Ali says my house might have been stoned for this if it had been written in slightly less obtuse manner: Ex Cultur Robur
My first report, quite the donor driven but I do like the section on the dilemma of the civil society. Report is on documenting education innovations piloted by NGOs (the parochial definition of civil society we work with here).
Monday, March 26, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
At this very moment in Karachi
Raining since morning. I don't think there are many countries where it's so exciting to wake up to a grey sinkwater sky. I'm sure the people in those apartments aren't very happy. Rain as a class phenomena- how about that:P Ali said when he went to the women's expo thing here, he was depressed thinking that maybe beauty amongst women was also distributed along class lines. I'm going to stop now. My second cup of tea has not happened.
The third picture is the bark of a cheekoo tree. It's one of the few fruits I can't stand. Trust my parents to have a whole tree full of the bugger planted inside. It's like how today in the morning Mama and I woke up on the warpath. So while I'm frying pancakes she decides to cook some vegetable concoction at the same time on one of the adjacent stove points. Most strange medley of smells. It was hilarious. Our civilized no man's land point was the tea boiling on the central stove.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Articles
1. The Year of Magical Thinking
I’m risking a grandiose generalization when I say that a great love for literature, for reading literature, is borne of a loneliness of some kind. It is a corpus of comfort, a forever waiting shoulder to cry on. When circumstances are irresolvable, reaching the last chapter of a book is a tidy knot of reassurance in the day.
Joan Didion does the same when her husband and writing companion of forty years, John Gregory Dunne, passes away suddenly in December 2003. Her first articulation of grief is in 2004 but it was still a long way from the realization of the book under review “The Year of Magical Thinking”.
She notes in the text that “In time of trouble, I had been trained since childhood, read, learn, work it up, go to the literature.” She does that, in a manner that combines a personal narration with an electric study of the phenomenon that affects everyone at some point in their lives - grief.
Grief stands in contrast to sadness and even loneliness. “Grief is different. Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life. Virtually everyone who has ever experienced grief mentions this phenomenon of ‘waves’.”
The book is a documentation of those ‘waves’ of grief, in the aftermath of John’s death even while her daughter Quintana lies in the ICU with her own future hanging in balance. The title refers to the year after John’s death which she spent in hoping for his return. Anyone who at this point, thinks the book will be a morbid read, heavily plied with tones of emotional collapse is obviously not familiar with Didion’s style of writing.
I have to admit that I am biased. Joan Didion and Carol Shields are my favorite female authors this side of the century. Both are very different stylistically but equally incisive. While Shields brings the sublime into the mundane for me, Didion’s forte is the personal-essay form of writing (which I hope is not a dying art). Didion is not an exhibitionist for the sake of a personal narration. Her minimalist, spare style of writing removes the book from a melancholy genre and takes it to the level of a love story if anything. She revisits the houses they have bought, the drives, meals and fights they shared to highlight her present views of the differences and compatibilities between the couple.
The anatomy of grief has rarely been so well handled. Didion has compartmentalized it admirably as she follows the yellow brick road of information about bereavement. It is almost as if understanding the nuances of how grief happens, will lessen her pain. There are cultural observations on death amongst many other psychiatric readings of how grief is typically handled. One of them notes how in Western countries at present, death is a phenomenon that has to be effaced as soon as possible. It’s a factor of shame to mourn publicly, (a stark contrast to Pakistan’s culture and rituals of death) because it flied on the face of the ethical duty of today i.e. to live life to the fullest.
This is probably the culture Didion opposes and subverts in the form of this book, a form of expression that is as public as one get with grief. It is a hands-on manual to grief. There is no ginger, hesitant treatment of an event that has left her subtracted. (As an aside, surprisingly for Pakistan where display of public reaction to death is valued, there seems to be little emphasis on the effects on individual psyche.) Didion speaks on self-pity and how in this era, you can no longer say one person leaves your world empty because that would be “construed as unnatural, a failure to manage the situation.” It seems however, that is exactly what needs to be done to move with the change.
As an affirmation of a life after a death, I think Didion’s approach works. The book is the realization of that pain in a calmly intelligent portrayal of grief that ends on anything but a futile note.
2. Mongol Expansion
I’m risking a grandiose generalization when I say that a great love for literature, for reading literature, is borne of a loneliness of some kind. It is a corpus of comfort, a forever waiting shoulder to cry on. When circumstances are irresolvable, reaching the last chapter of a book is a tidy knot of reassurance in the day.
Joan Didion does the same when her husband and writing companion of forty years, John Gregory Dunne, passes away suddenly in December 2003. Her first articulation of grief is in 2004 but it was still a long way from the realization of the book under review “The Year of Magical Thinking”.
She notes in the text that “In time of trouble, I had been trained since childhood, read, learn, work it up, go to the literature.” She does that, in a manner that combines a personal narration with an electric study of the phenomenon that affects everyone at some point in their lives - grief.
Grief stands in contrast to sadness and even loneliness. “Grief is different. Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life. Virtually everyone who has ever experienced grief mentions this phenomenon of ‘waves’.”
The book is a documentation of those ‘waves’ of grief, in the aftermath of John’s death even while her daughter Quintana lies in the ICU with her own future hanging in balance. The title refers to the year after John’s death which she spent in hoping for his return. Anyone who at this point, thinks the book will be a morbid read, heavily plied with tones of emotional collapse is obviously not familiar with Didion’s style of writing.
I have to admit that I am biased. Joan Didion and Carol Shields are my favorite female authors this side of the century. Both are very different stylistically but equally incisive. While Shields brings the sublime into the mundane for me, Didion’s forte is the personal-essay form of writing (which I hope is not a dying art). Didion is not an exhibitionist for the sake of a personal narration. Her minimalist, spare style of writing removes the book from a melancholy genre and takes it to the level of a love story if anything. She revisits the houses they have bought, the drives, meals and fights they shared to highlight her present views of the differences and compatibilities between the couple.
The anatomy of grief has rarely been so well handled. Didion has compartmentalized it admirably as she follows the yellow brick road of information about bereavement. It is almost as if understanding the nuances of how grief happens, will lessen her pain. There are cultural observations on death amongst many other psychiatric readings of how grief is typically handled. One of them notes how in Western countries at present, death is a phenomenon that has to be effaced as soon as possible. It’s a factor of shame to mourn publicly, (a stark contrast to Pakistan’s culture and rituals of death) because it flied on the face of the ethical duty of today i.e. to live life to the fullest.
This is probably the culture Didion opposes and subverts in the form of this book, a form of expression that is as public as one get with grief. It is a hands-on manual to grief. There is no ginger, hesitant treatment of an event that has left her subtracted. (As an aside, surprisingly for Pakistan where display of public reaction to death is valued, there seems to be little emphasis on the effects on individual psyche.) Didion speaks on self-pity and how in this era, you can no longer say one person leaves your world empty because that would be “construed as unnatural, a failure to manage the situation.” It seems however, that is exactly what needs to be done to move with the change.
As an affirmation of a life after a death, I think Didion’s approach works. The book is the realization of that pain in a calmly intelligent portrayal of grief that ends on anything but a futile note.
2. Mongol Expansion
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Friday, March 02, 2007
Kung-fu & Grey's Anatomy
Poppet calls and does her usual routine of pretending she is from the Fulbright and telling me they’re sending me to China (I may as well go to the Sorbonne in Abu Dhabi then honestly)and then moving on to tell me that she spied a hard-on on her Kung Fu instructor when he was demonstrating a kick for her and it was so gross and she immediately thought of me. Imagine that. She looks at a hard-on and she thinks of ME. How comforting. My purve quotient is clearly higher than I thought. Either way, she said it was mostly gross because it was so little. I advised her to get a second opinion Kung Fu fighter, what if this instructor is actually leaving out a couple of moves of defense so that when he attacks her she is harmless?. This by the way is also the same instructor occasionally texts her asking her non-essentials like “Where are you?” Decidedly creepy. Poppet tells me she thinks he means well. This is her social sciences mentality where nothing is ever linear. I am so glad I had a background in the sciences before I went into SS because hey that way I know phone-stalking and ‘means well’ are mutually exclusive phenomena. *massively rolls her eyes*
“Stop turning him on then. I mean what do you do?”
“I guess I should cut back on practicing around the pole now”
Grey’s Anatomy has replaced the man & mean gul to come home to in my life. One would think that juxtaposing life and death situations with personal emotional crises would trivialize personal issues. But surprisingly it doesn’t, makes them as significant and poignant. Or maybe it’s just the stellar soundtrack, bleeds a whole symphony of colors in my head. I personally endorse Meredith Grey’s manners of getting over crises- shutting your system off except for mechanical functions, going with the most obvious things in your face and looking as miserable as you feel. The bottle of tequila helps. McSteamy has a hair of head that is prancing around wheedling “touch me touch me” much in manner of naked chicken dancing for doggies and catties. Cha-cha-cha. Rowr.
“Stop turning him on then. I mean what do you do?”
“I guess I should cut back on practicing around the pole now”
Grey’s Anatomy has replaced the man & mean gul to come home to in my life. One would think that juxtaposing life and death situations with personal emotional crises would trivialize personal issues. But surprisingly it doesn’t, makes them as significant and poignant. Or maybe it’s just the stellar soundtrack, bleeds a whole symphony of colors in my head. I personally endorse Meredith Grey’s manners of getting over crises- shutting your system off except for mechanical functions, going with the most obvious things in your face and looking as miserable as you feel. The bottle of tequila helps. McSteamy has a hair of head that is prancing around wheedling “touch me touch me” much in manner of naked chicken dancing for doggies and catties. Cha-cha-cha. Rowr.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
This city by the sea
Rolled bed sheets are easier to pack than flattened ones. One on each side of the suitcase and they definitely need some fabric softener when you get there. Plus the whorl of the sheets has room in the center for toothbrushes that are cheaper than those in Boston. I don’t know where and when she will wear the shalwar kamizes but she was determined to pack them anyway over a copy of Kaliat-e-Iqbal. This is where she will live
She found it on CraigsList, that surprisingly also has a Karachi page but no display for it. Apparently on another such site, someone for Islamabad had posted that the wanted “a temporary plot in exchange for two goats.”
There was also
“So much underwear yaar, such few occasions to wear it” (General female obsession with expensive, funky lingerie especially thongs and especially amongst my friends. My mother gingerly refers to the stuff as “Hollywood crap”.)
&
It was mildly like packing for a siege. Pouches of ketchup, tea bags (she doesn’t like the Boston taste), medicines, biscuits, vitamins, yaddih yaddih yah. Everything imaginable. I should have suggested a Catholic Archbishop for good measure. Or an armed militia. They come in so handy nowadays.
&
Ever since our occasionally pooled driver hired his own driver, he’s become crankier. Habib is one those mavericks who is into everything, he was introduced to the household as a “lab boy” (borrowed from the university’s chemistry lab for chauffeuring purposes), had that maddening, stubborn look to him so unique to the peddlers of our informal economy who know you may have fuckloads of money but also children who can’t drive. Was not a boy from anywhere. Perhaps an ex-kabadi wrestler. Speaks still in grunts, drives excrutiatingly slowly after you tell him this century would be a good destination. Instance: Saturday classes, we are going to school from a sleepover, piled pell mell in the car, heart-thumpingly late and he trundles along Shahra-e-Faisal. Outside the glass, we can see motocyclists, scooters and occassionally cyclists flying past us on Shahra-e-Faisal. The car never recovered from the humiliation and had to be sold.
Great conversations, cups of tea, pedicures and identity thefts.
And then she tells ME, that Karachi has lost me. Her departure does not this time have the reassuring tag of “college term.” She will start work. The route planned is Boston via Cyprus right through Monogolia “because it lies on the way”.
(For those who may be having problems with blogger postings, Teeth Maestro has given me the life saving link to kproxy.com)
She found it on CraigsList, that surprisingly also has a Karachi page but no display for it. Apparently on another such site, someone for Islamabad had posted that the wanted “a temporary plot in exchange for two goats.”There was also
“So much underwear yaar, such few occasions to wear it” (General female obsession with expensive, funky lingerie especially thongs and especially amongst my friends. My mother gingerly refers to the stuff as “Hollywood crap”.)
&
It was mildly like packing for a siege. Pouches of ketchup, tea bags (she doesn’t like the Boston taste), medicines, biscuits, vitamins, yaddih yaddih yah. Everything imaginable. I should have suggested a Catholic Archbishop for good measure. Or an armed militia. They come in so handy nowadays.
&
Ever since our occasionally pooled driver hired his own driver, he’s become crankier. Habib is one those mavericks who is into everything, he was introduced to the household as a “lab boy” (borrowed from the university’s chemistry lab for chauffeuring purposes), had that maddening, stubborn look to him so unique to the peddlers of our informal economy who know you may have fuckloads of money but also children who can’t drive. Was not a boy from anywhere. Perhaps an ex-kabadi wrestler. Speaks still in grunts, drives excrutiatingly slowly after you tell him this century would be a good destination. Instance: Saturday classes, we are going to school from a sleepover, piled pell mell in the car, heart-thumpingly late and he trundles along Shahra-e-Faisal. Outside the glass, we can see motocyclists, scooters and occassionally cyclists flying past us on Shahra-e-Faisal. The car never recovered from the humiliation and had to be sold.
Great conversations, cups of tea, pedicures and identity thefts.
And then she tells ME, that Karachi has lost me. Her departure does not this time have the reassuring tag of “college term.” She will start work. The route planned is Boston via Cyprus right through Monogolia “because it lies on the way”.
(For those who may be having problems with blogger postings, Teeth Maestro has given me the life saving link to kproxy.com)
Friday, February 23, 2007
?: something
M says:
i went to a jazz concert yesterday where the drummer i could see had just come to pakistan to get laid
M says:
like the shoda sort
M says:
who probably stomped to the center of the stage with his drums and pouted until the troupe let him be
M says:
today i found out he well over 40
M says:
also do you know bree (From desperate housewives) is 44 years old?
A says:
lol
M says:
and she just had twins
A says:
tis your future!
M says:
peoplel like her give me hope
M says:
i know. i was thinking. fuck, he seems like me
A says:
LOL
M says:
i had gross moment of self-realization
A says:
poor child
M says:
i felt bad about it and then i felt good about feeling bad
A says:
nahiin! you shall get laid wherever you are and not need to travel a continent!
M says:
so i dont think im going to change much
M says:
but keep your hopes up
M says:
Lol
M says:
Inshallah
A says:
lol
A says:
what a thing to go inshallah for
M says:
same to you same to you
A says:
bolt o' lightening heading your way yo
M says:
listen nothing is too small or too perverted for God to be invoked
M says:
I look to Him for everything
M says:
more importantly o tart o mine
A says:
ji?
M says:
im beginning to think Satan may just be a marginalized narrative
A says:
hahahahaha
A says:
TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING FOR THIS
A says:
moments of profundity acceptable only after noon pliss
M says:
NO na
M says:
listen
A says:
AUGH!
A says:
she eees going to expand!
M says:
you're a terrible friend
M says:
kay terriblay in Spanish
M says:
now i cant tell you my thesis on faith
A says:
are you high?
M says:
no man.
M says:
its bloody ten in the morning
A says:
how much chai have youhad?
A says:
huh huh?
M says:
2 cups only
A says:
first of all, its eleven
M says:
okay whatever. i was rounding off 10:59 backwards
A says:
second of all, ARE YOU AT THE SLEAZY DRUMMERS HOUSE GETTING HIGH?
M says:
you're such a stikcler
M says:
I WAS NOT
M says:
he was too sleazy for me
M says:
there was a vietnemese guitarist along
M says:
and our poor pakistani table player was getting marginalized till the fourth piece where finally we heard his beat
A says:
bechara
A says:
only 26 he was
M says:
imagine how crushed his self-esteem must be on the morning after
i went to a jazz concert yesterday where the drummer i could see had just come to pakistan to get laid
M says:
like the shoda sort
M says:
who probably stomped to the center of the stage with his drums and pouted until the troupe let him be
M says:
today i found out he well over 40
M says:
also do you know bree (From desperate housewives) is 44 years old?
A says:
lol
M says:
and she just had twins
A says:
tis your future!
M says:
peoplel like her give me hope
M says:
i know. i was thinking. fuck, he seems like me
A says:
LOL
M says:
i had gross moment of self-realization
A says:
poor child
M says:
i felt bad about it and then i felt good about feeling bad
A says:
nahiin! you shall get laid wherever you are and not need to travel a continent!
M says:
so i dont think im going to change much
M says:
but keep your hopes up
M says:
Lol
M says:
Inshallah
A says:
lol
A says:
what a thing to go inshallah for
M says:
same to you same to you
A says:
bolt o' lightening heading your way yo
M says:
listen nothing is too small or too perverted for God to be invoked
M says:
I look to Him for everything
M says:
more importantly o tart o mine
A says:
ji?
M says:
im beginning to think Satan may just be a marginalized narrative
A says:
hahahahaha
A says:
TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING FOR THIS
A says:
moments of profundity acceptable only after noon pliss
M says:
NO na
M says:
listen
A says:
AUGH!
A says:
she eees going to expand!
M says:
you're a terrible friend
M says:
kay terriblay in Spanish
M says:
now i cant tell you my thesis on faith
A says:
are you high?
M says:
no man.
M says:
its bloody ten in the morning
A says:
how much chai have youhad?
A says:
huh huh?
M says:
2 cups only
A says:
first of all, its eleven
M says:
okay whatever. i was rounding off 10:59 backwards
A says:
second of all, ARE YOU AT THE SLEAZY DRUMMERS HOUSE GETTING HIGH?
M says:
you're such a stikcler
M says:
I WAS NOT
M says:
he was too sleazy for me
M says:
there was a vietnemese guitarist along
M says:
and our poor pakistani table player was getting marginalized till the fourth piece where finally we heard his beat
A says:
bechara
A says:
only 26 he was
M says:
imagine how crushed his self-esteem must be on the morning after
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Phrasebook Shia-ism
Lucy has finally hit upon a scholarship option but she needs to prove that she is a native leader, yes very much in those “native leader” terms and I’m helping her look the most bhooka nanga (i.e. hungry naked people) out of all the bhooka nangas who will be applying. In the course of Mission: Bapu Lucy, it becomes clear that while Pakistani banks in a fantabulous display of locust mentality are showering loans for all types of cars, education expenses warrant a frosty amount of money.
Yesterday at M&M’s place I saw the video recording of that sand-weathered Shia ritual of matam, of mourning. M&M’s family are ritualistically, Shia’s by the book, the entire family gathers at the family seat in Jhelum to commemorate Ashura where they lead the whole procession from dawn till evening to their house. I was introduced to the concept of the zul juna (the horse that Husayn rode into battle) and the shibli( the likeness of his grave I think) and though I still don’t understand the significance, I saw the zanjir ka matam and somehow it didn’t look as ominous as it had always sounded, nor did it look as bloody as the mourning in Iraq. I think a lot of it was because only a fraction of the procession was lamenting by hitting themselves with chains, and that was mostly made up of the M&M clan. However, the sheer number of the people constituting the procession was overwhelming, there were guardrails demarcating the area between the procession and the Sunni observers, I guess, to ensure they did not hinder the flow. I can’t help it and I realize that being part of a discipline of study weds you to it, making you think of everything from that front, but my thoughts on the procession had more to do with “wow, what an avenue for mobilization and revolt” than the atrocious massacre that occurred at Kerbala. Mosques are pallid platforms of social gatherings compared to these processions where history is interwoven with current events to agitate emotions. The revolution overturning the Shah of Iran started from the front of a procession like this and although it sounds dangerous, the idea of people harnessing themselves to a roiling mass, the potential in this event as a collectivization front is enormous.
A minority knows of its own existence much much before the majority has an inkling of self-awareness. In grade eight I found out I was a Sunni and even if it didn't matter to me, it did matter to the Shia girl who asked me.Thankfully, my family was not the of the virulent orthodox kinds that brought children up with ludicrous myths about Shia rituals, the reason I think I wasn't aware of the distinction was because no one brought it up. A. told me the other day that when he was young, his friends used to come up and ask him if he really practiced occult witchcraft stuff (I will not mention specifics because it just reflects bad taste and a gauche paradigm) at their majlis. M&M underwent public schooling during Zia's time and he said there were times he walked into class and his name would be scrawled on the blackboard with various obscenities. Obviously at some level humanism took a real punch from parenting.Historically I'm not sure where the split comes in apart from the debate that H. Ali should have succeeded H.Muhammad in the rule of the Khilafat. However Sunni faith is comparatively more ahistorical than the Shia faith and historical sources are not a strong part of the regular teachings we undergo. Faith wise I am told, the Shia faith does not believe in predestination while the Sunni faith does. Politically it may have made sense to use predestination to justify Kerbala (Sunni front that is) but I don't see how it is tenable to regard predestination as the singular absolver of all things in this world. After all, across faiths, God "knowing" what you will do, does not in any way interfere with your decision of what to do. I mean I KNOW your hand will burn if you put it in the fire but my knowing (and keeping my mouth shut) has nothing to do with your decision to extend it into the fire or not.
Yesterday at M&M’s place I saw the video recording of that sand-weathered Shia ritual of matam, of mourning. M&M’s family are ritualistically, Shia’s by the book, the entire family gathers at the family seat in Jhelum to commemorate Ashura where they lead the whole procession from dawn till evening to their house. I was introduced to the concept of the zul juna (the horse that Husayn rode into battle) and the shibli( the likeness of his grave I think) and though I still don’t understand the significance, I saw the zanjir ka matam and somehow it didn’t look as ominous as it had always sounded, nor did it look as bloody as the mourning in Iraq. I think a lot of it was because only a fraction of the procession was lamenting by hitting themselves with chains, and that was mostly made up of the M&M clan. However, the sheer number of the people constituting the procession was overwhelming, there were guardrails demarcating the area between the procession and the Sunni observers, I guess, to ensure they did not hinder the flow. I can’t help it and I realize that being part of a discipline of study weds you to it, making you think of everything from that front, but my thoughts on the procession had more to do with “wow, what an avenue for mobilization and revolt” than the atrocious massacre that occurred at Kerbala. Mosques are pallid platforms of social gatherings compared to these processions where history is interwoven with current events to agitate emotions. The revolution overturning the Shah of Iran started from the front of a procession like this and although it sounds dangerous, the idea of people harnessing themselves to a roiling mass, the potential in this event as a collectivization front is enormous.
A minority knows of its own existence much much before the majority has an inkling of self-awareness. In grade eight I found out I was a Sunni and even if it didn't matter to me, it did matter to the Shia girl who asked me.Thankfully, my family was not the of the virulent orthodox kinds that brought children up with ludicrous myths about Shia rituals, the reason I think I wasn't aware of the distinction was because no one brought it up. A. told me the other day that when he was young, his friends used to come up and ask him if he really practiced occult witchcraft stuff (I will not mention specifics because it just reflects bad taste and a gauche paradigm) at their majlis. M&M underwent public schooling during Zia's time and he said there were times he walked into class and his name would be scrawled on the blackboard with various obscenities. Obviously at some level humanism took a real punch from parenting.Historically I'm not sure where the split comes in apart from the debate that H. Ali should have succeeded H.Muhammad in the rule of the Khilafat. However Sunni faith is comparatively more ahistorical than the Shia faith and historical sources are not a strong part of the regular teachings we undergo. Faith wise I am told, the Shia faith does not believe in predestination while the Sunni faith does. Politically it may have made sense to use predestination to justify Kerbala (Sunni front that is) but I don't see how it is tenable to regard predestination as the singular absolver of all things in this world. After all, across faiths, God "knowing" what you will do, does not in any way interfere with your decision of what to do. I mean I KNOW your hand will burn if you put it in the fire but my knowing (and keeping my mouth shut) has nothing to do with your decision to extend it into the fire or not.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Woolf: From the death of the moth etc.
Outwardly, what is simpler than to write books? Outwardly, what obstacles are there for a woman rather than for a man? Inwardly, I think, the case is very different; she has still many ghosts to fight, many prejudices to overcome. Indeed it will be a long time still, I think, before a woman can sit down to write a book without finding a phantom to be slain, a rock to be dashed against. And if this is so in literature, the freest of all professions for women, how is it in the new professions which you are now for the first time entering?
...
Even when the path is nominally open—when there is nothing to prevent a woman from being a doctor, a lawyer, a civil servant—there are many phantoms and obstacles, as I believe, looming in her way. To discuss and define them is I think of great value and importance; for thus only can the labour be shared, the difficulties be solved. But besides this, it is necessary also to discuss the ends and the aims for which we are fighting, for which we are doing battle with these formidable obstacles. Those aims cannot be taken for granted; they must be perpetually questioned and examined. The whole position, as I see it—here in this hall surrounded by women practising for the first time in history I know not how many different professions—is one of extraordinary interest and importance. You have won rooms of your own in the house hitherto exclusively owned by men. You are able, though not without great labour and effort, to pay the rent. You are earning your five hundred pounds a year. But this freedom is only a beginning—the room is your own, but it is still bare. It has to be furnished; it has to be decorated; it has to be shared. How are you going to furnish it, how are you going to decorate it? With whom are you going to share it, and upon what terms?
...
Even when the path is nominally open—when there is nothing to prevent a woman from being a doctor, a lawyer, a civil servant—there are many phantoms and obstacles, as I believe, looming in her way. To discuss and define them is I think of great value and importance; for thus only can the labour be shared, the difficulties be solved. But besides this, it is necessary also to discuss the ends and the aims for which we are fighting, for which we are doing battle with these formidable obstacles. Those aims cannot be taken for granted; they must be perpetually questioned and examined. The whole position, as I see it—here in this hall surrounded by women practising for the first time in history I know not how many different professions—is one of extraordinary interest and importance. You have won rooms of your own in the house hitherto exclusively owned by men. You are able, though not without great labour and effort, to pay the rent. You are earning your five hundred pounds a year. But this freedom is only a beginning—the room is your own, but it is still bare. It has to be furnished; it has to be decorated; it has to be shared. How are you going to furnish it, how are you going to decorate it? With whom are you going to share it, and upon what terms?
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Painted into a corner
The prick that is G., the office boy at my office is consistently forgetting any requests for tea, has thrice in a row forgotten to get our lunch, starving us till we were mere scrapworks of flesh. I begin to feel a most politically incorrect kinship for Robert Moses who said that though he loved the public, he hated the bastard, filthy people who made it up. Robert Moses was great public works architect bulldozing through America in the post-depression period. He made expressways that reduced the Bronx to what it is today and left the Jews wondering how one Jew could do this to another.
I would switch to wordpress or something more conducive if I wasn’t in love with my fishy template and I cannot go through the hassle of aligning this template on a new blogging format. Even though blogger has blocked my access to comments, won’t let me delete spam comments, given in to a general Google hegemony that seems to be taking over most of the world, I guess I’m too lazy to resist. I suppose I am a slight Luddite. I don’t do Orkut, or Facebook or Skype. I do occasionally log on to confirm internal alerts about who has broken up with whom. Of all the sixth senses in all the world, I had to have one about break ups.
In blog news: Humay and Sam's URL has changed. They're smart and have moved to wordpress. Ahmed has started blogging again and I've addded a motley collection of Virginia Woolf's essays. Blog title is mild referral to how I felt about blogging for quite a while. It's a winter syndrome always and is initiated by wedding/winter holiday fatigue followed by great urge to reinvent. I gave in last year, this year I desist.
I would switch to wordpress or something more conducive if I wasn’t in love with my fishy template and I cannot go through the hassle of aligning this template on a new blogging format. Even though blogger has blocked my access to comments, won’t let me delete spam comments, given in to a general Google hegemony that seems to be taking over most of the world, I guess I’m too lazy to resist. I suppose I am a slight Luddite. I don’t do Orkut, or Facebook or Skype. I do occasionally log on to confirm internal alerts about who has broken up with whom. Of all the sixth senses in all the world, I had to have one about break ups.
In blog news: Humay and Sam's URL has changed. They're smart and have moved to wordpress. Ahmed has started blogging again and I've addded a motley collection of Virginia Woolf's essays. Blog title is mild referral to how I felt about blogging for quite a while. It's a winter syndrome always and is initiated by wedding/winter holiday fatigue followed by great urge to reinvent. I gave in last year, this year I desist.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Into the eye, the cauldron of evenings
Wedding number one kicks off with daily washes and sketches of people whose intimate details are handed out heaps per minute. Last night mum offered a swatch of two years of a girl present, who, I whispered to Mama, looked endangered to me. You know, the slim tall type with eyes too large and liquid to reflect intelligence but dripping Austen in every gesture, in the double shaded lace edging her clothes, the one you can’t help smiling with. She was married to some long distance relative, whose immediate family flew from the U.S.A for the event, were put up and hosted by the girl’s family for two weeks. Once the ceremony was over the husband and family left with most of the gifts (which I think is upper class euphemism for dowry) given by the bride’s family and most of the bride’s stuff, things she had made and collected for her wedding, so that when she would follow later-once her immigration papers had been processed- she would travel light. A few days after their departure the bride receives a sheaf of papers divorcing her from the man. Just like that. Easy peezy. I cannot begin to imagine the horror in that house at that point. I’m sure this is illegal; there must be a law angle to it. Later on they discover, the man had a wife and two children in U.S.A already. There must be a unique hell, on par with those built for murderers, for all those complicit in carrying something out like this. What brings the bile to my mouth in this scenario is that in all those weeks of planning and thinking and doing, at no point did any one member of that family feel enough remorse to stay their sleight of hand. Bambi thankfully (remember Austen) is engaged now to a cousin. I’m not sure if it is a mark of maturity or conformity that I no longer turn cat eyes on people who dare to suggest that girls like Bambi have through a second engagement found a new lease on life. Mostly because I know, even at LUMS, a bulky 50% of the female population gives primacy to a good marriage and family and it is not because of lack of opportunity for a number of them.
My judgment pendulums about the weave of wedding gatherings, very much I think overcome by the apparition of these faces in a crowd, there are points when I despair,a tar kind, the kind you can only feel in an Urdu class where the younger Ms. Siddiqui monotones aquatically, while you are guillotined each second limping towards release. In the adult world one will rarely come across sensations that parallel the awfulness of child landscapes. Another one of them is the itch of knowing there are untold worlds rustling in some drawer while you work on inexplicably gnarly algebra. In the adult routine it’s never that bad, because you always have the illusion of choices. To a child consequences are as big a reality as taxes but to an adult the eventual consequence is what decides the choice. I left the seminar on Literature and Social Change the minute I got a waft of J’s talk, he was going to speak on what he had got up thinking that morning and not on what K and I had hammered out for him. I chose instead of run around the grounds with Hamza. At one point, I saw him squatting down in his pratty khakhis on the lawn. It looked fairly suspicious from afar, I walked over and he looks up crinkling his eyes in a grin as black as the sin of Hades, his mouth crammed with the fertilizer lying on the lawn. I give children +25 points for entertainment value and –30 for wearing diapers that make their bum stick out like Daffy Duck.
POSTSCRIPT I have work in 3 hours but I must state at once how much I LOATHE mehndis where I am expected to sit sterile, by the dance floor, because our side is such a wuss and watch the other side dance their booty off.I only go to weddings because of the dances, I just haven't reached that stage of exhibitionism where I can do solos and I'm sure it's against some international human right law to come away from a function feeling like THIS: starved of dancing, feeling like withdrawal symptoms will kick in very soon.Tonight I miss LUMS with angst, one I could only counter by sending Minchka (one of my dutiful dance partners)anguished texts in triplicate, I miss the weekends of dancing, of coming back to the dorm with party dresses soaked in sweat and kathi smoke albeit second hand(alcohol I see sense in, drugs I don't).*cwies*I know it sounds trivial but it isn't.*cwies some more*
My judgment pendulums about the weave of wedding gatherings, very much I think overcome by the apparition of these faces in a crowd, there are points when I despair,a tar kind, the kind you can only feel in an Urdu class where the younger Ms. Siddiqui monotones aquatically, while you are guillotined each second limping towards release. In the adult world one will rarely come across sensations that parallel the awfulness of child landscapes. Another one of them is the itch of knowing there are untold worlds rustling in some drawer while you work on inexplicably gnarly algebra. In the adult routine it’s never that bad, because you always have the illusion of choices. To a child consequences are as big a reality as taxes but to an adult the eventual consequence is what decides the choice. I left the seminar on Literature and Social Change the minute I got a waft of J’s talk, he was going to speak on what he had got up thinking that morning and not on what K and I had hammered out for him. I chose instead of run around the grounds with Hamza. At one point, I saw him squatting down in his pratty khakhis on the lawn. It looked fairly suspicious from afar, I walked over and he looks up crinkling his eyes in a grin as black as the sin of Hades, his mouth crammed with the fertilizer lying on the lawn. I give children +25 points for entertainment value and –30 for wearing diapers that make their bum stick out like Daffy Duck.
POSTSCRIPT I have work in 3 hours but I must state at once how much I LOATHE mehndis where I am expected to sit sterile, by the dance floor, because our side is such a wuss and watch the other side dance their booty off.I only go to weddings because of the dances, I just haven't reached that stage of exhibitionism where I can do solos and I'm sure it's against some international human right law to come away from a function feeling like THIS: starved of dancing, feeling like withdrawal symptoms will kick in very soon.Tonight I miss LUMS with angst, one I could only counter by sending Minchka (one of my dutiful dance partners)anguished texts in triplicate, I miss the weekends of dancing, of coming back to the dorm with party dresses soaked in sweat and kathi smoke albeit second hand(alcohol I see sense in, drugs I don't).*cwies*I know it sounds trivial but it isn't.*cwies some more*
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Flunkie Bush
Keith Ellison is a Muslim? Hmmmm.
Journalist asked Bush how he was expecting to work with Pelosi, when just yesterday she had called him a liar, a nitwit and dangerous. Bush replied he had been in politics for many years and he knows where campaigning ends and governing begins. He may be underestimating the coherence of goals here; the Democrat leadership has come to control the House of Representatives on a mandate of changing the direction in Iraq. Political expediency aside, I doubt if the insinuation that the war will be handed on to subsequent presidents will go down well with anyone. And I take great umbrage at his general lumping of moi into "the enemy". Seriously, practically yes, it makes the greatest sense to dispense with the individual and deal with the collectivities (much like post Pearl Habour incarceration of Hawaiin Japanese just because they were Japs; effeciency has no morality) because it is most efficient but you can at least watch the rhetoric.At least.
Journalist asked Bush how he was expecting to work with Pelosi, when just yesterday she had called him a liar, a nitwit and dangerous. Bush replied he had been in politics for many years and he knows where campaigning ends and governing begins. He may be underestimating the coherence of goals here; the Democrat leadership has come to control the House of Representatives on a mandate of changing the direction in Iraq. Political expediency aside, I doubt if the insinuation that the war will be handed on to subsequent presidents will go down well with anyone. And I take great umbrage at his general lumping of moi into "the enemy". Seriously, practically yes, it makes the greatest sense to dispense with the individual and deal with the collectivities (much like post Pearl Habour incarceration of Hawaiin Japanese just because they were Japs; effeciency has no morality) because it is most efficient but you can at least watch the rhetoric.At least.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Waxing Women and Police
It’s disconcerting to have a one-day weekend. The torpor of the week barely takes you over before Sunday night starts nudging and elbowing in. I’ve spent the day marinating in a stew of DVDs and books. One of the breaks made was for the waxing woman, apparently on Waxing Planet the ice-breaking questions are “Why aren’t you married?”, “What do you tell your father when I come?” and “Don’t you think it’s sad to have only one sibling?”. In the end I had to put on Fawlty Towers and pretended there was nothing more magnetic in the world than John Cleese. I’m sure it gave her time to think of what she will tell other customers about my body. Ugh. I just feel vile about them sometimes, for instance when they will bring along apprentices and set them to work simultaneously on, for example, completely hypothetically speaking, the legs. And oh the pain. My neurons go berserk trying to find a focal point for the sensations; the atrocity reduces the mind to stardust. All men and all boys in all age ranges are peculiarly inquisitive about the exact process that occurs behind closed doors, the secrets of that ritual whose remains they stumble upon: a large sheet on the floor, tattoos of talcum powder, dollops of sticky honey colored goo, butter knives, cups of tea rimmed brown and wads of cloth strips. Not to mention a girlfriend/sibling/wife acting queenly. It is in their number one item on Things to Ask God, followed closely by item number 2: how does a halter neck stay up and what EXACTLY does it look like. My question to them I guess would be why they get so furious if they are smacked on the head?
If you think about it Waxing Women are rich material for literary abuse: it is the best way to rob a house in stealth, no woman would ever deny her waxer an entrance; it is the best way for investigating a potential match (this I speak of from experience, have heard of many waxing women who act as informers, to be fair, in an entirely benign sense at times); if there was anything like CSI in Pakistan, waxing women would be prime corroborators. However there is nothing like CSI in Pakistan. I have doubts about the existence of a truly sober police force even. When H’s sister was getting married, his house was robbed a day before the wedding. The police van came careering around the corner and out jumped our resplendent men armed with lean-mean bamboo sticks, because guns are so passé, dahling. The police officiously powdered the whole house with what H says smelt suspiciously like baby powder because it was flying like dust everywhere. Everything in the house was covered within an inch of its life with powder and policemen, but they couldn’t locate any external or for that matter any internal prints. Except for the cat, they found the cat’s prints. It turns out even if they had, it wouldn’t have done any good because apparently we don’t have a fingerprint database. I’m hoping that’s just a rumor.
If you think about it Waxing Women are rich material for literary abuse: it is the best way to rob a house in stealth, no woman would ever deny her waxer an entrance; it is the best way for investigating a potential match (this I speak of from experience, have heard of many waxing women who act as informers, to be fair, in an entirely benign sense at times); if there was anything like CSI in Pakistan, waxing women would be prime corroborators. However there is nothing like CSI in Pakistan. I have doubts about the existence of a truly sober police force even. When H’s sister was getting married, his house was robbed a day before the wedding. The police van came careering around the corner and out jumped our resplendent men armed with lean-mean bamboo sticks, because guns are so passé, dahling. The police officiously powdered the whole house with what H says smelt suspiciously like baby powder because it was flying like dust everywhere. Everything in the house was covered within an inch of its life with powder and policemen, but they couldn’t locate any external or for that matter any internal prints. Except for the cat, they found the cat’s prints. It turns out even if they had, it wouldn’t have done any good because apparently we don’t have a fingerprint database. I’m hoping that’s just a rumor.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Week landmarks
Humay on getting off at the airport in Colombo, Sri Lanka: "It was weird at first but then I saw the army around and felt right at home."
Asad: "I was at a work meeting at Espresso"
Sam, as I wax lyrical on mean guls: "Oh my God, how many of YOU are there??!!" (said with expression of farmer scared rabbits are taking over the world)
Asad: "I was at a work meeting at Espresso"
Sam, as I wax lyrical on mean guls: "Oh my God, how many of YOU are there??!!" (said with expression of farmer scared rabbits are taking over the world)
Friday, November 03, 2006
Karen Armstrong does Karachi
Is it prescriptively weak for a historical analysis to posit the discovery of compassion within oneself as the engineering marvel of inter-faith issues? I haven’t read enough of Armstrong to know the finer points of her narrative, but putting forward compassion as the sine qua non of religion was muddling because all I could think of was how exactly one brought about, for example, a compassionate foreign policy. The nearest term to compassion in mainstream understanding is tolerance and that seems largely contextualized within a multicultural social discourse. Tolerance when shored up next to compassion draws a picture of an uneasily jostling crowd of people bearing placards of their respective religions, some unobtrusively elbowing others to makes space and others standing cautiously on tip toes to make room. It just does not imply the expansiveness of “compassion”. The Danish cartoons and the hair tearing over the veil in France has been noted by many as an indication that tolerance in the hegemonic discourse largely means “if you take on our colors, THEN we will absorb you.” (Tangentially, at times when I get sick of people whining about security checks at airports, the most obvious solution seems to me to be not to go there. If you are aware this is what they’re doing by law then once you enter that country you agree to placing yourself under that law’s jurisdiction so the room for whining doesn’t really exist anymore, if one has chosen to go despite finding the third degree treatment obnoxious and unfair.) I don’t disagree with the points Armstrong made in her lecture, notably, that all religions essentially were about dispensing with the ego, I think at some point she brought in yoga but at that point of the speech I was blizzarded with gusts of sleep so…so much for that. Most of my confusion as to the direction Armstrong was taking I think stemmed from the de-emphasis on the construction feat required to link the secularists with people who practiced different faiths. Secularism to the extent that Turkey took it- laicism- is a dogma on its own and in the Venn diagram of civilizations, I got the feeling Karen was treating the secularists as people outside the set, which seems largely impracticable because even if most of the world’s population subscribes to one form of personal faith or the other, the bruises are likely to rise not because “my religion is better than yours” but “religion is not a part of this discussion” on discussions of political economy etcetera. Reductionist as it may sound, in the public space I consider religion little more than a political resource. Karen was wont to reinforce her lecture throughout with the sentence “What the world needs now…” and the Care Bears in my head would sway tipsily from side to side PTV style and chorus is “LUV is-sweet LUV” while poor Karen finished off with the inevitable “compassion”. There are too many people in my head, looking for myself is like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Also I think the fact that the auditorium (I have no idea about the composition of the auditoriums who received the lecture through screening) audience comprised mostly of women, heavily make up ones at that. At some point in between all the perfumed saliva they were pasting on each others cheeks I felt a great urge to dance an Indian number on stage so they would get their Klein and Prada’s worth of entertainment. And they were all kitty party aunties I will insist, a fact that clearly came across in the Q&A session where I was habitually cringing as people asked questions the poor woman had already answered in her lecture. There were very few men (unless you count the ones who had less hair on their head than I have teeth), which just goes to show there are no eligible men in Karachi who are motivated by the fact that for once, there is a talk instead of a coffee shop opening in the city. S (sitting next to me) said they had all flown to the States. Am more determined than ever to follow suit for Masters and achieve matrimony in the U.S of A. Found it extremely entertaining that people were getting pirated copies of Karen’s book autographed by her, she was signing books she would never get a royalty for, tis a cruel cruel world.
Karen said something interesting about Greek theologians whose claim was that any statement concerning God, should be a) paradoxical (should resist human definition) and b) it should lead to silence. Now as I write this, I have an uncontrollable urge to laugh because when M gets drunk, that’s exactly how he behaves. He talks about God, says paradoxical things and then inevitably falls silent. I’ve completely sidetracked from the thought stream the Greek theologians tumbled into. O vell, will put it in comments section when I remember.
I am now known as Mrs. Hamza at work because almost-two-year old boy of one of our colleagues has a heart warming crush on me. I love wandering around with him in my lap to meetings and Fascist sprees, he lends an anchor to my agitations that keeps them from spiraling out of control, which are careering into a new twilight given the fact that Khamba and I are both dealing with two consultancies at one time where the research core is something the firms cannot decide on. Also have not mentioned new addition in my life- tis Historian (hehe Heman the Historian:P) Khamba who I am eternally grateful for that hand on the shoulder that enables me to maintain a professional smile.
Also I think the fact that the auditorium (I have no idea about the composition of the auditoriums who received the lecture through screening) audience comprised mostly of women, heavily make up ones at that. At some point in between all the perfumed saliva they were pasting on each others cheeks I felt a great urge to dance an Indian number on stage so they would get their Klein and Prada’s worth of entertainment. And they were all kitty party aunties I will insist, a fact that clearly came across in the Q&A session where I was habitually cringing as people asked questions the poor woman had already answered in her lecture. There were very few men (unless you count the ones who had less hair on their head than I have teeth), which just goes to show there are no eligible men in Karachi who are motivated by the fact that for once, there is a talk instead of a coffee shop opening in the city. S (sitting next to me) said they had all flown to the States. Am more determined than ever to follow suit for Masters and achieve matrimony in the U.S of A. Found it extremely entertaining that people were getting pirated copies of Karen’s book autographed by her, she was signing books she would never get a royalty for, tis a cruel cruel world.
Karen said something interesting about Greek theologians whose claim was that any statement concerning God, should be a) paradoxical (should resist human definition) and b) it should lead to silence. Now as I write this, I have an uncontrollable urge to laugh because when M gets drunk, that’s exactly how he behaves. He talks about God, says paradoxical things and then inevitably falls silent. I’ve completely sidetracked from the thought stream the Greek theologians tumbled into. O vell, will put it in comments section when I remember.
I am now known as Mrs. Hamza at work because almost-two-year old boy of one of our colleagues has a heart warming crush on me. I love wandering around with him in my lap to meetings and Fascist sprees, he lends an anchor to my agitations that keeps them from spiraling out of control, which are careering into a new twilight given the fact that Khamba and I are both dealing with two consultancies at one time where the research core is something the firms cannot decide on. Also have not mentioned new addition in my life- tis Historian (hehe Heman the Historian:P) Khamba who I am eternally grateful for that hand on the shoulder that enables me to maintain a professional smile.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
A secret combination of eggshells
A room as much as a blog is a work in progress; the urge to reinvent is there cyclically at some point where you start realizing how your niche in the different worlds you occupy has begun to prescribe your behavior. At times the witness to routine, the accumulation of a lifestyle- usually the nanny of discomforts - becomes stifling. I get so distracted in my room I can’t read there unless the colors fall completely silent and that only happens at night. I can’t seem to focus and it’s stretched the body sideways from distraction. Almost like being pulled inside a vacuum cleaner from your hair ends.
Winter in Karachi: Armies of quiet, dry air brushing cheeks with fingertips; Five o clock drive back from work today surprisingly showcased a sun buttering each tree cleanly through the canopy of the infamous coconut trees outside my house I could already see the manicured moon, at five; heaps of smells mounts and with no resistant moisture bumping into them, the motes of bubbling tea, watered earth, scented cocoa soap, crusty red powdered fries and fabric softener turn to cushion fractured moods. The exciting clink of weddings in the air (Bunto alone says she is making wedding dresses for 200 brides this winter in Karachi), the rug fests in front of heaters to be looked forward to and paper-cup steaming coffee on the sand slippered steps at the beach gleaming silver under the white lamplights, Everybody Loves Raymond on the laptop curled up with a misshapen pillow and tea. My insides are already sepia with tea and latte overdose.
I ran into a white boy (couldn’t distinguish from the accent) at the check out counter at Liberty buying my monthly Dalrymple and he preened to me he had all of Dalrymple books signed by the author. At some point in the conversation he said he hadn’t read a single one “but the fellow was around so I thought I may as well get it signed, he wasn’t really famous then, didn’t seem important” I flounced off in a huff not so much at the dismissive treatment of W.D. as the indignity of having books in your library that you have not bothered to read. Book consumerism fairly escapes me, I intimately know each book in my library and have just chucked out the ones I didn’t like and know I will never read again.
I usually try to go to Espresso meets an hour earlier so I can sit, read and have my coffee loyalty card stamped. So far I haven’t been successful because I inevitably run into hosts of people I know and usually have not been in touch with for ages (I think one reason mean guls are so significant to me is because they are only people I don’t disconnect from the minute I’m away from them). This Saturday was a pleasant surprise-actually had fun running into the three guys and one girl. Met that rare exceptional graduate who actually enjoyed his work. Saba and I usually feel like such pariahs when we speak enthusiastically of what we do and maybe that is why I’m so paranoid about talking about it in public now (also because people don’t really understand what it means, the only reason that can explain MBA marriage proposals. I wish for the MBA factor to be a quiet single digit statistic) because it’s just not in with the group-think to be enjoying your work at this stage. Most people I know are suffering from some major college hangover and as much I enjoyed LUMS, I have to make the distinction that it is Lahore I still long for, not the university.
These are a few books I'm trying to get rid off, in case you want them cheaply you can bum them off me: The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Milan Kundera); Morgan's Run(Colleen McCullough); The Lonely Sea (Alistair McLean); Orlando(Virginia Woolf); The Hungry Tide (Amitav Ghosh);Battle for God(Karen Armstrong); The Mistress of Spices(Chitra Bannerjee). Stuff I have 2 copies of so I'm going to sell the not so nice ones:Bedknobs and Broomsticks (Mary Norton); The Scarlet Pimpernel(Baronnes Orczy-who else?);Little Men(Alcott).
Winter in Karachi: Armies of quiet, dry air brushing cheeks with fingertips; Five o clock drive back from work today surprisingly showcased a sun buttering each tree cleanly through the canopy of the infamous coconut trees outside my house I could already see the manicured moon, at five; heaps of smells mounts and with no resistant moisture bumping into them, the motes of bubbling tea, watered earth, scented cocoa soap, crusty red powdered fries and fabric softener turn to cushion fractured moods. The exciting clink of weddings in the air (Bunto alone says she is making wedding dresses for 200 brides this winter in Karachi), the rug fests in front of heaters to be looked forward to and paper-cup steaming coffee on the sand slippered steps at the beach gleaming silver under the white lamplights, Everybody Loves Raymond on the laptop curled up with a misshapen pillow and tea. My insides are already sepia with tea and latte overdose.
I ran into a white boy (couldn’t distinguish from the accent) at the check out counter at Liberty buying my monthly Dalrymple and he preened to me he had all of Dalrymple books signed by the author. At some point in the conversation he said he hadn’t read a single one “but the fellow was around so I thought I may as well get it signed, he wasn’t really famous then, didn’t seem important” I flounced off in a huff not so much at the dismissive treatment of W.D. as the indignity of having books in your library that you have not bothered to read. Book consumerism fairly escapes me, I intimately know each book in my library and have just chucked out the ones I didn’t like and know I will never read again.
I usually try to go to Espresso meets an hour earlier so I can sit, read and have my coffee loyalty card stamped. So far I haven’t been successful because I inevitably run into hosts of people I know and usually have not been in touch with for ages (I think one reason mean guls are so significant to me is because they are only people I don’t disconnect from the minute I’m away from them). This Saturday was a pleasant surprise-actually had fun running into the three guys and one girl. Met that rare exceptional graduate who actually enjoyed his work. Saba and I usually feel like such pariahs when we speak enthusiastically of what we do and maybe that is why I’m so paranoid about talking about it in public now (also because people don’t really understand what it means, the only reason that can explain MBA marriage proposals. I wish for the MBA factor to be a quiet single digit statistic) because it’s just not in with the group-think to be enjoying your work at this stage. Most people I know are suffering from some major college hangover and as much I enjoyed LUMS, I have to make the distinction that it is Lahore I still long for, not the university.
These are a few books I'm trying to get rid off, in case you want them cheaply you can bum them off me: The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Milan Kundera); Morgan's Run(Colleen McCullough); The Lonely Sea (Alistair McLean); Orlando(Virginia Woolf); The Hungry Tide (Amitav Ghosh);Battle for God(Karen Armstrong); The Mistress of Spices(Chitra Bannerjee). Stuff I have 2 copies of so I'm going to sell the not so nice ones:Bedknobs and Broomsticks (Mary Norton); The Scarlet Pimpernel(Baronnes Orczy-who else?);Little Men(Alcott).
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Running post
I’m not clear if it is a singularly migrant experience to have a holiday festival whirling around the telephone and phone calls. A migrant nuclear family is too big an expectation to be met with just a sagging table of holiday cuisine. I don’t particularly like the telephone. I resist being reduced to small talk on the phone, the only way to be on the telephone and I can’t sit down while I’m on the phone so I keep standing and shifting weight from one leg to the other. I jangle with every phone ring the brrring vibration circles drawn in phone cartoons are a Bermuda vortex. I’d like the phone to be sans ring tones with only a light bulb that seeps a pomegranate light all over the house for notice. Which is not to say I have not had good conversations. I enjoy speaking with N (mostly because she is the only person who talks faster than myself and the speed is ticklish if nothing else) and S (who is the only guy I know who you can end a conversation with “I’m bored now” both ways and it’s not taken to heart). Am struck with memory of one phone call where I told me brother to tell child calling I can’t speak right now and he told her “She doesn’t want to talk to you”. A minute later I’m inundated with phone calls asking me why I made Child A cry and she is upset. Phone call etiquette is heavy responsibility limping without the crutch of empathetic body language. I’m all about body language-in completely non-tramp way of course. But compared to mean guls cabal perhaps sometimes tramp.
Watered plants today, was a filling experience, they are a-glinting and twinkling in the sun outside. Have high tea at family friends to go to abhi, told mama to pick between blue or yellow prat clothes so must get out of bathroom and see what she has chosen. I hope they insist we stay for dinner, I like the thought that other people cooked to please me. Am not sure if will be able to feast with wanton abandon as brother has developed failsafe mechanism to get out family oriented events (“No. Bus keh diya”) hence barreling me with immense responsibility as first born to uphold parents standing. Work tomorrow, blood flowing sluggishly in manner of Ganges polluted with all forms of food, must get caramel latte to pamper brain for tomorrow.
Watered plants today, was a filling experience, they are a-glinting and twinkling in the sun outside. Have high tea at family friends to go to abhi, told mama to pick between blue or yellow prat clothes so must get out of bathroom and see what she has chosen. I hope they insist we stay for dinner, I like the thought that other people cooked to please me. Am not sure if will be able to feast with wanton abandon as brother has developed failsafe mechanism to get out family oriented events (“No. Bus keh diya”) hence barreling me with immense responsibility as first born to uphold parents standing. Work tomorrow, blood flowing sluggishly in manner of Ganges polluted with all forms of food, must get caramel latte to pamper brain for tomorrow.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Morphing tag
Tagged by Sam. Tag now has little little posts in it.
Today
height: 5’5.5 in kolapurees and 5’6 standing straight (which is just my mother being optimistic about good posture)
Color: butter brown-caramel right now. Just woke up.
piercing: current count 3 ….. not big fan, just one of those things every Pakistani girl gets done at age 2 or something. I was a latecomer, put it off as much as possible.
tattoos: Have decided area. Thinking if I really want something on me permanent. Then is is-oo of prayer though Bats checked around furiously before she gots hers and she says it is alright.
Right Now
Time: 0822 hrs. At work. Final Friday before Eid holidays (YAAAYYY!!) Thinking of springing to Lhr for some days (sometimes I love earning)
Mood: Shweepy, want pancakes and caramel latte. Miss Espresso. I always wants food. Was made much of yesterday at iftar Hot Hyphenated Boss threw. After so much performance pressure I HAD to stuff my face. Was only one who was given huge mug of tea as opposed to tinny cups.
taste: Fasting so none really. Unless toothpaste aftertaste counts.
Weather: Blissfully unaware. Was sleeping way here. I think there was a wind.
bad habit: I get fixated easily on something and will not let go until I have it, or the issue is resolved. It is what the Mean Guls call the “Moizza-in-Jhanput” phenomenon. (India trip where I went ballistic in the markets according to Guls, I don’t remember, but I rarely remember my fixations, have too many). *looks defensive* It’s cool to be a metaphor.
current crush: Sometimes Hot Hyphenated one. Sometimes not. It’s so easy sometimes to let a man’s shoulders and scent overtake his brain in my prority list.
biggest regret: None Mashallah, Mashallah. Hope it stays that way. Oh wait, maybe I.B. but i'm not sure if it's a regret as much as it's a wittle bit of mournfulness.
Perfume(s): Right now: Gucci Rush. Another thing I’m fixated on.
Thing I want to do: Play the sitar. Have been looking around for a teacher. Of the good ones I knew, one went to Burma (why?), the other died and the rest are quacks.
Favourite
TV show: currently? CSI. Watch all of them religiously. CSI (plain), CSI Miami, SCI New York and NCIS.
book: The Enchanted Wood by Enid Blyton. Yes, not much intellectual progression has been made.
non alcoholic drink: Tea
milk drink: Tea. Cadbury’s hot chocolate (have just decided it will now be my Sehri with those baked chocolate biscuits with a dollop of melted chocolate in the middle? Feel most accomplished)
brand: Not particular but have lots of Next and Khaddi.
emblem: Ka-chinggg!!!
perfume: Ralph (most), Gucci (a couple), Issey Miyake (sometimes) and Kenzo. I need to expand I know. Next Dubai trip agenda (not diva, only my uncle gets gargantuan discounts of Paris Gallery stuff because owner/manager is patient of his. So I get huge bottles at subsidized prices)
designer: Master Saheb. Occassionally Fortress. Mostly Okara and Lahore Seamstresses.
Chocolate: Favouritests are only Lindtt (Hazlenut and Caramel) and Ferraro Rocheres. But will eat anything. I am wondering if eating is in list of Endearing Things That Help You Get Laid. It better be else I'm struggling up a negative scale right now.
Have I Ever
broken the law: Must have, don’t remember.
misused credit card: Am threatening to as blackmail (he won’t return my C.S. Lewis and my Fawlty Towers DVDs) but have not and probably won’t.
skipped school: No. Skipped a class once. CS101. LOATHED IT. The only bloody C on my transcript and I couldn’t have cared less. Never bothered to repeat it to improve the grade.
fell asleep in the shower/bath: Nope. Have accidentally showerd with bra on once. Didn’t realize for quite a while.
had children: I can’t answer. It’s a secret.
been in love: Yes.
been hurt: Breakups. Regardless of who started it/level of boredom/irritation, no such thing as a good clean break up. *looks profound*
Random
have a job: Yeah. Am Most Important Cog in Wheel (also controversial but lets skip that)
My CD player has what in it right now: Quite last season no? My MP3 player has Omakar and KANK songs in it. Sometimes drift off in middle of work and choreograph dances to Beedi, beginning of Namak (should be in medley) and Rock n’ Roll Sonyie (not all too long) for the weddings in Decemeber. Miss dancing. Also miss netball/basketball. Same things almost. Player also has e-texts of Woolf downloaded from Gutenberg.
if I were a crayon, the color? There is an oil color that is this mixture of burnt orange and deep red. Would be that.
what makes me happy? Little things. Breakfast makes me happy (favourite meal of the day), tea, getting solid gifts (Like Minchka’s Didion and Poput’s Khaddi bag), Bath and Body butters, dancing, clubbing (all checklists), light catching earrings, driving at night, taak raats in the mosque (though all the one hour standing is making my netball injury swell again), Half Ticket Express on Cartoon Network
When/What Was the Last
I got a real letter: Last year I think. S and I used to write letters in Urdu in Chem class to each other. We took much pride in fact we were few people in school who could read/write Urdu comparatively fluently. Happens when you go to snob school. That was before I came into this world where everyone’s Urdu is miles above mine. Feel severely hindered. Worse is spoken, was on talk show on TV and kept embarrassingly switching to English because DID NOT know political terms in Urdu. I think Minister must have been only person who actually got my sentence together. Maybe I’m optimistic. I heard they’re supposed to be graduates now.
got an email: 2 minutes. Mean Gul thread of mail continues (Munchie is going to Jazz concert and wants to know what Principle Candidate is, and Minchka has begotten herself signed copy of Isabel Allende book. Allende’s a dilute Marquez-ish no?) and Honorary Mean Gul reply.
TV program I watched: Scrubs
movie I saw in the theaters: Pirates of The Caribbean - Dead Man's Chest..Mona’s pearents took us out. Wasn’t as good as the first one, not so much emphasis on dialogue. Slapstick action: too much.
hugged: Last night. High fives are just as important though. Hot Hyphenated one and I can’t hug so we high five. Lol.
song heard: Namak
place I was [besides home]: Work, HH’s home, TCS, browsing books at Time Medico while passport was photocopied. Also bought Quaker’s oatmeal (one of new fixations)from next shop.
phone call: Mao, last night.
was depressed: Last week sometime. Don’t remember. Am usually regularly down but this week and half been too hectic so no time.
What Comes to Mind When I Hear
car: Little black volksy I saw in Dubai and fell in love with.
murder: Miss Marple
cape: the Antarkhan (sp?) coat the Duclimer boy wore in the saddest book I’m never going to read again. It still you to really think as you put down a book, “I’m going to die without reading it again”. Certainsure finality.
cell: Prison Break sex bomb. Love his eyes, though not so sure of tattooed body. My mother disapproves of boys with colored eyes. She hissed in my ear once when B was over “You must not trust boys with green eyes”, then smiled a disarmingly sweet smile in case he had heard even though he was on the other side of the damn wall looting my stuff.
fun: Crab dinner with Sam and Asad where Asad tried to convice me that fish are also dated like wine. “I’ll get you a ’67 next time you come”. As gullible as I am thank God I almost didn’t fall for that. Also great Mean Gul sleepover (sans K but we snagged her on phone) after long time where 3 a.m. apropose nothing, Poput sleepily drawls a disapproving tone in her voice and says “You know, you really shouldn’t bare your boobs for all these boys.” LOL. A laugh fit for stitches. Coffee, Iftar and moral quandary with M was also fun when hit Khi for a day.
shoe: 2 pairs. Both CHAMKEELA white.
crush: Strawberry slush. Talk about one track mind.
music: Fort Minor.
love: Family. Mostest important in scheme of things.
chalk: Butterfly powder
Today
height: 5’5.5 in kolapurees and 5’6 standing straight (which is just my mother being optimistic about good posture)
Color: butter brown-caramel right now. Just woke up.
piercing: current count 3 ….. not big fan, just one of those things every Pakistani girl gets done at age 2 or something. I was a latecomer, put it off as much as possible.
tattoos: Have decided area. Thinking if I really want something on me permanent. Then is is-oo of prayer though Bats checked around furiously before she gots hers and she says it is alright.
Right Now
Time: 0822 hrs. At work. Final Friday before Eid holidays (YAAAYYY!!) Thinking of springing to Lhr for some days (sometimes I love earning)
Mood: Shweepy, want pancakes and caramel latte. Miss Espresso. I always wants food. Was made much of yesterday at iftar Hot Hyphenated Boss threw. After so much performance pressure I HAD to stuff my face. Was only one who was given huge mug of tea as opposed to tinny cups.
taste: Fasting so none really. Unless toothpaste aftertaste counts.
Weather: Blissfully unaware. Was sleeping way here. I think there was a wind.
bad habit: I get fixated easily on something and will not let go until I have it, or the issue is resolved. It is what the Mean Guls call the “Moizza-in-Jhanput” phenomenon. (India trip where I went ballistic in the markets according to Guls, I don’t remember, but I rarely remember my fixations, have too many). *looks defensive* It’s cool to be a metaphor.
current crush: Sometimes Hot Hyphenated one. Sometimes not. It’s so easy sometimes to let a man’s shoulders and scent overtake his brain in my prority list.
biggest regret: None Mashallah, Mashallah. Hope it stays that way. Oh wait, maybe I.B. but i'm not sure if it's a regret as much as it's a wittle bit of mournfulness.
Perfume(s): Right now: Gucci Rush. Another thing I’m fixated on.
Thing I want to do: Play the sitar. Have been looking around for a teacher. Of the good ones I knew, one went to Burma (why?), the other died and the rest are quacks.
Favourite
TV show: currently? CSI. Watch all of them religiously. CSI (plain), CSI Miami, SCI New York and NCIS.
book: The Enchanted Wood by Enid Blyton. Yes, not much intellectual progression has been made.
non alcoholic drink: Tea
milk drink: Tea. Cadbury’s hot chocolate (have just decided it will now be my Sehri with those baked chocolate biscuits with a dollop of melted chocolate in the middle? Feel most accomplished)
brand: Not particular but have lots of Next and Khaddi.
emblem: Ka-chinggg!!!
perfume: Ralph (most), Gucci (a couple), Issey Miyake (sometimes) and Kenzo. I need to expand I know. Next Dubai trip agenda (not diva, only my uncle gets gargantuan discounts of Paris Gallery stuff because owner/manager is patient of his. So I get huge bottles at subsidized prices)
designer: Master Saheb. Occassionally Fortress. Mostly Okara and Lahore Seamstresses.
Chocolate: Favouritests are only Lindtt (Hazlenut and Caramel) and Ferraro Rocheres. But will eat anything. I am wondering if eating is in list of Endearing Things That Help You Get Laid. It better be else I'm struggling up a negative scale right now.
Have I Ever
broken the law: Must have, don’t remember.
misused credit card: Am threatening to as blackmail (he won’t return my C.S. Lewis and my Fawlty Towers DVDs) but have not and probably won’t.
skipped school: No. Skipped a class once. CS101. LOATHED IT. The only bloody C on my transcript and I couldn’t have cared less. Never bothered to repeat it to improve the grade.
fell asleep in the shower/bath: Nope. Have accidentally showerd with bra on once. Didn’t realize for quite a while.
had children: I can’t answer. It’s a secret.
been in love: Yes.
been hurt: Breakups. Regardless of who started it/level of boredom/irritation, no such thing as a good clean break up. *looks profound*
Random
have a job: Yeah. Am Most Important Cog in Wheel (also controversial but lets skip that)
My CD player has what in it right now: Quite last season no? My MP3 player has Omakar and KANK songs in it. Sometimes drift off in middle of work and choreograph dances to Beedi, beginning of Namak (should be in medley) and Rock n’ Roll Sonyie (not all too long) for the weddings in Decemeber. Miss dancing. Also miss netball/basketball. Same things almost. Player also has e-texts of Woolf downloaded from Gutenberg.
if I were a crayon, the color? There is an oil color that is this mixture of burnt orange and deep red. Would be that.
what makes me happy? Little things. Breakfast makes me happy (favourite meal of the day), tea, getting solid gifts (Like Minchka’s Didion and Poput’s Khaddi bag), Bath and Body butters, dancing, clubbing (all checklists), light catching earrings, driving at night, taak raats in the mosque (though all the one hour standing is making my netball injury swell again), Half Ticket Express on Cartoon Network
When/What Was the Last
I got a real letter: Last year I think. S and I used to write letters in Urdu in Chem class to each other. We took much pride in fact we were few people in school who could read/write Urdu comparatively fluently. Happens when you go to snob school. That was before I came into this world where everyone’s Urdu is miles above mine. Feel severely hindered. Worse is spoken, was on talk show on TV and kept embarrassingly switching to English because DID NOT know political terms in Urdu. I think Minister must have been only person who actually got my sentence together. Maybe I’m optimistic. I heard they’re supposed to be graduates now.
got an email: 2 minutes. Mean Gul thread of mail continues (Munchie is going to Jazz concert and wants to know what Principle Candidate is, and Minchka has begotten herself signed copy of Isabel Allende book. Allende’s a dilute Marquez-ish no?) and Honorary Mean Gul reply.
TV program I watched: Scrubs
movie I saw in the theaters: Pirates of The Caribbean - Dead Man's Chest..Mona’s pearents took us out. Wasn’t as good as the first one, not so much emphasis on dialogue. Slapstick action: too much.
hugged: Last night. High fives are just as important though. Hot Hyphenated one and I can’t hug so we high five. Lol.
song heard: Namak
place I was [besides home]: Work, HH’s home, TCS, browsing books at Time Medico while passport was photocopied. Also bought Quaker’s oatmeal (one of new fixations)from next shop.
phone call: Mao, last night.
was depressed: Last week sometime. Don’t remember. Am usually regularly down but this week and half been too hectic so no time.
What Comes to Mind When I Hear
car: Little black volksy I saw in Dubai and fell in love with.
murder: Miss Marple
cape: the Antarkhan (sp?) coat the Duclimer boy wore in the saddest book I’m never going to read again. It still you to really think as you put down a book, “I’m going to die without reading it again”. Certainsure finality.
cell: Prison Break sex bomb. Love his eyes, though not so sure of tattooed body. My mother disapproves of boys with colored eyes. She hissed in my ear once when B was over “You must not trust boys with green eyes”, then smiled a disarmingly sweet smile in case he had heard even though he was on the other side of the damn wall looting my stuff.
fun: Crab dinner with Sam and Asad where Asad tried to convice me that fish are also dated like wine. “I’ll get you a ’67 next time you come”. As gullible as I am thank God I almost didn’t fall for that. Also great Mean Gul sleepover (sans K but we snagged her on phone) after long time where 3 a.m. apropose nothing, Poput sleepily drawls a disapproving tone in her voice and says “You know, you really shouldn’t bare your boobs for all these boys.” LOL. A laugh fit for stitches. Coffee, Iftar and moral quandary with M was also fun when hit Khi for a day.
shoe: 2 pairs. Both CHAMKEELA white.
crush: Strawberry slush. Talk about one track mind.
music: Fort Minor.
love: Family. Mostest important in scheme of things.
chalk: Butterfly powder
Monday, October 16, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
Nobel Prize for Food
Orhan Pamuk has won the Nobel Prize for Literature, let's all hope he uses that money to hire himself a translator worth his salt who doesn't hand out dollops of shit. Minchka and I have made note that to get on Nobel radar you must ensure your state litigates you and try to be an exile while you're at it. And write in native language so dense that it can only gain in the most vapid of translations.
Sakht roza lag raha hai. Yesterday morning I was reading about Lindsey's breakfast of pancakes and vanilla pudding in Lovely Bones, immediately shot off an sms to Mama telling her I was craving it and lo behold for iftar I had amazing,fluffly pancakes with vanilla ice cream. And now that I'm reading Helene Hanff's Duchess in Bloomsbury where all she does is EAT, it's killing me.
Munchie is emulating me at Oxford. Sat with a friend through a choir thingum just to get the free tea afterwards. I miss the LUMS days, I was one of the cheapskates who attended the tail end of every seminar there was in freshman/soph year and was the first to crash through the Executive Dining Hall. Once the waiters swatted me back "Madam, PLEASE let the chief guest come". By third year they'd stopped serving the cheescake I used to dream off and I figured the little little samosas weren't enough incentive to make me sit through embarrassing question-answer sessions. Clearly if a conversation is going nowhere, the most intelligent thing to do would MUST be to stop it, but no, we of Ivory Towers at LUMS will question.
Sakht roza lag raha hai. Yesterday morning I was reading about Lindsey's breakfast of pancakes and vanilla pudding in Lovely Bones, immediately shot off an sms to Mama telling her I was craving it and lo behold for iftar I had amazing,fluffly pancakes with vanilla ice cream. And now that I'm reading Helene Hanff's Duchess in Bloomsbury where all she does is EAT, it's killing me.
Munchie is emulating me at Oxford. Sat with a friend through a choir thingum just to get the free tea afterwards. I miss the LUMS days, I was one of the cheapskates who attended the tail end of every seminar there was in freshman/soph year and was the first to crash through the Executive Dining Hall. Once the waiters swatted me back "Madam, PLEASE let the chief guest come". By third year they'd stopped serving the cheescake I used to dream off and I figured the little little samosas weren't enough incentive to make me sit through embarrassing question-answer sessions. Clearly if a conversation is going nowhere, the most intelligent thing to do would MUST be to stop it, but no, we of Ivory Towers at LUMS will question.
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