Thursday, December 27, 2012


Guest post by an anonymous friend.

Met her again yesterday; our meetings have become quite frequent in the last six months. Unlike most of 2010 and 2011 when she used to remember me hardly once or twice in several months, and that too without remorse of any sort.
She was wearing white, and wore the same pearl necklace that I had gifted her. She looked beautiful. But then, she always did. She seemed to me to be serene. Happy, rather.  But unlike the previous meetings, I did most of the talking. She didn’t have the answers to most of my questions, though. When I asked her how she had been, all she did was smile reluctantly and then look away.
The ambience swirled and suddenly we found ourselves on the roof from where one could see the full moon, shining bright. Not unlike her eyes often did when she was pleased about something. But something was wrong with the moon too; it shined reluctantly just like she smiled half-heartedly.
Something tells me that this was last time we met; the touch of her skin didn’t feel the same and the twinkle in her eye had disappeared.
When I woke up, it didn’t feel right.  It felt incomplete. Does this mean that she will never come in my dreams again? That smile. That cautious smile has induced a perpetual aura of discomfort around me. All I have left of her is how I felt during the dream, it’s beautiful. That feeling is pure, like the white she wore. I'd like to hold on to it - they say masochism knows no bounds.

'Why is it so important to dream?' 'In my dreams, we are still together.' - Inception.

Friday, December 21, 2012

The Beginning of the End.

Excited about tomorrow is what I am. Last session, last day of Rahbar. Happy and sad. Yellow and blue. Red and green, my heart is true. I have no idea what the hell I'm saying. Let's blame it on lack of sleep as usual.

I'll miss the girls. But I'll miss the beautiful school and the foggy grounds too. The smelly, gorgeous fields, the random cows. Doodh patti, crazy driving to and from the school. Crazier mentors. Happy pictures, silly faces, cute drawings, dumb words, fun discussions.

Meh, getting maudlin. I'll have more of these, I know that.

But you know what they say... Nothing beats your first time.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Questions, Thoughts & Meltdowns.

Guest post by the insanely talented Sarah.

Questions, thoughts.
On getting over oneself and learning to go back to God.

Why can't I find solace where I was always taught to find it?

What is it that makes the creation so ungrateful. What suddenly makes a friend more indifferent than an enemy. What turns a lover into a cold, cold stranger? How does a child, given all the love and care possible, turn away from the parent so easily.

Why is it so hard for me to face reality and embrace what I need to make me whole. I don't need people. I don't need you. I can do it all on my own, so why do I use these feelings as obstacles and people as crutches. Why do I use the opinions of the world to define who I am?

I know anything is possible when the right kind of concentration and discipline. Am I just scared? Am I just scared to commit to something even though I know it's right for me? Good for me?

Why yes, there are knives in the kitchen drawer, Sarah, and there's rope on the shelf. But that's not what you really want, so why don't you get out of that tiny godforsaken space in your mind and do more, be more, live the way life is supposed to be lived, and not think about the hurt and the evil and the sad and lonely. There is so much more, and there is so much you can do to heal the world. Look around at what you have before you break down and cry because something didn't happen the way you wanted it to.

Undermining your feelings based on what goes on in other peoples' lives is being unfair to yourself. But there is a way to change those feelings instead of ignoring them. Be positive. Be grateful. Feel from deep inside your heart where you hid God away from yourself; don't 'feel' from the outside that is bruised from the world, by her and him and them and it.

And when you're hurt, take it up with Him because people will leave tomorrow even if they can make you feel better today.

I know all of this. Even as I crumple to the floor and ask my invisible past 'why?', I know who I really should be asking. But I don't, because I am embarrassed; I am ashamed. I have failed as the child. I have failed as the lover and the friend. I have failed as the creation, ungrateful to my Creator.

But I know I can turn back, make amends. I know it's not too late till my last breath leaves my throat. And that is all I want to focus my energies on. Turn back. Be.

Starting now.

Friday, December 14, 2012


Shout-out to a special mom who is very special. And also very beautiful. And I love your kid. You've done an awesome job raising this gorgeous girl.  

Monday, December 10, 2012


Guest post by an Anonymous friend. Feedback is appreciated, minions.

Every muscle ached, each breath heaved. Tired, so very tired. Straining to take the next step, the next breath. Sand in her eyes, metal weights on her arms, tinier weights on her eyelids. Can’t lift your head, can’t life your eyelids, heavy, so heavy. It consumes you, the exhaustion. It gathers every iota of your energy and centers it; then little by little unravels it and sends it floating away from you. Slowly, slowly, so that at first it isn't noticeable, this change. But little by little, it chips away at you. Eating up parts of your mind, your soul, your body. Fatigue, weakness, weary, so tired. Threatens to overwhelm you, erase your existence. It shrouds your body like a fine gray mist. Always gray, the color of the hopeless, helpless. You can’t go on, you just don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Lie down, tumble in a heap on the hard frozen earth, cradle your cheek against the unyielding carpet of crystalline blindingly white ice. Your breath comes in short translucent puffs, your entire being aching with the weariness, near to collapse, begging to stop. Stop thinking, stop feeling, stop caring. This cold, cruel somnolent state, somewhere between life and death. You feel your essence leak out of you slowly, closing your eyes against this helpless despair. Maybe now, finally, you will escape this endless grating pressure, this stress on your brain, so strong you can feel it vibrate in your skull. Breathe a prayer with your last breath… Oh, so tired. 

Friday, December 7, 2012

The Cult.

Disclaimer: This may SOUND like a whiny post and it is but its not. Not really. This is a sad story, though. 

You know what my life was like a few months before now?

Wake up around 5 or 5:30-ish, run out for bus, 1 hour ride to university, run to department, check you have everything, go for placement (any school, hospital, institution). Take back to back sessions till lunch. Go back to university, have chai, gobble down a samosa (if I was very lucky), run to class. Sit in class bored into a stupor, take notes, etc. Pack up, run to bus, ride back home in an hour and a half. Get home, inhale food and more chai, get to work, moan, whine, complain talk to mom, complete work (or leave it for the morning), drag self upstairs and heave self into bed by 10, 11 or 12. Depending on how lucky I got since I usually survived on 3-5 hour power naps. Then the next morning, wake up at 5 and start all over again.

You know what my life is like right now?

Wake up at 10 9:30. Salute self.

Stare blearily in the mirror, wondering when I became this fat, feet shuffling, 3 sweater wearing hobo.

Drag self downstairs and moan at bright sunlight and even brighter good mornings from the parents.

(Yes, I turn into this cat who falls down.)

Anyway, I digress. There are two bright spots in my morning. The first when I have chai (pure, sweet bliss).

The second and believe me when I say I am very ashamed of myself and I hate who I've become and it makes me want to throw up with disgust at how low I've sunk and I want to tear out my hair and scratch my skin and - You get the picture. The second spot is...

Watching Masala Mornings.

I know. I know. Throw stones at me. Mock me. Hit me. Hate me. Moan and despair over the horror I am for I have joined...


The cult of the cooking show audience. I wait with bated breath for Shireen Apa (for shame, what are you SAYING Maryam!) to announce the day's recipes after which I run and grab my university notebook (weep) and beg mom for a pen since I lost mine (more weep). 

This cult... It is horrendous. It makes you do crazy rituals and it bestows terrifying abilities upon you. You lose all sense of sound except the voice of Shireen Apa, tune out the kitchen sounds in your own home, tune out your mom, tune out the world apocalypse but DO NOT - I repeat - DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE miss a WORD Shireen Apa is saying. 

You see? You SEE how she brainwashes with that food and with speaking like she's talking to retarded children, extra slow and extra clear and you find yourself nodding along slowly and vibrating in your seat with impatience for the next slow-as-wading-through-mud sentence, your eyes wide, your breathing short, leaning forward towards the T.V., pen gripped with extra strength tearing through the paper- Okay fine. I'm exaggerating. 

But this cult. It changes you as a person. It changes your ability to think of anything but the next Masala Mornings Show. It... It... DISTORTS REALITY. It changes worlds. It makes you hallucinate and hyperventilate. 

This cult... Do not fall into it's trap. I'm begging you. Do not become me I am now. Crawling on the floor, moaning out for help, craving the next Masala Mornings episode, crying and curling up into a ball on the weekends (its on only Monday to Friday). Spare yourself this fate and start looking for a job the second you graduate. Golden words, I'm telling you. Otherwise...

This is your only option. Now go kill yourself.


Thursday, December 6, 2012

Of Vampires and Eunuchs.

Guest post by a brilliant Anonymous writer who needs to get off his ass and write more stuff like this. Agree with me here, please. 

The traveler is standing at the balcony to his room staring at the starlit sky, untarnished by bright city lights. He is deep in thought when the Princess’s maid enters. She is clearly distressed about something, hesitates then speaks.

“My lord, I seek your help.”

The traveler enters his chambers. The amused look on his face changes to concern when he sees her distress.

“What is the matter? Is the Princess well?”

“Her Highness is fine. This has nothing to do with her. I come to you with a plight of my own.”


“You must.. You must help me…”

Starts to cry hysterically. The traveler reaches out to her and guides her to the exquisite looking camel-seat by his bed. She stops crying and looks at him with a mixture of confusion and shock. He expected her to sit on his seat?! She was a servant of a lower caste, and would be whipped if someone saw her. The traveler sees her confusion and his deep-seated annoyance for the deep-rooted caste system of this age starts to boil and bubble.

“Sit! It’s a chair. It’s meant to be sat on.”

“But, my lord..”


She sits, more out of reflex than obedience. Still very uneasy with her action.

“Now tell me. What is your problem?”

She starts to cry again.

“It’s my man. He’s a eunuch”

Starts to cry harder.

“What?! Your MAN is a eunuch? How is that possible?”

Stops crying. Blows her nose loudly at the end of her embroidered dupatta.

“He was a pashaach.”

“A what?”

“A pashaach. One who feeds on blood.”

“So he was a vampire. Wait, really? Vampires exist?”

She looks at the traveler, a mixture of doubt and confusion.

“Of course, they do.”

Stands there deep in thought for a few moments.

“Well that’s interesting. So your man is a eunuch vampire, what does that have to do with me?”

“He’s not a eunuch pashaach! He was a pashaach but he’s a eunuch now. ”

“Whoa! How does that work?”

“I do not understand.”

“How did he become a eunuch?”

“You do not know of the curse then?”

Scoffs a little.

“Which one? Everywhere I turn I learn of a new curse. The land of a hundred curses indeed”

“The curse of the pashaach. There was a time long ago when the pashaach lived all over this realm. They hunted on innocent people for blood, raped not just the women but also the men during the night, hired their incredible strengths out to the highest bidder as mercenaries against the Crown. The king of the time, weary of the menace of the pashaach and hoping to win the dwindling loyalty of his people sought to rid himself and the Kingdom of them. He summoned his magicians, and his priests and his scholars and his generals and promised them that whosoever would rid him of the pashaach will marry his youngest daughter and get a place in the Royal household. What followed was a flurry of magic, prayer and bloodbaths, but if anything the pashaach now agitated increased their efforts against the Crown. Legend has it that when things were at their absolute worst, there came a woman to the king’s court. They say she was as black as a starless night, her lips were thick and her hair was like dark thick ropes. She promised to rid the king of the pashaach but in exchange she did not want the youngest princess. Instead she asked for a bounty. The king readily agreed. The woman, who was a witch, said that she would cast a powerful spell all over the realm that would render the pashaach useless. For that she needed a virgin man with white hair and a young whore with no eyes. She killed the two that were provided and with their blood, she cast a spell on the whole Kingdom. If a pashaach tasted human blood, it would become a eunuch. If it chooses to leave it’s wicked ways and live in peace, it may continue to do so. Scores turned into eunuchs, many fled the realm. Some decided to live their eternal lives in peace. My lover was one of those few.”

“Then how did he turn into a eunuch?”

She started to cry again. Harder than before.

“It’s my fault! My gums had been bleeding all day, but I was so happy to see him that I ignored it and kissed him.”

She started wailing now.

“And then he grew sick, very sick. And then...”

“Please. You have my sympathies, whatever little they are worth. However, I am still unclear on how I can help you.”

“I heard you talking to the Wazir. You said that in the future there is magic that can turn a man into a woman and a woman into a man if they so choose. I hoped that maybe you can use the same magic to help him.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“But you’re a magician! And you’re from the future, you have to help me. I beg you!”

She jumps off her seat and reaches for his feet. He gently disentangles himself from her.

“I may be a magician, but that kind of magic is beyond me. I have neither the knowledge nor the ability to pull off something like that. I’m quite a useless magician. My magic was weak where I came from and it’s completely useless here.”

She starts crying again, still on the ground.

“Then there is no hope? Why must love be so painful? Why is it such a burden, my lord?”

The traveler looks a little deflated. Talks quietly as if to himself.

“Sadly, you are not alone in carrying this burden. Many carry it. Some through space and time and it lessens not a bit.”

Her fascination with the future momentarily overcomes her grief.

“Do they have heartbreak in the future, my lord?”

“I’m afraid they do.”

“You said people can fly in the future. They have magic that see the stars far away and the heart of a fly up close. They can talk even at great distances and see things too. They have magic that cooks for them and cleans for them and washes their clothes. They can even turn a man into a woman and a woman into a man! You said all these things.”

“Yes, all this is possible in the future. And a lot more.”

“But there is still heartbreak.”

“Yes. For all the progress man has made in the future, his heart remains as fragile as ever. I guess man is as fragile today as he was a thousand years ago and I still hundreds of year from now.”

“There is no cure?”

“I’m afraid not. There are distractions and methods to lessen the blow but no there is no cure. Love and it’s suffering are humanities curse, no matter which realm it dwells in or which age.”

“Then I must spend the rest of my life looking at the man I love more than anything and know that I cannot be with him. I cannot touch him, or embrace him. The memories of his beautiful face and his loving embrace will haunt me. He will soon be a full hijra, walking the streets begging for a living. Ridiculed by children in the market, pleasuring rich men for pieces of bread, my sweet sweet love. And I will have to watch. Whenever he was away, I used to wonder if there was anything worse for a lover than distance. I know now. What an unjust punishment for my foolishness.”

She has stopped crying, acceptance seems to be taking over. She gets up and starts to leave, not bowing in respect as is customary, clearly not in complete control of her senses.

“You have my sympathies.”

Just as she is about to walk through the curtain, at the doorway he calls to her.

“Wait. What was the bounty the woman asked for?”

“She made the king promise that as long as the sun hangs in the sky, none of her kind will be slaves in this realm.”

And with that the maid left, leaving the traveler in deeper thought than when she had come.

Fear Breaths.

Guest post by blogger S. K

I tightened my grip around her neck,
Choking my life out of her,
But failed.
I did not have the courage to kill her.
The girl survived.
Now, Confused;
Unable to comprehend if,
This feeling was of contentment or disbelief
I continue my journey.
Unknown destinations;
Unaware of what lies ahead;
I strive,
And she...
Catching upon her breath,
Tries to keep at pace with me.
I asked myself:
                      Why did I let her live?
                      Why bear more painful realities?
                      Why suffer the bitter truth?
                      Why feel the loss of love and never be?
But how could I? The girl was innocent.
Why should she pay for something...
even I wasn't responsible of?
I have no reason,
She had no motive.
I am speechless,
She had no voice.
She misses me.
I've missed her.
'If ever'
My dreams come true:
The 'final destination' revealed
We will be one again.
She can feel me scream but cannot hear.
I can hear her but am unable to feel.
With every breath I question myself.
We part our ways.
 A vast distance between us;

A mileage of reality.
She made me, yet, I failed!
I tried to save her.
I tried...
The girl has not yet died:
Fear breaths.

S. K's own blog can be found here:

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

World's End? Your Face.

Guest post by the hilariously smart Amna Sid

I don't want the world to end.

There, I said it. I know there are people (read: saddos) who want to get it over with. But I just don't, you know? Why, you may ask. Well, because while YOU may be done trying to shape your life into something presentable, while YOU may have had the much required experience of turning into a juvenile delinquent, partying like a Saudi in an Audi, getting busted, sobering up, going all gangbang again, THE REST OF US HAVEN'T, OKAY.

I mean, what the heck. I haven't even had sushi yet.

I wanna try sushi before the the world is plunged into an abyss of nothingness. Now is that too much to ask?

I think not. So the next time you cross your fingers and hope with your eyes shut tight that this December's  going to turn us into hazy wisps of smoke, could you try to look for an ounce of compassion and consideration within that dark soul of yours?

Much appreciated.

Amna's own woefully neglected blog can be found here:

Because We're Only Humans

Guest post by the ultra cool blogger kid Maryam A.

No matter how much we all try to be the perfect child, the perfect sibling, the perfect friend and the perfect person, somewhere along the way we’ll realize that it just won’t happen because we’re humans. Humans that are unfamiliar with the concepts of selflessness, kindness, and helpfulness. Humans who keep denying that they are self seeking and self centered egoists in reality. We will always let our ego get in the way of making someone else’s day. We will always choose the option that’s in our best interests rather than that of those around us. We will always forget our morals and ethical values when things don’t seem to turn out the way we want them to. We will always let something simple ruin the strongest of bonds. We don't sense that we eat our own hearts out with self pity. We are humans who choke themselves. We blind ourselves. We don't realize that in the process of trying to bring someone down, we destroy our own possibility of happiness. We narrow our own worlds and we make mistakes but I can't blame us for all the flaws because after all, we’re only human.

Maryam's own blog can be found at

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Diamonds in Glass Bowls

Guest post by the crazy pretty blogger girl (aur meri duur ki rishtedaar), Osheen Fatima

'Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?'

Sometimes, I feel sassy. I'm sure you understand. I feel sassy, and that makes me carefree. If you were a glass half empty kinda person, you'd use the word 'careless', but I really do not aim to be your (half empty) cup of tea right now. On my sassy days, I pop a yellow Piano pen in my mouth, and a hat on my head (or a tea cosy, whatever's nearest) and I play cards with my boys (the younger siblings, of course) and we all talk in our various accents, because we're sassy and we're cool, and that's what such people do. Sometimes I sit with these two girls I barely talk to anymore, and we act out music videos, and paint each other's faces. By the end of the day, my lips are stained blue, or my tongue is green, or my eyes are red. These sassy days let their presence be known. After one such episode, I sustained minor burns on my arm from over zealous straightening irons. Over time, the burns turned purple and , 3 years later, I have a crescent shaped mark that only I can see. It will remind me, till the end of my days, that I possess the ability to be wild, and joyous. It is my outspoken, free wheeling, unthinkingly beautiful youth marked upon my body, and I will carry it to my grave and it will be my testimony to a life (maybe well) lived when I appear in front of God in my earthly body.

A few days, I feel it is so lovely to be born a me. A girl in Lahore in this home. Because how else would I have met these wild monkeys, who say it is okay to hoot at beautiful things (even if they are mostly beautiful boys), and who hold legitimate contests to see who gives the best hugs with ME as the judge? How did I get so lucky? I've met this fearless woman, who showed me tolerance and patience by bruising my palms black and blue, and this class 2 baby who taught me to climb trees and monkey bars and when we got older how to climb the rungs of every tall ladder placed in front of me. I've met this girl who understands the language I speak only in my head, and have I told you about these two dummies who gave me reason to try, and be better? My two mothers, and my baby, and the reckless older sister, the lights I can bitch to without reprimand. I am a girl, and a plastic tiara lets me be a princess. I am a girl so I get showered with kisses and everyday affection. I am allowed to be gorgeous, I am allowed to feel whatever way I want, and if I give up in protest, if I stop being me, the world will fall apart. This is power, and I have not realized it fully yet. I hold hearts in one palm, and pens in the other. Oh, how glorious to be me. To be you. To be able to show love, to be able to feel sexy, to be able to cry, and birth babies, REAL HUMAN BEINGS, and be brave for everyone else. How joyous to be girls, how great to be human royalty.

Every now and then, I feel lonely. I feel stuck, in a glass bowl, and I'm running out of oxygen. And usually what I do, is I roll over, and breathe through the one I love, who is living his life like I wish I could live mine, who is letting me see things I cannot afford to see, and who is letting me be better than I am. Most times, his laughing heart reminds mine to scream and shout with glee at being here, at not being born as fish who have no memories, or birds who flap their wings so eerie and detached. He is he, and I am I, and if the world were different, we'd still find each other, sitting in a cafe in Venice, or bathing in a fountain somewhere in Karachi, and we wouldn't get along because we are SO DIFFERENT, and so wrong, but we'd be together and he'd become he because I am me.

And it is Lahore that bears witness to my youth, to my heartbreak, to the love I am surrounded with. I will always be walking the streets of Fortress on a chilly winter night, I will always be sitting in CTC, gossiping and eating battered fries, and then I will go and eat falooda in a Mehran with 5 other girls. Muharram in dabbi bazaar, clothes from Liberty, the slopes of Lahore Zoo, the city where everyone actually knows your name. Sundays will always be halwa puri channay, I will always have my tea with history and beauty, and the sound of 21 canons will wake me up gentler than any loving whispers, to remind me that I owe my soul, my body, my being to a battered, mad country called Pakistan.

This is my happiness at it's surface. This is my heart, these are the things I have tattooed across my mind. This is not a story, this is not a tale, this is real, it is now, and it is a reminder. To forever celebrate what is mine. To remember I am a human, and not a fish, not a bird. I have responsibilities, I have thoughts, I have picked the right card out of a deck of billions so I cannot let my poker face falter. This is thank you, I'm sorry I don't say it enough.

Osheen's own blog: