121415 july, ‘09
I am going to spend the next seven days in Cholistan. They tell me there is no electricity and very little water. Well, I am looking forward to the desert wind scalding me to death.
Bubye.
102245 july, ‘09
For the first time in years I am truly happy. It’s pure bliss, bliss and heavens !
ps: I fucked someone today and flushed her down the commode !
(More later ! )
072145 july, ‘09
i couldn’t find signor calvino or delillo, so i brought along monsieur jean-paul sartre — being & nothingness. and i am happy.
mommy was normal which is quite unusual of her. daddy was busy for better part of my stay at home. and somi & fizah didn’t pay any attention. they hardly ever acknowledge my existence around them which hurts a little but i’m inured to it now.
i did see him on saturday and although he intended to go home later in the day, i stopped him. i knew he wanted to stay too. we took a walk together in a park at a time when it was collapsing under an invasion of bats. we went shopping — it was more of window-shopping though; cosmetics do not interest me anyway — and had a great dinner at his place. he can not cook. neither can i. so we ordered. and it was then that he brought up the subject, the ever-so-banal, so rotten subject of marriage. i suspect my mommy had bribed him. i attempted parrying ‘why don’t you?’ with ‘because until now i have not found anyone worthy of myself‘. he took that reply for a repartee. i told him i meant what i said. and he whispered a secret incantation into my ears: ‘and you never will; you live in the barracks dear. trust your parents with it and all will be fine’. that was some real insight he poured into the disoriented genius i like to think i am. o why so all civilians think that we live in the barracks ? the word has a very restricted usage in military; people must understand that. but with ‘you’ll never find any‘ part of his speech, i had to agree. i don’t mean it dashed my hopes. i’ve always been hopeless anyway. what struck me real hard was that i should start preparing myself for what gregory corso puts thus:
‘ what if I’m 60 years old and not married,
all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!’
i really do not know if that is a disappointment or an achievement. i’d lean towards the latter. but i am not sure. and i can not trust my parents because they do not know me.
032035 july, ‘09
I am one of those lucky few destined to experience the torments of rohi in summer almost every year. I ll be there again for another two weeks. And since all I have to do while I am there is hunt poor birds and delve into what I call the reading-list-of-the-literati, I think before I move out it’s best to go home (which happens to be Lahore at the moment), in search of Calvino and Delillo. I ll be grateful if someone tells me where to look for them. Lahoris ?
Another reason for the visit is a friend doing his house-job at Meo. We are going to play hookie together.
On sunday, I come back and pack up for the journey into the wilderness.
ps: my mommy is a typical pakistani khaatoon obsessed with finding the girl for me. i can only hope she doesn’t throw another tantrum while i am at home. i want to live !
011750 july, ‘09
What would you do if one day you finally realise that you are a loser ? I have been thinking about it and have concluded that in such a case you should go to bed. And if you can not sleep even after a dose of sleeping-pills, you should masturbate. And while you are at it, think about Penelope Cruz, or Keira Knightley, or anyone else, for a sensation of fleeting complacency. What then ? Well, curse yourself. So that if there was any little chance of you falling to sleep, it’s gone for good. That is the moment when the realisation hits you even harder. And you fall into an abyss. You might like to think that down there, you would be at peace. But that is usually not the case. Pity.
301535 june, ‘09
If I could, I d ve him
slaughtered
and buried
in a river-blurred
mud-brick
riparian mastaba;
So I loathe him.
outcasts
And while on this side
of the wall (that dissevers
the equals from not-so-equals), the people
go about their lives, obsessed
with plastics and silicon
implants,
with hybrids,
gadgets, and autos; and they talk
music, arts, cinema and literature;
and democracy and politics
of the new world, even social equality
and justice at times
over high teas or lunches
in coffeehouses and rotisseries, or sometimes
even in ritz – for a good cause
can be expensive and this is all pro bono
anyway. And while they build life –
mostly their own life –
and give purpose and direction
to it, and climb the social ladder,
or perhaps live an illusion
of climbing,
with a sight that envisions
everything in the vertical
plane.
And while they boast
on forums and hold parleys,
where they discuss
things – that are supposed
to have substance and meaning –
in a worked-up manner,
like some agonists verbalizing
in a superfluous ripple of emotions
in a schlocky roadside play.
And while I write this –
it’s a poem let us say –
sitting in my room overlooking
that wall,
there is another class
of people, right across,
by a pond
into which drains
the filth
and puddle of my townsfolk –
a natural flow from the clean
to the unclean – that manures
the growth
of a culture of millions
of mossies. They struggle
to live in a colony
of smutty hovels, packed
with battalions of filthy
children in ragged
clothes and with pale
esurient eyes; a colony of the haunted –
by want and penury – dwelling always
in the phantoms of blackwater
fever.
And I am reminded
of the ghettoes
for only this month
five of those filthy
children died –
a change for the better,
as it lessens the burden
on our scant sustenance,
and mother earth, of course.
pathos
You are
a pale-yellow
in infinite distance;
you are the moon,
a nub
of my soul,
chiseled away.
And I
am the sun, destined
to forever burn for you –
faraway –
so you can glow
(and sometimes melt
almost like a candle)
in solitude.
It’s a pity
we would never be
together.
lechery or something like it
i have nothing significant to say. i came across this post on Mubi’s blog and thought i should write my own “I Haven’t…“
someone once told me that girls (& women) go through this particular phase of stress…periodically…uh…for physiological/biological/medical….reasons… okay !
very good ! that was a revelation !
now….what eludes me is > what the fuck is the problem with “me” ?! i mean why ? i dont have periods ! for God’s sake !!
nd yet i ve my phases of stress, depression, anxiety, even dementia…and they recur every 1 or 1 1/2 week !
nd my heart palpitates (badly) !
and sometimes in the morning when i come back from my daily 2 mile runs i feel my chest asphyxiated !
nd sometimes i collapse…crumble…flop…just like that !
nyway….getting back to the topic :
I Have Not > (i really want to be nice here…but…i can’t help…so let us face the truth…)
FUCKED IN 25 YEARS !!!!!!!!!!!! (hey.. no no no ! it’s NOT cerebrospermia ! it’s something beyond that)
i ve discovered i ve a fetish for nuzzling truffle-y labia … i think i can write a poem about it… hmm… lemme try:
Treading the wild
path of desire,
I discovered
a sessile flower
that crowned
two svelte columallae,
Like
a ravine
occulted
in the lap of bens
or
like the mouth
of a calceolaria uniflora, or like
the cautious leaves
of sleeping grass,
or perhaps like
the spotted jewelweed.
It dwelt
as if a recess,
with its lips
like a scissure
unexplored, hidden,
shy and timid.
If I could only
smell it
once.
call me a pervert, people, if you want to…..!
and hello ! talibs ! you can slaughter me for immorality…depravity…deviltry ! 
what if i told you that i wrote this for your *****, you by-blows ??!!
i wish i could screw you tonight.
infantry — queen of battle
Dawn News is doing a programme ‘We were Soldiers — Infantry, Queen of Battle‘ which focuses on the life of a Pakistani foot soldier esp in the wake of an on-going Low Intensity Conflict (LIC) in FATA & Swat. The programme is being aired on Saturdays, 1900 hrs.
posthumous
I died
last year. It was
like the end
of the sudden death,
the overtime
your mother had given us,
which you spent
calculating and balancing
our prospects together.
But I was no Bassanio
so unlike him
I couldn’t look through
any semblance
your people poised;
neither was I
ever as fortunate
as Antonio,
and like always
the scales tilted
against me.
It was the twelfth day
of the month. In leap years
this month starts
on the same day
of the week
as January. A month
named after the Caesar. And although
like him I crossed the rubicon,
I never clenched
a victory.
I was more like
the poor James
in cath na boinne,
who had his army slaughtered
on the shores of a river,
and your mother
was perhaps
the William of Orange
who won,
a sectarian conflict of sorts, partly
because
you gave in.
And so I died
on ‘the twelfth’.
Cavaliere
