged the possibility that it could indeed happen, specially after all of the rain. The cracks were inflamed and the chronic assault of gravity aiding the two discontinuous patches of soaked cemented plaster to pout, insignificantly.
"Well, if it is to fall upon my head then it shall," I walked away falling asleep a little too early.

Around three in the morning the loud and deep voices of men out on the street had woken me up. I wasn't the slightest interested in what might be the reason behind the late night need for a conversation by men that too out on the street. Many possible reasons raced their way in my head; I wasn't going to go find out.
But what did startle me was my missing sister. I patted the bed beside me, swung my leg forward scanning a larger area of the huge bed we sleep on ever since Amma left. I pulled up an abandoned sheet that she wears. Extremely lethargic, I scratched my head, I got up and searched for the chargeable light. Searching the house I found her in the bedroom that originally belongs to her.
"Freaking sleepwalkers."
I went back to sleep. The mosquitoes are just impossible to avoid. I got up to switch the fan off as my skin started losing temperature. It was Fajar then. My sister and I offered salaat and around six in the morning I went to fall asleep once again before the points. I had intended to go to school, the monotony in life makes it even more depressing. Just as I had dozed off, something crashed with tremendous multiple thuds.
"Ya Allah!" I got up staring at the fallen roof.
"What the hell!" My sister came rushing into the room.
"The roof fell," I said lamely returning to my level of below-normal-activity. I got up to find my glasses when there where a couple more thuds beside me and a huge chunk fell right where my head had been.
"You think I would have survived that?" I questioned my sister getting off the bed with a little emergency this time.
"You survived it."
"Dude, we don't even recite the Kalima during our conscious pacing through the day, how do you reckon we get to recite it on the death bed?" I asked her walking out with her. She nodded.
"Are you not going to school?" She questioned me.
"No, I think the fallen roof was enough the excitement."
"Isn't it weird I went to go sleep in my room. I was right under that," she thought.
"Vibes."
"You believe in vibes?" She looked at me in disbelief.
"I don't know, I guess, only when I get them."
"Super creepy!"
"I had given the roof a thought just before falling asleep," I told her.
"Whoa!"

So Many Dots

Camera!
The word ended up being the joke of the day, a day that I spent with two girls not really alleged to be from the tightest of my circle. The three of us stood with our arms hanging casually around the necks of one another in front of the surveillance camera at the entrance to Pathology lecture hall.

"Oye, tasweer ho ja-ay!"
"Ajao, ajao."
"Hiiii!!!!"
"Cheese."

All the way down the stair case, up the once grand hallway to the left, out the front stairs, a little to the right in front of the embedded minute door to the Principal's office were a few stairs to the auditorium I witnessed from the inside only once in my life time for the Photo Ceremony for the inception of our digitized beeping college cards for attendance, beside it was a petite door to an even petite room where he sat monitoring the data, his eyes drawn immediately to the girls staring into the camera, waving. He couldn't help but smile. Few hours later when I visited him with the complaint of my non-beeping college card, I spotted the recognition in his eyes. It wasn't just guilt.
Mar jao Sana, he so saw you.
Blah, ab jo bhi.

Everybody seemed to be scurrying with a sense of something they all had in mind; the walk for the Hepatitis Awareness Program. Maria, Hafsa and I were the only people from our Clinical Group not taking part. Hafsa wasn't a big question because of her obvious language barrier that wouldn't serve her well for the random talking with people against Hepatitis. The reason for me, a person generally accused of having a soft corner for the people, not taking part rested within the argument I had with people known for bringing that idea to school; it was based on the believability to question their belief in the cause. Of course, also for their extreme emphasis on keeping things hidden from team. Makes one wonder, eh? It made me question my involvement and I chose to die. And I stand mortal.

In the library I sat with my hair falling out of the hood of my dupatta, digging my eyes hard on the words, trying to make sense out of them. My brain was stuck in the vacuum of nothingness.

Substantia nigra?
Corpus striatum?
Neostriatum?
Dopamine?
Basal ganglia?
Neurodegenerative?
Parkinsonism?

"Hey, can I see this for a moment please?" I stretched an arm to a sophomore beside me with NeuroAnatomy.
"Ya! Sure."
I flipped through, trying to recall the pages I had once swallowed. Things started to trickle down to my senses.
"Am I wasting your time?" I questioned the girl beside me.
"O no! Ap dekh lein araam se."
"Thanks hun!"

Down on the floor to the left sat the same two girls.
"Kulsoom!" I yelled, the reason why I have been kicked out of the library countless amount of time. I love the librarian Auntie. When I had walked in to the library Henna Maryam stood speaking with her. I listened to her story with patience and patted her shoulder. Lol, that doesn't buy me yelling in the library though. Kulsoom waved back and so did Hina.

The figure to enter next strolled down the walkway between the tables to the separated room for the intense study-ers. I followed her.
"Ap log kiya kar rahay hain?" I popped my head in from in between the glass doors exercising caution as to avoid the hatred of couples- the reader and the book. To my surprise, the room was loud and noisy with sheets, carvings, glue, scissors, girls jogging from table to table, markers.
"Charts bana rahay hain walk kay liye," Sidra Malik said bent with intense dedication with Warda and Abeer assisting her in finalizing Anum Iftikhar's chart.
"Woh khud kahan ghaib hain?" I inquired.
"Yaar, aj youth conference thi to wahan gaee howi hai."
"Acha, bataya nahi us nay," I was perhaps a little offended as I recalled the text I received a couple nights before from Anum questioning me about what I would say if all the authorities were to sit before me to answer my queries. I expect her to tell me if there lies a conference behind a random phrase she throws at me seeking discussions.

There is a lesson here: Ask the reason behind the question raised specially if you happen to be a restless little kid, too curious.

I hopped on to the table, crossed my legs and started replying back to Shafiqanator's pending texts. The girls seemed busy but determined to ask why the walk won't be having me which was why I took my self out, back to the seat I had left Lippin upon. Kulsoom and Hina had managed to settle into the seats on my table trying their luck on Microbiology.
"Main aati hun abhi," I answered their looks that questioned my taking an envelope out of my bag, "Principal se milna tha."

Walking down the same hallway, down the same stairs, a little to the right I went in through the unflattering door to the crummy, inadequate, freezing area with not more than ten chairs, five along one wall, the remaining along the parallel hardly a meter apart. A cabin to the extreme left, and two perpendicular doors to the right with third at a ninety degree I had walked through, I asked Arif in the cabin if the Big guy was around. He wasn't.

"Main ek maheenay se ek adna si application le kar ghoom rahi hun, ab main aap ko hi de deti hun, aap mera message Principal tak pohcha diye ga," I told Arif.
"Jee bolain," he replied in an apathetic tone.
"Ek chhoti se darkhuwast hai."
"Bolain," this time he decided to turn slightly toward me while replying.
"Second semesters se point mein beth kar main dekhti thi Pakistan kay jhanday ka sitara udharh gaya, phir jhanda hi utaar diya, meri darkhuwast sirf itni si hai kay naya jhanda laga dein, please."

He looked at me in bewilderment or surprise, it was almost like he thought it was a little silly, may be it was almost a 'aan that's so adorable' look which is ridiculous to picture back with Arif's face. He sensed the severity of the subject and took the application from me with a 'consider it done' look.
"Bohat achi baat hai, main khud lagaunga, aap ne bohat acha kiya bata dya," he spoke with responsibility.
"To main hopeful rahun?" I questioned.
"Bilkul, bilkul."
"Alright then, thank you."
"Acha."

On my way back to the library I stopped by at the GCR where girls from my C.G sat working on a cost free chart. I spent some time with them and moved out to the library. Kulsoom and Hina had the same question ready for me.
"Tum nahi ja rahi walk per?"
"Blah!!!! Nahi."
"Kiyun?"
"Bus yaar, ap kyun nahi ja raheen?" I reversed the question.
"Aray bhai, hum ne kar liya kaam bus ab hum beth kar parh lein woh hi kafi hai," she gave me a look that asked me to understand.
"O, I get it. Bachpanay mein hum ne certificates jama kiye, jawaani hum ne magazine kay naam ki aur burhapay mein hum parhna chahtay hain!" I phrased.
"Haan tum ne to magazine mein time lagaya, yaar hum log PMA kay chakkar kaat tay thay."
"Exactly, kaam karna mushkil baat nahi hai yaar, mood ki baat hai," I offered.
"Yaar, ye mujhay is sab mein bus camera! dikha," Hina emphasized on camera.
"Ahahah, mujhay shuru mat karwa-ain, bus theekh hai, I get it," I loved her detailed hand movement with the word camera and it became the word of the day.

We got into unlimited number of little bouts of sentence-exchanging and drifted back to our respective books. Almost every conversation had a phrase that could perfectly fit the scenario of the Camera!

"Meri behan ka kaprhay banwa banwa kar dil nahi bharta!"
"She lives in Chicago?" I asked.
"Haan, har saal aati hai ek ton kaprha banwa kar le kar jaati hai, phir phone per baat karo to mazeed karprhon ki farma-ish. Koi design dekh legi phir us ko email karay gi phir peechay parh ja-ay gi kay bhejo."
"Is ki behan ko kaprhon ka bohat shauq hai."
"Ek lakh rupay kay kaprhay banwati hai phone per sirf, pichli dafa us kay miya laa-ay us ko yahan, to kehtay hain tum khud kaphrhay silwalo warna design aur kaprhay dekh kar bologi ye ek to nahi hain," she explained with a tinge of annoyance coated with affection.
"MashaAllah. To aap log itna kaprha bijhwatay kaisay hain us ko?" I laughed.
"Us kay husband Textile Engineer hain to unka kaprha bhi jata hai, cargo!"
"Bohat time lag jata hoga phir to, ship se?" I said.
"Bohat waqt na bhi lagay to us nay konsa hamara dimagh khana band kar dena hai? Mai to kehti hun us ko kuch hamari bari aanay tak bhi chhorh do!"
"Ye aap ne bohat behooda baat ki hai, CAMERA!" I exclaimed.

Haahahahahhahahah
Aaaaaaaaaahahahahhahaha
High five
Hahahahahahahahahaha
Hahahahahah

And many such chit-chats like that. After the involvement I found myself pacing through Virology with them. The day ended with me spending it with complete strangers, laughing, studying, enjoying. Only after school did I find the people associated with me having Frooze, I chose to buy the cone. We talked for a while and I went to go sit in the point where I offered a shoulder to a second year-er, as they now have to cover Pathology and Pharma in the forth semester rather than in the third year. Shafiq called with a plan to attend a Hepatitis program hoisted by Liaquat National so I decided to spend another day away, this time with my Baqai Buds.

Extended Spectrum

The chronic bursting resounding fragments of a contrived laughter had some characteristics of genuineness, a subtle characteristic. She meant it and it did after all represent her. It did symbolize her at least for the part of her she carried to the interfaces between her, the almost her and the non-her. Albeit the non-her had always been 'her' as well; it was a mere denial.

As for the events that surrounded her at that time varied in quality, intensity and colors. She was reminded of a prism. She recalled the question proposed to her earlier about the happiest moment of her life. It was impossible to DNA-probe one. Even if existed such a day it was so deep down into the jungle, covered in mold, smelled of fertile land that she would miss it even if stood right before it.

She was sure and firm with an urge to become right, and not emancipate, just be understood. When she saw the hyper pigmented, spotty arms of the lady who answered the white gate, she quickly presented the piece of paper before a gesture of an intended handshake. Something died somewhere. The war began and she lamented the repulsion. It wasn't repulsion, it was caution. Albeit a caution that could have been compromised for a pose that could have been more courteous, more kind may be.

The increasing number of  turn offs were her concern. The most pressing ones ended up being those that she herself emitted. Feeling sorry was one: Feeling excessively sorry for an action she had carried out after filtering her thoughts. She was told to rely upon her ability to filter, filter thoughts that is. She felt one of a kind for she was so drastically flaring and others motionless, so passive, so forcefully composed, cautious, very offensively cautious as they rather not be, if be that. One an aspiring 'right' so in your face, the second the known 'right' so hidden away. Both being non-rights.

There was always a pair of antithetical options available and her desire to choose the best. The right. From how the world seemed to ripen in front of her the 'rights' were mostly the 'quiets'. Cowardly quiets more often than not. In her opinion right was no coward. Right was an action that made a statement of strong and impenetrable nature with caution. She got the first part half right for right was only a statement as yet not an action, she needed to gain control over the last bit that emphasised upon discretion. What kind of discretion? The discretion to not unnecessarily harm the feelings of a being. The discretion that discriminated between harsh and right. The discretion that made right right and not quiet.

Ap Kay Israar Per

Hafsa has her birthday on January 22nd.
Happy birthday to you.

Mission: Akhlaaq

It was so tenacious, her manner of embracing me with trickling affection that I could not help but abate the reluctance. The admiration she held for me could not simplify into an elaboration but I felt honored. I almost felt tamed. After a moment of confusion I unfastened and hugged her back.

I remember meeting her once or twice as someone elses grandmother, years ago. Her fragile but consistent grip around my neck and the interval explained she perhaps took me as her grandchild for she stood there asking me to walk with one of her children for life. Expression of emotions only deepened its mark. I made a note to self for upcoming emotions that my cynical self dwindle away before; don't forget to express.


"Amma, when you hear the word 'uncontrolled' what is the first thing that pops in your head?" I asked across the room.
"Cells dividing uncontrollably, malignancy," Mania took a shot.
"Time," Saria had her say.
"What is your word, Maa?" I watched Amma who didn't seem too keen to answer.
"Tum," Saria said to me, looking at Amma for her response.
Surprisingly, Amma didn't say anything and passed me a smile.


I treated her with my usual intense response to her challenging ways. A response that is so unrestrained that it's impossible for her to neutralize and for me to eliminate. Perhaps, the loud, unforgiving, disturbing and persistent kind is the nature of any bond I have ever felt with the very few that grow close. In fact, it is almost like this undaunted factor is the reason why I never fear losing these very few ones for I am so truly what I am before them. This insanity only dies with the efforts of the other to emancipate; I don't blame them. Those I fear losing, I will lose. So, I let fear not wander around. Those who want to be lost, I will let loose.

The other outcome is the time when I am tamed. It is perhaps a level higher than the boisterous proof of a bond. And I am glad you tried. It was enough an effort to have me treat you in a civilized manner, Shaan-e-SMC. Because what is to be noticed here is how much this nuclear reactor is cherished. It is not. So, I will get rid of it. One has to be flexible enough to have others relax. Treat them according to their level of Zabt and Idraak. And when they come along with something unreasonable; I tolerate.

So, help me Allah.

Father's day

It's a Sunday. Father's day sort of day too. I am sitting here by the blue wall next to the yawning door of the balcony. I see the new bat like black fan twirling leisurely causing Ali's kurta on the iron stand to serenely breathe. The LCD remains pitch black hanging on the blue wall perpendicular to the one my back is currently resting upon. The cushions are everywhere, speak loads about the battle the room had just gone through when the kids had tea and rusks. The sky is thundering with the sound of a passing air craft, it's a PIA. The generator is raoring down stairs. Kids are yelling, playing, enjoying their evening out side. Someone's motor bike is honking in a shrill high pitched peep, perhaps to push the scattered kids out of the way. Something is bugging me next to my left sternocleidomastoid, I don't know, could just be the muscle. Khaula, Shifa, Mania, Saria are playing in the girl's room, I think I hear cards. I don't fancy cards. Someone just rang the door bell too, I don't wonder who that is.

As the birds continue to chirp pulling on to the curtain of night, another day reaches the finish line. It has been a busy day since the morning as I found myself being jumped upon by little Zavia.

"Sab se ziyada Pakistan ko galiyaan denay wala shaks kon hai?" A question was raised on the table for breakfast.
"Chachu!!!" Almost everyone knew the answer.
"Sab se aakhir mein Pakistan ko chhorh kar kon jaega?" Another question was born.
"Chachu!!!" Everyone but I yelled.
"Nahi, Sana."

Dad, you are my hero.
Dated: June 19, 2011

Girls Will Be Girls

Everybody, obviously, sees the world relative to their explanation of things and it sure is harder to do justice to the understanding of it with such an approach. The amount of time women invest within the making of judgements about mere sights prevailing in their surroundings is one heck of a ride and I tried tasting every bit today offered. I am not stereotyping, it's a first hand experience that the normal, very sane, very upright women took me on.

Now, I won't question why must they sit around making some random, really insignificant people govern their lives for hours. I wouldn't say impersonating one of the ladies from the pack wasn't fun, it probably was but it was more pointless than me trying to have people look past my use of informally uttered medical terms that hold strong stereotypes for explanations, and understand the purpose behind. Blah.

Example: 'Depression' would be one; I am not actually depressed, people. I am just tired of the fact that you don't feel your surroundings can make a good use of you. Stop freaking littering!

I woke up, immediately sitting up on my bed bending over to the bedside, reading the time in my cell phone. I had missed the point and I had missed enough school for them to banish me for life.
"Amma main college ja rahi hun, paisay bhi le rahi hun."
"Point se kyun nahi gaeen?" Amma inquired.
I wasn't going to respond to that. I have grown saner. I took out a shirt from the pile I organized for summer. Ironed it. Pulled out a random dupatta to go with it. A white shalwar too. Abstract contrasting was the outcome. With my 'emergency preparation for school drill' coming as naturally as anything to me, I had an urge, an urge to put on hoops in my ears. And I did. Got off the bus for another and off to my way to Peads ward, instead I went to school. Found Noor in the Girl's Common Room. Found Maria after she gave me the coordinates to seek her out. She saw me and instantly referred to me as the 'Dulhan' for the hoops in my ghoonghat. The day began.

We had some discussions of the most feminine kind. Any way it's a liberty students of medicine often exploit. Ha. Ha. I apologize for too much information. I might be hanged for it too in the majestic court of her highness, Mohtarma Maria Khatoon. Before we could hop to the Peads ward to be enthralled the subject of today came rushing my way, crashing in to my brain and my nerves only shackling under the unfathomable intensity of such a grave issue.

*Dim the lights*
*Cue music*

Wajiha ne mangni kar li.

*Tada!*

Okay, so Wajiha ne mangni karli.
Phir? Main kiya karun?
Wajiha hai kon?

"Nahi bhai, woh chaar semesters se 60s walay kay saath hai, woh aisa kaisay kar sakti hai?"
"Bhai, to tumhain kiya?"
"Nahi, main to court le kar jaungi, 60s walay ka case larhungi."
"Aray to 60s walay ko us mein interest nahi hoga," I reasoned in an unconcerned tone.
"Kaisi batein kar rahi ho, Sana? Tum nahi samajh teen. Aisay thorhi hota. Dosti kissi se, shaadi kissi se, koi baat hai bhala."

The walk to NICH is much fretted upon, but I like to cover the busy Jinnah road, swooshing by people who look dedicated to reach some place of importance. I like looking ahead and pacing when the traffic on my left would show restlessness to break through barriers too. I feel like a winner every time I tear across so many tiny worlds embedded in so many people I meet within that fragment of the day. We got up to the auditorium, received a text from the GGL that we must come to the third floor for the class in the ward. We did. I shook hands with everybody I met.

Minus the studying bit of the day, the ward time revolved around Anum Iftikhar and I, mostly. We escaped the threat of a guy selling memberships for Samzu Water Park. She had been texting me to appear for something valuable she intended to show me. And we could all guess, if it's something valuable called by Iftikhar, it has to be something pertaining to her. It's a Universal truth. It was a poem she had contrived for my grandchild; Epoch II, something I have nothing to do with. [I am laughing]

It was a fine piece of ideas put together and I would have pleased the bearer to some height only had I not known how much Anum wants me to praise her. Honestly, it wasn't as striking as her older works for the magazine. Any who, I was going to take it, sit with her for it for a while; she just likes to make things bigger than they actually are. It's her thing. And who else to facilitate that desire of hers than to advance to the loud speaker I am. I do her the favor of publicising her before the tiny bit of crowd she herself cannot entertain. We are, after all, in a very strange way connected. Bar mates.

Before I could tamper with her ideas, the facts revealed themselves before me that I no longer possess the power to assist anyone as a Magazine Team official. So, I had Hammad listen to her and then Sajidullah came along saying something. A series of really quick events and Anum stood before me questioning as to why I can't take the poem from her. She loves to know things, we all do. Unfortunately, flow of information is my idea of maintaining the integrity of a team. I was never a declared team with her. Ha. Ha.
I don't hate you, beta.

There I sat out side the Pathology lecture hall waiting for Dr. Fauzia to take the class, I was joined by Shahzadi. She told me about her roots in Punjab and how her mother and sister magically recover from their everyday illnesses the moment they go rural. She questioned me about me and I did not want to sound too interesting and I succeeded as she departed to attend the class while I sat all by my lonesome indulged in boredom. Too bored to carry myself into the lecture hall.

After I had stood talking for ten minutes with Anosh, I found in the library, I sat on a table resting my back on a cozy chair opposite to Noor and Sidra. To my surprise the next person to enter my field of vision was '60s wala' the girls had been forming virtual alliances with. Which reminds me I had described the kid to the girls once in an attempt to help them understand who I was talking about on a much more important issue, I am sure, ever since then his name got to be '60s wala'. It was clearly intended to help them recognize him as the most evident thing about him is his drastic renewal of appearance from a very retro-bell bottom-ish to a very modern looking person. Hearing so much about him all morning and how poor little thing is all hurt and God knows what, I asked him if he already had his Peads Ward and if he did he could lend me his histories. He didn't. Then we got into a discussion about how Peads walay aren't really strict this time around and as I waved him off from the conversation I sensed two very stiff almost hypoxic ladies turned slightly toward me with a subtle twist to their backs.

"Um, aap log meri batein sun rahay thay?" I offered them a moment so they could exhale.
"Haan, hum sun rahay thay koi aisi waisi baat to nahi hai," they almost used the same words at the same time.
"Hahaha, wow! Fikar nahi karain, jab hogi to dulha samnay la kar kharha karungi."

The remainder of the lot walked into the library and settled around the two tables. Then we saw him. And how much they liked this unknown handsome stranger. His flawless strut and his sophisticated demeanor. His far-away-ness and the impulse to know him. A chance. A conversation. An idea about what he is really like. His name.

"Ladies, I know him," the smoke formulated into my face in the middle of their reverie.
"Really?"
"The guy in dark blue on the table next to the pillar? I know him."
"Woh beech wala?" One of them confirmed.
"Jee, jee, beech wala, jis ki barhi barhi aankhain hain, bohat acha bacha hai."
"Ruko mai jati hun us table tak, takay for sure ho ja-ay," one of them said.
"O. K." I could not have been any more entertained. I got up behind her, followed her, made sure I knew the guy they were just day dreaming about, dare I say it, as a pack.

"Haan, isi ki baat kar rahi hun main bhi, I know him. He has this way of formulating sentences while staring into your eyes."
You know what I was doing there. Astaghfirullah. I told them why and how I know the kid. Funny, how knowing him wasn't a scandal any more.
"Then you go talk to him and I'll just stand with you," one of them suggested.
"I have to go speak with him on a common interest, any way, you can tag along, quench your desperation for all that i care," I offered.

On our way out of school while we were almost down the stairs, the '60s wala' and Wajiha stood in the hall out side Biochemistry Lab. Now, the girls won't take a step down the stairs. One of them actually lounged on the chairs there. So much time.

"O! That's Wajiha."

Screw the fulfilment of actually being noticed by the man we crush upon as a team, let's eavesdrop on what Wajiha has to say to the '60s wala'.

Who cares?

I went down to have my little conversation with the hunky kiddo and another from the pack accompanied me all through the conversation. After we were finished exchanging thoughts, I and my fellow member from the pack headed outside when the other member who had previously landed to eavesdrop came striding, reprimanding and whining about how unfair the first fellow packer was to her for taking away the opportunity of seeing the guy/kid face to face.

O My God!

Vitality

How can she expect me to tell her how much I need her and how much I will miss her? Have I ever sat her down poured my heart out before her? No. It's just so hard for me to all of a sudden express. Kiya sawal bhi paida hota hai aisi baat sochnay ka kay how much my life is depended upon her? It's there because of her. You can't, however, just all of a sudden formulate sentences and approach. You just can't.

I am writing her a letter per day until the day of her flight, and intend to place them in her luggage without the mention; these are letters of my everyday happenings or my thoughts over some issue she has no interest in that I often [read always] force her to listen. She doesn't actually listen. Well, she hates it when I say this, so she listens, she listens to every word I say. And then she would at times, 'very rarely', walk out on my detailed version of simple occurrences. She would 'very rarely' tell me to be quiet and leave. She would 'very very rarely' even tell me to come to her later. I would babble my stories out any way, resting my head on her legs asking her to caress my hair upon which she would rebuke and question:
"Kabhi hamaray pair dabanay ki taufeeq kiyun nahi hoti tumhain?"
I would then laugh and tell her, "Aap ko hukum karna parhega us kay liye."

I have always been the rational, unyielding, sarcastic, loud, sab se ziyada naseehatain hasil karnay wala attached in a cold but profoundly deep way sort of a child. I have some peculiarities to myself that I offer my relation with her to make it just mine, but those are so diminutive, somethings she might not even recognise to be missing. On the contrary, I spend hours talking to her whether she is responding or not, hours addressing her lying beside her on her bed specially when she makes it clear she needs to rest. She is always in my prayers. I am terrible with long distance relationships. I don't want to lose this. But I can't tell her that because they need her now. I have had her for the time I needed her.

The truth is I can never stop wanting to have her around me. How can I? I have always had her with me ever since my inception. The softeness of the sound of her two gold bangles tinging. The sight of her reciting Quran in the living room. The little steel container from the paan daan of roasted fennel she keeps on her bedside. The accuracy with which she would fix the sheet on her bed before sitting on it and after getting off of it. How she would have pots with crazy-yummy food ready everyday on the stoves before we return from school. The smell of one of her rich perfumes she keeps in her cupboard. The red dust on the dressing table before evening tea. The warm blows of dumm she would bless us with after every namaz.

I have started having my 'goodbye issues' with her. And they are taking their toll. It's like I am making room forecasting the emptiness, pushing things away to let nothingness infuse in my surroundings before hand. I tell her words of how all right I am going to be, unnecessarily, in the most non-redundant way; it is so not my thing. But I am doing that. And I think she is growing concerned.

She is so beautiful, so gentle, so giving, so selfless. And my eyes are watering. I have no words and I have been short on words for quite some time now. I hope she knows I am not just a spoiled kid who enjoys being yelled at by her everyday. I love her and appreciate her more than anyone else. And my tears are running. She runs the course of my everyday life without ever faltering. She makes me feel so protected. I am never going to have this time again, I know, because this seems like the interface to a new begining, a new turn that life is assuming. And I am wiping my tears. With the speed life tends to move these days I don't know where I'll be the next second. And I feel I could have had more to my bonding with her, more from my side. I hope she knows.

Allah meri Maa ko salamat rakhay. Ameen.

She never reads my posts.
Lol.
*blows her nose in the tissue

Delicacy

I am waiting for the electricity to take its leave for the last time before a new spell of similar events takes place in a newer day after the nap that the rapturous beauty of darkness predicts; if I can manage to fall for it that is. I was forcing myself to understand the amount of time my insomnia spares me. Seemingly endless.

Just recently I was going through the collection of ghazliyaat and older songs on the laptop;
Koi faryad tere dil mein dabi ho jaisay,
Jaagtay jaagtay ek umr kati ho jaisay,
Jaan baqi hai mager saans ruki ho jaisay.

The importance of projection of an idea and the perception of it struck me once again as many contrasting ones were discovered earlier. For example the explanation for an insomniac condition from a thoughtful arrangement of words that dances on a melody is found to rest within the tender side of life upon which the east conceptualizes a family system with conviction - the basis of a civilized society. Where as, the phenomenon when defined by Ghulam Ali and his sneer during Forensic lectures in a deliberate immature tone transgressing to the Eiffel Tower of indecency goes beyond the elasticity of social perimeters.

He would call it a 'pinch on the cheek in affection' that he throws at us to tease and perk us up. I like how he fails to actually give us a firm statement, and leaves the lot making a judgement about an idea instead. He then makes insincere attempts to have intended something purposeful with the saucy talk.
But the purpose is lost if we can't find it, Sir.
Nevertheless, I like him.

Banjar hai sab banjar hai...
Teri khoj talaash mein dekh piya,
Hum kitnay kalay koas chalay.

Then there is the reality. How easily it is taken to notice but how intricate are the woven laces of overlapping knots. How cautious you must be to work it right. How deep it is. The actual insomnia. The complexities. The understandings. The shortness of time!

Kaam karo kaam. Bakwas band, kaam ziyada!

Jinnah!

She paced up the road taking appropriate turns to the way out of Jinnah last week when on the way her shoulder swiped against a lady's hard bony proximal end of the upper limb as she rushed her way in the opposite direction followed by many bumping, striding and brisking with equal emergency. She poked her head in one of the persons' way inquiring about the cause of their rush. She was paid no heed as they continued with dedication and enthusiasm.

"Ap log kahan ja rahay hain?" She questioned another in the swarming wave of impatient looking people dressed in saarhi, fancy clothings, bare feet women in sindoor and bindiya, men who carried cooking pots over their heads with branches of healthy looking leaves cluched tightly and some placed on top of the lids of pots they carried.

She could feel the heat of the burning road through her rubber slippers. It was tremendously hot.
"Allah humma ajirni minnan naar," she recited.

The excitement of the crowd only made her grow curious as to what they were upto. As they all paced by, an elderly woman tailed them trying to keep up.
Aha! I'll just ask her.

"Amma kahan jaa rahi ho, ye sab kahan ja rahay hain is qadar jaldi mein?" She questioned the elderly woman who held a fistful of her saarhi gathered in her right palm to keep it from impeding her chase.
"Mandir ja rahay hain pooja kay liye," Amma informed her and carried on.

Distraction

Fifth semester mainay jis haal mein dya hai ye main jaanti hun aur mera Khuda janta hai.
Bus Sana last one tomorrow; screw everything, hit Forensic!
Come on, get up, pick Parikh up. Go. Go. Go.
Shabash.

Soaz

It was clearly Zardari sitting with the Molvi Sahab in the Masjid, repenting. Then with smoke erupting from the floor walked Musharraf with a microphone, staring at me, looking right through the net covering the window I was sitting behind. It took my breath away for a second. I tried listening and searching for the speakers to his microphone because I couldn't hear anything. What?

He mouthed some inaudible words again.
I tried to listen. What?

It appeared to me only after the traffic got jammed in between Musharraf and the window in front of me that he was making some sort of an introductory speech pointing to a giant room size computer mouse. All of a sudden, it became accessible to me and without thinking I clicked. With no surprise, it triggered a cascade of scientific beeps that increased in intensity with every step. I hurried some steps back, afraid, bit my fingers, my pupils shifted from side to side, you get the picture. And before I could think up something the sun was blocked and I stood beneath the shadow of a giant robot.
What the!
"Ye kiya scene hai bhai?" I called out.
My brother then appeared from no where to answer the question,"jaisay jab murghee ka bacha anday se nikalta hai to pehli cheez jo dekhta hai usay apni maa samajhta hai bus Musharraf ki robot tumhain apni maa samajh rahi hai."
"What the hell! What the hell are you talking about?"

I started pacing my way down the street, the robot followed me and I couldn't believe the words it was repeatedly uttering.
"Leave me alone!" I yelled.
"Preetum mat pardes padhaaro!"
"Leave me freak'en alone!"
"Preetum mat pardes padhaaro!"
Run.. run.. run!
"Should I throw a boulder over this thing's head?" My brother asked appearing, uttering, and after getting no response, disappearing. 

I woke up pulling my face off of Robbin's Pathology, confused, I looked around making sure no robot was chasing me and just when I gained my senses back I heard the sky outside shimmying with firearms. Does anyone know what is up with the Supreme Court, Deedar guy, PPP and people burning cars and I heard there isn't any school tomorrow. Ya? Party!

I am going to go suicide, I can't believe I just typed this up.

Granuloma Observed

Sadness has always been lying around in a small corner of everything. It's a state of mind and has nothing to do with being ungrateful to everything that prevails with subtle accuracy. Speaking of escaping a spontaneous plan for an arranged wedlock in six hours, sadly enticing! Both escaping and the spontaneity.

Like the concentration of a laser, focused in order to comprehend kept the glance engaged while amongst a bunch of others with higher level of keenness to be noticed stood waiting for a breach in the harrowing prolonged instance. They noticed, so did I. They also felt for deprivation is piercing [Hahaha, you read this and make my day]. I blinked away. The glance didn't, but when it did it did so permanently.

I see her shrewd ways of dodging herself out of situations without getting hurt in terms of succumbing to something she had not wished for. As for her, I see right through her and it has struck her that I know what she intends to say but doesn't; It is pretty obvious why she does what she does. Whereas she after accusing me of being obsessed with the letter 'I' proves herself to be equally obsessed with it, only obliviously. The overlapping traits of the people belonging to the gender produced by the bone of the other!

All three of them, the triangle, walk around with an accomplished sense of helping themselves, smart thing to do.

"Daadi jaan, bewaqoof kon hota hai?"
"Kon hota hai?"
"Woh jo khud ko nuqsan pohcha lay!"
"Keh saktay hain."

You see them so strong and then while walking through the barricade you see them scurrying their way to the destination, holding their breaths, pushing their shoulders arranged along the axis of their propagation, shrinking themselves to the proximity of the smallest radius from their centers, most importantly doing so with a sense of fear. The mesh-work of people terrorizes the soul within them, so I have observed.

Dar to sab ko lagta hai.

The urge to have those unlike them wall them from the barricade and translocate the granuloma with safety appears to me as a joke. To me, those unlike them without a label seem something like chronic granulomatous disease, an abnormality indeed.

Gaining

How something needs to be sinusoidal.
- Life needs to be sinusoidal, unpredictable, risky for us to always remember that it is not of life the trait of stability, although gripping is. Hahahaha, sinusoidal and gripping is a colicky pain.

How the lack of something needed and wanted are completely different.
- The lack of something needed is easier dealt with than that of want. Lack of something needed perishes, ends us. Whereas the lack of something wanted tortures.

How two things that are the exact opposite of one another can stand at the same time.
- Need is not always want and vice versa. But stand at the same time.

How everything is delusional.
- It just is.

How easily we are deceived.
- We just are.

How important is the correct use of anger.
- Indispensable thus a need.

Can't Repay You

Thank you!
I should be truncated for mentioning it a million times and not hurrying with this letter to you. And for delaying it so much I have learned a special way of apologizing, *standing up straight* , in Pashto!
Za dira lazima sham.
You know at times it is the people around you that help you recognize something great about you. In my case it is people like you that make me look great and, if I may take the liberty of saying, it is great people like you who force people like me to be great. And I thank you for that, I really do.

One day I sat with my lonesome and pondered over the enormity of Urdu and the next thing I know Iqbal was gifted to me. Iqbal! His poetic work primarily being in Persian but indispensable for Urdu, without a doubt, was presented to me, making me great and the credit goes to you. At times I lamented over not having enough exposure to Urdu that resulted into a weakness in command I maintain over it. You have clearly send a message thwarting my depression to the side that it's never too late. And what could be better in this regard than to have Iqbal's collection with translation? Nothing.

Over the past couple of years I have grown to be a believer of struggling in the way of one's interest and only after gaining authority over at least few if not all of its facets claiming audaciously a bond that may prevail between one and the beloved, in my case Urdu. You have helped me take a step forward into entering the world of laying the foundation of the process that will enable me to claim my love for the language confidently as I can support it with having explored an authority of it: Iqbal. What could be more substantial than quoting this when presenting an evidence for one's interest on the demand of the world?

With the tight schedule that we have I cannot assure you of a rapid growth of the treasure of words and understanding of the language, but I can guarantee progress and evolution, inshaAllah.

Love you!

In view

The other day in the bus when I gently placed her wobbling drowsy head on my shoulder it made it concrete how easy it is to melt a human, yet again. The previously stubborn air about her emitted clear signals of vanity until I showed an undaunted gesture of kindness irrespective of its honesty. I had straightened up as a preparatory measure to leave a couple minutes before my stop and it made her equally on toes to make way. As I got up to leave what amazed me was how approachable I had become after the 'showing to care' incident. She was not only quick, making sure clearing the way for me wasn't time taking, there also came a loud Allah Hafiz that made efforts to reach out. I smiled to her.

Mommy! Mommy, I made a new friend.

Speaking of friends and the ships of them, my rigidness and cynicism before the phenomena is persistent. And then there are times like yesterday when at an unexpected get-together I am surprised with a cake for my birthday that is still to come and I mollify, for a while at least, regardless of my disinterest in such a celebration. My birthday, half the time the occurrence of which is missed by me until a wish that comes as a reminder on the very day, a wish that matters and not just any wish.

The way I look at it there are two major explanations of how one cares or can care. One being caring at the right time that is when needed right then the care be. Second, only everyday is the proof of it. The former having more to do with expressions, real or unreal; something that earns social acceptability, righteousness, inner peace etc. The latter is unconditional and is the quintessence of life. Former may be based upon the needs of the recipient and an indiscretion may result in an irritated amalgam of confused, judgmental, provoked individuals. The latter is the basis of expectations, the fulfillment or shattering of which leave grave imprints, and this lot of people when are there at the time of need, it seems to me they are so with the purest of intentions and interests.

There are minor explanations as well, inconspicuous though. Those of discreet kind and those that are unobtrusive and quiet, indistinct. May be there is more to it.

Surgery OPD

Today it was a day of putting to test the attempt to empower our leader that was made by agreeing at once with an idea that he presented. We were to meet in the Surgery O.P.D and have a post graduate or someone explain to us various examinations. It started off with me taking the usual series of buses. As I sat in the first bus on my list expressions were studied, looks were given, smiles were exchanged and an odd endeavoring of strangers to impress one another anchored the crummy compartment. I got on the next bus, dodged the sight of the driver reflecting in so many little mirrors on the windshield, grabbed on to the rod from time to time and was showered with thrust outward droplets as the lady next to me sneezed more than a couple times, may be it was my perfume. Wait, I wasn't wearing any. Five minutes from my destination I received an interrogation via text on my mom's phone then met with the protesting and demanding eyes of girls that had decided to encourage the leader on his suggestion and were partially lamenting. Except the day eventually turned out to be a fruitful one. Alhumdulillah.

Initially, the girls separated themselves to go find someone else to help them, the effort went in vain. But we did manage a case of c.a breast, one with an indirect inguinal hernia and then we escaped the room for the environment turned hostile (read intimidating big guys). Then the story of today happened. A man, karhak aadmi as I would call him, came with a swelling in front of his neck. 

Introduction

Consent

Deglutition

Sweaty palms

Pulse

Pain

Attachment with skin

Shape

Size

Surface

Boundaries

Extent

Tenderness.....

We watched the big guy explain to us all the steps and a little bit of whys behind them, then lady-smaller-than-the-big-guy explained to us some more on the same karhak aadmi. One of the students examined him. Then some smaller-than-the-big-guy guys entered and asked to perform a timed examination on the same subject. I was impressed with the patient's patience. 

He finally talked, "Mujhay ek baat bataain, ap jo itna time laga rahay hain mujh per, konsa doctor itna time lagata hai? Main ap ka bohat mashkoor hun kay itnay saray doctors mera mu'aina kar rahay hain."

The almost-big-guy listened to him carefully while he explained how he has been licked by another hospital and since he has no longer the kind of pocket to support the expenses he has made way to JPMC. He mentioned about how he works for a bank and how fortunate he is to have so many doctors listen to him and examine him. He then asked the almost-big-guy to teach us to always give time to the person that has walked up to us with a problem. The almost-big-guy comforted and consoled him. 

After revising my newly learned Pashto sentences we walked into Aanton kay amraaz ka t.v wala room and saw some examination where another almost-big-guy told us a lot of cool stuff. Hafsa and I left the building with only me talking which was put to an abrupt halt as I got myself on a bus. The bus some ten minutes from my place encountered an unexpected barrier in the route which ticked the driver off and he over-sped and I closely watched the millimeter by which we were spared a heinous catastrophe that resulted into a lot of thanking of God. I got off the bus and took a rickshaw only to find that the girl I met in my first bus in the morning was sharing it with me.

Hawaae Adda

Last day of our Gyne posting the girls decided to hold the entire group back to take some photos. Half of us were still taking the exam, so we waited. When for one of the clicks the girls went upstairs on the 'little slide' area as I call it, for a second the whole scenario reminded me of the airport. I had then stretched a tall arm up in the air and waved from below a pseudo-I'll see you again.

She has this love for the airport. She has an unusual craving to go and spend time there, watch the flying fish grow smaller with the accretion of sky around it, stare at people waving goodbyes.

"Where shall we go?" A random question in the house would spin it self on a Sunday.
"The airport!"
"Any one in their right mind wants to have a say?"
"Ghar ki murghi daal barabar," murmuring she would walk away.

Mostly, people leaving are her choice of crowd, yes. Coming ones are all right as long as they bring some adrenalin left overs than just stories. Love, what is this term she is obsessed with? Let's see if she can take a shot at defining it. If love was to be a bacterium it would be of an opportunist kind. You leave the door open and it'll make way some how. And you keep the locks on and it'll wait all the eternity at your door steps; we have vaccines for that purpose. It being a choice rests within your own strengths or weaknesses; immune system. But since it's not a bacterium once it's made way, chances are it's staying.

Her love for the airport is explainable as she has had many experiences with it that have allowed the love for it to make way and stay. They were regardless of her need, but important experiences. Her visits were insignificant and went unnoticed at that time and she did not know that she was registering them. They have slowly made her habitual of being associated with the place. It is generally taken as demeaning to have love be channelled through habituation and believe it or not it plays a part. The door beside the experiences was also pushed open when she had walked down to see landings in the afternoon long time ago.

A child's retina and the permanent snaps upon it evolving into a hankering stock, spelling love: A thing of beauty indeed.