SMS # 1

hi, just this new thing i found. hope it works. its suddenly more difficult. more than we like to believe? we envy them more than we like each other isn't it great, how just liking someone never matters to them. we feel lost and yet waiting to be full which matters if only to us.

SMS # 2

dont feel jealous. this time will pass and you ll look back at this day with a sorrowful, sly smile. when you are not part of a converstaion its best just to leave. restart your life. restart it tomorrow.

Puuch: "Ok we are gonna start now. Did you fill the form that I gave you?"

Juuth: "Yes, here it is."

p: "Good. I am gonna start with some personal questions. You dont need to be completely honest. And try Not to think too much about it. Is that ok?"

j: "sure."

p: "When was the last time you talked with your dad?"

j: "A few days back. He called me."

p: "Does he call you often?"

j: "No. He calls me from time to time, especially when I havent met him in a while. But I dont expect him to call."

p: "Do you want him to call you?"

j: "I suppose so. I have to keep in touch with him. I owe it to the old man. And I would rather prefer short phone converation than a long face to face talk."

p: "Whats wrong with that?"

j: "Nothing. Nothings wrong. Except that we never really did that when I was growing up. And I dont feel that I can talk with him. So most of the times its kind of one sided, and we both feel the gap. He is getting old."

p: "Do you love him?"

j: "I guess so. He is my dad. He is a nice guy. Just that... just that he expects different things from me, and .... I dont know. Too conventional. I dont want to be conventional. I dont want responsibility. I am a coward."

p: "What about ur mother?"

j: "I dont know my mother. Can we NOT talk about her?"

p: "Ok. Now, lets try something different. I want you to talk to me in vague and abstract terms."

j: "What do you mean?"

p: "Well lets say I ask you 'What do you like for breakfast?'. Dont tell me what food u like. Just think about that time of the day, or something particular about breakfast, and tell me whatever comes to your mind."

j: "Like the details from the Morning Show?"

p: "No, not the details. Maybe just how the show makes you feel"

j: "Its just a show. I watch it cause my roomate is in love with the hostess. Its really silly. I wish we could each our breakfast quite"

p: "Good. Thats exactly what I am talking about. So, what scares you?"

j: "You mean like a horror movie or a book?"

p: "No, nothing of that sort. I am not asking you to remmeber when and why you got scared."

j: "Ok, I know what you mean. People scare me. Not everyone though, most of them are plain annoying. But the ones who can write. And I dont mean Manto or Shakespear here. Just ppl that I know, that I could run into every now and then, especially average looking extraordinary girls. And not everyone. Just some of them, who are like all abstract, and try to make simple things sound abstract and difficult"

p: "Why do they scare you?"

j: "I don't know. Maybe cause I can relate to that. Being phoney, average looking, extraordianry... u know. "

The meaning of "rejectee"

Communication is made so easy these days. You talk with your love-ones and your hate-tons over long distances -- phone, sms, chat, email, a 20 hr long flight with 4 days of jet lag. Communication is made so easy these days.
But it comes at a price... and you are aksed to pay more for the cheaper options. The ease brought about by the miracles of science and capitalism distance us from primitive joys, which are still best at short range. The look in her eyes, smell of her breath, a brief smile of recognition, sharing silence in an open space, the joy of an unexpected kiss, the sudden arrival of an old departed friend.
We talk sitting 3000 miles apart. Every day, for hours and hours, sharing the most intimate details, hidden secrets, and ugly desires... Still have to fight the vacum every morning before coffee or tea.

Its hard to sing-a-song. Easier to drop-by-for-a-while and drive-on..... dr-eamon. Its easier to watch a movie and feel silly.
She said a kiss would be nice. I said. I told her a kiss would be divine, will distract my mind from the deamons and monsters of this hell i never believed in.

Kiamat kay fitnay ko kum deikhtay hein

But then I dream and kiss someone entirely different. A stranger, with a familiar face. I never can get my dreams right. You never could talk quietly, hide ur smiles and mute your laughs.

I cant even get real life right. Keep sourrounding self with impossibles. As she walks through the door, the room becomes blue, heavy and stuffed... I am naked fading behind the leaves.
My green shirt is just like her one, and we both love it, for us and for em. I am the kind of guy you can go out with, smoke a joint with, sing a bad song on a 5-string acoustic guitar. We cant dance but talk the crap out of each other.

This as ever... becomes predictable. I write, they keep whispering and urging me on. She waits and makes it to the other side. Without fear and worry, without desire of glory, without I...

The meaning of "rejectee"

Its not even a word

... relatives

Look for the bare necessities
The simple bare necessities
forget about your worries and your stress
....

Where do all the idealists come from? And what happens to all of these insignificant clowns, these... them.

There is this guy that I barely know, and he greets me eagerly and with warmth. People show their eagerness through their smiling and hungry eyes, and they show warmth by physical contact... a handshake, a pat on the back or even a hug.
I don't like it when people, whom I cannot hug, greet me eagerly and with warmth.

We surround ourselves by people, the basic requirement for a sane existence. We define categories, like labeled boxes, and pack our friends, family, relatives, colleagues and acquaintances in these boxes. Handle with care, breakable goods. We define ourselves by defining our interface and our relation with others. But is it only human beings that we fall in love with, hate, lie to, hurt, destroy, or hug.
There are some boxes for certain tangible objects, like the red sports car, or the lounge couch, or the old t-shirt. We rank these items, love them, hate em, shuffle them around, hold on to them... It makes us feel more real, giving life and meaning to these mere objects.

I hold my opinions dear, I hold my relations strongly with conviction, and I respect my decisions no matter how bad things go. You cannot live with yourself otherwise, can you? Everything I do, I do it for self, through someone else... a person, a thing, or an image. Moving people in and out of the various labeled boxes is something dear to me. And when someone in a smaller box, with eager and warmth, talks to me about some things, tangible or not, that I had placed in a bigger box, out of necessity or choice, I find this offensive and almost frightening. You see, people talk and give you their opinion. They say things. They mean things. They believe they are saying what they mean. You cannot just ignore that. That would be dishonesty to self.

Today the newspaper told me another mudassira-like story. Only this mudassira was three years old, and her ex-drug addict poor wretched and miserable father was acting out of pure concern and love for her, and his other two daughters... 5 and 9. The 38 year old beast could not make sense of his life, and could see no future for him and his daughters. Who would feed them, educate them, find them suitable matches and pay the dowry.

What was going through his mind when he did it? Did he plan out the steps, saw it all in his head before he actually did it?

And so I quote from Dawn, the leading English Newspaper of Pakistan:

"I picked up my daughters one by one from their cots, took each of them to the courtyard of the house and slaughtered them," Ashraf said, adding that his two elder daughters did not put up any resistance but it was difficult to kill the youngest one.

"Eisha kept on begging for her life. She did not blink her eyes even for once. She asked me why was I holding a knife and why had I brought her to the courtyard. I had no answer."

He said he once thought of leaving her unhurt, but then "I thought it would make her life more miserable." After growing up, she would be known as daughter of a killer and sister of two slain girls.

"Time had been killing me every second. Sometimes it so happened that I thought if I would die any moment. I thought about the future of my daughters after I am dead. And I thought why shouldn't I kill them before I die," he told a senior police officer, who visited him in the lock-up.

Two blue socks lying in my backpack
Remind me of the night,
when you and I
Sat in the theatre
with gloom,
and pondered and mused and laughed
at the twisted fake lives

drifting in and out,
i can see u smile
And
incapable of being subtle,
looked at your face
all the while

The news of the day.
It starts with sorrow
And hate

The touch of your hollow stares
My head in her hand
And we quietly agree
On this exchange of
thoughts and smiles

I share my suffering
And wish to see you
play with your hair
And sing

There he were... running around the field. He were doing well and certainly had improved a lot since last Monday. Two pole-hits, subtle movement. But there is others, and others was good too. Others is always better... despite the meanings of his name.

Maybe she were the reason. Maybe the early morning trip, excessive work, shitty pay, complicated lies.

Everyone else were playing better.
Everyone else who really matter.

There he were... sitting in a room with giants and very tall humans. They chat, they laugh, and matter with ease-- while he listens with intent hanging eyes. Misplaced and briefly invisible, he smiles when they look at the chair he were sitting in.

Do all these people-- all these giants, these others and tall humans-- do they know they have a supporting role in this grand gala of unwanted drama. Gods and Godesses are already chosen; Kings and Queens already crowned, the heroics already performed, and all the martyrs have already died.

...a man making love to his 7 months pregnant wife. She looks radiant and divine. They lay side by side on a narrow bed, and her swollen belly moves in rythm with his tender thrusts from behind. He leans over to kiss her full on the mouth, open and gasping for breath.

Look at the people. These people. The Who's and You's and I's. Familiar with each other, and various colors. All breathe and breed, all hail some-who. All have names, and shades- yet refer to 'em .... as 'them' or 'these'.

Often you feel related. (You, and not I.)
The sense of superiority, of similarity, it vanishes and hyper-ventilates and denigrates and segregates. Briefly, Try to save it, and get stronger without risk and might. Get drunk with disease and power. Get told and work with care and effort to reach the end.

Does this become a mermon sermon? With repeat glory, the performance re-enters the stage- from behind the old dirty curtains. I stand up and applause, the first one... take the lead and everyone follows. We clap and clap and clap as she deseves a standing ovation, a million stars and hellish flowers.

This as ever... becomes predictable. I write, they keep whispering and urging me on. She waits and makes it to the other side. Without fear and worry, without desire of glory, without I...

Before we part
and you go your that way
while I stay

I ll write --
without borrowing rhymes,
with ease and grace
-- a few lines

A poem worthy of you

(first draft)

The un metalled road takes us down slowly. Its narrow, steep, and bendy. The shiny red 4 wheeler is dancing, jumping, and rocking down the death-track. Sharp cuts and high falls. The back seat ride is not comfortable, seats are at ninety degrees to the direction of our hesitant movement. With my back to the mountains, I can see the depths and falls bending inches away from the rear tires. Holding on with most of my strength, one hand on the seat handle and the other on the overhead railing... this is not the ideal mode of traveling.
Samavar--recently voted 'The Best Driver in the World' by a group of Dutch philanthropists visiting Pekhonagar-- is focused, and in deep rhythm with his elements... the road, the steering wheel, the limited view of the world and a thousand thoughts.

I am high on my ability to appear in silent supporting roles in such ordinary and extra-ordinary situations. The faint smile widens with each bump. I feel like captain of a ship guiding my gal through rough seas-- proud, defiant and invincible.
But there is still a hint of the bad taste left in my mouth from the morning, towards-the-village ride. My reluctant discourse with Abdul, the mistri. His words were simple and depressingly cruel. Good thing we left him back in the village.

What was he thinking? 'rich boy from Lahore, touristing the disaster areas'
.......
Was it more like...'Hah, another wannabe good guys. This half pint of milk and blood..'
Or maybe sympathetic. 'Look at the young kid. Poor guy, out here, away from his home. He wont last long here.'
Abdul... you bastard.

Do people really think like this?
I know I do. But I am pissed, because he wasn't wrong.

But what the fuck did he mean by, by 'shouldn't you be taking pictures and sending/taking them back home' and 'why dont you right this? people need to know'

People already know. They always know. What would a few pictures do, a few badly written lines. No good. Not from me.

And at this point Asif asks Samavar to make a quick pee stop.
That's a releif, mentally and physically. All those cups of extra-sweet tea have made me a little jittery, and the steadily building pressure.. the jumpy ride doesnt help much. Being me, I would rather hold it till my bladder blasts then to ask these semi-strangers to make a stop on my account.
I get off and move a little away to find a sweet spot. 'Right here my boy. Stand and deliver.'

Its getting a bit chilly outsite. The sun is already dropped down behind the mountains. Its still an hour till sunset, but our journey would take atleast 3.

Back in the jeep again, and now Asif starts talking.

Everyone
owns a digicam
an ipod, a regular mp3 player
mobile phones with video playback and
a large screen display

a myspaceontheinternetdotcom
a blog, a random song
a blue-green story, an orange-white tail
writer wits, artist hands
dancer charms, godly fits

Everyone can tell a lie
write a poem,
with sweet timing and sweeter rhyms
and
scribble on leftover sheets
with a fading blue pen

We are all different,
You are all you-nique,
I can sing your song
and you can drink me
my tea, my rage, my wine

We upload, we download,
and chat with :`)s and lols and hahaaaz
heheeez
We wake the nights and work the lights
and hate the day
Today and this day,
both leave us in pain
with planners, scheduled tasks and dead-lines
our death lines
in your hand and mine

And I wear jeans with patches
Fake-faded
Designer-dirtn'
Crotch hurtn'
ass hidin', unhiding, unveiling,

tshirts with
che and marley,
kobain, profain, a god and a snob
or a painted rackoon

Every once in a while
we borrow dreams
from unused spaces
we try to die
we try to feel
sorry, but they tell us THIS
and they tell us THAT,
They tell with random smiles,
holding familiar faces in their hands

She came in through the back door. There were only three of us in the room. There was some talk of significance, which did not involve me.

'I am not playing hard to get.'

She roams around, laughs, sings a song.... she whistles out of tune, lightens the room, silently types, and delayes her response. She laughs...

'Yes, I want you to stay. Stay.'

But she will leave and she must leave. You can't make her stay.... you can't help it, ba'e-bay.

'I dont think that would be a good idea. Maybe this is a good point to end this ... you know'

So this is the way it had to be.

Everyone disappers... vanishes. Everyone but the two of us.

And just before she leaves... when she is hanging in the middle of inside and outside, about to close the space behind her... she turns and whispers... 'hi!'

and I die..

The weak side. I like it that way; straighter, sharper, cleaner.
But you always stand on the right side. Always.
And I want to stand upside down, to make the world flip; to show you the better side. But it's not the same. I have to twist my neck and turn it upwards. I look like a sexed up bafoon. A cross between an african sparrow and the australian Ostrich.

"and now your dream is real".

And YOU... you are always on my left side. Always, and it causes discomfort.
I have to turn away, close my eyes, run away. With sleepy smiles, I hope you are on the left side. And, I hope that you are but her or them. All of them. Until... And then it gets late. Someone else, with both good sides and casual charms, smarter mouth and easier smile comes along.
But they are all dealt a better hand. So what ... CHEAT!
Hah...
You wish