Rage it seems is a bigger river than the Nile. When unleashed, it can completely destroy the balance and structure that our minds attempt to give us. When rage takes over, and the illogical takes precedence, than what have you got left? What really are you able to hold on to with some form of value if the sensical becomes nonsensical? Where can I bury this incident? Whom can I lay the blame on? I need to move on, but I need to satisfy my conscience first, somehow or the other. In the absence of any real justice, I will even settle for a cheap substitute. Please. Just give me something. Anything. My mind needs to just shut the hell up, process this reality, and digest it so that I can move on. After all, I have X-Men to go and see tonight.
Sarfraz Shah. 19 year old Sarfraz Shah. 19 year old student aspiring to study Computer Science Sarfraz Shah. Youngest brother of four brothers Sarfraz Shah. Son of Manzoor Fatima Sarfraz Shah. We murdered you last night. We didn't even let you hit twenty years of age. We didn't care that you asked us to save you. You were clearly fooled by the uniform we were wearing. I can console you though by telling you that you are not alone. We are on a murderous rampage. There is nothing left keeping us from taking another life tomorrow. There is no defense. There is no measure of protection. Most importantly, there is no will to stop us. It seems as if we couldn't even wait to see if there really was a heaven or hell after death, for we have created our own hell right here. Frankenstein it should seem, is finally awakening.
The anger is piercing its way through me. I'm looking for a victim. I want to blame the Rangers. I desperately want to blame them. I've seen the evidence and in any court of justice, the blame would lie wholly on the shoulders of those uniformed men. However, for those of us living here, it isn't as simple as that, is it? In fact, for those of us living here, if we truly ask ourselves what happened in that park on June 8th, we would realize that we were only looking at the effect, not the cause. Those rangers pulled the trigger to end that boys life, but we put that boys life onto a gambling table many years ago. People of this country, you need to ask yourself why the hell all of this is going on. You need to study it. You need to feel it. You need to look for an answer regardless of how uncomfortable it is. As much as I am disgusted with what happened, I am not in the least bit surprised at it actually happening. In fact, I am surprised that it isn't happening more often.
We have NO value for each others lives. We have value only for our own lives. The evidence is in the gunmen everyone hires to protect themselves. It doesn't matter if a market place comes to a standstill when five of your gunmen are surrounding the place, because at least you are protected. We have enlisted the help of thousands of gunmen throughout the cities, all individually hired at basic wage levels, to protect us from each other. We are trying to put out a fire in a forest by blowing wind at it. How incredibly stupid as a nation can we be? When the hell will we open our eyes and realize this is a beast created by us and no one else?
Law and Order is an uncomfortable reality that every society has to accept if it wants some form of justice. It means that even if no one will get hurt, you cannot run a red light. It means that even if your house happens to be right at the start of the oncoming traffic lane, you still have to go all the way down and take a u-turn and come back. It means that when there is a No Smoking sign in a building, you don't fire up a goddamn cigarette right next to it. If these absolutely basic concepts are not met, how the hell can we expect more complicated issues like police and uniformed violence to be addressed?
We have a disease of multiple heads here. However, one that we need to address immediately is the disgusting amount of gun proliferation in this country. What is it that we are trying to achieve by deploying all these armed guards? Every house has a few, every office has a few, cars are loaded with them, streets are filled with them, schools and parks are filled with them, restaurants are fronted by them, blah blah blah. Have we become safer as a result of this or simply numb to seeing guns all around us? There is no longer any differentiating factor between the armed police and the privately armed micro militias that are scattered throughout the cities.
We are being scared into believing that this is the way towards future protection. This however, is the way towards anarchy. Violent anarchy. We have to stop this gun flow. We have to get rid of the guards. We have to learn to trust each other again. We have to learn to value each other again. These Rangers have become a trigger happy group of people because they see that their uniform is worth no more than the average shalwar kameez dressed man if they are both holding guns. They have seen their value plummet to the point that shock therapy is perhaps their only way of getting some reaction from the masses. This was an incident that went too far. I want to blame them, but it is too easy to blame them. They are poor, underpaid, under appreciated people who will be slapped with the charges and forgotten about in a weeks times. The symptom would have been treated for the day. The disease however, will continue to proliferate. Find your humanity once again friends. We owe it to each other. Sarfraz Shah's mother, Manzoor Fatima, will never trust you or me again. She has written us off for good. She has inherited a lifelong pain that we can never fathom. Can we finally get back onto a path which will never put another mother through such torture? Can we? Dare we?
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Not believing in the Devil Won't Protect You From Him:
For many Pakistanis, it would be easy to blame America for its' current crisis, but…
Before they do, let’s go over just a few of the things they cannot blame it on(in absolutely no particular order of impact):
1) The lack of education in this country
2) The ever strong feudalism spread throughout the country
3) The loadshedding
4) The stealing of electricity, both by the rich and the poor
5) Tax evasion.
6) Breaking red lights
7) Driving in the wrong lanes
8) Killing people because of their religious sects
9) Killing people because of their ethnic sects
10) Killing people because of their political sects
11) Killing people because of their dishonor to the family
12) Killing people because of their audacity to be different
13) Raping women and then being let go free
14) Throwing trash onto the ground without any concern for the community
15) The bribery for almost anything to almost anyone
16) The intolerance of each other
17) The politicians and their lies
18) The poor getting poorer
19) The paan stains all over the cities
20) The people sitting on top of buses like luggage
21) The fact that no one wears seatbelts
22) The thousands of abused women being overlooked
23) The plague level of guns in this country
24) The child labour
25) The incredibly huge disparity of wealth
26) The ever so strong divisions of class
27) The corruption in cricket
28) The corruption in government offices
29) The corruption in the police
30) The corruption in the army
31) The corruption by the rich
32) The corruption by the poor
33) The pollution
34) The disregard for copyrights of art and entertainment
35) The proliferation of sub standard products to make a quick buck
36) The dishonesty in the market place
37) The hypocrisy of preaching religion and not practicing it
38) The abuse of religion to further malicious intent
39) The guards attacking those they are hired to protect
40) The kids being forced into adulthood to put food on the table for their families. Kids.
41) ...
Blaming America for Pakistan's current crisis is like an obese child blaming all the candy in his hand. Pakistan is Pakistan’s problem. The sooner it figures that out, the sooner it can save it from itself.
Before they do, let’s go over just a few of the things they cannot blame it on(in absolutely no particular order of impact):
1) The lack of education in this country
2) The ever strong feudalism spread throughout the country
3) The loadshedding
4) The stealing of electricity, both by the rich and the poor
5) Tax evasion.
6) Breaking red lights
7) Driving in the wrong lanes
8) Killing people because of their religious sects
9) Killing people because of their ethnic sects
10) Killing people because of their political sects
11) Killing people because of their dishonor to the family
12) Killing people because of their audacity to be different
13) Raping women and then being let go free
14) Throwing trash onto the ground without any concern for the community
15) The bribery for almost anything to almost anyone
16) The intolerance of each other
17) The politicians and their lies
18) The poor getting poorer
19) The paan stains all over the cities
20) The people sitting on top of buses like luggage
21) The fact that no one wears seatbelts
22) The thousands of abused women being overlooked
23) The plague level of guns in this country
24) The child labour
25) The incredibly huge disparity of wealth
26) The ever so strong divisions of class
27) The corruption in cricket
28) The corruption in government offices
29) The corruption in the police
30) The corruption in the army
31) The corruption by the rich
32) The corruption by the poor
33) The pollution
34) The disregard for copyrights of art and entertainment
35) The proliferation of sub standard products to make a quick buck
36) The dishonesty in the market place
37) The hypocrisy of preaching religion and not practicing it
38) The abuse of religion to further malicious intent
39) The guards attacking those they are hired to protect
40) The kids being forced into adulthood to put food on the table for their families. Kids.
41) ...
Blaming America for Pakistan's current crisis is like an obese child blaming all the candy in his hand. Pakistan is Pakistan’s problem. The sooner it figures that out, the sooner it can save it from itself.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Osama Bin Laden: Hide and Seek World Champion 2001-2011
Osama Bin Laden was caught and killed while in Pakistan. Conspiracy theories aside, those are the facts. There are questions as to how he was caught, who helped, who didn’t, who drove the car, who hid in the bushes with a whistle, and who pulled the trigger. Who gives a crap? Really. The fact of the matter is, in the court of the global audience, the verdict has been declared: by sheer fact that Osama was within the borders of Pakistan at the time of his death, Pakistan is as guilty as the ‘Waldo’ of the 21st century. Stop complaining. It’s useless. Stop defending. It’s embarrassing. Stop retorting. It’s tiring. It really is. We all need a new song. Desperately.
The incredibly vibrant and free press of Pakistan of course went to task with all sorts of points and opinions. Some celebrated the death and insisted that Pakistan was part of the party. Some pondered over the possibility that some part of the establishment must have been privy to the 6ft. 4inches tall, bearded man’s presence in the country. Some defended against the backlash from the West insisting Pakistani’s have lost more lives than any other nation as a result of this war. And yet, some predicted the beginning of the end and that we might as well all pack our bags and abandon the sinking ship. It was quite a colorful spread of messages in fact. As I breezed through a cross section of all these articles on my way to work, I was struck with the most bizarre of realizations: I couldn’t care less about any of this. Really. In between the notorious Karachi traffic, the five work meetings scheduled for the day, the growing list of toys being demanded by my son, and the depressingly expanding waistline of my stomach, the last thing I was thinking about was how the geo-political impact of this man’s death would impact my life. And as quickly as that thought dawned upon me, another one ran through my head shortly after: this is where all the moderates of Pakistan are. People all over the world have wanted to know where they are. Well, my friends, I have found them. They are busy stuck in the rut of everyday life, just like me. They are complaining about bills, about their breakups, about their workload, their children, and their lovers, just like you and I. Sure, there are a few additional worries on our heads. Will I be blown into oblivion on my way to work, comes to mind instantly. Nonetheless, they are mostly worries that anyone in any part of the world would usually consider. And than I thought, why should I apologize to the world just because this man was found in the same country as me. That connects me with him about as much as Ann Coulter connects with Richard Simmons in the United States.
Pakistan has some serious problems today. The sooner it accepts and confronts this reality, the sooner it can start the path to progress. Does it matter that the international military response to 9/11 pushed Pakistan into a state of implosion? Only if you are a historian. Does it matter that the cause actually became the effect in trying to eliminate terrorism? Only if you are an analyst. The fact of the matter is, a genuinely valid reason for eating dog food doesn’t make dog food taste any better than the dog food that it actually is. Pakistan has to learn that ultimately, the only people who will ever be responsible for getting it out of the state it is in, is Pakistani’s.
Pakistan also needs to be less concerned about its current global image and more worried about its grass root efforts to improve its society as a whole. The best thing about being part of the global village, is that the track record of all is there for everyone to see. There are very few countries who can boast a perfect track record of history, none of them being countries that are in any way connected to this current crisis. Folks, amongst those of us who have less than perfect credentials, we have members who have gone to multiple wars, dropped atomic bombs on bustling cities, forced kingdoms onto weaker nations, used and abused religion for personal gain, traded in souls for oil and gas, and yes, blown up innocent people to instill terror. Who’s the fairest of them all? Does it really matter? Honestly, does it?
We can hate all we want, and we can scream at each other all we want, but sooner or later, we will realize that nothing is more tiring than hatred. It is impossible to constantly hate. I’ve tried it. I have a neighbor from hell that I swore was the disciple of the devil for many years, until recently, he has annoyingly started to actually be good company. Such is life.
I am not going to attempt to claim any stats about what the majority of Pakistani’s feel about the death of Osama Bin Laden. We have multiple media outlets for that. I can only vouch for the people I know, and there is a unanimous sense of utter joy and relief at the news of his death. There is also of course, the ‘tree huggers’ unit out there who believe one should never rejoice at the death of anyone. That doesn’t connect with me. Osama Bin Laden was a murderer and death was his sentence. Fair trial or not, his open incitement of hatred on countless recordings was enough to justify the metal lodged in his head, in my opinion. Pop open the bubbly indeed!
If there is any parting thought that a global citizen of Pakistani persuasion can give on this matter, it’s that the best way out of a jungle is to help the weaker parties. Whether or not those parties were made weak because of internal issues or external ones, life will be much more comfortable for all when we have cleared the jungle. So, rejoice at the great news of the death of such an enemy of humanity, but please think seriously before you find a growing anger towards millions of other people who happen to share the same country code. Death is very uncomfortable for the vast majority of us the world over. It really is quite a party pooper. I hope the thinking minds of the global community understand that we are dramatically more similar than we are different. Except for food. Wow, do we kick your butts in food. To humanity, with love.
The incredibly vibrant and free press of Pakistan of course went to task with all sorts of points and opinions. Some celebrated the death and insisted that Pakistan was part of the party. Some pondered over the possibility that some part of the establishment must have been privy to the 6ft. 4inches tall, bearded man’s presence in the country. Some defended against the backlash from the West insisting Pakistani’s have lost more lives than any other nation as a result of this war. And yet, some predicted the beginning of the end and that we might as well all pack our bags and abandon the sinking ship. It was quite a colorful spread of messages in fact. As I breezed through a cross section of all these articles on my way to work, I was struck with the most bizarre of realizations: I couldn’t care less about any of this. Really. In between the notorious Karachi traffic, the five work meetings scheduled for the day, the growing list of toys being demanded by my son, and the depressingly expanding waistline of my stomach, the last thing I was thinking about was how the geo-political impact of this man’s death would impact my life. And as quickly as that thought dawned upon me, another one ran through my head shortly after: this is where all the moderates of Pakistan are. People all over the world have wanted to know where they are. Well, my friends, I have found them. They are busy stuck in the rut of everyday life, just like me. They are complaining about bills, about their breakups, about their workload, their children, and their lovers, just like you and I. Sure, there are a few additional worries on our heads. Will I be blown into oblivion on my way to work, comes to mind instantly. Nonetheless, they are mostly worries that anyone in any part of the world would usually consider. And than I thought, why should I apologize to the world just because this man was found in the same country as me. That connects me with him about as much as Ann Coulter connects with Richard Simmons in the United States.
Pakistan has some serious problems today. The sooner it accepts and confronts this reality, the sooner it can start the path to progress. Does it matter that the international military response to 9/11 pushed Pakistan into a state of implosion? Only if you are a historian. Does it matter that the cause actually became the effect in trying to eliminate terrorism? Only if you are an analyst. The fact of the matter is, a genuinely valid reason for eating dog food doesn’t make dog food taste any better than the dog food that it actually is. Pakistan has to learn that ultimately, the only people who will ever be responsible for getting it out of the state it is in, is Pakistani’s.
Pakistan also needs to be less concerned about its current global image and more worried about its grass root efforts to improve its society as a whole. The best thing about being part of the global village, is that the track record of all is there for everyone to see. There are very few countries who can boast a perfect track record of history, none of them being countries that are in any way connected to this current crisis. Folks, amongst those of us who have less than perfect credentials, we have members who have gone to multiple wars, dropped atomic bombs on bustling cities, forced kingdoms onto weaker nations, used and abused religion for personal gain, traded in souls for oil and gas, and yes, blown up innocent people to instill terror. Who’s the fairest of them all? Does it really matter? Honestly, does it?
We can hate all we want, and we can scream at each other all we want, but sooner or later, we will realize that nothing is more tiring than hatred. It is impossible to constantly hate. I’ve tried it. I have a neighbor from hell that I swore was the disciple of the devil for many years, until recently, he has annoyingly started to actually be good company. Such is life.
I am not going to attempt to claim any stats about what the majority of Pakistani’s feel about the death of Osama Bin Laden. We have multiple media outlets for that. I can only vouch for the people I know, and there is a unanimous sense of utter joy and relief at the news of his death. There is also of course, the ‘tree huggers’ unit out there who believe one should never rejoice at the death of anyone. That doesn’t connect with me. Osama Bin Laden was a murderer and death was his sentence. Fair trial or not, his open incitement of hatred on countless recordings was enough to justify the metal lodged in his head, in my opinion. Pop open the bubbly indeed!
If there is any parting thought that a global citizen of Pakistani persuasion can give on this matter, it’s that the best way out of a jungle is to help the weaker parties. Whether or not those parties were made weak because of internal issues or external ones, life will be much more comfortable for all when we have cleared the jungle. So, rejoice at the great news of the death of such an enemy of humanity, but please think seriously before you find a growing anger towards millions of other people who happen to share the same country code. Death is very uncomfortable for the vast majority of us the world over. It really is quite a party pooper. I hope the thinking minds of the global community understand that we are dramatically more similar than we are different. Except for food. Wow, do we kick your butts in food. To humanity, with love.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
There is a Light that Never Goes Out: Governor Salmaan Taseer
I learnt something very important and damning in the past few days. The mind, I am now convinced, can never question the heart. The incredible weakness of poor logic can never be a match for the ignited machismo of old fashioned heart induced emotion. It is a war of two fronts that will always go to the heart. Our mind is only the puppet leader. We need to accept this reality. In actuality, we are but slaves to the whims of our own hearts. And it is because of this that we will always fall short. My heart will be the death of you. And your heart will be the death of me. Today, an emotionally charged, logic absent heart has created so much anger in me, that my own logic has been thrown out of the window and emotion has taken over. I have lost the capacity to want to think. All it took was one man. That is how weak logic is. I am an angry man today. I have every right to be. I don’t give a damn about your feelings, because my feelings are more important. That’s the beauty of emotion without logic. Now deal with it.
We lost so much more than a governor last week. We permanently lost bits of our personality to the rage. We lost pieces of humanity. We lost chunks of conscience. We lost doses of shame. We lost liters of decency. But most importantly, we lost the fact that we don’t even value the concept of individual life. We lost someone’s father. We lost someone’s husband. Do you understand? The simple fact that we have to talk this man up to such a height in order to feel the pain of his death is proof of our skin thickening by the day. The heroic efforts of Mr. Taseer will not go unnoticed by me, nor have they ever, but when did we decide that only the death of heroism should be mourned? Someone’s father was ruthlessly and shamelessly killed. By people hired to protect him. That is enough for me.
In my previous blog, before the horrific tragedy of Mr. Taseer’s death, I wrote about the case of Aasia Bibi. In bone chilling accuracy, the exact words I wrote in that article were, ‘We kill. Do you understand? We kill. We have sick people amongst us. Fear us, for we will attack without prejudice and we won't even have the conscience to repent. It is amongst our most reliable qualities.’ I wish I was wrong. More than ever, in the case of Mr. Taseer, I truly wish I was wrong. And yet, the irony of the loss of such a strong man to such a cowardice act is, that I am not surprised. After all, insanity knows no ends.
Mr. Taseers great efforts and determination to improve the lives of the people he spoke for is well documented and needs no further qualifying. His legacy is for all to see. You cannot erase facts. The humility of his success will stand the tests of time. He did what he could with the tools he had, and in the time given to him. And he did a damn good job. And in the days after his death, the final evidence of how great a man he was, was proven by the incredibly balanced and loving responses from his family. They responded to the cold blooded and mindless snatching of their father with a type of refined maturity that can only be coveted at best. I salute the strength of their logic and its control over their heart in a land where it is in major shortage.
Where do we go from here? What is the right thing to do? Have we become the monsters in the dark? Have we lost the plot? I don’t know. I just don’t know. But I do know that a good man died because he had optimism in the rest of us. And as the potency of my own sanity pierces through my emotion, albeit temporarily, I realize that in fact, there is an entire army of Salmaan Taseers all around me. There are great people all around us. There are people who want to laugh, to live out loud, to dance all night, to dream all day, to hold out their hand, to offer their shoulder, to offer their plate, and to walk hand in hand. There are people who will call a spade a spade and will never bow to ignorance. There are people who Mr. Taseer would have been proud to have his arm around, and vice versa. And while the scream of ignorance might be louder than the tune of conscience, the tune will always continue to ring.
I cannot imagine living in a place where I have to be scared of my own common sense. And yet, there are forces who are trying to do that to me. Mr. Taseer died protecting me from that force. I will not forget. I will never forget. I had an interesting conversation with a dear friend about the fact that we will never forget Mr. Taseer’s stance for a tolerant, fair, and modern society. He made the point that after a few days, we will forget and just go back to our daily lives of partying, socializing, having fun, and moving on. I replied that the very best way to attack such a deadly force is by doing exactly that. Our job is to live our life to the fullest. The best way to attack this mindless ignorance is by enjoying the hell out of our lives. It will irritate the life out of these fools. I say it again: if you truly want to fight the ignorance we are facing today, life your life as if nothing happened to change it. Work, study, dance, sing, love, laugh, eat, drink, play, create, innovate, and think. Think. Always, always, think. Nothing will piss them off more.
We lost so much more than a governor last week. We permanently lost bits of our personality to the rage. We lost pieces of humanity. We lost chunks of conscience. We lost doses of shame. We lost liters of decency. But most importantly, we lost the fact that we don’t even value the concept of individual life. We lost someone’s father. We lost someone’s husband. Do you understand? The simple fact that we have to talk this man up to such a height in order to feel the pain of his death is proof of our skin thickening by the day. The heroic efforts of Mr. Taseer will not go unnoticed by me, nor have they ever, but when did we decide that only the death of heroism should be mourned? Someone’s father was ruthlessly and shamelessly killed. By people hired to protect him. That is enough for me.
In my previous blog, before the horrific tragedy of Mr. Taseer’s death, I wrote about the case of Aasia Bibi. In bone chilling accuracy, the exact words I wrote in that article were, ‘We kill. Do you understand? We kill. We have sick people amongst us. Fear us, for we will attack without prejudice and we won't even have the conscience to repent. It is amongst our most reliable qualities.’ I wish I was wrong. More than ever, in the case of Mr. Taseer, I truly wish I was wrong. And yet, the irony of the loss of such a strong man to such a cowardice act is, that I am not surprised. After all, insanity knows no ends.
Mr. Taseers great efforts and determination to improve the lives of the people he spoke for is well documented and needs no further qualifying. His legacy is for all to see. You cannot erase facts. The humility of his success will stand the tests of time. He did what he could with the tools he had, and in the time given to him. And he did a damn good job. And in the days after his death, the final evidence of how great a man he was, was proven by the incredibly balanced and loving responses from his family. They responded to the cold blooded and mindless snatching of their father with a type of refined maturity that can only be coveted at best. I salute the strength of their logic and its control over their heart in a land where it is in major shortage.
Where do we go from here? What is the right thing to do? Have we become the monsters in the dark? Have we lost the plot? I don’t know. I just don’t know. But I do know that a good man died because he had optimism in the rest of us. And as the potency of my own sanity pierces through my emotion, albeit temporarily, I realize that in fact, there is an entire army of Salmaan Taseers all around me. There are great people all around us. There are people who want to laugh, to live out loud, to dance all night, to dream all day, to hold out their hand, to offer their shoulder, to offer their plate, and to walk hand in hand. There are people who will call a spade a spade and will never bow to ignorance. There are people who Mr. Taseer would have been proud to have his arm around, and vice versa. And while the scream of ignorance might be louder than the tune of conscience, the tune will always continue to ring.
I cannot imagine living in a place where I have to be scared of my own common sense. And yet, there are forces who are trying to do that to me. Mr. Taseer died protecting me from that force. I will not forget. I will never forget. I had an interesting conversation with a dear friend about the fact that we will never forget Mr. Taseer’s stance for a tolerant, fair, and modern society. He made the point that after a few days, we will forget and just go back to our daily lives of partying, socializing, having fun, and moving on. I replied that the very best way to attack such a deadly force is by doing exactly that. Our job is to live our life to the fullest. The best way to attack this mindless ignorance is by enjoying the hell out of our lives. It will irritate the life out of these fools. I say it again: if you truly want to fight the ignorance we are facing today, life your life as if nothing happened to change it. Work, study, dance, sing, love, laugh, eat, drink, play, create, innovate, and think. Think. Always, always, think. Nothing will piss them off more.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Letter to Aasia Bibi: No Apology
Dear Aasia,
I have so much to tell you. I have so much to talk to you about. I don’t know where to begin. Perhaps the best way is to start off by saying that I would never dare say such a callous thing like I know what you must be going through. I don’t. I have no idea what is going on in your head. I can’t imagine how disgusted you must be feeling with life right now. However, I do know that you have every reason to feel disgusted. Aasia, you need to understand a few things about the people that surround you. You need to know that many of us around you are vile and immoral people. We are weak and sad people. We have insecurities about almost everything you can think of. We have filled our stomachs with so much hatred of everything, that your case is sadly not even the tip of the iceberg. Often times our only source of fuel to carry on is by excreting our mental feces on easy targets like you. How can I apologize on behalf of these people to you? I wish I could. However, in the minds of these sick people, your case is almost legitimate target material for them. We have folks amongst us that do far worse things to people who are within the parameters of our own ‘religious’ divides. We kill. Do you understand Aasia? We kill. We have sick people amongst us. Fear us, for we will attack without prejudice and we won't even have the conscience to repent. It is amongst our most reliable qualities. I want to disengage myself from such people, but I know that won’t offer you any resolve. In fact, to truly appeal to you on behalf of the ignorance that is surrounding you, I fear I have to include myself in that group so as to try to connect with you.
If ever there were two things that do NOT go together, in my opinion, it would be religion and illiteracy. While both of these things have done their fair share of damage independently, combining them creates a potential nuclear fission of harmful possibilities. You have become one of the many targets of such ignorant power. But I don’t need such excitement to think of you. That is completely overkill. Instead, I think of a mother who is trying to raise her family with the same level of pressures, if not more, as the millions of other incredibly poor families scattered throughout Pakistan. I think of how, like every other woman on this planet, you do your best to hold the faces of your children up to the sky in spite of the hand dealt to you. I think of the pain your eyes must have seen over the years just to try and get by in this world. I think of my mother and how, to me, she held the entire universe in her hand, and then I think of how you’re kids must feel the same way about you. Then I think of what must be going through your children’s minds at this point. And I want to tell you Aasia, that when I think of all of this, and then of all the incredibly vile things that have unnecessarily happened to you recently, I want to hurt someone. I want to cause physical pain to someone. I am not a violent man, but violence begs to bleed through my veins and find someone to shower it upon. You see Aasia, in many ways, I am no different than any of these other mindless thugs who are causing you such stress with their ignorance. How then, can I apologize to you, when I want to do to them, what they want to do you? I can’t. Please understand. You deserve far more than an apology from a stranger who instead of having the capacity to help you, can only conjure up lustful thoughts of violent revenge on your behalf.
I will say this though. This has nothing to do with religion. Religion is in this case, the most readily and easily available catalyst to mobilize the internal insecurities of those harming you. There is no faith that supports such inhumane treatment of people. It is a lack of a moral compass that steers people to such levels of madness.
I hope that somewhere within the boundary of your wall of anger and disgust, there is a little crack of hope that still remains. I wouldn’t blame you if it doesn’t exist. However, if it does, then please try to conjure up the strength to look through that crack. When you do look through, you will see millions of other people peeping through their own tiny little cracks. We are all holding on to our vision of hope in the quest that the crack starts to widen. We are in this together. I will never forget you. Pakistan needs, and begs for you to hold onto that hope of a better tomorrow. I need you to hold on to that hope. I truly do. Please.
I have so much to tell you. I have so much to talk to you about. I don’t know where to begin. Perhaps the best way is to start off by saying that I would never dare say such a callous thing like I know what you must be going through. I don’t. I have no idea what is going on in your head. I can’t imagine how disgusted you must be feeling with life right now. However, I do know that you have every reason to feel disgusted. Aasia, you need to understand a few things about the people that surround you. You need to know that many of us around you are vile and immoral people. We are weak and sad people. We have insecurities about almost everything you can think of. We have filled our stomachs with so much hatred of everything, that your case is sadly not even the tip of the iceberg. Often times our only source of fuel to carry on is by excreting our mental feces on easy targets like you. How can I apologize on behalf of these people to you? I wish I could. However, in the minds of these sick people, your case is almost legitimate target material for them. We have folks amongst us that do far worse things to people who are within the parameters of our own ‘religious’ divides. We kill. Do you understand Aasia? We kill. We have sick people amongst us. Fear us, for we will attack without prejudice and we won't even have the conscience to repent. It is amongst our most reliable qualities. I want to disengage myself from such people, but I know that won’t offer you any resolve. In fact, to truly appeal to you on behalf of the ignorance that is surrounding you, I fear I have to include myself in that group so as to try to connect with you.
If ever there were two things that do NOT go together, in my opinion, it would be religion and illiteracy. While both of these things have done their fair share of damage independently, combining them creates a potential nuclear fission of harmful possibilities. You have become one of the many targets of such ignorant power. But I don’t need such excitement to think of you. That is completely overkill. Instead, I think of a mother who is trying to raise her family with the same level of pressures, if not more, as the millions of other incredibly poor families scattered throughout Pakistan. I think of how, like every other woman on this planet, you do your best to hold the faces of your children up to the sky in spite of the hand dealt to you. I think of the pain your eyes must have seen over the years just to try and get by in this world. I think of my mother and how, to me, she held the entire universe in her hand, and then I think of how you’re kids must feel the same way about you. Then I think of what must be going through your children’s minds at this point. And I want to tell you Aasia, that when I think of all of this, and then of all the incredibly vile things that have unnecessarily happened to you recently, I want to hurt someone. I want to cause physical pain to someone. I am not a violent man, but violence begs to bleed through my veins and find someone to shower it upon. You see Aasia, in many ways, I am no different than any of these other mindless thugs who are causing you such stress with their ignorance. How then, can I apologize to you, when I want to do to them, what they want to do you? I can’t. Please understand. You deserve far more than an apology from a stranger who instead of having the capacity to help you, can only conjure up lustful thoughts of violent revenge on your behalf.
I will say this though. This has nothing to do with religion. Religion is in this case, the most readily and easily available catalyst to mobilize the internal insecurities of those harming you. There is no faith that supports such inhumane treatment of people. It is a lack of a moral compass that steers people to such levels of madness.
I hope that somewhere within the boundary of your wall of anger and disgust, there is a little crack of hope that still remains. I wouldn’t blame you if it doesn’t exist. However, if it does, then please try to conjure up the strength to look through that crack. When you do look through, you will see millions of other people peeping through their own tiny little cracks. We are all holding on to our vision of hope in the quest that the crack starts to widen. We are in this together. I will never forget you. Pakistan needs, and begs for you to hold onto that hope of a better tomorrow. I need you to hold on to that hope. I truly do. Please.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
My beautiful son, my beautiful son, what have you done
Once upon a time there was a cause. There was a moment. I had passion. The world presented all her glory to me ready for me to dissect at will. Someone needed my help. Someone use to scream my name. Someone demanded I break the shackles. And someone hoped I would confide in them. Youth was the insatiable alcohol streaming down those who dared to drink, and I was heavily intoxicated. I could turn left. I could turn right. I didn’t have to walk straight, because you see, there was no straight. There was only momentum. As long as I burnt the fuel of momentum, every way was straight. Those were the days when my name was more than just a name. It was a statement of intent. It was a license to matter. It was a world full of sleeping guards and I was the prisoner breaking free. The ignorance of my limitation was balanced by the aggression of my desire. I loved. I truly, loved. I was a liberator of thoughts. I knew that all around me, people were slaves to their own conscience and that they would find vicarious satisfaction through the eyes of my world. While people dreamt, I was awake, and while people were awake, I was alive. There was nothing that I couldn’t do, even when I failed in doing it. The failures of my attempts only screamed out just how successful I was. I was a man that they envied. How could they not? The radiation of my glow would blind even the harshest critic. Have you ever been attacked by a critic? Have you ever been so lucky in your life and your actions to have mattered enough to be judged? I was all of this. Do you understand?
There was no drug that could harm me. There was no story that could intimidate me. I screamed ‘liar!’ to the artist after he finished his painting. I demanded answers from the politician who walked too straight. I lounged in the arms of the most glorious women while the trumpeter belted out piercing tunes in a cocktail of enigmatic jazz. I screamed ‘revolution!’ in the face of adversity at the turn of a new world order. I held her hand across the battle fields of discrimination and wouldn’t let go until they accepted it. I romanticized spending drunken evenings with Oscar Wilde and challenging him to a contest of madness. I painted the canvas boards with the sweat of my memories of her. I wrote poetry about the limitation of words. I did all of this and more. I did all of this my son. And then you arrived.
Upon first glimpse of you, I realized that I had in fact and despite everything, never truly lived before. I was, on discovery of your heartbeat, always just a man in a desert staring into a mirage through the eyes of a walking dead man. What was I doing all those years? How could I do so much and yet care so little? I was running for so long I had actually forgotten what I was running from or running to. You changed that my son. Instantly, I had an origin and a destination. It was only after I first held you that I realized that the critics were right about me after all. In fact, they were always right. I was screaming to the world but not living in it. This is what you gave me my son. The day we brought you into this world was also the day you brought me into it. And I started to live. But my beautiful son, my beautiful son, what have you done?
I am an old man now my son. I am old and insignificant. My name is for identification only. My thoughts are for survival only and my words are for communication only. Do you know how hard it is to get old without a cause? While I may have become old without a cause, I had not gotten old without satisfaction. I had witnessed what many call faith right in front of my own eyes. The very first time you said my name, was the day I knew that god was not the most powerful force in the world. Your smile turned me into a disbeliever. Surely, if god existed, it was through the eyes of you, my beautiful son. I didn’t need faith. I had you. But my beautiful son, my beautiful son, what have you done?
You grew up into a strong and curious boy. You were always punished for talking too much in class. You were always keeping me waiting while you were lost in a sea of friends. You broke everything I bought you. You never looked away. You always looked at me. You looked straight into my heart. There was nothing you could do that would taint my addiction of love for you. I would freeze up at the thought of you in pain. I would have to sit down and hold my stomach at the thought of you hurt somewhere on your own. I would laugh as much you would laugh. I would smile when you would sleep. I didn’t need to dream anymore because it was never as exciting as spending time with you. But my beautiful son, my beautiful son, what have you done?
As quickly as you brought meaning to my life, you went out and destroyed the foundations it was built on. Just when I was ready to start focusing on the satisfaction of my aging body, you broke into my mind and locked me away for good. Why did you do it my son? What made you do it?
They called me in the middle of the night. They told me I needed to come right away. They said there was too much blood and too many body parts to identify the corpse. They made me come and put you together like a puzzle. You didn’t have the right to do that to me. I never gave you such permission. You killed more than just those five poor people. You killed your father as well. You killed me and more importantly, you killed all the reasons of my being. You destroyed my proof of life and living it. My beautiful son, my beautiful son, what have you done?
There was so much blood. There were so many body parts. There was a severed hand. It was a child’s hand. I remember when your hand was that small. I didn’t want to look, but they made me. Do you understand when I tell you there was so much blood? Death was kind enough to take those people quickly but the stains of the residue have become permanently tattooed on all who witnessed it. I didn’t need to see your letter to know what you had done. I knew you had done it. You killed those people and that child, and you didn’t even have the guts to watch the results of your own actions. I cannot forgive you my son. I will never forgive you. How ironic, that the very person who showed the light to me also showed me the face of evil. Why did you do it? Answer your father you sick bastard, why did you do it?
I know now that the personification of heaven and hell lies within the corridors of our own mind. There is no force greater or more evil than the actions of a man who has lost his sanity. There is also no bigger verdict on a man than to be a prisoner of your own mind. You have turned me into a protagonist in my own horror film which does not end. When I am awake, I relive again and again each frame of your evil actions. When I am asleep, I have horrific dreams of killing you before the maturity of your diseased mind is reached. Can you fathom what it must take for a man to imagine killing his own son? I am a dead man now. Breathing, but completely dead. However, I am no killer. Nothing can be said of or to the people you killed and whose lives you destroyed, so we cannot disrespect them by even mentioning their names with yours. But you my son. You I have something to say to. I am glad you are dead. I am glad you are dead because you can no longer hurt anyone else. You have gone to your death a bastard child. Lay dead my son, because this is what you have done. The worst part is, I still love you. And for that, I will eternally hate you.
There was no drug that could harm me. There was no story that could intimidate me. I screamed ‘liar!’ to the artist after he finished his painting. I demanded answers from the politician who walked too straight. I lounged in the arms of the most glorious women while the trumpeter belted out piercing tunes in a cocktail of enigmatic jazz. I screamed ‘revolution!’ in the face of adversity at the turn of a new world order. I held her hand across the battle fields of discrimination and wouldn’t let go until they accepted it. I romanticized spending drunken evenings with Oscar Wilde and challenging him to a contest of madness. I painted the canvas boards with the sweat of my memories of her. I wrote poetry about the limitation of words. I did all of this and more. I did all of this my son. And then you arrived.
Upon first glimpse of you, I realized that I had in fact and despite everything, never truly lived before. I was, on discovery of your heartbeat, always just a man in a desert staring into a mirage through the eyes of a walking dead man. What was I doing all those years? How could I do so much and yet care so little? I was running for so long I had actually forgotten what I was running from or running to. You changed that my son. Instantly, I had an origin and a destination. It was only after I first held you that I realized that the critics were right about me after all. In fact, they were always right. I was screaming to the world but not living in it. This is what you gave me my son. The day we brought you into this world was also the day you brought me into it. And I started to live. But my beautiful son, my beautiful son, what have you done?
I am an old man now my son. I am old and insignificant. My name is for identification only. My thoughts are for survival only and my words are for communication only. Do you know how hard it is to get old without a cause? While I may have become old without a cause, I had not gotten old without satisfaction. I had witnessed what many call faith right in front of my own eyes. The very first time you said my name, was the day I knew that god was not the most powerful force in the world. Your smile turned me into a disbeliever. Surely, if god existed, it was through the eyes of you, my beautiful son. I didn’t need faith. I had you. But my beautiful son, my beautiful son, what have you done?
You grew up into a strong and curious boy. You were always punished for talking too much in class. You were always keeping me waiting while you were lost in a sea of friends. You broke everything I bought you. You never looked away. You always looked at me. You looked straight into my heart. There was nothing you could do that would taint my addiction of love for you. I would freeze up at the thought of you in pain. I would have to sit down and hold my stomach at the thought of you hurt somewhere on your own. I would laugh as much you would laugh. I would smile when you would sleep. I didn’t need to dream anymore because it was never as exciting as spending time with you. But my beautiful son, my beautiful son, what have you done?
As quickly as you brought meaning to my life, you went out and destroyed the foundations it was built on. Just when I was ready to start focusing on the satisfaction of my aging body, you broke into my mind and locked me away for good. Why did you do it my son? What made you do it?
They called me in the middle of the night. They told me I needed to come right away. They said there was too much blood and too many body parts to identify the corpse. They made me come and put you together like a puzzle. You didn’t have the right to do that to me. I never gave you such permission. You killed more than just those five poor people. You killed your father as well. You killed me and more importantly, you killed all the reasons of my being. You destroyed my proof of life and living it. My beautiful son, my beautiful son, what have you done?
There was so much blood. There were so many body parts. There was a severed hand. It was a child’s hand. I remember when your hand was that small. I didn’t want to look, but they made me. Do you understand when I tell you there was so much blood? Death was kind enough to take those people quickly but the stains of the residue have become permanently tattooed on all who witnessed it. I didn’t need to see your letter to know what you had done. I knew you had done it. You killed those people and that child, and you didn’t even have the guts to watch the results of your own actions. I cannot forgive you my son. I will never forgive you. How ironic, that the very person who showed the light to me also showed me the face of evil. Why did you do it? Answer your father you sick bastard, why did you do it?
I know now that the personification of heaven and hell lies within the corridors of our own mind. There is no force greater or more evil than the actions of a man who has lost his sanity. There is also no bigger verdict on a man than to be a prisoner of your own mind. You have turned me into a protagonist in my own horror film which does not end. When I am awake, I relive again and again each frame of your evil actions. When I am asleep, I have horrific dreams of killing you before the maturity of your diseased mind is reached. Can you fathom what it must take for a man to imagine killing his own son? I am a dead man now. Breathing, but completely dead. However, I am no killer. Nothing can be said of or to the people you killed and whose lives you destroyed, so we cannot disrespect them by even mentioning their names with yours. But you my son. You I have something to say to. I am glad you are dead. I am glad you are dead because you can no longer hurt anyone else. You have gone to your death a bastard child. Lay dead my son, because this is what you have done. The worst part is, I still love you. And for that, I will eternally hate you.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Karachi: Chronicles of a Mad Man
The Girl Who Never Smiled
True story set through the eyes of a fictitous character
Each night starts off the same way. Something is happening. I can feel it. Someone is calling my name. I have no choice. I have no say in this. I must respond. The echoes of the screams bounce off of every wall in this city as they make their way towards me.
Where will it be tonight? Where will I finally see my own reflection? These streets haunt me. The electric energy of 15 million people all radiate through one light bulb. It is hauntingly beautiful. The very light it radiates not only throws me into a sea of confusion, but also attracts me like a moth to a flame.
I go out every night looking for her. She is out there somewhere. I just don’t know what she is. Is she a beautiful lost soul looking for me as well? Is she a mother looking for her lost child? Is she a little boy on the verge of discovering something incredible? What if she is a street alley that swallows people up and spits out their corpses? What if she’s a painting that puts all of this to reason? Perhaps, she is a man who has just written the perfect song. I need to find that song. I have to find this song.
I drive through this city looking for my next prey. I don’t know which way I’m going but the scent keeps on getting stronger. I pass the Abdullah Shah Ghazi shrine, and can see its impact on the eyes of people swarming around it in hopes of getting a better grip on their reality. What are they hoping for? Will they get what they came for? Tired eyes continue to drop tears of hope to the tune of a beat being played by a hashish stoned drums playing duo on the side of the shrine. I understand the stoned duo. I know what they are doing and why they are doing it. It is the only constant noise in this city of madness. It beats with a rhythm of a perfect heartbeat. It reminds me how alive everything is. Karachi has been given her own musical composition as I drive through the sea of people looking out from my car window. Is this all real? The colors of everything through my window are so rich and scary. People are reaching into my heart and yet still perfectly placed on the other side of my screen. This must be High Definition TV.
I make my way towards Boat Basin. My hands, suddenly and on impulse, turn the steering wheel towards the side of the road. I stop the car. There she is. Right in front of me, and yet she doesn’t see me. How can she see me? We are situated less than ten feet away from each other and yet are living in completely different worlds. To her, me in my car is a reality she is far away from. I am just a blur in her eyes with no face and no structure. But I see her. I instantly know that she is my story tonight.
She is now you, and you will be given a name for my records. Your name is Safia. I can tell of the heartache you have lived through. Beaten down skin and aged feet reveal your age to be about 45 years old. However, on closer inspection, your eyes scream a bitter truth: you are no older than 20. You are wearing your best dress tonight. Why wouldn’t you, it is a beautiful night littered with stars all over the sky. Sadly, it is also your only dress. I see the stains and tears of your clothes do not impact your confidence of being in them. I can tell that you can still see the beauty of the colorful yellow flower design going up and down your clothes. Have I ever seen a more beautiful dress? Perhaps the many stains on this print each tell a different story of your life and now you have simply given up trying to rid yourself of these stains. I can understand why. What good is it removing the physical stains if the memories are permanently tattooed on you?
You start walking past people in a quicker pace than normal. I make my way out of my car and into your world. However, I am still protected with a layer of invisibility in your eyes because, you see, I am wearing clothes that cannot register with your mind. My clothes are far too clean and expensive, and ironed for you to see past your blur. I am relieved at the power of my invisibility so that I can continue to follow you.
You make your way past people munching away into their chicken tikkas and plates of samosas. I swiftly follow you. I can see you walk up to a group of people smoking a sheesha. You talk without smiling. You are a hardened woman. I see eyes, a mouth, nose, ears, and a body, but your skin has become as hard as rubber. There is no smile. The people nonchalantly brush you away, and you, without losing face, simply turn and walk to the next group. I know you need money. I just don’t know why you are walking and they are sitting. I know you are thinking the same thing.
Eventually, I see you approach an older man, probably in his fifties. You stand in front of him and start to talk again. Again, there is no smile. I wish I could see you smile. Someone, somewhere has, and I find satisfaction in that thought. I invisibly walk right next to you so I can hear you. You continue to speak. You tell this man you want him to buy you some milk for your two year old boy. You insist you don’t care if he doesn’t give you money, but need the milk. The man stares at you. You have a poker face. All the stares in the world cannot change that poker face of yours. The man takes out his wallet and proceeds to give you a hundred rupee’s. I feel a rush of excitement come over me. I look at the man who has just started to smile as he hands the money over. I recognize that smile. He is pouring all of his guilt into that note and depleting himself of any further mental stress for the night. It’s all he can do, and he has done it well. You take the money, still without smiling, and walk away. Surely, a little smile now wouldn’t hurt, would it Safia?
You continue onwards. I don’t take you for a married woman. There is too much awareness and knowledge in your eyes of the grim reality of your situation for anyone else to be a part of it. I conclude you are the parent of a bastard child. I feel comforted with the fact that you will feed him tonight. You make your way to the little store nearby and pick up a carton of milk. You pay the money, get some change, put it in your pocket and make your way into the night. But you can’t shake me off so easily. I am right behind you. You cross the street, and walk towards the entrance of the park right opposite Boat Basin. I don’t see your child. In fact, I don’t see anyone else around you. Where is your child? What have you done to your child Safia? As I make my way closer to you, I suddenly see the great mystery of the night resolve itself right in front of me. You have no child my dear. You lied.
As you sit down and open the carton, I see in front of you, three incredibly small, baby kittens hidden behind the rock you have just sat on. There is a metallic small bowl right next to them which you have just filled up. Without wasting a moment, the three kittens dive their tongues into the bowl and start slurping away. They aren’t scared of you. They aren’t scared of anything. They are just grateful that they are being fed. You sit on your rock and turn back around to face the might of the Boat Basin market in front of you. Of course, you don’t see me on the other side as I continue to stare. You take out a cigarette and light it up. You take a drag, and look back at the kittens. You turn back around again, and for the first time in the night, I am proven wrong in my mind. You start to smile. You smile for a few seconds as you continue smoking your cigarette. I realize that perhaps I have never seen a more justifiably earned smile before. I try to imagine what kind of a cruel reality you are a part of where you have to lie about a starving kid to feed a bunch of homeless kittens. I know you conjured up a kid because if you did not, those kittens would not live through the night. You continue to smile. I also realize that that is my cue. I smile back at you, of course you not seeing it, and make my way back into my car.
As I leave Boat Basin and make my way back into the night, I pass yet again the Abdullah Shah Ghazi shrine. The beat emerges back amongst the many other sounds of the night. I drive through taking in all these sounds. There are some sounds that I know are of sadness and pain. However, on this starry night in Karachi, I can also very clearly hear the sounds of three kittens meowing away merrily. And I know somewhere, Safia has smiled yet once again.
This is my Karachi. I am a superhero. I am invisible to millions. I am no one. I am you.
True story set through the eyes of a fictitous character
Each night starts off the same way. Something is happening. I can feel it. Someone is calling my name. I have no choice. I have no say in this. I must respond. The echoes of the screams bounce off of every wall in this city as they make their way towards me.
Where will it be tonight? Where will I finally see my own reflection? These streets haunt me. The electric energy of 15 million people all radiate through one light bulb. It is hauntingly beautiful. The very light it radiates not only throws me into a sea of confusion, but also attracts me like a moth to a flame.
I go out every night looking for her. She is out there somewhere. I just don’t know what she is. Is she a beautiful lost soul looking for me as well? Is she a mother looking for her lost child? Is she a little boy on the verge of discovering something incredible? What if she is a street alley that swallows people up and spits out their corpses? What if she’s a painting that puts all of this to reason? Perhaps, she is a man who has just written the perfect song. I need to find that song. I have to find this song.
I drive through this city looking for my next prey. I don’t know which way I’m going but the scent keeps on getting stronger. I pass the Abdullah Shah Ghazi shrine, and can see its impact on the eyes of people swarming around it in hopes of getting a better grip on their reality. What are they hoping for? Will they get what they came for? Tired eyes continue to drop tears of hope to the tune of a beat being played by a hashish stoned drums playing duo on the side of the shrine. I understand the stoned duo. I know what they are doing and why they are doing it. It is the only constant noise in this city of madness. It beats with a rhythm of a perfect heartbeat. It reminds me how alive everything is. Karachi has been given her own musical composition as I drive through the sea of people looking out from my car window. Is this all real? The colors of everything through my window are so rich and scary. People are reaching into my heart and yet still perfectly placed on the other side of my screen. This must be High Definition TV.
I make my way towards Boat Basin. My hands, suddenly and on impulse, turn the steering wheel towards the side of the road. I stop the car. There she is. Right in front of me, and yet she doesn’t see me. How can she see me? We are situated less than ten feet away from each other and yet are living in completely different worlds. To her, me in my car is a reality she is far away from. I am just a blur in her eyes with no face and no structure. But I see her. I instantly know that she is my story tonight.
She is now you, and you will be given a name for my records. Your name is Safia. I can tell of the heartache you have lived through. Beaten down skin and aged feet reveal your age to be about 45 years old. However, on closer inspection, your eyes scream a bitter truth: you are no older than 20. You are wearing your best dress tonight. Why wouldn’t you, it is a beautiful night littered with stars all over the sky. Sadly, it is also your only dress. I see the stains and tears of your clothes do not impact your confidence of being in them. I can tell that you can still see the beauty of the colorful yellow flower design going up and down your clothes. Have I ever seen a more beautiful dress? Perhaps the many stains on this print each tell a different story of your life and now you have simply given up trying to rid yourself of these stains. I can understand why. What good is it removing the physical stains if the memories are permanently tattooed on you?
You start walking past people in a quicker pace than normal. I make my way out of my car and into your world. However, I am still protected with a layer of invisibility in your eyes because, you see, I am wearing clothes that cannot register with your mind. My clothes are far too clean and expensive, and ironed for you to see past your blur. I am relieved at the power of my invisibility so that I can continue to follow you.
You make your way past people munching away into their chicken tikkas and plates of samosas. I swiftly follow you. I can see you walk up to a group of people smoking a sheesha. You talk without smiling. You are a hardened woman. I see eyes, a mouth, nose, ears, and a body, but your skin has become as hard as rubber. There is no smile. The people nonchalantly brush you away, and you, without losing face, simply turn and walk to the next group. I know you need money. I just don’t know why you are walking and they are sitting. I know you are thinking the same thing.
Eventually, I see you approach an older man, probably in his fifties. You stand in front of him and start to talk again. Again, there is no smile. I wish I could see you smile. Someone, somewhere has, and I find satisfaction in that thought. I invisibly walk right next to you so I can hear you. You continue to speak. You tell this man you want him to buy you some milk for your two year old boy. You insist you don’t care if he doesn’t give you money, but need the milk. The man stares at you. You have a poker face. All the stares in the world cannot change that poker face of yours. The man takes out his wallet and proceeds to give you a hundred rupee’s. I feel a rush of excitement come over me. I look at the man who has just started to smile as he hands the money over. I recognize that smile. He is pouring all of his guilt into that note and depleting himself of any further mental stress for the night. It’s all he can do, and he has done it well. You take the money, still without smiling, and walk away. Surely, a little smile now wouldn’t hurt, would it Safia?
You continue onwards. I don’t take you for a married woman. There is too much awareness and knowledge in your eyes of the grim reality of your situation for anyone else to be a part of it. I conclude you are the parent of a bastard child. I feel comforted with the fact that you will feed him tonight. You make your way to the little store nearby and pick up a carton of milk. You pay the money, get some change, put it in your pocket and make your way into the night. But you can’t shake me off so easily. I am right behind you. You cross the street, and walk towards the entrance of the park right opposite Boat Basin. I don’t see your child. In fact, I don’t see anyone else around you. Where is your child? What have you done to your child Safia? As I make my way closer to you, I suddenly see the great mystery of the night resolve itself right in front of me. You have no child my dear. You lied.
As you sit down and open the carton, I see in front of you, three incredibly small, baby kittens hidden behind the rock you have just sat on. There is a metallic small bowl right next to them which you have just filled up. Without wasting a moment, the three kittens dive their tongues into the bowl and start slurping away. They aren’t scared of you. They aren’t scared of anything. They are just grateful that they are being fed. You sit on your rock and turn back around to face the might of the Boat Basin market in front of you. Of course, you don’t see me on the other side as I continue to stare. You take out a cigarette and light it up. You take a drag, and look back at the kittens. You turn back around again, and for the first time in the night, I am proven wrong in my mind. You start to smile. You smile for a few seconds as you continue smoking your cigarette. I realize that perhaps I have never seen a more justifiably earned smile before. I try to imagine what kind of a cruel reality you are a part of where you have to lie about a starving kid to feed a bunch of homeless kittens. I know you conjured up a kid because if you did not, those kittens would not live through the night. You continue to smile. I also realize that that is my cue. I smile back at you, of course you not seeing it, and make my way back into my car.
As I leave Boat Basin and make my way back into the night, I pass yet again the Abdullah Shah Ghazi shrine. The beat emerges back amongst the many other sounds of the night. I drive through taking in all these sounds. There are some sounds that I know are of sadness and pain. However, on this starry night in Karachi, I can also very clearly hear the sounds of three kittens meowing away merrily. And I know somewhere, Safia has smiled yet once again.
This is my Karachi. I am a superhero. I am invisible to millions. I am no one. I am you.
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