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