Archive | October, 2011

My Wife Doesn’t Follow Me Back

31 Oct

It’s been long since I last met Zee and our group of Hyderabad’s Twitter users. Just a while back, we were discussing how great our group used to be, and how badly we miss our meet-ups. It’s too bad that there doesn’t seem to be any possibility of a reunion any time soon, because I have no plans to go back to Hyderabad in near future. But what if we had a reunion after 24 long years, like that of Pink Floyd? Everyone of us will be married by then.

"Dad, where the hell are we?"

"Dad, where the hell are we?"

“I won’t bring my kids,” Zee already has his insecurities.
“I’ll bring my wife,” said I.

The scary part though, is that we might end up marrying someone from Twitter. What if Zee marries a woman I had once secretly flirted with via DMs?

“Hey, Zeeshan!”
“Hey! Meet my wife, Zulaikha. Zulaikha, it’s my friend Aa…”
“HOLY COW! *clears throat* Never mind. Nice to meet you. *fakes a smile*”
“You two follow each other?”
“Yeah, pretty much I suppose.”

"I flirted with Zee's wife." "I flirted with Zee."

"I flirted with Zee's wife." "I flirted with Zee."

(This post was Zee’s idea.)


Hopeless Romanticism

24 Oct

The bright side of life is that it always gives you choices. The bad part, however, is that you can choose to stay undetermined for as long as you wish.

This guy needs a stubble.

This guy needs a stubble.

During adolescence, the bad part dominates. Decision-making is a disaster and career-planning is a joke. The dream of becoming an engineer transforms into being a boyfriend at some point. By the time you realize the asininity of the idea, you are too late. The days spent in melancholy seem so unusually ordinary, you want to go back and tell yourself that the purpose of life is not that girl who induces those ticklish sensations in you every time you look at her.

You have no one to blame, but yourself.

Consummate Nothingness

18 Oct

When a person is free to wander, it’s that person’s soul that wanders, collects impurities and makes the person ambivalent. The person then loses the power to tell right from wrong, and lets the impurities make an interference. Freedom introduces us to both aspects of life; Sunshine, when everything is clearly visible, and Moonlight, when we need a guide. We let the soul be our guide, and let it make decisions. The said soul, may or may not be an imaginary being.

God knows why my soul looks like Kim Jong Il.

God knows why my soul looks like Kim Jong Il.

However, when a person is held prisoner, impurities lose their hold. The person is then left alone with a soul that once freely wandered. This is when everything starts making sense. Even though freedom still remains a priority, the prison becomes a source of elucidation. The prison, though lacking vigour, eventually gives birth to an energy exceeding its limits; a wish to do it all over again.

I am a prisoner. I have been enlightened. And now. I long for freedom. Living with my soul in this consummate nothingness is getting over-exhaustive. Now is the time to be a child again. To let out what I have been holding in.

But once a person gets imprisoned, freedom becomes an abstruse concept. The soul refuses to synchronize with the outside world, denying any theory that the outside and inside worlds are meant to be constantly encircling each other.

A Dish-Doer Speaks Up!

10 Oct

Back in the school days, I used to pray to God for holidays. I hated waking up early. I hated homework. I hated having to answer why I didn’t know acetylene’s chemical composition, but knew ethyne’s. And. I hated queuing in a line outside the canteen.

“Uncle, Ali hai?”

“Uncle, Ali hai?”

Nevertheless, I had a life that I enjoyed. I never got depressed because there was always something going on. Now, I pity the nothingness of it and the fact that I have to do the dishes to pass the long and boring days.

Doing the dishes is an easy task, and if you are creative enough with sponge and lather, it also is fun. When I am doing the dishes, the entire kitchen sink is a pool of lather; nothing but pure lather. Usually when my mom sees me, the reaction that I get is,

“Ihyo kya pya karendain?” (What the heck are you doing?)

“Where did you get that shirt, mom?”

“Where did you get that shirt, mom?”

It’s too bad I can’t tell her how much I hate staying at home, because it’s only me who’s responsible for all this, and I have to spend my days in this exasperatingly dull atmosphere for almost a year. I feel sorry for housewives. Consequences have made me feel like a housewife.



I also have enormously lowered my expectations from people. It makes life much easier to live, despite the fact that staying at home has killed my communication skills. Blah! I’m so complicated.

Back When We Existed

5 Oct

The renovated building, the illuminated balconies and various new tweaks to the structure are never going to bring back the liveliness that once used to be, back when we existed.

The world I once belonged to.

The world I once belonged to.

The feeling that hurts the most when you revisit the neighbourhood where you spent all your childhood, is when you find out that things are not the same anymore. Almost all the people you knew have moved out; some have left Pakistan forever, others have been replaced. This is how life works after all; one keeps getting replaced.

“So what do you guys do all day long?” I asked the remaining three of my childhood friends who still hadn’t moved out.
“We stay at home,” replied Hash. “We rarely see each other now.”

This was heartbreaking. There was a time when we never liked to stay at home, unless we had exams. We always had something to keep us entertained. (And by ‘we’, I mean almost a couple dozen of kids.) The bond between us was unbreakable. Flying kites on Basant, racing each other with our roller-skates, playing badminton outdoors, playing cricket on overcast mornings, getting into fights while playing football and not speaking to each other for days, playing hide and seek around the entire neighbourhood especially when the nights were dark, riding bicycles without holding their handles, getting our parents’ rebuke for staying out of home all day long, etc. was our normal routine. When we felt immensely bored and had nothing to do, we rang random doorbells and ran away. Sometimes we got caught but mostly, we got away.

What is more heartbreaking is that Hash just recently moved out of there, and he didn’t even let me know, and still hasn’t spoken to me. We always used to host farewell parties for people who moved out of the neighbourhood, but Hash didn’t even attend his farewell party. (The fact that I was not informed about the party itself is another story.)

I have always been unwelcoming to the changes in life, especially when they’re about the things that I truly adore. I truly adored the days when our clan was the gem of the neighbourhood, when our birthday parties were not just cake-cutting ceremonies but much more, when Dark Room was the scariest game to be played, when Brian Lara ’99 was our favourite PC game, and when the one with most number of toys was considered the coolest.

I miss the tourist buses that passed through Jail Road, which mostly included international cricket teams heading for Gaddafi Stadium. I miss how the road was blocked only because of Pervez Musharraf and foreign diplomats, not to forget how the road’s lane-markings were repainted only to give a good impression to the diplomats. I miss standing on the building’s rooftop and searching for Lahore’s famous buildings; Gaddafi Stadium’s floodlights and Wapda House were the easiest to find. I miss the time, back when we existed.

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