Archive for violence
Day 10,256 – Monday – 22 Asvina 1930 – 13 Shawwal 1429 – 13 October 2008
So, me and AH had a playful fistfight, hair pulling, punching, kicking match in the elevator the other day. What I dont understand is why the other people in the elevator being being so irritable. I hate prudes.
Oh, and yes, if you have a goatee or some other form of interesting mustache and beard combo. Keep it. It is so fucking hot.
Day 10,205 – Saturday – 01 Bhadra 1930 – 19 Shaban 1429 – 23 August 2008
Fucking internet connection fuck up. This is the seventh post in the past month that has gotten fucked up because of my fucking internet. Long pause with a reasonable amount of stress release and anger at my internet connection. Back to normal. Again. I love the sudden explosions of anger at minute things that I just can not control. The sudden and complete abandon to my feelings is very liberating.
And as I sit here musing about my personal life, my country hurtles headlong into a tunnel with no conception of where it may lead. The 14th of August came and went, and there seems to be nothing outwardly exciting to celebrate. Musharraf resigned; albeit I support the concept of democracy but a strong President would have been a good influence; and we must remember that his legacy is not solely negative. The PPP has nominated Zardari for President, need anyone say any more. The NRO has absolved our politicians of all sins, disgusting. The PMLN is bent upon making governance absolutely impossible. The MQM has nominated Zardari as the Presidential candidate, always a politically astute party with a lot of integrity. The PMLQ has nominated it’s own Presidential candidate. The restoration of the Judiciary is a complete bone of contention that might rip the coalition apart. Violent suicide bombings by the Taliban in Pakistani cities have had a massive toll on citizen’s lives and their conceptions of safety. All I can say is that, more our of hope than experience, I still believe that somehow this will get resolved and good things will happen. Let the dust settle.
Wednesday – 22 Zilhaj 1428 – 13 Pausa 1929 – 02 January 2008
I do not refer to my unbelievably fickle nature with depression and sadness. Over the past couple of months I have been fighting very hard against my moods of depression. I would like to say that at any given time I am either a man of happiness and sunshine or of sadness and lamentation. And in that period of time I see only that particular taste of time till the end of time. Fickle I would agree. But, it adds tastes to life not expected by so many. And of course of the recently polled 149 friends, family, colleagues and acquantances 134 declared me absolutely insane and unpredictable, 10 said I wanted to seem different and hence overacted, and of course 5 wanted to go to the bathroom and said “To hell with your questions overly fat and irritating bitch, where the hell is the can???”. I rest my case.
The madness I refer to is what I see around me. My country, my society, my people, my land. I met with a very dear friend from Hyderabad. Yes, yes, I know, only people above fifty are allowed to use the word dear friend, but, fuck off, grow up, go kick yourselves in the nuts, I will do what I want to do. He was telling me about the absolutely insane violence that took place in his city. So did it happen in Karachi.
My cousins, who were in from the US forced me to take them out on the New Years Eve. I didnt want to go. I did. I saw everything. What had become of my city. The closed shops. The dark streets. The empty roads. I cried. I cried in the car. They asked me what it was. I stopped crying. They can not share in my pain. I needed someone who loved those streets as much as I did to be able to understand.
And here, I would like to share with you all something that went through my mind during a split second of the drive. I am walking across the India – Pakistan border. When they try to stop me I run across it and declare “I demand political asylum because I am an Agnostic and the country behind me is a Taliban / Warlord hellhole”. The Indians do not say anything. They look at me with understanding eyes and let me walk on. I cross the guards. I look back. I look at the gate on the border with the Crescent and the Star. I know that my country descended into chaos. Another Afghanistan, another Baghdad. I saw it happen. And as I looked back across the border, I felt the pain of loss. Loss of each element of my existence. The sum of my being defined by a symbol that had restricted my world to what I ended up learning to love so strongly. Ghazal singers and Sufi Rock. Dawn newspaper and tv channel. As these images go through my mind I start walking back towards the Pakistani border. Something pulling me back. Towards destruction. Towards oblivion. But, the ability to think and process and decide rationally had left me. There was only one thing. Pleasure and pain, and the knowledge of eternal pleasure in the company of what I know and accept. And as I walk towards the border I am torn into two, one who wants to grasp at the last dying embers of what I love and cherish and hold above everything in the world, and the other who has the knowledge that seeing the destruction of a part of this whole would finish me. Yet again, as in my personal life, I am torn between two paths that both lead to oblivious destruction, I can not choose, and I can not decide, they are both right and they are both wrong. Am I only trying to run away from the questions by forcing so sudden a decision? As I walk towards the border, I fall down. I break down. I start to cry. A sound comes out of my throat like the primeval cry of an animal in pain. I dont know where it is coming from. Maybe it is coming from Pakistan. Maybe. And the images flash at me with increasing intensity. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan singing Pakistan Pakistan. The Azan of the Muazzin from my old home. I fall to the ground. Old late 80s PTV song / jingle that was played before the Khabarnama. I start to pull my body across the gravel towards the border. Jinnah Mausoleum along the MA Jinnah road covered in a soup of Rickshaw vomit. I know that I am going to die. Sunset from the Clifton beach on a winter afternoon. I know that I must cross the border before the inevitable. The large pothole on the road to my house due to which I had to drive on the wrong lane each and every day. I scrabble like a mad man on the gravel, making a lot of effort but little progress. The Kabab Fry from Burns Road. The Indian guards who had tried to stop me have just now let me be; they understand. Nayyara Noor singing Faiz Ahmed Faiz – خیر ہو تیری لیلائوں کی. I think my hand has hit the border; and now, I can finally die in peace. I turn over, on the border. Saadat Hasan Manto. Pakistan Paindabad. And all is peace forever.
پاکستان پائندہ باد
Thursday – 16 Zilhaj 1428 – 07 Pausa 1929 – 27 December 2007
Former Prime Minister of Pakistan, chirperson of the Pakistan Peoples Party and the mother of three children; Benazir Bhutto was assasinated in a suicide terrorist attack today in Rawalpindi’s Liaquat Bagh.
I was at work. Suddenly a very senior officer burst onto the floor, consulted with the two most senior officers on the floor and then started telling all staff to immediately pack up and leave the office. Took two minutes to sink in. Then there was nothing but fear and panic. People were on their phones but the networks of all cell phone companies were jammed. People rushed out of the building in a state of panic and confusion. I got in my car and headed for home.
The city was not right. Things were not as they are. There was too much traffic and there was an extremely palpable quantity of fear and panic. Chaos. Everyone in every car was worried, everyone had rushed out from work to head home, safety seemed elusive at the least, crazy traffic. And then I got home.
And then it sunk in. My country. My people. Me. What a loss. What a loss. I did not support Benazir but I think she was a great politician of Pakistan. What a loss.
Violence in Pakistan has gone out of hand. This is not us. We are not like this. This is not my Pakistan.
Friday – 06 Shawwal 1428 – 27 Asvina 1929 – 19 October 2007
Two powerful bomb blasts have hit the procession of Benazir Bhutto. More than 120 have died as I sit here and write this. With trembling hands and wet eyes. Such loss of life, again and again and again. And it gnaws at your very soul and sanity. Like waves weathering away the cliffs. Cliffs of resolve and honour and dignity and humanity. Senseless violence tearing apart the fabric of our very lives. One after another a trickle of news and violence in our great cities. Murder, destruction and mayhem.
خون کے دھبے دھلیں گے کتنی برساتوں کے بعد
Tuesday – 04 Rajab 1424 – 11 Bhadra 1925 – 02 September 2003
well it seems that my last post about a little latent tension in the city was right. rumours flying all over the place. karachi saw a lot of violence during the 90s. well thank allah the city is going smooth now. well at least as smooth as most third world cities. but i think i can feel and sense these small currents in the big river.
two shot dead. five shot dead. tension in the city. well i am all too well aware of these patterns. well lets just say that this tension had increased a lot during the day and now is at its peak. lets hope the night will lay it to sleep as it does many other things.
and yes my usual interesting details from my life. i saw a VERY cute guy today. and i stared at him. with no fear or fright. he saw me staring. he didnt do anything. he didnt drag me infront of my parents like i thought he would. he didnt do anything. ahhhhhhhhhh. such a relief.
Tuesday – 04 Rajab 1424 – 11 Bhadra 1925 – 02 September 2003
hmmmmm. after saying that i hate it when i have to live without the internet i will proceed. and for about 4-5 days as well.
large cities like karachi are a world in thier own. their own accents. their own rhythms. their own flavour. and their own city. well i love being a part of this thing. also cities in south asia are generally very volatile and violence prone. maybe due to the harsh weather and the general tension infested life that we lead.
news spreads slowly in the city. rumours spread fast. yesterday two men from a major political party were shot dead in the city. rumours started flying immediately about rioting, arson and generally violence. when i went for a drive today i could see the traffic move faster and more desprately trying to avoid major chorangis(intersection). the first clue to something being wrong. then i heard the news about the two men.
karachi is a city that lives. it breathes. it moves. it awakens and it sleeps. there is complete rhythm to it. and small incidents cause it to become ill like any person may. i love this city. its people. its ways. its colours. its moves. hmmmmm. i think i am being too wierd right now. but that is me. wierd and sensitive.
and in other news. i heard a song yesterday. streets of philadelphia by bruch springstein. a friend of mine in college loved this song. as soon as i heard it severe nostalgia for my college life flooded in. encompassing me. all that was left. was me. the faces of my friends in college. their voices and their words. it is SEVERE nostalgia.
oh what a bitter sweet feeling. nostalgia. it feels so good. but it hurts so bad. nostalgia. ahhhhhhhhhh. what beautiful things people go through in their daily lives. nostalgia being one of them. i can still hear that friend of mine laughing and looking at me in that particular signature laugh of his. face slightly tilted. lip slightly curled. eyes half open due to the effect of the song. i will never forgot this. ahhhhhhhhhh nostalgia. what beauty lies in it.