Who Dies...

The place of my childhood
The place of my birth
Long quiet roads shaded by trees
The city surrounded by the cool comfort;
Of the ever-green Margalla Hills
The quiet evenings and bustling mornings
The emptiness and calm over the holidays
Serene paths and long walkways
Ice-cream cones and cappuccinos
Afghani jewelery and old book shops
Long strolls in the night
For nothing ever did go wrong

Peace and quiet
Love and warmth
Of friendships and love
Of family and friends
The feeling to belong
That urge to evolve
Jokes told; laughters shared
Memories made and passions exchanged
Mango parties and Aabpara karahi

Rock pools and QAU huts
Friend eggs and boiling tea
Hiking up Track 4 and sprinting down
That cool milkshake and paani-poori
Lying on the roof, feeling the rain
Nothing could go wrong
Nothing would go wrong

Bomb-blasts and shattered limbs
Extreme thoughts and broken hearts
Feeling scared and eating in
Curfews and genocide
Army actions and suicide
Promise of heaven to create hell
Show card illusions and lost souls
Lost lives, wives and kids...
Lost wills, smiles and now just chills

Who dies but the security guard
On minimum wage with his smelly feet
Four or five kids
And family back home
Making 4000 a month
Eating left-overs to send all the money home
Still singing songs in the evening
Telling stories of a freedom fighter grandpa

Who dies but the stories that were told
Memories that were shared
Jokes that were made
One dead and four or five to follow
More left-overs for the ones left over
That surely has to be good

Who dies but the good wife
Prostitute yourself woman to support your kids
Living in perdition, perdition awaits
No promises of heaven for you either, my dear
Swallow your grief and make small talk
Don't tell your story it would only kill the mood
Do what you can until you are strangled by the righteous neighbor
Or the honorable brother
And the kids of the whore, well they can go fuck themselves

Who dies but this illusion of peace
Hope and joy
Laughter too, shall run its course
Blank stares and muted thoughts
Don't say too much, for you too, maybe next
Say you believe, even though you don't
For saying otherwise shall get you death
But live on in this dead world
No hereafter for you my friend

Who dies but this city of dreams
For she too was just a dream
I hear she was a nice young girl
Born in the 60s she was just learning to run
Ice-creams and milkshakes
Paani-poori and cappuccinos
Aabpaara karahi and old book shops
They're all still there
Barely alive inside her belly
But you shouldn't go, better stay inside
For all this was always just fluff...

Go on you fuck
You militant man
Strap on yourself
And give us another pop
There's another security guard
That miserable sod
Working for the devil
Stick a fork in him, he's done
The nerve on him to hope for a good life
A full life...
To marry, have kids and sometimes smile
That stupid stupid, audacious prick
Singing songs in foreign tongues
No heaven for him either, not even hell
For this was his heaven, which turned into hell
That stupid grandpa
That freedom fighter
He should have known better
For he never, did really matter

Who dies...but a little of me
With all my limbs
And all my thoughts

Who dies...but a little of you
My sweet little girl
For you never belonged

If I had a heart - encore

I finally bought the new Joni Mitchell album, on the sort of a day you should buy a Joni album.

It began with picking strawberries. There is something rhythmic about walking through a strawberry field. Measured, light steps, hunched back, hands rifling through the plant, ever so gently. You don't pull on any strawberry you like. You hold it gently and wait for it to come away into your hand. If it doesn't, you move on. A bit like life isn't it...

Then there was a destination-less drive through the country side just outside of Cary and Apex. Farms upon farms, and in the middle tractors taking down trees of a hundred years in a hundred minutes. Elegantly huge signs posted up for the penultimate luxury living. A fence put up to shield the prospects from the murder of the forest that lived with itself in peace forever. Every now an then, spotting a crude, hand-painted chart put up annoyingly close to the construction sites, saying, pleading, "Stop Cary from taking over our farms / lives / ways of living". A sickening contrast, showing that the battle had already been won by the big industry, and all the little specks, and small farmers would soon be made to move off. Some with a juicy bone of enough money to retire in pseudo-luxury, others just forced out by building pressures.

Next stop was that wonderful old book shop in Franklin Street. Where you can sort through arrays of books, reeking of eras gone by, some falling apart in your hands. Sifting through books in the company of cats that don't smell like cats, but like old old books. You can feel the wisdom and peace that lies within the books in their eyes, and in their lazy sprawl. I bought more books then I would have time to read in the near future, but somehow their just lying there on my table gives me a certain reassurance. That this existence is somehow about a little more then I think. And there is always the possibility of a wonderful surprise. Not the surprise of a birthday party thrown in your honor, but the surprise of a flower blossoming in the wrong season.

And then I walked into the used and new music shop right across the street. Arrays of Jazz music, Blues scattered about, records of years of yonder stacked up with all the dust. Somehow I found my way to the M's and there it was, the album I had been meaning to buy. An album that I nearly bought in NY City, but was dissuaded by Alina. But then that wasn't the day or place to buy a Joni album either. Standing inside a Starbucks on Times Square, surrounded by Big Yellow Taxis, and feeling mother earth dying just a little bit more with that unnecessary car's exhaust.

But in that music shop where the owner actually knew every record, CD, LP he had in his store, and he knew the music. Somehow that felt the right time to bring "Shine" into my life.

We heard the album on our way back, before stopping in the middle to eat the strawberries with cream and sugar borrowed from that coffee shop. I have been listening to it every since. And I feel at peace with myself for now. Questions of right, wrong, belief, heaven and hell don't bother me. I am just hoping this feeling will go on just a little bit longer.

If I Had A Heart
by Joni Mitchell

Holy war
Genocide
Suicide
Hate and cruelty...
How can this be holy?
If I had a heart I'd cry.

These ancient tales...
The good go to heaven
And the wicked ones burn in hell...
Ring the funeral bells!
If I had a heart I'd cry.

There's just too many people now
Too little land
Much too much desire
You feel so feeble now
It's so out of hand
Big bombs and barbed wire
We've set our lovely sky
Our lovely sky
On fire!

There's just too many people now
And too little land
Too much rage and desire
It makes you feel so feeble now
It's so out of hand-
Big bombs and barbed wire...
Can't you see
Our destiny?
We are making this Earth
Our funeral pyre!

Holy Earth
How can we heal you?
We cover you like a blight...
Strange birds of appetite...
If I had a heart I'd cry.
If I had a heart I'd cry.
If I had a heart I'd cry.

Remembrance

Christina G. Rossetti said it better then I could ever so I won't be saying anything...

Remember
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

I dreamt my life last night...

The wind howled in my ears, and the trees, just like the grass, were kissing the ground. Water was pouring from the skies, and bouncing off the ground. I could feel the loud thuds of heavy downpour on my head and the back of my neck. Some water seeped into my ears as well. With eyes squinted I rambled on, in my hysteria, not really looking for shelter, but just wanting to feel the rain a little more violently. I couldn't see much, but I could hear the hut's tin roof clanking away into the wee hours of the night. It was as if all the spoons, knives, mirrors, and dishes from the Beauty and the Beast had come over to celebrate the end of the never-ending drought. I ran in the direction of the loudest clamor and hugged the worn-down and soaked wooden wall, made up of tree trunks of surprisingly similar width. And suddenly I was thinking about the death of all these trees to make up these four walls, to provide shelter to one or two. But the tree trunks stood resolute against the gushes of wind.

And all of a sudden I had this urge to run away from there, far away from there, and then I was in Mrs. Boxworth's sixth grade music class, auditioning for the chorus. I was making an utter fool of myself in that bright room with the somber looking piano, trying to hide my crush on her, and at the same time trying to sound not too unpleasant. Unsure if I should lean against the piano, I just stood there with my arms folded, and eyes still squinted. The sun in Spring Valley always shone very bright on a clear March morning. And then I was thinking about the walk back from the school. It would be very cold, and the kids would be mean to me again. I would be Saddam Boy to them. Strange that I only found out about Saddam after I was called his boy, strange as I wasn't even from his country. And I needed to leave again.

And in that very moment I had grown a couple of years, and was playing cricket with my friends from the street. They would soon close the play-ground to build the market, so it was very important to play as much as we could. At-least we'd still have our naala which smelled a little funny. Mother said that it was always less them a mile from you wherever you went in Islamabad, and that it wasn't form swimming as the water was dirty. But it didn't seem dirty, just smelled a little. I played the ball to the off-side and ran for a single, and collapsed to the ground before I made it to the other end. It was as if someone was sticking out a needle right under my right kidney. Soon this guy in a white coat was telling me about my appendix, and how they had to do something right away, and I needed to run away again.

And then I was in the old book shop in Jinnah, rifling through as many books as I could, and making sure I didn't spill my coffee on any. Shabbir chacha had already warned me not to. But he let me drink coffee in his little shop, as he said I wasn't like these other kids from my school, and my parents had taught me respect. Hemingway sounded like a cool name, and I decided to walk out with the old man and take his sea with me. It looked small enough to finish in a night, and then my parents would think I was studying for the Math exam. Besides I couldn't call Zeeshan up at night as he would be talking to his girlfriend on the phone and tell his mother that it was me. And now it reminded me of her and I wanted to be gone from there as well. I wanted to be all grown up, and I wanted to have a full stubble like all the other guys in class, well not all, but most of them. Maybe I should try shaving with my uncle's Sensor Excel again.

And there I was walking down that crooked path right across from the Covered market, that lead to the two swings on the left. I was on the swing and my troupe of four were all walking and swinging around me. We were speaking of everything, love, life, parents, and that really cool show about that group of six friends in New York, and the ever alluding GPA. I was told by my true friend to focus more on my assignments, but I convinced her to just let me copy. She disagreed but I knew she would let me copy anyway. And then it was decided to go to the dhaaba that was at the end of the crooked path, for a cup of tea (or two) . And then I was thinking about that dog that came out of the house with all the flowers. It wasn't that I was scared of dogs, I just never liked them very much, at least that would be my story and I would stick to it. But I decided to walk in the middle of everyone just to be safe. And I knew that I needed to move on.

And then I was sitting in that hall full of people, all of whom were facing me. The fancy shayrwaani kurta was suffocating me and the turban was just outright silly. To top it off, Nasir bhai (my barber) had bleached my hands without saying what he was doing. So I this brown dude with blond hair on his hands, wearing a funny outfit, facing the crowd. The mike in front of my looked like a viper, and I wondered if the dude with the big beard would ask me to recite the third kalma. I should have learned it, and I knew that would come back to bite me in the ass someday. Or at least I should have shaved my goatee, for there was this sect that had goatees that weren't considered Muslims.

Shit!

I was thinking of what the sect was called and the Imam was talking to me. Well at least I wasn't being quizzed, just made to affirm my beliefs. And then I was looking at the papers in front of me and the yellow Piano pen lying on top of them. I would make the biggest decision in my life, and sign it off with a freaking Rs. One-Fifty, Piano-shitty-ball point pen. I needed to get out of there.

And then I was hugging the soaked hut again. The wind was as loud, the downpour as thick, but I felt still. I was in a state of complete heartsease. It was as if I could hear every drop of rain on every surface in the vicinity. Kind of like the first time I smoked pot. I wasn't awkward, anxious, or uncertain. I was just there.

There in that moment, that fake, hallucinogenic moment, which felt more real then my life in a very uncanny way.

Breaking down

I read something by someone today that got me thinking about the web of relationships that we create around us. Specially in the context of relationships that die, some violent deaths, and some that surrender to the slow embrace of inevitability. Some leave us with a comfortable longing, and some leave us shaken up to the core, scared of even a mild breeze.

But no matter how they end, they leave permanent markers on us, like stamps on our existence always reminding us of what was. Changing us, and forever taking away that little innocence that stems from blind faith and trust. Leaving us just a little more cynical, and little more circumspect.

But still as we move on, we create new relationships, always different from the ones that preceded them, but similar in the sense that they too, shall end. For if the universe teaches us a lesson, it is the lesson of finiteness. How every thing has a life, not matter how long or how small, and with every end comes a new beginning, and the beginning always also triggers the beginning of the particular end. From the Big Bang to the Big Crunch, and from a butterfly's birth to its demise.

Still we find ourselves reaching out into the big unknown, trying to create planned random collisions of minds and if we're lucky, souls. And we, stupidly even, create new monuments on the debris of the fallen castles of our hopes and desires. Fooling ourselves into thinking that we are wiser for the loss, while in reality, we're still the same, just a little more uncertain.

Of course with every end, comes a period of examination. Examining the affects in terms of the causes, and at times building up causes that would somehow heal the bruises left by the wreckage...

Sometimes I feel that I would just get caged in the moment of the latest speculation, that everything would seize to exist, and all possibilities of an end would be taken away by the surge of nothingness. And yet, no matter how hopeless it all feels, I do get out of the all consuming black-hole (thank you Babar for leaving me with this wonderful notion). I start to move again. The small tentative steps of an 80 year old, followed by the mad dash of the blind bull, into the matador's sword.

This poem would be a good end to this, it's by Walter Savage Landor.

You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before:
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!

New Things...for Louie

So Alina's been gone for nearly three weeks now, and I have, in a way settled into this new situation (with some help), as settled as you can get I guess. I guess we all have our own ways of settling down in the situations we find ourselves in, different yellow-brick roads leading to the Wizard, the biggest gimmick of them all!

First, let's make one thing clear. This is not the first time that I find myself in this situation. I have lived with just myself as company for longer periods of time. But that was usually on business trips, cooped up in an extended stay suite of one kind or another. There's this careless dehumanizing affect these suites have. Starting with the essentials, 4 big plates, 4 small plates, 4 bowls, 4 spoons, 4 forks, 4 knives, sachets of bad coffee, a coffee maker. It's like stepping into a little island, where your life has already been laid out for you. All you have to do is step inside. You can reach out and make contact, but it has to be fleeting, like you're just flirting with time, and there's nothing more to it.

Other times it's been with room-mates of one kind or another. That was more like building up a mock family, sharing chores, stories, and ambitions. A family that comes very close, and then disbands with the apartment.

This time, it was unique. Alina and I built a home here from scratch. Got everything from a sofa to a broom. Slowly and persistently we made the two rooms and the two baths and all the blank walls in between our own. Items were hung on the walls, and the sofas were sat in to leave our prints. Eventually the apartment became our own little planet, one that only the two of us cohabited, ventured out of, but always returned to.

Now that I was left alone in this little world of ours, I found myself in unfamiliar waters. A "home" in my book is defined by the people who give it life. And suddenly half the home was gone...on vacation! But what of the other (lesser) half? What does he do. The thought to move into an extended-stay suite came to me, but I rejected it as idiotic, childish, and plain and simple silly. Then I thought of sub-letting our second bedroom temporarily, but that somehow felt inappropriate as well.

So after a lot of thoughtful contemplation, I did what any sane man, in my situation, would do. I got a cat! He's an eleven-year old Chocolate Siamese. Looking at him, I feel that he's been through quite a lot, and yet he still has this weird sense of serenity about him.

A little history, Shamrock (that was his name) was put up for adoption as his last "head of household" developed allergies (she was okay with the four other cats she had), and the alternate would be a short life at the shelter before being gassed. Now Mr. Cat found himself in a situation he hadn't been in before, on the lookout for a new household in the years of his life where he would have expected to slow down, and take it easy. To me, it felt fated for him to become a part of our home. So he came into my life (and eventually Alina's life) last week.

I call him Louie, not the king, but more like "Louie, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship...", and he impresses me everyday. With his sense of cleanliness and hygiene, a hidden need for attention, which is never played out like say a puppy, but a mature reflection really. And the way he's bee sizing me up. At times I feel that he's been evaluating me for the most important job in my career. And then he impresses me with the grace he imparts, be it just strutting around within our home, or scratching the back of the sofa with his declawed paws, or just lying on the cushion besides me, as I show him Casablanca, so he could understand where his name comes from.

So this goes out to Louie, who helped me settle down into this new, albeit temporary, way of living.

My Blogirthday!

I just realized, this April, it was the 4th birthday of my Blog! Four fulfilling years and hopefully many more to come, in a world that is more at peace with itself.

Beginning with an "I"

I read a book recently, The Emperors Children; in it there was a notion that you shouldn't begin a letter with an I, because it is too self-indulgent, too self-involved, and too selfish. But the more I think about it, the more I disagree with the notion. I see the world through my eyes, live life through my existence, and interact with people mostly being myself (okay not mostly, but refreshingly - occasionally). Even a prodigious work of art, a colossal book, a great movie, all portrayals from thinkers, visionaries, are eventually translated through the "I" of my existence.

So if I avoid a beginning with an "I", then I am being dishonest in some way. Trying to mimic something I can never really fathom, for I am (for this life at least) bound by my existence. Shallow and paltry it maybe, it is the greatest book, movie, and piece of art put together in my little boat.

Mona Lisa's smile would never mean to me what it meant to Da Vinci, or even to the lady with the smile (smirk maybe), it would always be a reflection of my current thought and desires at that particular moment. Extracted from that moment, it may reflect boundless melancholy or uninhibited elation.

It's like seeing a great landscape, with that externalized sunset over an expanding ocean. The sunset itself isn't sad or serene, it doesn't feel. The ocean doesn't really speak to you, it is just what it does. It's just the reflection of the cycle of existence, the periodic time-table we live by or try to elude. It is us, this miserable branch of existence, caught in our own selfish pity that give feeling, even meaning to what is otherwise just an everyday thing. In the bigger picture, just as mundane as that guy chewing on his finger-nails, or Ahmed, that falafel cart owner on the 42nd. The sunset, the nail chewer, and Ahmed. It's just that the overall consciousness chose to romanticize the first, shun the second, and completely ignore the third.

Ironic that even our heroes, the leader, the visionary, the single mom of two who lives in the apartment opposite mine, our definitions of selflessness, of belief - they were and are, all of them, just as caught up in themselves. The leader leads as he cannot follow, the visionary envisions as he can't get off his ass and fry himself an egg. And the single mother...

Aah the single mother, the biggest miracle of them all, juggling two jobs, the perverted boss, the thankless teenager, the trusting toddler, and a partially senile mother. She does what she does because she doesn't have time to think, to breathe, to really see what happened. It has just become a challenge for her. God spited her, and now she's spiting back! The teenager screams, the boss grabs her ass, the car won't start, and her mom is out for a walk in the rain at 3 in the morning, but she just goes on. Shouts back at the teenager, ignores the boss, catches the bus, shuttles her mom back. Her anger feeds her, and her mistrust eggs her on.

All caught in their own worlds, go on in this unsynchronized symphony. Above all that, and most importantly, they are all interpreted, evaluated, misunderstood, lost, all in my I...so how can I, then begin my sentences, my letters, my thoughts with anything but an I?

Comfortable Thoughts of Uncomfortable Moments

A lot has happened since the last time I was here, in my favourite part of the world. Alina and I finally moved for one, and it's been a very interesting experience. Doing everything from scratch is something we should all take up every once in a while. The act gives us a renewed appreciation for all that we take for granted. Hopefully that leads to appreciating all the things that really matter down to the air we breathe in.

But as I settle into my new little life, surrounded by my own little needs, worrying about my own little issues...things happen around me at a much larger scope. Things deteriorate slowly with every passing day.

My home country has been thrown into utter turmoil once again. Emergencies imposed, constitutions thrown out the window, people rounded up and jailed. Isn't it surprising that all media is shut off for days to shield the people from really knowing what's going on...it reminds me of the dreadful communist regimes that we were scared of growing up. Where even the most basic freedoms are taken from you. For this current situation where people are scared of speaking their mind just because they will be thrown in jail, where media is controlled by the government and the daily news is just a press conference by the ones in power...how is any of this different from the most suppressive of the communist states.

Live shows...banned.
Discussions...banned.
Anything criticizing the government...banned.
All other points of view...banned.

Isn't it ironic that we chose the path of extremism to defeat extremism. That we propagate fears of our own to distill fears...it's coming full circle in the cruelest of ways. But I guess cruelty is the one thing we have excelled ourselves in over our development as a species. From caves to castles, all the while learning to be just a little more cruel.

I wish I had a river, I could skate away on...

When I call my family now, they avoid discussing anything that's going on, as if they fear that uniformed men will storm in and take them away, and no one will hear from them again. It's surprising that even though I sit thousands of miles away, I know more about what's happening to them then they do. I was chatting with a friend earlier and he said, very matter of fact, that you don't know what's happening unless it's happening to you, and then it's too late.

Back home, somehow life goes on anyway. People drive in and and out of work, still meeting deadlines, as if nothing affects them. The best way to eradicate the fear of zombies is to become zombies, well our fears should have evaporated by now.

But then, I am now just a spectator, seeing through other eyes, my vision always limited by what they want me to see. The true picture seems like a Woody Allen joke now. A little sarcastic, a little narcissistic, and a whole neurotic. Some might even say I have no right to say what I say, as I moved away, left for greener pastures. But then, even as I graze the greener pastures, my thought are stuck with the thorny terrains I left behind.

Before setting out I promised myself to come back soon, but now I wonder if there would be anything left to come back to. Feels nostalgic now...all those care free late night drives, just hanging out in deserted corners of a calm city, a cone in December followed by a coffee. I wonder if any of that would ever come back, or if the kids I watched grow up will ever know that care free abandon. Being totally free, like Superman flying over the Metropolis skyline.

The procession of being

We are taught that the thing that differentiates us from the rest is our free will. Coupled with that is our ability to reason and something within us that helps us differentiate between right and wrong. As if there was a universal good and evil. Goods and evils that go beyond the petty differences generated though differences in religious beliefs, social backgrounds, skin colours and cultural inclinations. Goods and evils we would all agree upon, powered by free will and the immense ability to reason. Yet these realizations always seem beyond us, while we are caught up in desecrating everything that is not in agreement with our smaller rights and wrongs.

An existentialist sits and preaches personal responsibility driven through free will, all the while saying that we cannot escape our surroundings, while the realists just accept everything around them and try to mould themselves accordingly. Idealists follow their ideal notions and shelter their existence from the practicalities of our existence. All of them are in one way or another trying to figure out existence and more importantly the puspose behind it. Religion makes that easier for us. It starts us out by handing out a few ground rules and gives purpose to existence. Where every good is given to test how grateful and sharing you are, and every bad that is given is a test to your endurance and patience.

sabhi kuch hai tera diya hua sabhi rahaten sabhi kalafaten
kabhi sohbaten kabhi furqaten kabhi duriyan kabhi qurbaten

Where there are religions that teach us to live our lives within this world, never taking leave as long as we are bound by existence, there are those that preach leaving everything behind and pursuing a higher state of being through meditation. No matter what the religion, the basic definition of the right and wrong don't change. The notions of good and evil remain the same.

No matter which extreme the religion advocates, there's always love for something. Love for people, love for a deity, love for freedom from needs, love for that special someone who shares your life, and above and beyond all, the love for the creator who created. But love is considered a necessity to keep us alive, to separate us from the dead. Love, which can be found in the smallest of animals, and love that can be found in the sonnets of Shakespeare.

ye sukhan jo ham ne raqam kiye ye hain sab waraq teri yad k
koi lamha subah-e-wisal ka, kai sham-e-hijr ki qurbaten

Yet in the pursuit of our loves we tend to forget that everyone is pursuing their own love. In the quest of our one true love, all other loves become secondary, less important, expendable...we become horses drawing their carts that can only look ahead blinded by leather pads shielding them from the rest of the world. In our own quests we run over anything that comes in our path, for everything is justifiable. Teenagers dispose off their parents for their love, and parents crush their kids to enforce their own higher notions of love. Masses in love with their own set of beliefs collide with masses that are in love with a different set of beliefs.

Somehow the love that was supposed to bring us together hones our skills at identifying differences and bringing down bridges. Our love makes it a battle for the ends, and the means to those ends lose importance. Irony seeps into everything for even though the eventual goals are the same, it's actually the routes to those eventual goals that we start fighting over. The love of people, life, and beliefs is replaced by love for revenge. History is written down in huge volumes by holders of perspectives and the volumes are stacked in shelves and forgotten. The voices of reason and sanity are relegated to the back seat.

jo tumhari man len nasiha to rahega daman-e-dil main kya
na kisi udu ki adawaten na kisi sanam ki murawwaten

Soon everywhere there is smoke and the smell of burnt souls; souls that are damaged beyond repair. No more is there a possibility of acceptance and no one is willing to adjust with another. The love for revenge blinds us to all realization of rights and wrongs. Collateral damage becomes just another phrase, and body count is just like learning how to count. The love of revenge leads us to the love for death. No more is life appreciated, but only death of the enemy is valued.

Generations are crippled as the stack of bodies grows. A side can only see the losses on their side for the stacks are so high that you cannot look beyond them. Every side now has stories that gut you with a blunt knife. A global gang war is launched where whoever has the strength inflicts damage that reeks finality. Blows aren't meant to hurt anymore, they are meant to obliterate. Current affairs just become a never ending obituary.

chalo aao tum ko dikhayen ham jo bacha hai maqtal-e-shahar main
ye mazar ahal-e-safa k hain ye hain ahal-e-sidq ki turbaten

In the middle of all of this, there is always the optimist. Someone who somehow sees beyond the smoke and hopes that even this will end. That there would be a tomorrow where people would step out of their circles to take in the smell of dawn. When eyes will be serenaded by the sight of a flower in blossom, and a tree in swing. Where ears will dance to the sound of innocent laughter and mindless chatter.

A tomorrow where acceptance will be the most important virtue, where the earth will be big enough to house us all. Where people would step out and won't need to look behind their shoulders. There would be a jump in every step and a whistle on every lip. A hand in every hand, and love for love...

meri jan aj ka gam na kar, k na jane katib-e-waqt ne
kisi apne kal main bhi bhul kar kahin likh rakhi ho masaraten

Life is...

As a child I remember the first day I went to the school campus on Hill Road. I remember that my mother took a job in Beacon House so that I, her son, could attend what was considered the best school in the country at that time. The year was 1984 and I was just a second grader going into third grade.

I remember we had to wear shorts in the winters. And a big blazer over two sleeveless sweaters meant that everyone in the class looked like they were just wearing their blazers and had forgotten to put on their pants over their knee high navy blue socks and shining oxford shoes. I made friends fairly quickly, for we all shared the same problems, our legs froze in the morning assembly, and we all feared being called up on the podium to sing the national anthem. Going through school all I knew was that I am a Muslim. I didn't know which kind, for Muslim was just a Muslim. None of my friends knew either, and we never even thought about it. For the biggest concern was always to convince our parents to buy us a challi from the challi-waala. I also remember the question popped up in sixth grade when a politician's son joined our class and asked me what kind of a Muslim I am, and I didn't know what he meant.

Life is beautiful...

Over the years I found out the kind of a Muslim I am, but it still didn't matter, for I was a Muslim, and that meant I loved peace and harmony. That was my interpretation of the religion, for all the prophet's stories I read showed how forgiving he was.

I was gone for two years in-between when my parents wanted to leave the country (Zia's time was tough on so many) and I discovered a whole new life in the States. There I made friends from all over. My Jewish home room teacher doted on me, I went to the school prom with a girl who traced her roots to Vietnam, and I was best friends with two Caucasians and an African American. At home I hung out with a boy who wore a turban and had beautiful hair, a Filipino, and a girl who called herself the Chicano Queen! We shared snacks, laughter and numerous adventures around the little stream behind our apartments.

Life is a wonder...

Then one day we packed up and flew back, for home called out to my parents and they couldn't resist the urge anymore. I went back to the same school, still a little confused, for everyone in my family somehow treated me differently, except perhaps my nephew who loved me and remembered me from his childhood. School had shifted buildings (houses rather) and this time I went to a campus on Nazimuddin road. But I met the same friends again, and things became comfortable again. Soon enough I was going to the Margalla campus in H-8 and was part of the first A-Levels batch of our school. Times were great.

My friends and I loved jumping over the school walls and heading to the dhaaba nearby and enjoying numerous cups of tea and their wonderful daal. Smoking was fun, specially sitting on our beach (a little enclave of sand around the famed Islamabad naala). The thought of going to expensive restaurants never crossed our minds for fun was where we all were. Going to Jinnah Super meant having an ice-cream cone or coffee (which no one liked but everyone had for it was so mature to enjoy a cup of coffee). Vanguard books was the best bookshop in the world, but the beautiful original books that were a treat to hold and smell were always a little too expensive for a student like me. But Islamabad housed some wonderful old book shops with an unlimited amount of comic books and novels.

Life is perfect...

Going out to eat at Sams or Black Beards was fun and nothing was pretentious. Dinners at Papasalis were intimate, and going out on a date was dangerous for cops would pull you over and swindle you out of your last dime. Soon A-Levels was over. Everyone had scraped their hearts and knees with love gained and lost and the next step was college. While most of my friends went out of the country, the others left the city. I went into FAST and stayed in the city. Once again as part of the first batch. Our campus was a pretty little house in Bazaar Road. Soon I had made some wonderful friends and walking around G-6 in those pretty little streets ate up all our free time. We spoke of everything, love, music, life, poetry, books...we even discussed our futures or the kind of jobs we wanted.

But things had already begun to change. Sams had closed down and Black Beards was going down. Pir Suhawa was still a wonderful getaway, be it on our bikes or our cars. Going there with the girls in our class was never a problem for everything was always safe and their families never objected to the unplanned excursions. We hiked there as much as we drove, and when the sun went down the only fear was of wild monkeys and crazed dogs.

Life is serene...

University was soon done with, imparting all the wisdom you can only get by burning your hands; professional life began. It was all about hard work. Proving my cousins wrong, who said you cannot get anything without a recommendation from someone powerful or a bribe. Somehow everything worked out, within days I was at a job working my way up the corporate ladder.

Then things started to change even more. The towers went down and I was sobbed watching TV for one of the best days I spent in the City as a kid was on the roof of one of the twins looking out at the world beneath my feet, shouting screaming and running around. Then Afghanistan was ripped to pieces. I realized how a bomb never distinguished between who it blew up, restricted by it nature to just blow up. There were often images of torn limbs and broken babies on TV. This had all been going on for a long time in Palestine / Israel, and even though I felt strongly about it, it was too far away. Unlike the famine in Africa, this was all man-made.

Life is confusing...

Then I travelled to the States after about 15 years. I was shocked by how much air travel had changed. You were not allowed to smoke in the plane, and you were never allowed to relax in the airports. Special Screenings, interviews at five different counters to get in, and every interviewee looking at you threatened, as if fearing that you were ticking and about to go off. I remembered how that last time I came we just got off the plane, got our luggage and walked out into the wintry gales of New York City! This time it took me a little over four hours to just get to the luggage belt.

Over the years it all became routine, and like clockwork I would take off my shoes, belts, remove all metallic objects and stand to be directed like a puppet. Move now, stay extremely still sir, place your feet on the foot marks and move your hands up. I am going to frisk you now sir. Sir could you turn on your laptop please...

Things went from bad to worse, Soon Iraq was ravaged on justification that would amaze an illusionist. London was hit by further blasts, even Spain wasn't spared. Things in the older problem centers kept on going from bad to worse and beyond. Globally it felt like West vs Islam and the fight had just gotten into the third round.

Life is a revelation...

Islamabad kept changing as well. Gone was the comfort of big scattered trees. How the city smelled of an Elven habitat when it rained...all just a fond memory. Trees were cut down to provide security to the heads of State. Barriers were put up everywhere. Suicide bombers introduced themselves to the city. And suddenly (inexplicably) the city got a night life. New, up-scale, ostentatious restaurants where youth gather that represented the elite, the modern, the open-minded, popped up everywhere. I was a bit taken aback how being moderate meant dressing like you had walked out of the latest issue of Cosmo. While one groups of moderates went to this extreme, the other group of moderates that practised their religion quietly grew big beards and became loud about how only they had the right to decide what was right for everyone. Slowly they took the streets and built a fort around Lal-Masjid. Suddenly dreams had were justification enough to go against what was written in black and white in the book.

Life is a nightmare...

Yesterday it all broke out in utter pandemonium specially for the special city. I sat in front of my TV screen helpless at not being able to do anything, not because I can't but simply because I don't even know which side of the BULLSHIT to buy.

Today I feel the same as this city I love. Ripped apart to build all the roads and underpasses, bombed and shot to allow the mercenaries of faithless extremes expression, and broken down to pave the way for a new tomorrow.

Life is...about to change...

- like this city over the past 40 odd years
- like my perceptions over 30 odd years

If I had a heart, I'd Cry

"My heart is broken in the face of the stupidity of my species. I can't cry about it. In a way I'm inoculated. I've suffered this pain for so long. …The West has packed the whole world on a runaway train. We are on the road to extincting ourselves as a species."

- Joni Mitchell on what inspired her to write this song, which is included in her new album "Shine" the best thing to happen in 2007!

Countdown

So last weekend was good. Myrtle Beach was a nice excursion even though it rained most of the time Naufal and I were there. But in a way it was good that it rained. See even though Myrtle Beach is an ideal getaway from Raleigh over a regular weekend (just a three and a half hour drive), it is a place that has been commercialised to the extreme.

Somehow everything there is designed to attract the tourist, from the Broadway on the Beach (a very nice spot for the tourists to congregate) to the beach strip where the Summer Sun Festival activities are held. If you don't know, you'd never guess that this used to be a simple fisherman's town. I guess you can still get that feel at Merell's, but you don't feel it in the town in general.

The best part of the weekend for me was when I ended up at the beach at around 3 in the morning. It had stopped raining and I was with a couple of folks I had met just an hour ago. One good thing about tourist towns is that you can meet people just for the heck of it, do your thing, and then bid adieu. But being at the deserted beach was refreshing in so many ways.

One of the people in my temporary troupe was a Native American and I got a chance to do my first Indian war dance, barefoot on the beach. Personally I feel that I have a flair for the shrill war cries, I guess it's easier for people from my part of the world to roll their tongue! But splashing in the beach, doing the little jingle, with a stiff breeze blowing you into the circle, and singing the war cries is an activity to be undertaken at least once in the lifetime.

Also a nice sight for the eyes was this old couple walking around the beach, hand in hand, and talking in whispers all the time. It was testimony to the fact that love can last. Unless of course they were both married to different people and were having an affair far from their homes on the context of some business meetings...

To top it all off, I saw the sunrise. And there's this haunting quality of witnessing a sunrise on the beach, with the strong sound of waves (full moon) and water splashing on your feet. It was divinely providential that the clouds parted just at the right place at the right time for the dark husky sky to turn an emerald blue in front of my eyes. If I weren't so lazy, I'd probably go out for the sunrise every day, but then I guess it would lose its charm.

I finally got to my hotel room at 6 and soon it was time to head back after a quick stroll through the Broadway...

This weekend it's off to the city to meet up with an old friend and just walk around Manhattan, watch loads of movies in limited releases, and perhaps catch an off-Broadway production or two. Oh and yes, Naufal is driving over as well. It's amazing how we keep meeting up over here!

And then, finally I board the plane, Monday night and fly off again, back to the comfort and familiarity of home. Damn I've been missing my family a lot...

I'm leaving on a jet plane....

Some Thoughts & Weekend Plans

I friend of mine put up a very interesting post about the differences in generations and her near disgust at the "me" generation...and I have been thinking about it.

There is definately a huge difference between our generation and theirs, I for the life of me cannot understand why Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, and all their crop are famous. For me they're just an extended definition of mediocre to no talent. But then I think this is a phase. I am sure we had our share of popcorn stars that disappeared just as soon as they arrived conquering everything.

It took me quite some time to realize the musical genius of Pink Floyd, Led Zepplin, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, etc.

It took me even more time to realize that the world actually goes beyond my personal needs and desires. That there is a whole world out there that needs the basic things that I don't even take for granted, for you must be aware of something to take it for granted.

It was a tricky ride through the teens and early twenties and only now, when the thirties are smiling their big toothless smile at me, that I begin to realize the magnanimity and utter insignificance of my selfish existence. Yes there are people starving in Africa, yes there are people dying by the truck loads in the middle east, and there is this growing indifference to life, and we are practically killing our planet (buy another truck chummy). All of these things are more important then me, and all of us, for they are "about" us, and what we leave for the generations in the future. I guess I always felt about them, and cared for them at some secondary level, but it's only now that I actually try and do something about it!

I just hope that the "me" generation would grow out of the fat jokes and the never ending focus on being cool, and grow into people aware of what's around them, and let that direct their "me" demands...as usual, I am hopeful, you can never take that away from me.

OK, so I am planning to leave work a little early to kick off the weekend I've been looking forward to it ever since I got here. The plan is to head to Myrtle Beach, SC to join in on the summer festivities that are beginning this weekend!

So the idea is to pick Naufal up from the airport, take him around the Raleigh downtown (which I am sure will be a surprise for him as he hails from New York), and then leave for Myrtle Beach early tomorrow morning. I guess for the first time I have taken a lot of time to plan a weekend to maximize the time I have at my desposal, you know, booking a nice hotel on the beach, shortlisting the good restaurants, finalizing the beach activities I'd like to take part in, and looking up the night life in the South Carolina fishing town.

The only thing going against me is the Yahoo weather forcast, rain and thunderstorms over the weekend, and I am just sitting here, hoping against hope that for once they're wrong for the good...

Gone Tubing...

Finally over the long weekend I was able to get out of the hustle and bustle of normal crazy working life, and accompanied by families of my work colleagues, was able to head out into the tranquility of a river surrounded by hills. It was about a 3 hours drive thanks to the fact that I got pulled over on my way for over speeding and had left my car's rental paperwork in my hotel suite! Thankfully I was able to get out of the pretty little pickle without getting a ticket. Hurray!

The drive over was fairly pleasent made more serene by the wonderful works of Pink Floyd (I can listen to echoes again and again forever...) and the fact that I was not driving. I actually left my car at a McDonalds where I met up with the rest of the troop.

Tubing was something new for me and in hindsight I'd probably have gone rafting, but nevertheless it's a wonderful way to let lose. There's serenity in floating at a snail's pace on a rubber tube, half immersed in water, half burnt by the sun, and just floating down with the slow current between trees and hills on both sides. The sound of soft river rapids right under your ears is a sound to behold and try to put into your permenant pool of recall so you may revert to it when a colleague embarks on a never ending tirade in a never ending meeting.

All in all, this was a perfect getaway following weeks of hectic work. It was just nice to not be able to hear the sound of any cars or computers whirring and messages beeping on your desktop.

You know what, I think we should pick up all the armies (trained and militia) fighting everywhere in the world, put them in tubes and let them float down a river for 4-5 hours. I am sure it would bring things into perspective and they would realize the futility of picking up arms against men and women they've never met before. Better yet, wouldn't it be nice if whenever a nation decides to go to war on another nation they would go tubing instead...

Atleast I won't be repulsed by the news then, for now news has just become a very realistically surreal horror movie.

Today's been a good day, not only have I been able to get a substantial amount of work done, I was also able to try and reinitiate contact with a dear friend I lost track of ages ago. There was a time when my life revolved around the ones I loved, my friends, may family, friends more so then family. And then I got caught up in the professional world. I remember when I started working I lost both my friends and family. There was always a valid excuse to work a little bit more. Slowly I started making more and more time for my family (I guess I need to thank Alina for that as well), and now I am hoping that I'd be able to catch up with all of the friends I lost along the way.

Hey another plan for all the armies around the world fighting on one front or another. Pick them all up, and send them on a mission to rediscover all of their friends and see where they're at, at the moment. Get to know them again, and stay with them until they're as comfortable with them as that old pair of slippers you just won't throw away...

Here's to love and life then!

With God on our Side

It amazes me how Dylan becomes more and more relevant as time passes us by in a spell of violence, deception, grief, and pain...

I just read this poem again and again, and everytime I read it, I just wanted to up and shout, shout at the guy sitting next to me, shout at my building, shout at my city, shout at my country, but above all, and beyond all...shout at humanity.

Silence now...

With God on our Side
By Bob Dylan (1963)

Oh my name it is nothin'
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I's taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that land that I live in
Has God on its side.

Oh the history books tell it
They tell it so well
The cavalries charged
The Indians fell
The cavalries charged
The Indians died
Oh the country was young
With God on its side.

Oh the Spanish-American
War had its day
And the Civil War too
Was soon laid away
And the names of the heroes
I's made to memorize
With guns in their hands
And God on their side.

Oh the First World War, boys
It closed out its fate
The reason for fighting
I never got straight
But I learned to accept it
Accept it with pride
For you don't count the dead
When God's on your side.

When the Second World War
Came to an end
We forgave the Germans
And we were friends
Though they murdered six million
In the ovens they fried
The Germans now too
Have God on their side.

I've learned to hate Russians
All through my whole life
If another war starts
It's them we must fight
To hate them and fear them
To run and to hide
And accept it all bravely
With God on my side.

But now we got weapons
Of the chemical dust
If fire them we're forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God's on your side.

In a many dark hour
I've been thinkin' about this
That Jesus Christ
Was betrayed by a kiss
But I can't think for you
You'll have to decide
Whether Judas Iscariot
Had God on his side.

So now as I'm leavin'
I'm weary as Hell
The confusion I'm feelin'
Ain't no tongue can tell
The words fill my head
And fall to the floor
If God's on our side
He'll stop the next war.

Back in Raleigh

So after a hiatus of about nine months I find myself in the wonderful pre-summers of Raleigh. Got here Wednesday night, rather Thursday morning. And I got back in two stages. First I got back to this city, driving outside the airport was a bit surreal, and staying on the wrong side of the road took a little focus (yes I am in agreement with the British on which the correct side of the road is). The monstrous trees crowding the beltline said a solemn hello in the dark night. They looked friendly in a distant way, a feeling I get more and more from this green city. Even at 1 am on a weeknight the roads were crowded, and it was a struggle of will staying awake and following the GPS lady directing me to my hotel, which by the way is completely smoke free now, so I have to step out of my room every time I feel the need to smoke! I wonder why the voice in the GPS machine is aways that of a girl? I have yet to come across a GPS device with a dude's voice on it...

So in the first step I came back to Raleigh the city. The wind was a very nice cool. It had rained earlier in the night, so the roads still gleamed under the passing cars. All I can say is that you have to experience taking in a deep breath surrounded by trees right after it's rained in the pre-summers here. Quite nourishing for the soul.

The next morning I came back to my workplace in Raleigh. Most of the guys from a year and a half ago were still there, and it was nice to see the year passing on their faces. There were also quite a few new faces to say hello to. The most wonderful thing about this office is that everyone is generally in a nice mood. They all like to chat, laugh, and eat. It was nice coming back to work, and it just took me about an hour to get back on my rusted saddle.

One annoying thing about Raleigh is that mostly the weekdays would be bright, crisp and beautiful, the kind of a day authors write about. But the weekend usually comes with rain and thunder! I wonder what the heavens are trying to say with this?

All said and done, the worst part has been the jet lag. I get up at 4 in the morning everyday and then just lie around, walk around, and smoke around, until it's time to head into the shower and begin my ritual of preparing for work. After lunch, I am just a dead beat, crawling through the last hours of the working day, and then forcing myself to stay awake during my 9 mile drive back to the hotel...

Somehow living out of a suitcase in an insensitive hotel, where everyone smiles at you, as if by programmed logic is getting tougher for me. There was a time I really enjoyed and looked forward to this (mind you I still enjoy my little excusrions), but settling in both mentally and physically gets a little more taxing with every trip I take.

But it's nice just to be able to lay on a sofa, looking at the ceiling, listening to the music Alina would never let me play on a loop. It is tranquil. To be able to choose to move only by necessity is a nice little detour from an otherwise hectic and mad life.

So put out the lights (just leave the dimmest one on), play some Floyd, order some wings and just dwell in your thoughts. Day dream, philosophize, or just think about that Sienfeld episode...life is good. Just miss my family and friends terribly, but then there always is a dark side to the moon, what say Mr Barett, Gilmour, Mason, Waters and Wright?

Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again.

Best opening line in a book ever? Perhaps...

Well yesterday I also dreamed of this old shabby house with high ceiling, thick brick walls painted with "choona", and those old heavy fans that had a five foot pipes separating them from the ceiling. The floors were made of tiny red bricks, and the stairs had wooden planks on their edges to minimize chipping and maximizing life. The roofs were supported by double T girders, and all the wiring was external, with wires running (clamped on thin wooden strips) all over the walls. The electrical switches were those big black monsters that would produce a loud "click" whenever switched on or off. There were rectangular windows at the top of every wall facing outside, which were operated by two strings, one attached at the top (to open) and the other at the bottom (to close).

It was a crisp summer after-noon and most of the adults in the numerous rooms of the mini-"Haveli" were either asleep or relaxing under the monotonous cool of the noisy and shaky fans. Seven children aged six to eleven ran around the house in groups, always chattering, always laughing, always quarreling. They seemed to be at every place at the same time (except inside the rooms, as that was grown-up territory). The little group was lead by a girl with green eyes and pig tails, dressed in a pink, knee length frock. Her knees supported as many bruises as the boys. Plans were being hatched to sneak the sugar out of both the kitchens and taking it to the sugar candy man. He doesn't charge you if you bring your own sugar. The group divided into two, one headed by the girl and the other by a boy just a little younger in age. His hair was all over his face and baked with mud in patches. Always moving it was as if he was eying everyone at the same time with his small, keen snake-eyes. The boy lead his team upstairs, while the girl decided to hit the kitchen on the ground floor (easier escape route). A few minutes and they were both back with big jars of sugar, eyes gleaming and stomachs growling at the mere thought of sugar candy...

I grew up in that house and we moved out about 17 years ago. But never have I explored anything as I explored that house. I knew every loose brick in the floor, every stair that squeaked at night, every hidden passage. I knew that the coolest place in the summer evenings wasn't the single air-conditioned room, but was under the water tank. A miserly space of about 3 feet wide and half a foot high. I knew the best routes within the house for avoiding my angry grandmother. I knew the complicated staircase by heart, and could easily get creative in getting down without using the stairs (for stairs could be blocked by the elders to end the getaway...

Seventeen years on, whenever I dream of a house...it's always this house. I keep changing in my dreams, and so does my life and the context, but the house remains the same. An old squeaky, shaky house that's somehow became the house of my dreams...

Persuasion

Recently I had the pleasure reading a book that I had read about a decade ago, "Persuasion" by Jane Austin. In 95, when I read the book as a 17 year old, I remember getting extremely annoyed by the inability of Anna and Capt. Wentworth to say what they feel. The implications of the society created by the author suffocated me as a reader, and I felt that the characters were very unreal and "bookish". There was this constant feeling that if only I were in the character's place, things would have been so different...

What I got from the book this time around was however completely different, it was as if I was reading a completely different book! Perhaps the person reading the book was a different person altogether. This time around I wanted to escape into that very same society of that many years ago, where means of transportation were actual horse powered carriages. Where you'd announce your visit a week in advance, and the notion of being intimate with someone was considered an extreme anomaly. The place where the worst you could do would be to say something improper, or let your guards down at the wrong time. Where limitless effort was spent on maintaining your dignity, and the most important thing was being proper.

I was impressed by how Anna respected her family (who were complete gits, effortlessly placed into the stereotypes we know so well) and let go of what was so close to her heart without ever actively wanting appreciation for the sacrifice. And how she justified the changes that took place in her physical and emotional self as something very acceptable to her being. Her passion to keep Lady Russel happy charmed me. For that meant respecting and loving someone your mother respected and loved over respecting and loving her own desires. I was silently enthused by the way she handled the spoilt brattiness of Mary, and how completely ignorant Mary was to what she really was.

I was bowled over by the penetrating intricacy of Anna's climactic exchange with Capt. Harville...words, reasoning all the while meant for Capt. Wentworth, to finally make him understand, without being macabre enough to say what's in the heart without any feeling of circumstance!

Anna says with a smile "Yes. We certainly do not forget you so soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions."

Capt. Wentworth's reply in the form of the letter was as amusing, and the battle within the sexes aptly taken to its inconclusive completion.

"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in
F. W."

"I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never."

I can see how so many people today would be offended by the gender roles professed throughout the book's journey, but times have changed so much, and we should all appreciate this change. A change that has brought the immense good of liberating women from the shackles of unjust rules and given them the opportunity to express themselves honestly. But with this change we also lost all that was beautiful and serene with that time long gone...

My father (on rare occasions) speaks fondly of the evening he spent in the grounds of the Taj Mahal, and he lovingly recalls the time when it was only the smallest of pleasures that were pursued. How differences in age, gender, thought and occasion were always given preference to all else! He is still sometimes surprised when a 13 year old bursts into a barrage of diatribes directed at their parents. My father is the link I have to that time (for I sincerely believe that we in the East lost track of what was near and dear at least a 100 years after the west). A link I somehow want to freeze in my heart, and to somehow always keep alive. Somehow it makes a lot of sense now to fold my feet when an elder is sitting nearby, or to get up whenever a lady enters into the room.

I only wish we could slow down to the pace of our forefathers and appreciate the value of things said in indirect ways always ensuring never to offend.

There is this strong belief within me that were we to revert to the ways we did things in those times, we would definitely sort out a lot of problems today. Maybe the news channels just for once won't have any unnecessary deaths to report in so many corners of the world. They might report how the world leaders took a day off and went to some lake to have tea, and how they just sat and occasionally chatted about the kinds of birds in the area, and how the winds were changing directions...

Stillness; Tranquility & Melancholy

I was going through my old email and got stuck on one sent to me by a good friend speaking of tranquility and melancholy.

It read:

Goya (Spanish artist) believed in the stillness of life and that purity lies in tranquility. Being malancholic is a good sign according to Shakespeare it provides one with the opportunity to learn about themselves.

The belief in the stillness of life... to preach that purity lies in tranquility...I remember saying in reply that tranquility is a hypothetical concept that cannot be achieved. And here I am thinking over it again. Tranquility...to be in a state totally free from stress and emotion.

Escape from the boundaries of stress seems relatively easier, I mean if nothing works, there is always marijuana! Enough of that and you would have forgotten all the stress you ever felt, BTW I am in no way advocating its use, for anything achieved through smoke is eventually just smoke. A temporary blimp that leads you to a greater state of whatever you were trying to escape. Anyway, escaping stress is possible, if only in the moments before you go to sleep or wake up, when you are in a state of half slumber, totally at peace with everything.

But how can we ever escape emotion? There is always some form of it hovering above our existence. From the raw to the most refined, we are always feeling them. Getting elated and then tumbling down to the bottom less depths of remorse and sadness, snarled with guilt. Every breath we take we feel a new emotion, so much so that it feels like emotion is life. The basic essence, the complete picture. Every reaction, no matter how matter of fact is somehow based on some emotion. To serve...to protect...to betray...and to abandon, just ends of the same spectrum. Then how can we ever escape emotion?

Does a person lying in a 25 year coma feel emotion? I don't know, and it would be a little difficult to ask the comatose for the answer. But me, in the here and now, and in the has and been; I have constantly felt emotion. Some variation of this jigsaw puzzle has always been at me, urging me on, tugging me along, and then crippling me and putting me aside, before even a complete blink of the eye. It amazes me how fast the brain reacts, before you can even blink an eye, you know that it's all over. You are completely shattered. The end...and the long wait to the new beginning.

So how would Goya achieve purity, for how could he ever feel absolute tranquility. Once again it's coming back into agreement with Shakespeare. To keep discovering one's own self through the mechanics of melancholy. Delving deeper and deeper into the abyss leading to complete Nirvana. But that comes at a price as well. The price of slowly, steadily becoming a recluse. Achieving absolute removal from the moving and alive...but then, nobody promised that you could buy the cake and eat it too!

There's this little gem of a poem by Mark Strand, "Keeping Things Whole" that would be a good ending to this post...

Keeping Things Whole

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.