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

Hey,
Before you kill me
show me the color bomb
and show me how it
Explodes,
So I get used to it
And grow...

Us.
We get used to them
Grow imune to them
'Summer rains and black curls'
'mud feet and mango smiles'
sily Sally sings, and
he whistles out of tune

I let it get under my skin
write it down and read with re
on and on
We come here often, stopping for tea
and 'Please'
I ask... more
but can't say

So! first come here
and stay

Shitty

As I read and read and read
some of this life and some of that
As we listen with intent, hanging eyes
without forming words
or facing fears

As I sit, and re...
again,
with added colors and twisted frames
I know what you mean
I know it so well...
as i say and write... or just let it breath

And we ll both sing it again
read it again,
others and another's
through tilted frames
and narrow cuts
Disgusts

and we,
see only me

(based on a news in todays Paper)
(COMMENTS: abrupt, and aimless.. focus)
Mudassara is a small dark-skinned girl of average looks. She is the quiet kind, and wears the invisibility hat; except, she knows of its curse. On a fine spring morning, she can stand with five other girls and never get noticed.

life moves in fast forward for mudassara-like characters in stories like this one. there isnt any time to write about the trivialities like the social injustice, mental and phycical torture, and the yearnings and longings of mudassara-likes. noone reads that... its a cheap trick to force readers to sympathize with the main character of the story (if u can call mudussara-likes to be the main charactre). Sad attempts by the writer to keep readers interested and profit. Especially true for those with limited ability with words and sounds. So, getting back to our story....

At age 20, Mudassara is married to Inayat, who's 36, alreay married and without a child. This arrangement is favourable to all parties involved. Her father, Akbar, finds it convinient for not not having to pay any dowry and thats one shit-load off of his back. Inayat is hoping that his new wife will bear him a child, something his first wife failed to do. Samkara, the first wife, is apparently not pleased with this sit-too-a-sun, but she gets the chance to show her true evil colors which might have gone unnoticed by the readers if such a well-crafted arrangment was missing in the story. And then there's Mudassara her self.... but what more can a girl want then a husband that feeds and provides shelter. She must be the envy of all the other smaller, darker-skinned, village girls, with average-er looks and a brighter invisibility hats.
and so time goes by and ...
Mudassara is unable to do the job she was brought in for.And they start noticing her. She can no longer stand in a group of five people at any time of the day or night and go unnoticed. Infact she is no longer allowed to stand in any group. Inayat often fucks her, but only when his first wife is pissed off and wont let him near her. After all a man has got to fuck. And what more should a girl want then a husband who fucks, provides shelter and feeds.
(to be continued/edited/modified)

Whats left there to write? Does anyone care. Do I, do you care what happened to Mudassara? What will you do if I told you that she was screwed over and over and over, by her father, mother, younger sisters, the bright-eyed boy in her school, Inayat-her husband, the unborn child... or by readers like you... or writers like me.

Yet still this is one of those things, that someone has to say out loud, and someone has to listen. Then we can all go wash our hands, go home and watch the late night show.


And one day, she wakes up, turns 26, and decides that enough is enough is enough is enough ... Inayat expects his usuall breakfast to be laid on the table-- two fried eggs, two parathas and a cup of doodhpati. But all he finds is the rotton fruits, and leftovers from last nights dinner. He is furious, and honestly people, who wouldnt be. He does what every rational, logical thinking and sane man would do. Goes to the store room, brings out the old cricket bat and starts beating the crap out of Mudassara. That bitch, she really deserves it though. And I think its good for her.

And then he kicks Mudassara out of the house. Samkara, the faithful, the loyal, the merciful-- dutifully packs all of Mudassara's stuff in it. Except, ofcourse, the clothes she likes, and the jewelry, and all that's valuebale and tickles her fancy and doesnot fit in that tiny suitcase. She asks the house-elf to get a rickshaw, so Mudassara doesnot have to walk with all the lugage and people dont see her in this beaten up condition and point a fingre at her rightuous husband--who, I must once again point it, has acted in the most natural and logical manner.

So one fine afternoon, Akbar returns home to find Mudassara there.

0001 hrs
OAKDF Office, Abottabad.

For the past one week I have been volunteering/living with OAKDF. This has been and educating, frustrating, unproductive, comforting, tiring, a strange mix of a week.
My desire to do something meaningful for the earthquake releif efforts has remained, in a way, unfulfilled, largely because of my own laziness and inability to contribute in a usefull and productive manner. However, the last few days have taught me a lot. The determination and the relentless nature of some of the staff memeber here is applaudable. True heros, risking their lives almost daily, working often 14-20 hrs a day, six days a week.

There method is not very bookish, things are not done very meticulously or in a highly organized manner. But some of these people, like Ali Asghar Khan, Rashida, Mumtaz Tanoli, Shazia, Asif,... these guys have a lot of experience in the developement sector. Just sitting with them and seeing them work is a great learning experience. I may not agree with the way they do things, but it is easy to see and appreciate that they are working, and working very effectively and efficiently.
Sitting throught the nightly meetings alone makes certain things clear. The planning, done every night, is done rather inefficiently, with either Rashida or Mumtaz first asking the various teams about their days report, discussing the issues, and then planning for next day. The decision is based on various things. Like the availability of goods in the warehouses, the status of releif already distributed, the assessments done by OAKDF, other logistic issues like staff availability or jeep/transport availability, and then also the response of the village PO(which i think stands for Political Organization).
OAKDF and Sungi have been working in this area for a while now. They have identified and developed a very effective way of solving the issues and problems of various villages and communities. And this is by democracy. The NGO only acts as a monitoring and delivering agent, collecting funds from donars and providing it to the villages according to their needs. They are also involved in the accountability and assessment. But they encourage the villagers to form a representing body, or a PO, and then deal only with the elected/selected representatives.
For instance, if going to a village for the first time, and for the purpose of earthquake releif, they will gather people and ask them to provide some names. Then they will make a household assessment for that village. They will later, in the meeting, assign certain values to the village, like poverty, accessibility, seasonal vulnerability, social capital, etc. Then they will provide releif, based on the assessments and the available resources. This relief will be given to the PO representatives, with a request to give it first to the most needy. However, this is not always the case... in which case OAKDF will do a follow up and will make enquires about the deviation.
Much more to right.... later....

smiles at the unwelcomed joke and then furiously embarrassed by the ease-ness, turns red. It. With hollow hatred and despair, looks at its feet.

My horse ran over the village elder and is currently on the loose. People in the district are advised to excercise extreme caution while taking out the garbage as the new stinkonometer will strike down on those who throw away cold pizza.
The wish is trapped in the cold cave of nirasha. Tears will run, run by the qanat, but the shouts will be clinging to my nose. How I must....

. Is it better to put this down here or to blurt it out for tiny paper clowns?

It is what it turns out to be
A same story
With same names,
And masks and floors

It turns out the same
With lame names
With blue beards and nylon cranes

Weary
of wearing Red
and blue socks
Holding a thumb to her head
Leaving slow marks--
dark, right and right below

We write, you and I

We sleep and think, again
And dream the same dreams,
That were left in the oven
Overnight
Version-ed
One
Two
Three point three

Re-view, pre-view
Save and edit
Play it again
That song we've heard only once before
Play it again, only once more

Lets play the same game
With the same names
The same lame names
You, I, and we